The initial introduction had Ric instantly tensing up.
‘Here are your boys, Mister Maguire. Straight off the city streets for you to whip into shape.’
The big old guy—and he sure was big close up—gave the cop a steely look. ‘That’s not how we do things out here.’ The words were softly spoken but they carried a confident authority that scorned any need for physical abuse.
He nodded to them, offering a measure of respect. ‘I’m Patrick Maguire. Welcome to Gundamurra. In the Aboriginal language, that means “Good day.” I hope you will all eventually feel it was a good day when you first set foot on my place.’
Ric found himself willing to give it a chance.
Fighting it wasn’t going to do him any good anyway.
‘And you are…?’ Patrick Maguire held out a massive hand to Mitch who looked suspiciously at it as though it were a bone-cruncher.
‘Mitch Tyler,’ he answered, thrusting his own hand out in defiant challenge.
‘Good to meet you, Mitch.’
A normal handshake, no attempt to dominate.
Johnny’s hand came out with no hesitation. ‘Johnny Ellis. Good to meet you, Mister Maguire.’ Big smile to the old man, pouring out the charm. Getting onside fast was Johnny.
A weighing look in the steely grey gaze, plus a hint of amusement. No one’s fool this, Ric thought, as he himself was targeted by eyes that had probably seen through all the facades people put up.
‘Ric Donato,’ he said, taking the offered hand, feeling the strength in it, and oddly enough a warmth that took away some of the sense of alienation that was deep in Ric’s bones.
‘Ready to go?’ the old man asked.
‘Yeah. I’m ready,’ Ric said more aggressively than he meant to.
Ready to take on the whole damned world one day.
And come out on top.
Maybe even win Lara in the end.
He still couldn’t get her out of his head. Probably never would. Class…that’s what she had. Unattainable for Ric right now but he’d get there. One way or another, he’d make it to where he wanted to be.
CHAPTER ONE
Eighteen years later…
RIC DONATO sat with his executive assistant, Kathryn Ledger, in the Sydney office, checking photographs that had come in, most of them featuring celebrities at the Australian Film Industry Awards. That was the big number this week. Freelance photographers—some reputable, some paparazzi—sent them to his agency via the Internet. His staff sifted through them, choosing the highlights to be sold to magazines around the world.
Always class, Ric reflected with considerable irony. That was what his network of agencies sold—here in Australia, Los Angeles, New York, London, his contacts legion now, all of them eager to jump on his red carpet ride.
The grim realities he’d shot as a photo-journalist covering war zones had won prizes and respect in some quarters but the appeal of those photographs had been very limited. He’d learnt the hard way that it was pretty pictures that sold everywhere. People wanted to see class. They revelled in it, if only vicariously. They turned away from suffering.
Focusing on class had paid off, at both ends of the market. The rich and famous liked his guarantee that nothing negative would be brokered through his agencies. They even alerted his staff about photo opportunities, happy to supply the demands of the media as long as the shots were positive publicity for them. And the magazines lapped up what he could provide, paying mega-dollars for exclusives.
Everybody happy.
The magic formula for success.
Class…
It was the password to paradise, at least in terms of wealth and acceptability into even the highest social strata. He’d known that instinctively at sixteen, forgotten it in his twenties when he’d pursued other quests, learnt it again in time to build up what had turned into a multimillion dollar business.
Kathryn downloaded yet another photograph from the airport—more Hollywood stars departing, Ric thought, idly watching until one of the faces being revealed galvanised his attention.
Lara?
Her head was ducked down. She was wearing sunglasses. Was that discolouration beside her left cheekbone part of a black eye? Her mouth was puffy as though she’d taken a hit there, as well.
He switched his gaze to the man accompanying her. That was Gary Chappel all right—the guy she’d married—heir and current CEO to the Nursing Home empire his father had built. Born to huge wealth and with the kind of clean-cut handsome looks that could have made him a pin-up model if he’d been so inclined.
But he wasn’t looking so attractive in this photo, his mouth thinned into grim lines, hooded eyes emanating a vicious threat. He had one arm wrapped tightly around Lara’s shoulders. His other hand had a tight grip on her arm which was tucked between them. Bruisingly tight.
‘Wow! There’s fodder for the gossip pages,’ Kathryn remarked.
Gary and Lara Chappel—definitely an A-list couple in Australian high society, usually photographed as two of the most beautiful people. Ric had seen plenty of shots of them before, but never like this.
‘Delete?’ Kathryn checked with him before carrying out the action.
‘No!’ It came out forcefully.
Kathryn looked her surprise. ‘It’s not a happy snap, Ric.’
‘Print it for me and buy the copyright.’
‘But…’
‘If we don’t buy it someone else will. As you said, it’s prime fodder for gossip pages and I don’t want it printed publicly,’ he said decisively, acting on his gut instinct which was too strong for him to ignore.
‘It’s not our business to protect, Ric,’ Kathryn reminded him, her eyes searching his for the reason.
He’d trained her to handle all the business that came into the Sydney office. She was in charge when he was elsewhere. He trusted her judgment. But this was personal. Deeply personal. And he couldn’t let it go.
Funny after all these years and having had no contact with Lara Seymour since he’d been taken to Gundamurra…yet the sight of her, looking as though she was the victim of physical abuse by her husband, got to Ric.
And here was Kathryn, looking at him with eyes that questioned if he’d suddenly lost his marbles—green eyes, auburn hair cut in a short chic style, pretty face, trim figure always smartly dressed in a business suit—all in all a very attractive package, housing a brain that invariably displayed a quick intelligence. He liked her, wished her well in the marriage she was planning with her boyfriend who was a hot-shot dealer in a merchant bank.
In fact, he liked her very much and wasn’t sure her fiancé was good enough for her. Yet he’d never wanted Kathryn himself, not how he’d wanted Lara Seymour.
To him she’d been the embodiment of perfect femininity; softly slender, idyllically proportioned, a wonderful flowing curtain of shiny blond hair, a face of features drawn with delicate distinction, eyes the sparkling blue of summer skies, a beautiful smile that was both shy and inviting, smooth unblemished skin that glowed with a sheen he had ached to touch, to stroke. He’d understood the phrase, a swanlike neck, in the way she moved her head. And she’d walked like a dancer, innately graceful.
Every aspect of her had given him intense riveting pleasure, yet she’d also embodied the mystique of the unattainable, compelling him to…but that was far in the past.
‘Lara