Seduction: The Billionaire's Bride of Vengeance

Still, there was some satisfaction to be gained from knowing that his enemy’s reputation had been ruined. No longer would Power be fêted by presidents and prime ministers. Nor would that smarmy smile of his be continuously flashed across television screens, because of coverage of whatever super-glamorous party he happened to be throwing that weekend.

The venue for those parties came into view. Russell finally saw the finished version of the three-storeyed mansion he’d visited that fateful day sixteen years earlier.

An hour ago, he’d been listening to the man handling the sale at the bank wax lyrical about how the house had been designed to take full advantage of its site on one of the highest points in Bellevue Hill: how each floor had lots of terraces and balconies, all with wonderful views of the city and harbour; how the top level was devoted entirely to living rooms, providing the perfect setting for parties.

But no verbal description could do justice to the visual impact of the building, with its dazzlingly white cement-rendered walls and the rich, royal-blue trim around its many windows and doors.

Russell pulled into the driveway and braked to a halt in front of a pair of security gates.

Sixteen years ago, there’d been no security at all. In fact, there’d been nothing to stop him from doing what he’d gone here to do.

Russell sighed.

Part of him would always regret that he’d settled for vengeful words that day, rather than actions. Still, if he had given in to his violent urgings, he’d be currently looking through prison bars and not the wrought-iron ones in front of him. He certainly wouldn’t be sitting here in a rich man’s car, wearing a rich man’s suit.

Russell pressed the remote he’d been given, waiting with learned patience till the gates swung open, after which he drove slowly around the circular drive that surrounded a magnificent marble Italian-style fountain.

Russell bypassed the six-car garage at the side of the house, parking his racing-green Aston Martin at the base of the flight of stone steps which led up to a now impressively columned front porch. With the house keys in his hand, he climbed out from behind the wheel then walked up the steps, stopping once he reached the top to turn round and take in the view.

The grounds were as magnificent as the fountain, having the grandeur which would have befitted a palace, with extensive lawns edged with perfectly pruned hedges and perfectly placed shade trees. Russell had been assured that the back garden was more impressive than the front, with a large terrace, a solar-heated pool and a synthetic-surface tennis court.

‘The pool has a pool house,’ the man at the bank had rattled on, ‘which has its own kitchen, bathroom, two guest bedrooms and a spacious living area. It’s larger than a lot of Sydney apartments.’

Possibly larger than his own, Russell accepted. He currently lived quite modestly in a two-bedroom unit on McMahon’s Point, having never felt the need for anything bigger, or more opulent. After all, he only went there to eat and sleep. Unlike a lot of successful real-estate agents, he didn’t entertain much. When he did, it was never at home.

Power’s mansion, however, was not the kind of home one only slept in. It was built for showing off … built as a monument to its owner’s material success.

And now it was all his.

Once again, Russell didn’t experience the rush of triumphant pleasure he’d always anticipated such a moment would bring. Was it a case of the journey being better than reaching the destination? Or was it that he had no one to share his vengeance with?

His mother had never succumbed to the anger and bitterness which had consumed Russell after his father’s suicide. She hadn’t blamed Power Mortgages at all, astonishing Russell with the revelation that his father had suffered from depression for some time, which had led to the poor decisions that had resulted in their farm being repossessed. She’d dismissed the fact that Power Mortgages specialised in arranging loans for people who had no hope of repaying them in the first place.

After grieving for her much-loved husband for a couple of years, Frieda McClain had chosen to move on with her life, marrying another farmer.

Russell had never been able to understand his mother’s attitude. Frankly, he’d felt almost betrayed by the briefness of her mourning. He’d been absolutely devastated by his father’s suicide, his sorrow made all the worse by a measure of guilt.

Russell hated the thought that one of the reasons his father had borrowed so much had been to give his son the kind of education he’d never received himself. Although Russell had won a scholarship to a top Sydney boarding school, of course there’d been more expenses involved than just the fees. Then, after Russell had passed his high-school certificate, his father had insisted he go on to uni, paying for him to share a flat with his much wealthier school friends, even buying him an old car to get around in.

He should have known his dad couldn’t afford any of it. He should have seen the truth behind the white lies. The evidence had been there every time he went home.

Russell had been close to suicide himself the day he’d buried his father.

Only the thought of revenge had sustained him, giving him something to live for. After his run-in with Power he’d immediately dropped out of his law degree and taken a job as a real-estate salesman, luckily finding a position in a premier agency in Sydney’s exclusive eastern suburbs. Over the next few years, he’d spent a lot less time with his friends—and even less with girls—channelling all his energies into becoming rich enough to have the weapons to ruin Alistair Power.

At the age of thirty-six, he was Sydney’s most successful real-estate agent, owning several businesses in the best Sydney suburbs, plus a personal portfolio of property to rival the wealthiest in Australia, a portfolio which now included one of Sydney’s most photographed homes.

Russell realised, as he turned and strode under the covered portico, that the media were sure to get hold of the news that he’d bought this place. Such purchases were news. For a split-second, he considered doing what he’d never done before: give an interview to a journalist in the vain hope that Power might read it and finally connect the Russell McClain of McClain Real Estate with that long-haired youth who’d threatened vengeance all those years ago.

Waste of time, Russell decided as he slotted the key into the brass lock of the double front doors. Because Power wouldn’t make the connection. They’d already met again—over a property deal—and there’d not been a hint of recognition in Power’s face. It seemed men without consciences didn’t remember their victims for long. Possibly because there were too many of them.

What a cold-blooded bastard!

As Russell pushed open the heavy front doors and stepped into the cavernous foyer of the house, a surprising sound met his ears.

Singing.

Startled, he stood stock-still and listened.

Yes. Someone was singing somewhere upstairs—a woman.

Russell frowned. Could it be a radio, perhaps left playing by the cleaning service which the bank said had serviced the place yesterday?

No, it wasn’t a radio, he quickly deduced, the voice having no instrumental backing.

Someone was in his house, someone who shouldn’t be there. And they were upstairs, singing.

Russell knew exactly who it was.

A squatter.

It was a scenario not unfamiliar to him.

People would be amazed at how often empty homes were squatted in, even ones as lavish as this. It didn’t matter how much security you had, how high the walls were or how many locks you had—these street-smart scroungers found a way in.

Russell planned his course of action as he made his way quietly up the curving staircase to the first floor.

Often there was a whole group of them, usually junkies. Sometimes, however, it was just some runaway looking for a place to sleep. Or to shower.

He suspected this might be the latter.

When Russell reached the first landing, he could hear the faint hiss of water running as well as the singing. It sounded as if she was in the shower. He moved across the wide, carpeted landing to the door straight in front of him. Very carefully, he turned the knob and popped his head in.

No, not in here, Russell quickly deduced.

He shook his head as he glanced around what had to be the master bedroom. Power certainly hadn’t stinted on the decor. Even if the French-style furniture was reproduction, it must still have cost a packet. So had the movie-size television screen built into the wall opposite the foot of the bed.

Russell’s eyebrows lifted. Maybe twenty million was a bargain price for this place. The contents alone were worth a small fortune. It must have hurt Power to leave it all behind.

He sure as hell hoped so.

It pained him that Power would probably never know who had bought his house. It pained him even more that he would never be able to have a more personal revenge on the man.

Maybe he would gain some more satisfaction when he actually moved in, which he fully intended to do tomorrow.

But, first, he had to turf out his unwelcome guest.

Shutting the door, he moved along the corridor to his left where he popped his head in the next door.