The Tycoon's Hidden Heir

Mason looked through the wall of floor-length glass that faced out to the ocean and drank in the wild beauty of the scene. He loved this place and not just because it was his own personal testament to the first million he’d ever made. He’d never grow tired of the sight of the native bush, as it hugged the hillside on its gentle drop toward the sea, or the sea’s ever-changing mood. It’d been too long since he’d come here to recharge.

When he woken at 5:00 a.m., his mind still fogged with sleep, he’d known it was time to clear his diary and get away from the city, and all its demands, for the weekend. Okay, so it had taken some juggling, and a few extra grey hairs for his secretary, but he’d walked out of the office at two-thirty this afternoon without a backward glance. Now the weekend stretched before him, gloriously empty. His to do with whatever the hell he wanted.

He lifted a glass of red wine in a silent toast to the view then put it to his lips and relished the flavour of his favourite merlot—an indulgence he saved only for these stolen weekends here at his hideaway. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Of course, Patrick had always teased him that the only thing to make a runaway weekend perfect was spending it in the company of a special person. But Mason had no such special person in his life. He had neither the time nor the inclination to weed through the gold diggers, the publicity seekers, the schemers.

Realistically, of course, he knew that not all women were like that—his sisters-in-law being perfect examples and hell-bent on putting what they believed were suitable marriageable candidates across his path. What was it about happily married people that made them want to see everyone in the same state, he wondered. It was like an epidemic over the past couple of years. His eyes rested briefly on the snapshot of his growing extended family taken at their last gathering. Who would’ve thought he’d be an uncle twice over by now?

Marriage. His lip curled slightly at the thought. While his brothers, Declan and Connor, didn’t seem to have any complaints it certainly wasn’t a state he was in any hurry to embrace. What he enjoyed now was the company of suitable escorts from his personal list. Sophisticated women who made no emotional demands on him at all. Cut-and-dried—just the way he liked it.

Mason strolled across the room to flip the light switch. It grew dark early this time of year. The wind was coming up. Good. He loved a howling winter storm. Nothing like it to blow the cobwebs from your mind and reenergize your soul. He had everything here he needed, and if the power went out, so be it. Nothing would mar the perfection of his all-too-infrequent time away from work, alone.

Buzz, buzz!

Mason froze. Nothing but the intrusion of an uninvited guest, he thought as the gate intercom’s strident warning bounced about the high-raftered ceiling. Who the hell could it be? He hadn’t even told his secretary where he was headed when he walked out the office door. Sure, his brothers or his dad would figure this was where he’d come if they tried to contact him at home, but they would respect his privacy. One thing was for sure: whoever was at the gate wasn’t welcome.

Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzzz!

With a muttered expletive Mason put his glass of wine down on the heavy pine coffee table and walked over to the intercom console on the far side of the room. He leaned one forearm against the wall and depressed the Talk button with a dangling finger.

“Yeah, what?” he snarled into the speaker.

“Mason? Mason Knight?”

His skin chilled as he recognised the husky lilt of the woman’s voice. How the hell had she tracked him here and, more importantly, why?

“Can we talk? I really need to see you.”

“We have nothing to talk about, Mrs. Davies.”

“Don’t switch off. It’s important, or you know I wouldn’t be here. Mason? Please?”

Oh yeah, she injected just the right amount of pathos into her tone. Any other man would leap to her aid. Any other man but him. But then not everyone knew what a little schemer Helena Davies was, or how little she’d valued her wedding vows. He’d often wondered just how many times she’d cuckolded Patrick since that night and the thought still made his blood boil.

“It’s for Patrick. Just give me five minutes,” she finished.

Mason’s heart gave a twist. Patrick Davies, the one man he’d admired unreservedly—until he’d married Helena. He warred with his desire to switch off the intercom, go out onto the deck and be buffeted by the rising wind and pretend he’d never begun this conversation. But despite Patrick’s appalling taste in wives, he owed it to both the man and his memory to hear her out.

“Five minutes only. Come on up.”

