In the Australian's Bed

In the Australian’s Bed

These sexy men from Down Under won’t be denied!

Three sensational, contemporary romances from three favourite Mills & Boon® authors!

Miranda Lee is Australian, living near Sydney. Born and raised in the bush, she was boarding-school educated and briefly pursued a career in classical music, before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.

Don’t miss Miranda Lee’s exciting new novel, Bride of Vengeance, available in January 2009 from Mills & Boon® Modern™.

IN THE AUSTRALIAN’S BED

THE PASSION PRICE

by

Miranda Lee

THE AUSTRALIAN’S CONVENIENT BRIDE

by

Lindsay Armstrong

THE AUSTRALIAN’S MARRIAGE DEMAND

by

Melanie Milburne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

THE PASSION PRICE

by

Miranda Lee

CHAPTER ONE

‘THE ad says the property is open for inspection every Saturday afternoon between two and three,’ Dorothy pointed out. ‘I’m going to drive up there today and have a look at it. What do you think of that?’

Jake put down the newspaper and looked up at the woman who’d been more of a mother to him than the woman who’d given birth to him thirty-four years before.

As much as he loved Dorothy, Jake wasn’t going to indulge her in such a ridiculous idea.

‘I think you’re stark, raving mad,’ he said.

Dorothy laughed, something she hadn’t done all that often this past year.

Jake frowned. Maybe it wasn’t such a ridiculous idea, if it made her happy.

Hell, no, he immediately reassessed. She was seventy-one years old. Way too old to go buying some run-down boutique winery up in the back blocks of the Hunter Valley.

Still, perhaps it would be wise not to mention Dorothy’s age in his arguments. She was sensitive about that, like most women.

Not that she looked her age. Dorothy Landsdale was one of those women who had never been pretty, but had grown more handsome with age. Tall, with broad shoulders and an impressive bosom, she had an intelligent face, with few lines on her perfect skin, a patrician nose and intense, deeply set blue eyes. Her silvery hair, which was dead straight, was always cut very short in a simple yet elegant style.

That was Dorothy’s style all round. Simple, yet elegant. Jake had always admired the way she looked and dressed, although he sometimes wondered if she’d had her lips permanently painted red, because he’d never seen her without her favourite lipstick on.

Not that it mattered. Frankly, red lips suited her, especially when she was smiling.

Jake determined not to say anything that would wipe that wonderful smile off her face.

‘Look, let’s be sensible here,’ he began in the same calm, cool, you-and-I-are-reasonable-people voice he reserved for juries during his closing addresses. ‘You know nothing about wine-making.’

‘Actually, you’re wrong there, Jake, dear. You obviously don’t know this, but Edward once planned on buying a boutique winery in the Hunter Valley. He fancied going up there on weekends. He collected a whole shelf-full of books on the subject of wine and wine-making at the time. Made me read them so we could talk about the subject together. But then he brought you home to live with us and that idea was abandoned. Though never entirely forgotten. He still dreamt of doing it after he retired.’

Jake experienced a dive in spirits, as he always did when the judge was talked about. He and Dorothy had both been shattered when Dorothy’s husband of thirty years had died of a coronary last year, a few short months before his retirement. Jake had taken the news extra hard. If Dorothy was like a mother to him, Edward had been like a father, and more. He’d been Jake’s mentor and best friend. His saviour, in fact. A wonderful man. Kind and generous and truly wise.

Jake knew he would never meet his like again.

Edward had left Jake a small fortune in his will, an astonishing document with a written request that within six months of his death Jake was to use some of his cash legacy to buy a luxury harbourside apartment and a yellow Ferrari. Jake had wept when he’d been told this. He’d confided these two fantasy purchases to his friend one night last year over a game of chess, also confessing that he would probably never buy them, even if he could afford to. He already had a perfectly nice apartment, he had explained to Edward. And a reliable car.

