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 and I go way back, Kathryn,’ he said quietly. ‘She would hate having this exposed.’
‘You…and Lara Chappel?’ She looked astounded.
‘Lara Seymour…’
‘Is she why…’ An embarrassed flush flooded up her neck and burned her cheeks. Her gaze was hastily switched to the computer screen. ‘I’ll do a print for you,’ she muttered.
‘Why what?’ Ric pursued the point, curious to know what she was thinking.
A rueful glance. ‘Not my business, Ric.’
‘Say it anyway.’
A shrug that disowned any personal interest. ‘People talk about you. Let’s face it…you’d have to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. You could have your pick of beautiful women, yet…’
‘Yet?’
She finally gave him a direct look. ‘You never seem to have a serious relationship.’
His smile was wry. ‘I lead a busy life, Kathryn.’
‘Of course.’ She nodded and busied herself producing a print of the photograph on glossy paper.
Ric pondered the question she’d raised.
Yes, it was easy enough to get dates with women he found attractive. Somehow the attraction never lasted very long. It usually ended up feeling false, with him becoming too conscious of how pleased the women were with what he could provide. They didn’t know him. They just wanted the part of him that emanated the power of huge success and big money.
He’d certainly fulfilled his ambition of making it to the top. The world was more or less his oyster. He owned apartments in London and New York—prime properties—as well as in Sydney, with a magnificent harbour view. He also had classy cars in each city; a Jaguar in London, a Lamborghini in New York, a Ferrari here.
The Porsche he’d once stolen to impress Lara flitted through his mind. He could have bought one. Didn’t want to. Why remind himself of frustration…defeat? Although he wasn’t that boy anymore…was he?
Did anyone ever really escape the past?
Kathryn handed him the printed photograph and he stared down at it, feeling the past grab him back to that time and place when being with Lara Seymour had seemed more important than anything else. Somehow she’d been the fulfilment of all he’d craved for himself.
‘Got an envelope for this?’ he asked, knowing he was going to act on it.
Kathryn opened a desk drawer, gave him one.
‘Print five more copies…’ His instincts insisted on the precaution. ‘Lock them in the safe. Then delete.’
She nodded, frowning over the unusual commands. ‘What should I pay for the copyright?’
‘I don’t care.’ He slid the photo into the envelope, sealed it, stood up. ‘Negotiate the best price you can.’ He threw her a look of reckless determination as he headed for the door. ‘The bottom line is…I don’t care how much it costs. Just do it.’
‘Right!’ she said, accepting the task without any further questions, though her eyes were full of them.
Ric didn’t care. He could afford a stupid self-indulgence if that’s what it was. It looked to him as though Lara was in a bad situation with Gary Chappel. The photo had been taken at the airport. Had she been attempting to run away from her husband?
Domestic abuse could occur in any household and all too often it was hidden through shame. And fear of more punishment. His own mother had been a victim of it—dying from ruptured kidneys when Ric was only a kid. He’d been too little to protect her, getting beatings for trying. At least his father had gone to jail for it, but Ric had never forgotten the fear of testifying against him in court.
If Lara was living in that kind of fear…
Ric found his hands clenching as he rode the elevator down to the basement car park. It wasn’t his fight. He had no rights in this matter. Nevertheless, he couldn’t ignore it. His heart burned with the need to act. And in his mind flared a wildly wanton exultation in having the power to do it—the power to do anything he chose to do.
He wasn’t a street kid anymore.
He was a rich guy.
With