He hit the button to unlock the gate then strode through the house to the front door and threw it open to wait for her arrival. She didn’t take long. He could hear the strain of the car’s engine as the transmission dropped to a lower gear to climb the steep, unsealed private road. His whole body tensed as the taxi drove onto the flagstone-covered apron outside the house.

Taxi? He stifled a groan. Only Helena Davies would bring a taxi for the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Auckland to this spot on the Coromandel. The woman threw money around like there was an unending supply. He watched as she handed a fistful of hundred-dollar notes to the driver then alighted from the vehicle. His stomach tensed. She still looked good, he noted bitterly, although a bit paler and a bit thinner than the last time he’d seen her. In the dark emerald-coloured suit, buttoned just high enough to expose a hint of perfect creamy breast, and with her brown-red hair tightly twisted to the back of her head, she played the grieving widow well.

“A taxi, Helena?”

“And what’s wrong with that? I’ve recompensed him, and then some.” Her glittering green eyes met his gaze and clashed. Every nerve in his body went on full alert.

“Just seems a bit extravagant, don’t you think? Especially when you can drive any one of Patrick’s cars yourself.”

“I don’t drive anymore. Not since…Well, anyway, I never got my confidence back behind the wheel.” Her eyes drifted away from his face and fixed on a spot somewhere behind him.

Acid burned low in his belly. Like he needed the reminder of that night right now.

The taxi driver swung through the circular turning bay at the front of the house and disappeared back down the drive. What?

“Hey, where’s he going?”

“Back to Auckland.” Helena’s voice held an underlying thread of steel.

The tightness in his gut ratcheted up another notch as, in a few graceful steps, she closed the distance between them. Her perfume reached out to tantalise his nostrils—a bit sweet, a bit spicy. His body stirred with unwelcome interest. He hated that she could still do that to him.

“You said five minutes.” He bit the words out as if he’d chipped them from stone.

“I lied.”

The conniving witch. Rage boiled up inside of him and he ground his teeth together hard to keep the heated words he wanted to shout from spilling out. She hadn’t changed a bit. Now her easy source of income was gone she probably thought she could move onto her next victim. He knew her type only too well.

“Enjoy your walk home.” He spun away from her and stepped back inside, but he wasn’t fast enough. The telltale waft of her fragrance followed close behind.

“So call me a taxi when we’re done. I don’t care. I have to talk to you.”

“Oh, we’re done all right. Now get off my property before I have you charged for trespass.”

He was unprepared for the butterfly-like touch of her hand on his arm. His skin contracted sharply under the cool softness of her fingers and he shook himself free.

“I’m sorry, Mason. I shouldn’t have tricked you.”

“There are a lot of things you shouldn’t have done, Helena. Marrying Patrick was only one of them.”

She flinched as if he’d struck her and for a split second remorse lanced through him. His mother, rest her soul, would have been ashamed to hear him speak like that to a woman—even one like Helena—but the anger he’d borne toward her, and women just like her, took a firmer grip.

“Well, neither one of us is perfect,” she murmured and shivered in the rapidly cooling air.

The storm he’d predicted started to make its presence felt in the darkened sky and heavy splats of raindrops hit the pavers outside in an increasing staccato. Damn, as much as he wanted to, even he couldn’t make her walk out in this.

“You’d better come in,” he said begrudgingly.

He held the door open for her to pass through, showed her through to the expansive sitting room that faced out to the ocean and gestured for her to sit in a chair.

Helena looked around the room, impressed with the luxurious comfort of the large open-plan living and dining area that had obviously been structured to take advantage of what must be a spectacular view of the water in daylight. He kept the place tidy. Aside from the half-full wineglass on the coffee table there wasn’t so much as a dish left out on a bench. Even the wood stack next to the fireplace was arranged with military precision.

She sat, forcing the butterflies in her stomach to calm their crazy fluttering, as Mason lifted his wine from the table and took a deliberate slow draft. He set the long-stemmed glass back on its coaster and thrust his hands deep in the pockets of his black trousers. A slight sheen of the wine lingered on his lower lip and he swept it away with the tip of his tongue. Her eyes locked onto the tiny movement and, deep inside, her muscles clenched. She forced herself to drag her eyes from his lips, from his face, and stared out at the rain that lashed against the floor-length glass windows. Darkness encroached outdoors; solar-powered lamps began to glow gently around the periphery of the deck. She stared at the lamp nearest the window until the shape blurred into a watery ball of light.

