The Tycoon's Hidden Heir. Yvonne Lindsay

must have known how he’d react. In his letter to her he’d been insistent she tell Mason the truth. But at what cost? She drew a steadying breath, deep into her lungs, and turned to face him.

      “Please, Mason. Please help. I need your expertise and acumen. You’re the only one who can make a difference now. This is Brody’s inheritance we’re talking about. His whole life lies ahead of him.”

      “So you’re telling me you’re not affected by this? You’re only doing it for Brody? Your platinum card won’t suddenly dry up without that astronomical salary Patrick paid you to decorate a desk at the office? I’m not a fool, Helena. The only person this will make a difference to is you. I’m sure Patrick left Brody more than well provided for.”

      “Of course. Patrick left both of us well provided for. But you know how much the business meant to him. From Brody’s birth he groomed him to take over one day. You can’t simply stand there and let that slip from Brody’s future. Besides, this isn’t only about Brody and me. Any damage to Davies Freight is going to affect far more people than just me. You have to help.”

      “Have to? And why is that?”

      A painful throb started in her head. She didn’t want to do this, but Patrick’s instructions had been explicit. She still hadn’t even completely gotten over the shock of his letter herself, or the fact that he’d kept the truth hidden from her for so long. That he had, hung heavy in her heart. Gathering all her strength to her, Helena reached out and grasped Mason’s forearm in a tight grip.

      “Isn’t it enough that Patrick asked for your help?”

      He flung her a look of absolute distaste. “Through you? No. It’s not. I think you overestimate your appeal.”

      Helena’s fingers tightened as she hauled out the courage to say what needed to be said. “Then do it because Brody’s your son.”

      Two

      Your son. Your son.

      The words echoed in his head, drowning out the roaring denial that filled his brain. Somewhere, deep inside, an intangible flicker leaped at the possibility, but then the heated brand of her fingers fought through the fog of shock to remind him she was there. A part of this—potentially a part of him through Brody—and he didn’t trust her. Not so much as a millimetre.

      She’d dealt with her grief in record time—it made sense she was on the lookout for her next cash cow, of course she’d look to pin something as outrageous as this on him. There was no way on this wide earth he was going to fall for that one—he’d seen firsthand how destructive a lie like that could be. He placed his hand over hers, peeled her fingers off his arm and dropped her hand.

      “I don’t believe you.” He pitched his voice low and hard so she’d be in no doubt that he could be dissuaded.

      She started and paled, as if he’d slapped her.

      “You don’t…?”

      “You’ve wasted enough of my time, Helena. Now get out of my house.” He banked down the anger. He simply wanted her to take her lies and her sexy body somewhere he’d never have to hear them, or see her, again. He stalked across the room, snapped up the handset of a cordless phone and began punching in a series of numbers. “You can wait in the front porch for the taxi.”

      “No.”

      His finger hovered over the last digit. “No?”

      “I’m not going until you agree to help.”

      Fury clenched low in his belly like a tight fist. If he had to take her physically from the property himself he’d damn well do it. He dropped the phone back on the side table he’d snatched it from and began to walk toward her, his intent obvious in every step.

      “I have proof that Patrick isn’t Brody’s father.”

      Mason stopped in his tracks. “Proof?”

      “On his death he instructed his solicitor to make certain documents available to me, documents that prove he was incapable of fathering a child.”

      Mason choked out a humourless laugh and raised one brow. “And Evan? How do you explain him?”

      “Adopted.”

      Sure he was. Was there no end to her lies? “Does he know?”

      “Yes. I think that’s partly why he’s so bitter toward Brody. He thinks Brody is Patrick’s natural-born son.”

      “And you, of course, know he’s not.”

      “I do now.”

      “Why the hell should I believe you?”

      She scrabbled in her bag, withdrew a letter-size envelope and handed it toward him. “Here. Read it yourself.”

      Reluctantly he took the envelope from her and lifted the flap to remove the folded sheets from within. He sat down on the long sofa facing her chair and began to read.

      “So, this proves Patrick was infertile.” He tossed the papers back across the coffee table toward her. “It certainly doesn’t prove I’m Brody’s father. How many other men have you slept with, or are none of them rich enough to pin this onto?”

      “Brody is your son. You and Patrick were the only ones.”

      “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that. You might have lost track of the details during your parade of lovers but I remember that night very, very clearly. You were no innocent virgin, Helena.”

      “Okay, you weren’t my first, no, but there was no one else once I married Patrick.”

      He could neither help, nor wanted to prevent, the incredulous snort that escaped him. He’d been an unwilling audience to Evan’s drunken boasts about how athletic his father’s beautiful young wife was in bed. He knew she was lying right down to the delicately formed bones of her exquisite body.

      A sudden flash of lightning split through the room, rapidly followed by a deafening rumble of thunder and an almighty crash outside. The lights overhead flickered, dimmed and brightened.

      He had to get rid of her before the power went out altogether. Mason picked the phone back up and hit the Talk button. Silence. He hit the button two times in quick succession. Still nothing.

      “Problem?” Helena sat back on the chair and crossed her legs.

      “Phone’s out.”

      “So use your mobile.”

      “Can’t. This is a black spot. No reception. I’ll take you into Whitianga myself. You can check into a motel and get a taxi back home in the morning.”

      Helena watched in dismay as he grabbed a set of car keys from a softly glazed pottery dish on top of the dining table. That he meant what he said, she had no doubt. Reluctantly she picked up the papers from the table, pushed them back into her bag and rose to follow him through to the garage. If need be she’d come back tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that until he’d agree to help.

      Inside the garage, Mason flipped a switch on the wall. The ceiling light bathed a black behemoth parked in solitary splendour in the middle of the parking bay. She stared at the four-by-four, recognising in its strong powerful lines the personality of the man who drove it—yet, with the chrome running boards and highly polished mag wheels, enough of the daredevil showman who’d brazenly taken the freight community by storm to build the largest privately owned company in the country. The blip of the car alarm disengaging startled her as it echoed in the large area.

      “Get in.” Mason walked around the other side of the four-by-four, opened the driver’s door and climbed up.

      With as much dignity as she could muster, Helena opened her door and placed a foot on the running board to give her a lever up into the high leather seat. As she settled in and clipped her seat belt he put the key in the ignition and pressed a button on a remote on