Miranda Lee – The Blackmailed Bridegroom (страница 1)

“Antonio, a girl has her pride.”

“Pride?”

“Everyone knows you’re the love-’em-and-leave-’em type. I have no intention of being added to your list of idle conquests. So you can lend me the money for a taxi.”

Antonio began to fume. We’ll see about that, Miss Love-’em-and-leave-’em yourself! I’ve got news for you.You won’t be loving and leaving me, honey.You’re going to be my wife. “I wouldn’t dream of sending you home in a taxi,” he said with a smooth smile. “Just give me a minute.…”

VIVA LA VIDA DE AMOR!

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Miranda Lee

The Blackmailed Bridegroom

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE jumbo jet was twenty minutes late setting down at Mascot Airport, but Antonio was one of the first to alight. The head of Fortune Productions, European Division, didn’t look as if he’d been on a gruelling twenty-two-hour flight from London to Sydney. His superb grey suit was sleek and uncrumpled. His thick jet-black hair was slicked back from a freshly shaven face. His dark eyes were clear and rested.

The advantage of flying first class.

Not that Antonio Scarlatti had always travelled first class. He knew what it was like to do it tough. He knew what it was like to travel long hauls cramped in steerage, with wall-to-wall passengers and little chance of sleep, then have people look down their nose at him at the other end, when his suit had been wrinkled and his job far less prestigious than the one he now held.

Antonio had no intention of ever going back to that existence. He’d made it to the top, and the top was where he was going to stay. The world was for the winners. And the wealthy. At the age of thirty-four, he was finally both.

The company limousine was waiting in its usual spot, the engine idling at the ready. Antonio opened the back door and slid into its air-conditioned comfort.

‘Morning, Jim,’ he addressed the chauffeur.

‘Mornin’, Tone.’

Antonio smiled. He was back in Australia all right. In London, and all over Europe, he was always addressed by his drivers as ‘Mr Scarlatti’. But that wasn’t the way down under, especially after an acquaintance of some time.

Antonio leant back against the plush leather seat with a deeply relaxing sigh. It was good to be home and off the merry-go-round for a fortnight’s break. His contract stated he could fly home for two weeks rest and recuperation every three months, a necessity since he worked seven days a week when on the job. Being in charge of selling and promoting Fortune Productions’ extensive list of television programmes to the hundreds of stations and cable networks all over Europe was a challenging job.

‘Straight home, Jim,’ he said, and closed his eyes. He’d bought himself a luxury serviced apartment overlooking the harbour bridge a couple of years back, and couldn’t wait to immerse himself in its privacy and comfort. The last few days had been a nightmare of negotiations and never-ending meetings. Antonio needed some peace and quiet.

‘No can do, Tone,’ the chauffeur returned as he eased the lengthy car past the long line of taxis which had queued up to meet the flight from London. ‘The boss wants you to join him for breakfast.’

Antonio’s eyes opened on a low groan. He hoped it wasn’t one of those media circus breakfasts Conrad was always getting invited to and which he occasionally attended. Antonio couldn’t stand them at the best of times. ‘Where, for pity’s sake?’ came his irritable query.

‘The Taj Mahal.’

‘Thank God,’ Antonio muttered.

The Taj Mahal was Jim’s nickname for Conrad Fortune’s residence at Darling Point. It was an apt term. The place was over the top with its grandeur and opulence, a monolithic mansion sprawled across an acre of some of the most expensive land in Sydney’s exclusive Eastern suburbs.

What the house lacked in taste, it made up for in sheer size. The fac¸ade had more columns than the Colosseum, the foyer more marble than the British Museum, and Romanesque statues and ornate fountains dominated the front landscaping. The sloping backyard was more low key, terraced to incorporate the solar-heated swimming pool and two rebound ace tennis courts.

Antonio thought the place ostentatious in the extreme. But it was impressive, no doubt about that. Socialites grovelled to be included on the lists for Conrad’s celebrated parties. Magazines and television programmes clamoured to photograph beyond the high-security walls which enclosed the property.

Not Conrad’s television programmes, of course. They knew better.

‘You wouldn’t have any idea what he wants me for, Jim, would you?’ Antonio probed.

‘Nope.’ A man of few words, Jim.

Antonio decided not to speculate. Time would tell, he supposed.

Fifteen minutes later, the limousine slid to a smooth halt in front of the grand front steps, and this time Jim did the honours with the door.

‘You won’t be needing that,’ he advised when Antonio went to pick up his laptop.

Antonio shot the chauffeur a sharp look. So he did have some idea of what was up. And clearly it wasn’t a business matter.

Curiouser and curiouser.

The housekeeper answered the door. Evelyn was in her late forties, and very homely, as were all of Conrad’s female employees. No fool, was Conrad. He’d been stung once, by an ambitious and beautiful maid, and had no intention of harbouring any females under his roof who might present him with unwise temptations. Although now rising seventy, Conrad was still very interested in the opposite sex, as evidenced by the three mistresses he kept. One here in Sydney, one in Paris and one in the Bahamas.

Evelyn had been Conrad’s housekeeper now for over a decade. She was efficient and reliable. More importantly, she knew how to keep her mouth shut to the press.

‘Conrad’s expecting you,’ she told Antonio straight away. ‘He’s in the morning room.’

The morning room overlooked the terrace, which overlooked the pool. The floor-to-ceiling windows faced north-east, and captured the sun all year round. On a winter morning, the room was a dream. In summer, the air-conditioning had a tough job preventing the place from turning into a hothouse. Spring found it coolish, especially since the sun was only just rising at six-thirty.

Conrad was sitting at the huge glass oval table in the centre of the conservatory-style room, wrapped in a thick navy bathrobe. Despite his age, he still had a full head of hair—a magnificent silvery grey—and piercing blue eyes. They flicked up at Antonio’s entrance, and raked him from head to toe, disconcerting Antonio for a moment. Why on earth was Conrad looking him over like that, as though he’d come to audition for one of his soap operas? What was going on here?

‘Sit down, Antonio,’ Conrad ordered. ‘Take a load off your feet and have some decent coffee for a change.’ He picked up the coffee pot and poured an extra mugful of steaming brown liquid.

‘What’s the problem?’ Antonio asked as he sat down and pulled the coffee towards him.

His employer gave him another long, considering look over the table, and Antonio’s gut tightened further. He knew, without being told, that he wasn’t going to like what Conrad had to say.

‘Paige has come home again,’ came the abrupt announcement.

Antonio almost said, So? What’s new?

Conrad’s wild and wilful daughter had been running away from home regularly since she was seventeen. She turned up again regularly too, every year or so. But no sooner had she returned than she’d be off again, saying she was going to share a flat with some girlfriends. But only once had this been the case. Usually, when the private investigator’s report came in several weeks later, her flatmate was male and good-looking, invariably an artist or a musician. Paige seemed to like creativeness. Not one of them had denied sharing more with Paige than the cooking.

At first, Conrad had worried Paige might be exploited for her money. A whole family could have lived comfortably on his only child’s generous monthly allowance! But perversely, from the day she’d first left home, Paige had never touched a cent of the thousands deposited in her bank account every month. When Conrad had found out his money was being donated to the RSPCA, and that Paige was working to support herself, he’d stopped the allowance altogether.

‘Let her work, if that’s what she wants to do!’ he’d raged to Antonio, but would still cringe when he learnt that she was working as a waitress in some café, or behind the bar in a club or pub.