It had been a long time since she’d felt at such a disadvantage. She hated the way he deliberately tried to dominate her—forcing her to look up to him, not offering her so much as a glass of water. If it was only up to her, and if she didn’t need his help so badly right now, she’d have darned well started that walk back to Auckland and damn the consequences. But this was Brody’s future, his life, and she’d crawl over broken glass if that’s what it took to get Mason to help her.

Where to start, where to start? She gathered her fractured thoughts. It had been so easy when she’d mentally rehearsed this scene in the taxi during the trip down. Now, face-to-face with him, it wasn’t as easy as she’d hoped.

She let her eyes briefly rake over his body. Physically she couldn’t discern much change from the dark-haired stranger who’d rescued her from certain death that night—he stood at six feet tall and beneath the dark soft cotton polo shirt he still had shoulders like a world-class rugby player. But now there was a hardness to his face, a remote look to his eyes, that had never been evident in the plethora of photographs Patrick had proudly shown her of his protégé.

“Is this going to take long?” His irritated drawl dragged her attention back to the present.

“No, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to waste your time. It’s just…I…”

“You what?”

She’d rarely heard less interest in a question. Helena reached to the soles of her feet and hauled up all the courage she could muster. “I need your help.”

“And I’d want to help you—why?” His upper lip curled in derision.

Helena forced her fingers to relax their grip on the straps of her handbag. “Because it was Patrick’s last wish.”

She watched as he snagged the glass with his fingers and took another pull at the wine, the slight tremor in his hand the only giveaway that, oh yes, she’d struck a chord this time. It was a low blow, she knew, using his relationship with his old mentor now, but she had to useall the ammunition at her disposal. She knew Patrick’s death had hit him harder than he’d shown at the well-attended funeral six weeks ago. There he’d been locked behind an aloof façade. Polite and friendly and not a sign of any other emotion. But to her, his grief had been stark in his dark eyes, in the pallor of his face and in the tight lines that bracketed his lips. She’d ached to comfort him but knew he’d spurn any empathy from her.

“Go on.” His voice was steady, his eyes cold and flat.

Helena took in a deep breath. “He told me that if I ever had a problem with Davies Freight to call on you. To ask you for help. So I am. We need you. We’re in trouble, Mason.”

“You’re talking crap. If there was anything crumbling at Davies Freight I’d know about it. Now, if you’re finished, I’ll call that taxi.”

Helena bit back the sharp retort that sprang to mind and took a breath before continuing, “Hear me out, please. You’ll have heard that Evan took over the managing director duties. You know that was never Patrick’s intention. He always knew that if Evan assumed charge that he’d find some way to cut Brody out, to use any profit for his own means. It’s what he’s doing now. He’s systematically bleeding the company dry. There’ll be nothing left in a few months time. Nothing.” Helena dug into her handbag and withdrew a typed sheet of paper. “It’s why Patrick left specific instructions on his death to give you this.”

She watched as Mason’s eyes flew over the letter she’d been given by Patrick’s lawyer after the will had been read.

“Anyone could’ve typed this. Even you. Why would he have wanted me to run Davies Freight?”

Helena watched as Mason discarded the letter to let it flutter onto the coffee table.

“I didn’t make it up, you have to believe me. Patrick never expected to die so suddenly. He was fit, he was healthy—he expected to live for years more. To have the opportunity to start to groom Brody to take over from him in the future, the way he’d hoped you would until you set up your own firm. But you know how cautious he was. He wouldn’t have asked you to do this if he hadn’t thought it was important.

“You have to believe me. Evan’s after blood. You know he’s always been jealous of his father’s relationship with me and with Brody. He wants to hurt us.”

“Hurt you? C’mon, Helena. I think you’re overstating things. Besides, wouldn’t it be easier if you just stayed on Evan’s side? It’s the way people like you operate, isn’t it?”

