“Go on.” His voice was steady, his eyes cold and flat.
Helena took in a deep breath. “He told me that if I ever had a problem with Davies Freight to call on you. To ask you for help. So I am. We need you. We’re in trouble, Mason.”
“You’re talking crap. If there was anything crumbling at Davies Freight I’d know about it. Now, if you’re finished, I’ll call that taxi.”
Helena bit back the sharp retort that sprang to mind and took a breath before continuing, “Hear me out, please. You’ll have heard that Evan took over the managing director duties. You know that was never Patrick’s intention. He always knew that if Evan assumed charge that he’d find some way to cut Brody out, to use any profit for his own means. It’s what he’s doing now. He’s systematically bleeding the company dry. There’ll be nothing left in a few months time. Nothing.” Helena dug into her handbag and withdrew a typed sheet of paper. “It’s why Patrick left specific instructions on his death to give you this.”
She watched as Mason’s eyes flew over the letter she’d been given by Patrick’s lawyer after the will had been read.
“Anyone could’ve typed this. Even you. Why would he have wanted me to run Davies Freight?”
Helena watched as Mason discarded the letter to let it flutter onto the coffee table.
“I didn’t make it up, you have to believe me. Patrick never expected to die so suddenly. He was fit, he was healthy—he expected to live for years more. To have the opportunity to start to groom Brody to take over from him in the future, the way he’d hoped you would until you set up your own firm. But you know how cautious he was. He wouldn’t have asked you to do this if he hadn’t thought it was important.
“You have to believe me. Evan’s after blood. You know he’s always been jealous of his father’s relationship with me and with Brody. He wants to hurt us.”
“Hurt you? C’mon, Helena. I think you’re overstating things. Besides, wouldn’t it be easier if you just stayed on Evan’s side? It’s the way people like you operate, isn’t it?”
Helena ignored the hurtful inference in Mason’s words. As difficult as it was, she had to school herself to be immune to his jibes, no matter how far they were from the truth. She sighed. “You don’t know Evan like I do.”
“And of course you know him exceptionally well, don’t you.”
Oh no, now he’d definitely gone too far. She leaped from her seat and met him face-to-face, shaking with anger. “Don’t you dare suggest that! I would never…I could never…”
“Never?” Mason didn’t move so much as a muscle, his voice low and filled with disgust. “You slept with me the night before you pledged yourself to a much older man. A man who could never keep pace with your physical needs. Why wouldn’t you turn to someone else? Especially someone who stood to inherit equally with your own son.”
“No! I loved Patrick. He became the hub of my whole world. I know I did wrong that night. But I wasn’t the only one to blame. I didn’t act responsibly, that’s true, but I never heard you cry ‘stop’. You can’t possibly still hold that night against me.”
“Can’t I? I wasn’t the one getting married the next day.”
Tears burned in the back of her eyes but she wouldn’t give in to them. Too much was at stake. Besides, he was wrong. Despite what she’d thought when she’d entered into her marriage she had loved Patrick. If she could have him back in a minute she would. She owed it to him—for everything he’d done for her, for the wonderful man he’d been—she had to get Mason to agree to help and somehow do it without giving Evan the chance to spread his malicious story and destroy her son’s remaining security. She had to appeal to Mason some other way. Patrick 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 the central console. The wooden segmented door behind them slowly lifted open.
A long low-pitched string of expletives ran from Mason’s mouth as he looked through the rearview mirror to the driveway. Before she knew what was happening he was out of the truck. What? She unclicked her belt and scrambled back down. Mason stood, just inside the doorway, hands on hips and with frustration and anger roiling off him in tangible waves.
She looked past him and out onto the softly lit forecourt. There, firmly planted across the drive, its tip entangled in dark wires, lay the solid trunk of a toppled pine tree.
“Is that what took the phone out?” Helena looked at the sorry excuse for a tree. It looked as if it should have come down years ago.
“Yeah, it was tagged for removal next week along with a few others. Stay here,” he commanded.
“Is there anything—”
“Just do as I said.”
Without another word, Mason went to a large storage cupboard along the back wall of the garage and flung open the door. He reached inside and pulled out a set of earmuffs, safety glasses and gloves and a mean-looking chain saw. Setting the saw onto the concrete floor he checked the petrol level, put on the earmuffs, then hefted the saw up again. For a split second, as he passed her, he met her gaze—accusation stark in his angry stare—before striding out into the driving rain. As if it were her fault the stupid tree had come down. Helena crossed her arms defensively in front of her body and fought back a shiver of cold. The temperature had dropped markedly with the onset of the storm.
