It was no longer out of any loyalty to Patrick. His mentor had lost that when he’d deliberately hidden Brody’s parentage. The words Helena had taunted him with days ago came back to haunt him. The words where she’d made it clear she didn’t believe he’d be where he was in his life right now without Patrick’s influence. Okay, so that much was true. But the man had stolen eleven years of his son’s life from him. At what stage had Patrick planned to tell him—to let him in on the secret of what he was missing?
It was impossible not to be bitter, not to regret the lost years. But hoarding bitterness could only lead to a slow poisoning of the system and eventually to complete shutdown. He’d already learned that the hard way with his father.
Mason studied Tony Knight’s craggy brow in the photo and, in his father’s face, began to see himself in another thirty years. He didn’t like what he saw. A man still driven by the mighty dollar, still driven to hide from the grief of losing the one woman he’d loved.
The woman he loved? Did he love Helena Davies? He’d tried to convince himself she was no more than a sexual release, but sex with Helena had done anything but release him. It had only served to wind his desire for her tighter and tighter, until he was certain no one else could ever satisfy the hunger that grew within—no one but her.
Mason shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Damn, but she drove him crazy—even with just a thought.
The last time he’d felt like this he’d been a teenager and look at the trouble that had gotten him into. He’d been unable to refuse the advances of his father’s mistress and in the end his weakness had driven a wedge between him and his dad that still remained.
So was it Brody that drove him to keep Davies Freight alive? No. His son could learn from the ground floor at BKT if he really wanted to. Mason understood how important it was to understand every aspect of the business. And if Brody didn’t want to work from the bottom up, that was okay, too. He could provide his son with every opportunity to ensure he could never want for a single thing in his life.
A single thing but his mother.
When he won sole custody—and he was confident he would—how would Brody cope with the change in his lifestyle? Kids are adaptable, sure. But how would three dramatic life changes—losing a father, gaining another, then losing his mother—affect Brody in the long term? Did he want his son to be just like him?
The similarities between them went beyond the physical. Mason had been almost eleven, just a few months younger than Brody was now, when he’d lost his mother. But he knew he wouldn’t do to his son what his father had done to him, nor betray him as Patrick had done. Never in a million years.
Damn, but his head hurt thinking about this.
But soon the loneliness he felt would be a thing of the past. There’d been a message on his answer machine from the family law solicitor he’d engaged to petition for custody of Brody. Once he won, he’d enrol the boy in a school here in Auckland, keep him close. Begin to make up for the lost years.
He looked up at the heavy wooden mantel that framed the fireplace, and in particular at the recent photo he had of his dad and brothers. What would they do in the same situation, he wondered. There really was no argument. No matter the circumstances, blood ran thicker than water. Well, at least part of the time.
That certainly hadn’t been the case when Melanie had cried wolf, and insisted Mason had been the one to initiate things between them. The atmosphere at home had become unbearable after that night, and the situation had grown even worse after Melanie left. It hadn’t taken long to get to the point where Mason couldn’t stand the estrangement, or the guilt, any longer and two days after finishing his last year at high school he had walked straight into the New Zealand Army recruitment office and signed up.
His father’s farewell when Mason left for training camp had been cold, stilted. They still had too many words left unsaid between them. And all because of a woman like Helena.
Mason lifted his tumbler and took a sip of the warmed whiskey. He grimaced at the watered-down flavour and set the glass on the table beside him.
We could share so much more.
The cynical side of him tried to convince himself that when she talked about “more” she was probably talking about money, but his heart told him different. He thought again of the look on her face—the horror in her eyes—when she’d been presented with Sherie’s evidence. Either she’d been giving an award-winning performance, or she really was telling the truth and the account information was completely news to her. Thinking now about that look was enough to make him doubt his own opinion, a fact he wasn’t comfortable with in the least, especially since he’d been so driven to find her accountable.
He wasn’t the kind of man who doubted himself. But then again, he wasn’t the kind of man who normally would unreasonably search for evidence to prove that Helena was the culprit without casting a wider net. He’d judged her guilty based on his feelings for her. Feelings that right now battered against his heart and his head with all the subtlety of a fully laden eighteen-wheeler travelling at a hundred kilometres an hour.
