Billionaire's Pursuit of Love: Destiny Romance

by Jennifer St George

  She turned and stared. Her eyes strained from their sockets. ‘You want to . . . pay me?’ Words fired through her brain – prostitute, streetwalker, whore. She stumbled out the door into the blinding sunlight. She fled down the long manicured path to the street. The gravel scratched her bare feet.

  ‘Wait,’ the mystery man, Damon, called. ‘You haven’t got . . .’

  Felicity heard no more. She ran blindly down the street. Away from this bacon-cooking, coffee-making hot guy, in his mansion, offering breakfast and who knew what else.

  She checked behind her. He didn’t appear to be following. Panting, she stopped, bent her head and put her hands on her knees. Sweat trickled down her back.

  How had this happened? How could she have compromised herself so completely?

  Straightening, she tried to find her bearings. The smell of the sea spiced the air. She must be near the bay.

  She roamed down the wide, leafy streets. Each block boasted a mansion with expensive European cars in the driveways, a public statement of the household’s extravagant annual income. She came to a familiar boulevard and the sparkling waters of Port Phillip Bay. She realised she was in Brighton, one of Melbourne’s most affluent suburbs. She ran across the street and hailed a cab.

  ‘Where to?’ the cabby asked.

  ‘Port Melbourne.’ She pulled open the door, but she didn’t get in.

  ‘Something wrong, love?’ the driver asked.

  Her handbag. She didn’t have it. She looked around as if it would magically appear. She had no money. She patted her pockets. Nothing.

  ‘Ah, no. I’ve decided to walk. Sorry.’ She slammed the door.

  The cabby shot her an irritated look and disappeared into the traffic.

  Stranded.

  She raised her eyes to the distant soaring span of the West Gate Bridge, the direction of her home. Great. Nothing like a ten-kilometre walk in the Australian summer heat when you’ve spent the night learning a new trade in prostitution.

  Damon stood transfixed in the doorway. The beautiful stranger who’d crashed into his life had vanished from it just as fast. The mass of long, blond hair streamed out behind her as she ran. Small, perfectly formed and hot. Damn hot. A stab of desire shot through his body.

  And those eyes – huge and green and beckoning. As soon as he’d seen her, he’d been bewitched. He must have been, to have done such a reckless thing. Bringing home a stranger. What had he been thinking?

  He’d had high hopes for this morning after their alluring interlude. He considered sprinting down the street after her but thought better of it. Might cause a scene. His neighbours were notorious ‘curtain twitchers’. He didn’t care what they thought of him, but he didn’t want to cause his mystery girl any more trauma than he obviously had.

  He leant on the doorjamb. His unidentified guest had been electrifying and mysterious. An interesting distraction from his usual Saturday night.

  He noticed a number of his neighbours had Australian flags hanging from their houses.

  Of course. Australia Day.

  A family barbecue had been planned for the afternoon.

  After scanning the street one last time, he reluctantly closed the door.

  He shouldn’t go down that road again, anyway. That road only offered disappointment, disillusionment, and danger.

  Early-morning light filled the bathroom. Felicity scrutinised herself in her full-length mirror. Sharp suit and killer heels. Serious hair and professional make-up. Designer briefcase and a steely attitude. Very different from the bedraggled mess of yesterday, when she dug her spare key from the ficus pot plant and stumbled through the front door sweaty and parched.

  She nodded to her image. She’d land this job today.

  She ran downstairs to the front hall, and the bare sideboard was an instant reminder of the nox horribilis. No handbag.

  Her stomach muscles spasmed. The slim veneer of calm evaporated. Scurrying around the house, she found enough change for the tram and bolted out the door.

  Usually, the journey from her Port Melbourne home to the city only took a pleasant fifteen minutes. Today the tram hummed a funereal tune. Your efforts will be wasted. Your father will be found guilty. And he will die in jail.

  At the top of Collins Street she jumped out at her stop. The Read Holt Fullbright building loomed ahead. She wondered if the partners of the law firm had decided on such a grand edifice to intimidate the opposition.

  A few minutes later, she walked from the lift into a vast marble reception on the twenty-seventh floor. A large desk stood in the centre of the room. Immaculately groomed and with a cool air, the receptionist raised her head. Felicity affected a brilliant wouldn’t-I-be-great-for-this-firm smile.

  ‘Hi, I’m Felicity Carter. I have an interview today.’

  ‘Hi, Felicity. They’re waiting for you,’ the receptionist said in a professional tone that hinted at years of impeccable training and experience. ‘Follow me.’

  They walked through a heavy swing door into the inner sanctum of Read Holt Fullbright and down a long corridor. Felicity could feel the industry of the place. To Australia’s well-heeled defendants, it said the best money can buy. To the director of public prosecutions, it sneered chalk up another loss.

  At the end of the corridor, the receptionist knocked quietly on a door and entered a bright conference room. Looking past her through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Felicity glimpsed the sparkling bay in the distance.

  ‘Morning,’ the receptionist said. ‘This is Felicity Carter. Felicity, if you would like to take a seat here?’

  A massive boardroom table filled the room. Three well-dressed men stood.

  Adrenaline smashed into Felicity’s bloodstream like the slash of a whip. Her briefcase slipped from her hand. She blinked hard, begging her eyes to clear.

  But there was no mistake. There he stood, at the head of the table.

  The Adulterer.

  The Cheat.

  The Bastard.

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