But Edward’s last wishes were sacrosanct with Jake and he’d taken possession of the new apartment—set on prestigious McMahon’s Point—just before Christmas a couple of months back. The Ferrari had come only last week. He’d had to wait ages to have a yellow one imported and delivered.

Both the apartment and the car had already given him great pleasure. But he would give them both back—hell, he’d practically sell his soul to the devil—to have the man himself sitting alive and well at this breakfast table with them.

‘So that’s what this is all about,’ he said with a raw edge in his voice. ‘You want to make Edward’s dream come true.’

‘In a way. But don’t get me wrong. This would mostly be for me. I need a new venture, Jake. A new interest in life. Edward would hate for me to be moping around all the time, thinking my life was over because he was no longer here. When I saw that ad in the Herald this morning, it jumped right out at me. But it’s not just the winery. I simply love the look of the house.’

Jake glanced down at the photograph of the house. ‘It just looks old to me.’

‘It’s beautiful. I love old Australian farmhouses. Look at those gorgeous wraparound verandas. First thing I’d buy would be a swing seat. I’d sit there every afternoon with a gin and tonic and watch the sunsets. I’ve never had a house, you know. I’ve always lived in apartments. I’ve never had a garden, either.’

‘They’re a lot of work, houses and gardens,’ Jake pointed out. ‘Wineries, too,’ he added, suddenly thinking of another time and another winery.

It, too, had been in the Hunter Valley. But not one of the boutique varieties. A reasonably large winery with acres under vine, producing tons of grapes each season that the anti-machinery Italian owner always had picked by hand.

Which was where he had come in.

Jake hadn’t thought about that place, or that time in his life, for ages. He’d trained himself over the years not to dwell on past miseries, or past mistakes.

But now that he had, the memories came swarming back. The heat that summer. The back-breaking work. And the utter boredom.

No wonder his eyes had kept going to the girl.

She’d been the only child of the Italian owner. Angelina, her name was. Angelina Mastroianni. Lush and lovely, with olive skin, jet-black hair, big brown eyes and a body that had looked fabulous in the short shorts and tight tank tops she lived in.

But it was her come-hither glances which he’d noticed the most.

As a randy and rebellious seventeen-year-old, Jake had been no stranger to sex. No stranger to having girls come on to him, either.

Yet it had taken him all summer to talk Angelina into meeting him alone. He’d thought she was playing hard to get, a conclusion seemingly backed up by the way she’d acted as soon as he’d drawn her into his arms. She hadn’t been able to get enough of his kisses, or his hands. He hadn’t discovered till after the big event, and her father was beating him to a pulp, that she’d only been fifteen, and a virgin to boot.

Within the hour, he’d been bundled off back to the teenage refuge in Sydney from whence he’d come. The subsequent charge of carnal knowledge had brought him up in front of the very man who’d sent him on the ‘character-building’ work programme at the winery in the first place.

Judge Edward Landsdale.

Jake had been scared stiff of actually being convicted and sentenced, something he’d miraculously managed to avoid during his rocky young life so far. But he’d felt his luck had run out on this occasion and the prospect of a stint in an adult jail loomed large in his mind, given that he was almost eighteen.

Fear had made him extra-belligerent, and even more loud-mouthed than usual. Judge Landsdale had seen right through him, and also seen something else. God bless him. Somehow, Edward had had the charges dropped, and then he’d done something else, something truly remarkable. He’d brought Jake home to live with him and his wife.

That had been the beginning of Jake’s new life, a life where he realised there were some good people in this world, and that you could make something of yourself, if someone had faith in you and gave you very real, hands-on support.

Angelina had lingered in Jake’s thoughts for a long time after that fateful night. In the end, however, he’d forced her out of his mind and moved on, filling his life with his studies and, yes, other girls.

Now that he came to think of it, however, none of his girlfriends so far had ever made him feel what Angelina had made him feel that long-ago summer.