They were missing something. It galled him to admit it but he’d been totally, deliberately, blind to the possibility that someone else was the thief. For goodness sake, the paper had been found behind a photo he’d seen on Patrick’s desk himself. It was entirely possible that Helena hadn’t even known it was there. It was a possibility that flickered to life like a reluctant flame in his mind—a possibility he hadn’t even allowed himself to consider before.
Could Patrick have hidden the evidence there? Surely not. But maybe he knew about the thefts? Perhaps he’d believed it was Helena and had chosen to do nothing about it. Or maybe he’d known it was someone else and was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to expose the thief.
With a sigh of self-disgust, he pushed himself up out of his seat and took his glass through to the kitchen, rinsing it out in the sink before stacking it in the dishwasher. He looked around the room, a room which in most houses was the hub of the home. It looked perfect. It looked as though no one lived there, and in reality, with the hours he worked, no one did. It was nothing like the warm friendly room at Helena’s house with potted herbs in the kitchen window and the detritus that showed frequent and comfortable use of an area.
No, this wasn’t a home, this was merely what he’d allowed himself to be reduced to. An accumulation of wealth and success in an unconscious bid to prove he was the better man. He’d allowed Helena’s marriage to Patrick to drive him into this solitary domain and he’d had enough. It was time to step up to the plate and admit he’d been wrong.
She’d been right on the money when she’d said the love she’d shared with Patrick had been his problem all along. He’d been so driven by jealousy, and by the what-might-have-beens he’d refused to see her for what and who she really was. Worse, he’d allowed his disillusionment over Melanie to sway him to find similarities between the women. Amplifying the flaws in Helena that he thought he’d found, and making himself miserable in the process. His feelings for Helena, no matter how hard he tried to suppress them, had kept him from forming any lasting relationship with another woman. But then he hadn’t ever wanted anyone else the way he wanted her.
A single truth shattered through his mind—he loved her. No one else would do. No other woman had impacted on him the way she had and now that she was free, he could dare to want her for himself—provided he hadn’t irrevocably ruined his chances by his truly awful treatment of her over the past few weeks.
It wouldn’t be enough just to have Brody. He wanted the whole package. He wanted them both, forever.
For Helena’s sake, he knew know he had to prove she was telling the truth or he would die a very lonely man. He’d treated her appallingly. It was time to make that up to her, if she’d let him.
So far, he’d done everything he could in the investigation to remain above board—the audit, the computer forensics, the lot. Now, it was time to dig deep b
elow the surface—whatever the financial price. If he could find out what had happened to the money when it passed through the account set up in Helena’s name, he’d be a giant step closer to finally winning the woman he’d loved for longer than he wanted to admit.
His brothers would help, he was sure of that, and their anonymity in the investigation might be just the leverage he needed.
Ding dong.
Mason flicked a glance at his watch. Ten o’clock. Who the hell visited at this time of night? The doorbell went again.
“All right, all right. Hold on, I’m coming,” he shouted as he strode through the echoing house and opened the door.
“Hey, bro’. Nice welcome.” Declan Knight turned to face his other brother, Connor. “Looks like we made the right decision to come over. He’s alone.”
Connor merely eyed Mason from the front step and nodded.
“Too bad if I wasn’t, right? Like you guys would just leave if I had company?” Mason fought to keep a welcoming smile from his face.
“I hear you’ve been holding out on us,” Declan drawled. “Connor tells me congratulations are in order—Dad.”
From behind his back, Declan produced a twelve-year-old bottle of Scotch and pushed past Mason. Connor followed close behind.
Standing at the door, Mason spoke to the empty front porch, “Sure, c’mon in, guys.” Then, with a sense of rightness he hadn’t felt in a long time, he turned and followed them down the hall. His brothers were just what he needed right now. Among the three of them, they’d get to the bottom of this.
And then it would be time to reach out and get the woman he loved, just like he should have done twelve years ago.
Helena saw the real estate agent to the gate, where she hammered a For Sale sign in the grass verge at the front of the poperty. The agent had impressed her with her professionalism and enthusiasm. She’d assured Helena that she had several buyers on her books for the home already. With any luck, she wouldn’t even have to endure so much as a single open-home day. The sooner she could get this over with, the better. She wanted everything cut and dried and off her hands.
Two nights ago it had finally occurred to Helena that if she sold the house, as was her right to, she could put back into Davies Freight a good deal of what had gone missing—whether she’d been responsible or not.
