The Tycoon's Hidden Heir. Yvonne Lindsay

in his presence. It wouldn’t take much mental arithmetic before tongues would start to wag and minds to speculate. She couldn’t do that to Brody, no matter what.

      

      Mason looked through the wall of floor-length glass that faced out to the ocean and drank in the wild beauty of the scene. He loved this place and not just because it was his own personal testament to the first million he’d ever made. He’d never grow tired of the sight of the native bush, as it hugged the hillside on its gentle drop toward the sea, or the sea’s ever-changing mood. It’d been too long since he’d come here to recharge.

      When he woken at 5:00 a.m., his mind still fogged with sleep, he’d known it was time to clear his diary and get away from the city, and all its demands, for the weekend. Okay, so it had taken some juggling, and a few extra grey hairs for his secretary, but he’d walked out of the office at two-thirty this afternoon without a backward glance. Now the weekend stretched before him, gloriously empty. His to do with whatever the hell he wanted.

      He lifted a glass of red wine in a silent toast to the view then put it to his lips and relished the flavour of his favourite merlot—an indulgence he saved only for these stolen weekends here at his hideaway. His mouth twisted into a wry smile. Of course, Patrick had always teased him that the only thing to make a runaway weekend perfect was spending it in the company of a special person. But Mason had no such special person in his life. He had neither the time nor the inclination to weed through the gold diggers, the publicity seekers, the schemers.

      Realistically, of course, he knew that not all women were like that—his sisters-in-law being perfect examples and hell-bent on putting what they believed were suitable marriageable candidates across his path. What was it about happily married people that made them want to see everyone in the same state, he wondered. It was like an epidemic over the past couple of years. His eyes rested briefly on the snapshot of his growing extended family taken at their last gathering. Who would’ve thought he’d be an uncle twice over by now?

      Marriage. His lip curled slightly at the thought. While his brothers, Declan and Connor, didn’t seem to have any complaints it certainly wasn’t a state he was in any hurry to embrace. What he enjoyed now was the company of suitable escorts from his personal list. Sophisticated women who made no emotional demands on him at all. Cut-and-dried—just the way he liked it.

      Mason strolled across the room to flip the light switch. It grew dark early this time of year. The wind was coming up. Good. He loved a howling winter storm. Nothing like it to blow the cobwebs from your mind and reenergize your soul. He had everything here he needed, and if the power went out, so be it. Nothing would mar the perfection of his all-too-infrequent time away from work, alone.

      Buzz, buzz!

      Mason froze. Nothing but the intrusion of an uninvited guest, he thought as the gate intercom’s strident warning bounced about the high-raftered ceiling. Who the hell could it be? He hadn’t even told his secretary where he was headed when he walked out the office door. Sure, his brothers or his dad would figure this was where he’d come if they tried to contact him at home, but they would respect his privacy. One thing was for sure: whoever was at the gate wasn’t welcome.

      Buzz, buzz, buzzzzzzzzz!

      With a muttered expletive Mason put his glass of wine down on the heavy pine coffee table and walked over to the intercom console on the far side of the room. He leaned one forearm against the wall and depressed the Talk button with a dangling finger.

      “Yeah, what?” he snarled into the speaker.

      “Mason? Mason Knight?”

      His skin chilled as he recognised the husky lilt of the woman’s voice. How the hell had she tracked him here and, more importantly, why?

      “Can we talk? I really need to see you.”

      “We have nothing to talk about, Mrs. Davies.”

      “Don’t switch off. It’s important, or you know I wouldn’t be here. Mason? Please?”

      Oh yeah, she injected just the right amount of pathos into her tone. Any other man would leap to her aid. Any other man but him. But then not everyone knew what a little schemer Helena Davies was, or how little she’d valued her wedding vows. He’d often wondered just how many times she’d cuckolded Patrick since that night and the thought still made his blood boil.

      “It’s for Patrick. Just give me five minutes,” she finished.

      Mason’s heart gave a twist. Patrick Davies, the one man he’d admired unreservedly—until he’d married Helena. He warred with his desire to switch off the intercom, go out onto the deck and be buffeted by the rising wind and pretend he’d never begun this conversation. But despite Patrick’s appalling taste in wives, he owed it to both the man and his memory to hear her out.

      “Five minutes only. Come on up.”

      He hit the button to unlock the gate then strode through the house to the front door and threw it open to wait for her arrival. She didn’t take long. He could hear the strain of the car’s engine as the transmission dropped to a lower gear to climb the steep, unsealed private road. His whole body tensed as the taxi drove onto the flagstone-covered apron outside the house.

      Taxi? He stifled a groan. Only Helena Davies would bring a taxi for the two-and-a-half-hour drive from Auckland to this spot on the Coromandel. The woman threw money around like there was an unending supply. He watched as she handed a fistful of hundred-dollar notes to the driver then alighted from the vehicle. His stomach tensed. She still looked good, he noted bitterly, although a bit paler and a bit thinner than the last time he’d seen her. In the dark emerald-coloured suit, buttoned just high enough to expose a hint of perfect creamy breast, and with her brown-red hair tightly twisted to the back of her head, she played the grieving widow well.

      “A taxi, Helena?”

      “And what’s wrong with that? I’ve recompensed him, and then some.” Her glittering green eyes met his gaze and clashed. Every nerve in his body went on full alert.

      “Just seems a bit extravagant, don’t you think? Especially when you can drive any one of Patrick’s cars yourself.”

      “I don’t drive anymore. Not since…Well, anyway, I never got my confidence back behind the wheel.” Her eyes drifted away from his face and fixed on a spot somewhere behind him.

      Acid burned low in his belly. Like he needed the reminder of that night right now.

      The taxi driver swung through the circular turning bay at the front of the house and disappeared back down the drive. What?

      “Hey, where’s he going?”

      “Back to Auckland.” Helena’s voice held an underlying thread of steel.

      The tightness in his gut ratcheted up another notch as, in a few graceful steps, she closed the distance between them. Her perfume reached out to tantalise his nostrils—a bit sweet, a bit spicy. His body stirred with unwelcome interest. He hated that she could still do that to him.

      “You said five minutes.” He bit the words out as if he’d chipped them from stone.

      “I lied.”

      The conniving witch. Rage boiled up inside of him and he ground his teeth together hard to keep the heated words he wanted to shout from spilling out. She hadn’t changed a bit. Now her easy source of income was gone she probably thought she could move onto her next victim. He knew her type only too well.

      “Enjoy your walk home.” He spun away from her and stepped back inside, but he wasn’t fast enough. The telltale waft of her fragrance followed close behind.

      “So call me a taxi when we’re done. I don’t care. I have to talk to you.”

      “Oh, we’re done all right. Now get off my property before I have you charged for trespass.”

      He was unprepared for the butterfly-like touch of her hand on his arm. His skin contracted sharply under the cool softness of her fingers