Who knew why that was? Up till their rendezvous in the barn, they’d only talked. Perhaps it had been the long, frustrating wait which had made even kissing her seem so fabulous. The sex had hardly been memorable. She’d panicked at the last moment and he’d had to promise to pull out. Then, when she’d been so tight, he hadn’t twigged why—young fool that he was. His only excuse was that he’d been totally carried away at the time.

Really, the whole thing had been nothing short of a fiasco, with her father finding them together in the winery only seconds after Jake had done the dastardly deed. He’d barely had time to zip his jeans up before the first blow connected with his nose, breaking it and spurting blood all over one highly hysterical Angelina.

Jake reached up to slowly rub the bridge of his nose.

It wasn’t crooked any longer. Neither were his front teeth still broken. He didn’t have any tattoos left, either. Dorothy had taken him to the best Macquarie Street cosmetic surgeons and dentists within weeks of his coming to live with her, beginning his transformation from Jake Winters, dead-beat street kid and born loser, to Jake Winters, top litigator and sure winner.

He wondered what had happened to Angelina in the intervening years. No doubt that hotheaded father of hers would have kept a closer eye on his precious daughter after that night. He’d had big dreams for his winery, had Antonio Mastroianni. Big dreams for his lovely Angelina as well.

With the wisdom of hindsight, Jake could now well understand the Italian’s reaction to discovering them together. The last male on earth any father would have wanted his daughter to get tangled up with was the likes of himself. He’d been a bad boy back then. A very bad boy.

Not to Judge Edward Landsdale, though. When Edward had first met Jake, he hadn’t seen the long hair, the tattoos or the countless body piercings. All he’d seen was a good boy crying to get out, a boy worth helping.

Aah, Edward. You were right, and wrong at the same time. Yes, I have made something of myself, thanks to you and Dorothy. But beneath my sophisticated and successful veneer, I’m still that same street kid. Tough and hard and self-centred in the way you had to become on Sydney’s meaner streets to survive. Basically, a loner. Such programming is deep-seated, and possibly the reason why my personal life is not as great as my professional life.

A top trial lawyer might benefit from being on the cold-blooded side, from never letting emotion get in the way of his thinking. But how many of my girlfriends have complained of my lack of sensitivity? My selfishness? My inability to truly care about them, let alone commit?

I might be able to argue great cases and win verdicts, along with massive compensation payments for my clients, but I can’t keep a woman in my life for longer than a couple of months.

And do I care?

Not enough.

The truth is I like living alone, especially now, in my fantastic harbourside apartment. I like being responsible for no one but myself.

Dorothy, of course, was a responsibility of sorts. But Dorothy was different. He loved Dorothy as much as he had loved Edward. That was why he visited her every Friday night, and why he sometimes stayed the night. To make sure she was all right. Edward would have wanted him to look after Dorothy, and he aimed to do just that.

Not an easy task, Jake reminded himself, if she was living way out in the country.

He really had to talk her out of the ridiculously romantic idea of buying this winery.

But talking Dorothy out of something was not always an easy thing to do…

When Jake’s eyes glazed over and he kept idly rubbing his nose, Dorothy wondered what he was thinking about. Edward, probably. Poor Jake. Edward’s death had really rocked him. They’d become so close over the years, those two. The crusty old judge with the heart of gold and the cocky street kid with no heart at all.

Till Jake had met Edward, that was.

Impossible to remain completely heartless around Edward. Dorothy knew that for a fact. The day she’d met her future husband, she’d been forty years old. Overweight and on the frumpy side, way past her prime. Edward had been five years younger at thirty-five, tall and handsome and beautifully dressed. He’d come to her aid when she’d been knocked over in Market Place by some lout on a skateboard. He’d taken her for a cup of coffee to settle her nerves and swiftly made her forget that she was a dried-up old spinster with a dreary office job and a bitter cynicism about men, especially the good-looking ones.