Helena ignored the hurtful inference in Mason’s words. As difficult as it was, she had to school herself to be immune to his jibes, no matter how far they were from the truth. She sighed. “You don’t know Evan like I do.”

“And of course you know him exceptionally well, don’t you.”

Oh no, now he’d definitely gone too far. She leaped from her seat and met him face-to-face, shaking with anger. “Don’t you dare suggest that! I would never…I could never…”

“Never?” Mason didn’t move so much as a muscle, his voice low and filled with disgust. “You slept with me the night before you pledged yourself to a much older man. A man who could never keep pace with your physical needs. Why wouldn’t you turn to someone else? Especially someone who stood to inherit equally with your own son.”

“No! I loved Patrick. He became the hub of my whole world. I know I did wrong that night. But I wasn’t the only one to blame. I didn’t act responsibly, that’s true, but I never heard you cry ‘stop’. You can’t possibly still hold that night against me.”

“Can’t I? I wasn’t the one getting married the next day.”

Tears burned in the back of her eyes but she wouldn’t give in to them. Too much was at stake. Besides, he was wrong. Despite what she’d thought when she’d entered into her marriage she had loved Patrick. If she could have him back in a minute she would. She owed it to him—for everything he’d done for her, for the wonderful man he’d been—she had to get Mason to agree to help and somehow do it without giving Evan the chance to spread his malicious story and destroy her son’s remaining security. She had to appeal to Mason some other way. Patrick must have known how he’d react. In his letter to her he’d been insistent she tell Mason the truth. But at what cost? She drew a steadying breath, deep into her lungs, and turned to face him.

“Please, Mason. Please help. I need your expertise and acumen. You’re the only one who can make a difference now. This is Brody’s inheritance we’re talking about. His whole life lies ahead of him.”

“So you’re telling me you’re not affected by this? You’re only doing it for Brody? Your platinum card won’t suddenly dry up without that astronomical salary Patrick paid you to decorate a desk at the office? I’m not a fool, Helena. The only person this will make a difference to is you. I’m sure Patrick left Brody more than well provided for.”

“Of course. Patrick left both of us well provided for. But you know how much the business meant to him. From Brody’s birth he groomed him to take over one day. You can’t simply stand there and let that slip from Brody’s future. Besides, this isn’t only about Brody and me. Any damage to Davies Freight is going to affect far more people than just me. You have to help.”

“Have to? And why is that?”

A painful throb started in her head. She didn’t want to do this, but Patrick’s instructions had been explicit. She still hadn’t even completely gotten over the shock of his letter herself, or the fact that he’d kept the truth hidden from her for so long. That he had, hung heavy in her heart. Gathering all her strength to her, Helena reached out and grasped Mason’s forearm in a tight grip.

“Isn’t it enough that Patrick asked for your help?”

He flung her a look of absolute distaste. “Through you? No. It’s not. I think you overestimate your appeal.”

Helena’s fingers tightened as she hauled out the courage to say what needed to be said. “Then do it because Brody’s your son.”

Two

Your son. Your son.

The words echoed in his head, drowning out the roaring denial that filled his brain. Somewhere, deep inside, an intangible flicker leaped at the possibility, but then the heated brand of her fingers fought through the fog of shock to remind him she was there. A part of this—potentially a part of him through Brody—and he didn’t trust her. Not so much as a millimetre.

She’d dealt with her grief in record time—it made sense she was on the lookout for her next cash cow, of course she’d look to pin something as outrageous as this on him. There was no way on this wide earth he was going to fall for that one—he’d seen firsthand how destructive a lie like that could be. He placed his hand over hers, peeled her fingers off his arm and dropped her hand.

“I don’t believe you.” He pitched his voice low and hard so she’d be in no doubt that he could be dissuaded.

She started and paled, as if he’d slapped her.

“You don’t…?”

“You’ve wasted enough of my time, Helena. Now get out of my house.” He banked down the anger. He simply wanted her to take her lies and her sexy body somewhere he’d never have to hear them, or see her, again. He stalked across the room, snapped up the handset of a cordless phone and began punching in a series of numbers. “You can wait in the front porch for the taxi.”

