CHAPTER ONE
A PACKET from Brazil…delivered by a courier fulfilling instructions to have Nick Ramirez himself sign for it so that delivery to him personally was assured, no chance of it being mislaid and not reaching him…this packet from Brazil.
Nick watched the courier leave his office, his gaze fixed on the man’s back, on the door closing behind him. He didn’t want to look at the packet now lying on his desk, didn’t want to open it. The hand that had directed it to him had to be the hand of his father, his biological father, who had not earned the right to touch his life in any way whatsoever, let alone force an entry to it. That door had been closed sixteen years ago.
No. Earlier than that.
Much earlier.
Nick was thirty-four now and he’d only been seven when the sense of rejection had hit him full force from all sides. The memory of himself as a young schoolboy not understanding anything, stirred Nick out of his chair, an angry shot of adrenaline energising a move away from the packet from Brazil. At seven he’d been a complete innocent, caught in a web of adult deceptions, trying to find out where he fitted, and the brutal truth had been…he didn’t fit.
Anywhere.
So he’d learnt to make his own place.
And this office was part of his place, the driving centre of the advertising company that occupied two floors of this prestigious building at Circular Quay with its commanding view of Sydney Harbour. It was Nick’s company. His alone. He’d built it up, pursuing his concept of what the market would respond to and he’d been proved right. Spectacularly right.
As he stood at the window, looking out at the opera house and the huge coathanger span of the bridge behind it, Nick sardonically reflected that everyone knew sex sold. Sex and glamour. But he knew it very personally, so much so he had the knack of packaging it better than anyone else, constructing impact shots that were highly memorable, fixing the target product in people’s minds. His style of advertising had made him a very wealthy man, well able to afford this million-dollar view, both in his work-place and the penthouse apartment he owned at Woolloomooloo.
Here he was, standing on top of his world, totally self-sufficient, a successful man in his own right. He didn’t need anything from any of his fathers—the rich, powerful men his mother had attracted, drawing from them whatever her covetous heart desired.
Over the years of his boyhood and adolescence they’d shelled out a lot to him, as well, wanting to please her. He’d used the money to fund his aims and ambition. Why not? He’d earned it by not being a pest in their lives.
But he didn’t take anything from any one any more.
Didn’t need to.
Didn’t want to.
And it was far too late for Enrique Ramirez to offer him anything. The Brazilian had had two chances to make a difference in Nick’s life. He’d walked away from the first. As for the second, when Nick had turned up in Rio de Janeiro—an eighteen-year-old youth seeking to acquaint himself with a father he’d never known—he’d been met with furious resentment at the sheer impudence of presenting himself as Enrique’s son in the man’s own home.
‘What do you want from me? What do you imagine you can get out of me?’
The jeering contempt from the highly placed Brazilian had stung Nick into replying, ‘Nothing. I just wanted to meet you in person. But I will take your name. I can see now it belongs to me.’
There was no denying the genetic pattern that had clearly been passed on to him—the same thick black hair and distinctive hairline, dark olive skin, deeply set green eyes with double-thick lashes, a long aristocratic nose, high angular cheekbones, hard squarish jawline broken by a central cleft that probably should have weakened the forceful impression of aggressive masculinity but perversely enough lent a rakish power to it, a mouth that was carved for sensuality, and the tall muscular physique combining both strength and athleticism.
Oh yes, he was his father’s son all right. And when he’d returned home to Australia he had claimed the name, Ramirez, by deed-poll. At least, that wasn’t a lie. But whatever the packet from Brazil contained…Nick was already rebelling against any effect Enrique might think he could have on him.
His desk telephone rang.
A few strides back from the window and he snatched up the receiver.
‘Mrs Condor is on the line, wanting to speak to you,’ his PA informed.
His mother. Which made two unwelcome parental intrusions this morning. A sense of black irony tipped Nick into saying, ‘Put her through.’ A click, then his dry invitation to converse, ‘Mother?’
‘Darling! Something extraordinary has happened. We must speak.’
‘We are speaking.’
‘I mean get together. Can you fit me in this morning? I’m on my way into the city now. It is important, Nick. I’ve received a packet from Brazil.’
Nick’s jaw tightened at this news. ‘So did I,’ he bit out.
‘Oh!’ The sound of surprise and disappointment. ‘Well, I was going to break it to you gently since he was your father, but I guess I don’t need to now.’ A dramatic sigh. ‘Such a waste! Enrique could only have been in his sixties. Far too young for a man like him to die. He was so virile, so indomitable…’
A weird pain shafted Nick’s heart.
His mind recoiled from the knowledge that Enrique Ramirez was dead.
Gone.
Never to be known as a son should know his father.
No more chances.
He stared at the packet on his desk—the last contact!
‘He has gifted me the most magnificent emerald necklace…’
Pleasure in her voice as she proceeded to gloatingly describe every detail of it. His mother adored beautiful things. And she had certainly taught Nick the worth of sexy glamour. Every man who’d shared her bed—husband or lover—had paid for the privilege very handsomely indeed.
She was on her fifth marriage now, and if some more challenging mega-rich guy came along, Nick had little doubt her beautiful and highly acquisitive golden eyes would rove again. Though she hadn’t snagged Enrique Ramirez as a husband.
In actual fact, she probably hadn’t wanted to marry a Brazilian and settle in a very foreign country, anyway. It had undoubtedly been enough that the international polo-player had happened to be a judge in the Miss Universe contest, held in Rio de Janeiro the year Nadia Kilman had won that title.
Of course, she hadn’t meant to get pregnant by him. That had been an unfortunate accident, especially when she was planning to marry Brian Steele, the son and heir of Australian mining magnate, Andrew Steele. But, easy enough for a woman of her persuasive charms to let the husband of her choice think he was the father of the child in her womb. It had certainly nailed a wedding to the targeted home-grown billionaire bridegroom.