She’d fallen in love with Edward that very first day. Why he’d fallen in love with her, she had no idea. He’d claimed it was the heat in her eyes. Whatever, she’d lost those extra pounds she’d been carrying over the next few weeks. In her few spare hours, she’d also smartened herself up. Bought some decent clothes. Had her hair styled by a good hairdresser. And started always wearing the red lipstick Edward had admired.

They’d been married six months later, to predictions of doom from relatives. But their marriage had proved to be a great success, despite their not having any children.

Other men might have resented that. But not Edward. When she’d tearfully questioned him over his feelings about her infertility, he’d hugged her and said he’d married her for better or worse, and that resenting realities was a waste of time. But that was when he’d started working with charities that helped underprivileged boys, and where he’d lavished all his unused fatherly love.

Still, he hadn’t become too personally involved with any of the boys till Jake had come along. Jake, of the ice-blue eyes and serious attitude problem.

When Edward had first brought Jake home to live with them, Dorothy couldn’t stand the boy’s smart mouth and slovenly ways. But gradually, a miracle had happened. Jake had changed and maybe she had changed a bit, too, becoming more tolerant and understanding.

Whatever, they’d both ended up genuinely liking each other. No, loving each other. Like mother and son.

Dorothy knew that if she bought this winery Jake would come and visit her up there as much as he did here, in Sydney. The Hunter Valley wasn’t all that far away. A two-hour drive. It would do him good, she thought, to get out of the city occasionally. To relax and smell the flowers, so to speak. He worked way too hard. And it wasn’t as though there was any special girl to keep him here in Sydney at the weekends. He’d broken up with that last one he’d been dating. A bottle-blonde with a flashy smile and a figure to match.

Why Jake kept choosing girls for their sex appeal alone, Dorothy couldn’t fathom. When she’d complained about this side of Jake to Edward a couple of years back, he’d said not to worry. One day, Jake would meet the right girl, fall head over heels, get married and have a family.

Dorothy wasn’t so sure about that last part. She didn’t think having a family would ever be on Jake’s agenda. Damaged children often veered away from having children themselves.

No, she wasn’t holding her breath over that ever happening.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ she said gently.

Jake snapped back to reality with a dry laugh.

‘Not worth even ten cents. So when do you want to leave?’

Dorothy smiled. ‘You’re going to drive me up there?’

Jake shrugged. ‘Can’t let my best girl go careering all over the countryside by herself. Besides, I’ve been dying for an excuse to give my new car a proper spin. Can’t do that on city roads.’

‘Jake Winters! I have no intention of dying at the hands of some speed-happy fool in a yellow Ferrari.’

Jake laughed. ‘And this from the wild woman who’s planning to buy some run-down winery in the middle of nowhere! Don’t worry, I won’t go over the speed limit. And hopefully, once you see this dump for real, you’ll be happy to stay right where you are and take up pottery.’

‘Pottery! What a good idea! There’s sure to be room for a kiln at the winery. The ad says there are ten acres of land, and only five under vine.’

Jake gave up at this point. But he was sure that Dorothy would see the folly of her ways and change her mind once she saw the place, and where it was.

‘If we leave around ten,’ Dorothy said excitedly, ‘we’d get up there in time for lunch. Lots of the larger wineries have great restaurants, you know.’

Jake frowned. Mr Mastroianni had been going to build a restaurant at his winery. And guest accommodation. He’d also been going to change the name of the winery from its present unprepossessing name to something more exotic-sounding. Angelina had told him all about her papa’s grand plans, but Jake’s mind had been on other things at the time and he couldn’t remember what the new name was. Or what the old name was, for that matter. Though it hadn’t been Italian.

According to Angelina, the winery had belonged to her mother’s family. Jake did recall her telling him that her mother had been middle-aged when her father married her. She’d died having Angelina.

‘I looked up a few of the restaurants on the internet last night,’ Dorothy was rattling on. ‘There’s this really interesting-looking one on the same road as the place we’re going to inspect. It’s at a winery called the Ambrosia Estate. Isn’t that a wonderful name for a winery? The nectar of the gods.’