“No.”

His finger hovered over the last digit. “No?”

“I’m not going until you agree to help.”

Fury clenched low in his belly like a tight fist. If he had to take her physically from the property himself he’d damn well do it. He dropped the phone back on the side table he’d snatched it from and began to walk toward her, his intent obvious in every step.

“I have proof that Patrick isn’t Brody’s father.”

Mason stopped in his tracks. “Proof?”

“On his death he instructed his solicitor to make certain documents available to me, documents that prove he was incapable of fathering a child.”

Mason choked out a humourless laugh and raised one brow. “And Evan? How do you explain him?”

“Adopted.”

Sure he was. Was there no end to her lies? “Does he know?”

“Yes. I think that’s partly why he’s so bitter toward Brody. He thinks Brody is Patrick’s natural-born son.”

“And you, of course, know he’s not.”

“I do now.”

“Why the hell should I believe you?”

She scrabbled in her bag, withdrew a letter-size envelope and handed it toward him. “Here. Read it yourself.”

Reluctantly he took the envelope from her and lifted the flap to remove the folded sheets from within. He sat down on the long sofa facing her chair and began to read.

“So, this proves Patrick was infertile.” He tossed the papers back across the coffee table toward her. “It certainly doesn’t prove I’m Brody’s father. How many other men have you slept with, or are none of them rich enough to pin this onto?”

“Brody is your son. You and Patrick were the only ones.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to believe that. You might have lost track of the details during your parade of lovers but I remember that night very, very clearly. You were no innocent virgin, Helena.”

“Okay, you weren’t my first, no, but there was no one else once I married Patrick.”

He could neither help, nor wanted to prevent, the incredulous snort that escaped him. He’d been an unwilling audience to Evan’s drunken boasts about how athletic his father’s beautiful young wife was in bed. He knew she was lying right down to the delicately formed bones of her exquisite body.

A sudden flash of lightning split through the room, rapidly followed by a deafening rumble of thunder and an almighty crash outside. The lights overhead flickered, dimmed and brightened.

He had to get rid of her before the power went out altogether. Mason picked the phone back up and hit the Talk button. Silence. He hit the button two times in quick succession. Still nothing.

“Problem?” Helena sat back on the chair and crossed her legs.

“Phone’s out.”

“So use your mobile.”

“Can’t. This is a black spot. No reception. I’ll take you into Whitianga myself. You can check into a motel and get a taxi back home in the morning.”

Helena watched in dismay as he grabbed a set of car keys from a softly glazed pottery dish on top of the dining table. That he meant what he said, she had no doubt. Reluctantly she picked up the papers from the table, pushed them back into her bag and rose to follow him through to the garage. If need be she’d come back tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that until he’d agree to help.

Inside the garage, Mason flipped a switch on the wall. The ceiling light bathed a black behemoth parked in solitary splendour in the middle of the parking bay. She stared at the four-by-four, recognising in its strong powerful lines the personality of the man who drove it—yet, with the chrome running boards and highly polished mag wheels, enough of the daredevil showman who’d brazenly taken the freight community by storm to build the largest privately owned company in the country. The blip of the car alarm disengaging startled her as it echoed in the large area.

“Get in.” Mason walked around the other side of the four-by-four, opened the driver’s door and climbed up.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Helena opened her door and placed a foot on the running board to give her a lever up into the high leather seat. As she settled in and clipped her seat belt he put the key in the ignition and pressed a button on a remote on the central console. The wooden segmented door behind them slowly lifted open.

A long low-pitched string of expletives ran from Mason’s mouth as he looked through the rearview mirror to the driveway. Before she knew what was happening he was out of the truck. What? She unclicked her belt and scrambled back down. Mason stood, just inside the doorway, hands on hips and with frustration and anger roiling off him in tangible waves.

She looked past him and out onto the softly lit forecourt. There, firmly planted across the drive, its tip entangled in dark wires, lay the solid trunk of a toppled pine tree.