now. That was certain. A girl with her privileged background wouldn’t even consider a convicted criminal for a boyfriend.
The plane taxied back to where a guy was waiting beside a four-wheel drive Cherokee. Big guy—broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, craggy weathered face, iron-grey hair. Had to be over fifty but still looking tough and formidable. Not someone to buck in a hurry, Ric decided, though size didn’t automatically command his respect. If the guy laid a hand on him…
‘John Wayne rides again,’ Mitch muttered in the mocking tone he habitually used. Sour on the whole world was Mitch. Could become a real drag, living with him at close quarters.
‘No horse,’ Johnny remarked with a grin.
He was going to be much easier to get on with, Ric thought.
Johnny Ellis had probably cultivated an affable manner as his stock-in-trade, as well as a protective shield, though he was big enough and strong enough to match anyone in a punch-up. He had friendly hazel eyes, a ready grin, and sun-streaked brown hair that tended to flop over his forehead. He’d been caught dealing in marijuana, though he swore it was only to musicians who’d get it from someone else anyway.
Mitch Tyler was a very different kettle of fish, charged with a serious assault on a guy who, he claimed, had date-raped his sister. Though he hadn’t put that defence forward in court. Didn’t want his sister dragged into it. He was lean and mean, dark hair, biting blue eyes, and Ric had the sense that violence was simmering under his surface all the time.
Ric, himself, was darker still in colouring. Typical Italian heritage. Black curly hair, almost black eyes, olive skin, with the kind of Latin good looks that attracted the girls. Any girl he wanted. Even Lara. But looks weren’t enough in the long run. He had to have money. And all the things money could buy. It was the only way to beat the class difference.
The plane came to a halt.
The cop told them to get their duffle bags from under the back seats. A few minutes later he was leading them out to a way of life which was far, far removed from anything the three of them had known before.
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