Jake’s mouth dropped open. That was it! Ambrosia!

‘What is it?’ Dorothy said. ‘What did I say?’

‘Did Edward ever tell you the story of how I came to be in his court?’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. You…’ She broke off, her eyes widening. ‘Good lord, you don’t mean…’

‘Yep. The scene of my crime was the Ambrosia Estate.’

‘Goodness! What an amazing coincidence!’

‘My thoughts exactly.’

Dorothy gave him a sheepish look. ‘I—er—I’ve already made us a booking at the restaurant there for twelve-thirty.’

Jake couldn’t help being amused. What a crafty woman she was. ‘You were very confident I’d drive you up there myself, weren’t you?’

‘I think I know you pretty well by now. But honestly, Jake, if you want me to change the booking to somewhere else, it’s easily done.’

‘No, don’t worry. I doubt I’d be recognised. I’ve changed somewhat since my bad-boy days, don’t you think? Though it’s just as well you made the booking. If old-boy Mastroianni knew Jake Winters was eating lunch in his restaurant, I’d be fed hemlock. Italians have long memories and a penchant for revenge. He might not know my face but I’ll bet he’d remember my name.’

Oh, yes. He’d bet the name Jake Winters was burned into Antonio Mastroianni’s brain. And whilst Jake really didn’t want another confrontation with Angelina’s father, the possibility of running into Angelina again sparked an undeniable surge of excitement.

She would be what age now? Thirty-one? Thirty-two? Had to be thirty-two. She’d been two years younger than him and he was thirty-four.

Logic told Jake that a thirty-two-year-old Italian girl would be long married by now, with a brood of bambinos around her skirts.

At the same time he reasoned that even if she was married, she’d probably still be living at the winery, with her husband working in the family business. That was the way of Italians. No, she was sure to be there, somewhere.

The desire to see Angelina again increased. Was it just curiosity, or the need to say he was sorry for what he’d done? She’d been terribly upset at the time.

But what would an apology achieve after all these years? What would be the point?

No point at all, Jake decided with a return to his usual pragmatism. Best he just have his lunch and leave. Maybe he’d catch a glimpse of Angelina. And maybe he wouldn’t.

Who knew? He probably wouldn’t recognise her. It was sixteen years ago after all.

CHAPTER TWO

‘YOU can look for your father when you turn sixteen,’ Angelina promised.

‘But that’s not till November!’ her son protested. ‘Why do I have to wait that long? It’s not as though Grandpa’s around any more to get upset. I mean…Oh, gosh, I know that sounded bad. Look, I miss Grandpa as much as you do, Mum. But this is important to me. I want to meet my dad. See what he looks like. Talk to him.’

‘Has it occurred to you that he might not want to meet you? He doesn’t even know you exist!’

‘Yeah, I know that, but that’s not his fault, is it? No one ever told him. He’s got a right to know he has a son.’

Angelina sighed into the phone. She still could not come to terms with Alex’s sudden obsession with finding his biological father. Every time she rang her son at school, and vice versa, it was his main topic of conversation.

Of course, when his grandfather had been alive, the subject of Jake Winters had been forbidden. In Antonio Mastroianni’s eyes, the tattooed lout who’d seduced and impregnated his daughter was nothing better than a disgusting animal, not worthy of discussion. Alex’s birth certificate said ‘father unknown’.

When Alex had been old enough to ask questions, his grandfather had told him that his father had been bad, and that he was lucky not to have anything to do with him. He, Antonio Mastroianni, would be his father as well as his grandfather. In return, Alex would carry the Mastroianni name and inherit the family estate.

To give her father credit, he had heaped a great deal of love and attention on Alex. The boy had adored his grandpa in return and, in accordance with his grandfather’s wishes, Alex’s father was never mentioned.

But within weeks of his grandfather’s tragic death late last year, Alex had started asking his mother questions about his real father, wheedling Jake’s name out of her, then every other detail about him that she could remember, before finally demanding that they try to find him.