In a half a dozen steps the driving rain had plastered his shirt to his body. She tried to tear her eyes away from him, from the outline of a supremely well-honed male, but failed miserably. About as miserably as she’d managed to convince him of the truth of Brody’s parentage. It was her fault. If she hadn’t come he wouldn’t be out there right now. But she’d had to try—still had to. There was simply far too much at stake.
She should be helping him—after all, he wanted to get rid of her, didn’t he? Another gust of wind whipped a flurry of needles and small branches to lash against him as he pulled on the gloves and started up the saw, immediately setting to work to remove the branch nearest him. Before she knew it she was out the door.
“Let me help,” she shouted over the ragged noise.
Mason lifted one side of the silencers protecting his ears. “Don’t be stupid, it’s too dangerous. I told you to stay inside.”
She ignored him and gripped a hold of the branch he’d just cut, and dragged it away to the side of the drive.
“Go to the garage and get yourself a set of earmuffs and safety glasses, you’ll need them. And Helena?”
She paused and straightened.
“Don’t get in my way.” The words were nothing but a growl.
She gave a sharp nod to acknowledge his warning. Sure, she wouldn’t get in his way, at least not while he wielded that chain saw with the dexterity of a seasoned professional.
From the garage cupboard she pulled out a pair of gardening gloves, although after trying them on she decided to do without. The way they fell off her hands would be more hindrance than help and right now it was more important to her to leave a better impression on Mason than that she’d arrived with.
The rain had soaked through her hair and ran in rivulets beneath the collar of her jacket, sending trickling shivers of discomfort down her spine. She mentally squared her shoulders and focussed on what she had to do. She slipped on the glasses and earmuffs and went back outside.
It was more difficult than she’d expected to clear the branches off to the side, especially in a suit and shoes better suited to a cocktail party than a logging operation.
Mason’s eyes burned a hole through her back more than once as she staggered with another branch across the driveway. Through the earmuffs the softened roar of the saw bounced between the bank and the side of the house until Helena’s head felt as if it was vibrating in unison with the noise. She pressed fingers, sticky with pine resin, over her earmuffs to seal off any gaps as Mason battled a particularly knotted piece of wood. He wielded the chain saw as if it was second nature to him, but then that’s pretty much the way she’d noticed he managed everything in his life. A total perfectionist in whatever he did.
Any other day of the week Helena would have turned tail and left. The discomfort, the noise and the incessant rain would individually have been enough to persuade her to find sanctuary elsewhere. But she couldn’t stop. She had to prove she was worth listening to and not, as Mason so clearly thought, just some grasping bimbo out to find her next sugar daddy. She bent to pick up the branch he’d finally worked free and jumped when Mason leaned forward and pulled one of the earmuffs away from the side of her head.
“Ready to give up yet?”
She looked up, raking his face for any clue that she’d satisfie
d him she wasn’t just some pretty thing looking for an easy ride, but his features remained unreadable except for the flicker of heat in his eyes when they dropped to the gaping neckline of her jacket.
“Are you finished yet?” she countered, not daring to move.
Slowly, his eyes trailed back up to her face. “Not yet.” His pupils dilated slightly.
Helena felt a brief surge of power. He might act as if he hated her, but he wasn’t unaffected by her. At least not as much as he tried to portray. That telltale flare in his eyes had given her more control than she’d dreamed. “Well, then, I’m not finished either.”
Despite all the activity, the cold evening air and her wet clothes combined to send a deep chill into her bones. She shivered as she bent to pick up one of the slices of the trunk. Mason reached out to stop her.
“What?” She stood up and put her hands on her hips.
“Go inside, you’re wet through.”
“It’s okay, I can manage,” she replied through gritted teeth, bending at the knees to get closer to the richly scented disk of wood.
Mason stood and watched her as she hefted up the piece. Holding it close to her body, she lurched over to where she’d stacked the cut branches. Then, he set to finishing off the remainder of the tree, although she noticed that he cut the slices narrower to make her job a little easier. Eventually he was done and, scooping up three disks to her miserable one each time, they finished clearing the driveway.
“What about that bit?” Helena gestured toward the tip of the tree that had tangled in and brought down the phone line.
“I’ll leave that for the phone guys. C’mon.” He gestured toward the garage.
Helena hesitated a moment in the rain, which hadn’t let up even the tiniest bit as they’d worked to clear the tree, then followed him back inside. She fought to combat the shivers that now cascaded through her body. The last time she’d come close to feeling this cold she’d been with him, too. Only then the outcome had been vastly different to today. She resolutely pushed away the memory of that night, of the lover who was as far removed from this aloof creature as a person could be.
The Tycoon's Hidden Heir Page 3