She still couldn’t understand how so much money had been filtered into an account in her name and then been siphoned off elsewhere unknown—she might never understand it. But one thing she knew without doubt. If Mason Knight wasn’t going to save Davies Freight for Brody, she’d do it herself.
The fact that the company was now half Mason’s wasn’t lost on her. Maybe though, with this act, she could finally get him to accept that she wasn’t the money-loving whore he’d all but accused her of being. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror. Well, she wouldn’t attract any punters looking like this. Her face was pale, her hair lank and dull, and her eyes redrimmed from lack of sleep.
Since that night a week ago, when she’d stayed up for hours watching Brody sleep, she’d struggled through the dark hours. Her breath caught as she thought of her precious boy. He’d have died of embarrassment, for sure, if he’d known she’d remained in his room long after he’d drifted off. But it had been with a sense of fatalism that Helena decided this might be one of her last chances to spend time with her son before his feelings toward her were poisoned by the knowledge that she’d decided not to contest Mason’s bid for custody.
When she’d bid Brody goodbye at the train station early the next morning to send him back to school, it had taken every ounce of her courage to remain strong and not break down.
She was confident she’d made the right decision. It was more than her heart could bear to drag her son through her past, and her reasons for marrying Patrick. She was certain she’d have rights to see Brody. There wasn’t a judge living who’d deny her that. But she was prepared to stand aside. For now. For her son. In years to come, when he was mature enough to make his own decisions, when he could understand the sacrifice she’d made out of her love for him—out of what was right, for him—she had no doubt he’d come back to her. But if she forced Brody to decide now, or put him through the agony of a family court trial and the push-me pull-you that would come about, she could do irreparable damage.
She strolled slowly up the drive, looking at the garden with a sense of loss that she wouldn’t be here to see the newly pruned roses burst into bloom again in the spring, or the tulip bulbs she’d planted last April push through the ground to give a carpet of colour on the edge of the driveway.
The bulbs reminded her of her love for Mason. How there was so much evolving beneath the surface, reaching for the light of day, reaching for the warmth of reciprocated love. But it wasn’t to be. She knew they didn’t stand a chance together, no matter how much she loved him. In her heart of hearts she knew if she could just set this one thing right, then knowing how he felt about her wouldn’t weigh like a millstone about her neck.
Helena looked around her again. She’d come so far from the twenty-year-old bride she’d been when this house was built. She had everything, and yet she had nothing. Nothing but her single-minded purpose to set things right in her world again. No matter what the cost.
It would be worth it, she consoled herself. It had to be.
Eleven
She’d just pulled the front door closed behind her when she heard a vehicle roar up the drive, its wheels skidding slightly as it drew to a halt. At the sound of a car door being slammed shut, soon followed by rapid steps up the front stairs, filtered through the heavy front door, she froze. Oh no, she thought, please not Evan. Not today.
“Helena?”
Mason? She snuck a peek through the peephole. Maybe she’d have been better off if it had been Evan after all. Him, she could handle. No wonder she hadn’t recognised the sound of the car. Behind Mason stood the big black truck she’d crashed on his private road. He’d obviously finally gotten it back from the panel and paint shop. Maybe he was here to give her the bill, she thought, on the verge of hysteria.
“Helena!” She jumped as he hammered at the door. “C’mon. I know you’re in there. Open the door.”
She made a decision to face him—so she could say goodbye. This time, for good. She took her time turning the key in the lock and only opened the door sufficiently wide to show her face.
“What the hell is this?” Without so much as a hello, Mason pushed the door open and held up the For Sale sign the Realtor had just finished hammering into the ground. Soil from the stakes attached to the sign dropped on the tiled entrance.
Helena crossed her arms and stood firm in the doorway. “Last time I looked I didn’t answer to you. I don’t have to tell you anything.”
Mason’s dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. He hurled the sign off to the side of the front porch. “What are you up to? Why are you selling the house?”
Helena sighed resignedly. He wouldn’t leave without an answer and if she wanted him off her front porch she’d have to tell him the truth. “If you must know, it’s because I won’t need it soon. It’s far too big for me, anyway.”
“Downsizing? That doesn’t sound like you.” He sounded surprised.
She shook her head. “You don’t know me.”
You never did, and you never will. The knowledge cut her like a knife. She fought to control the tremor in her voice—she had to hold it together. About now, her lawyer would be calling his to say that she’d chosen not to contest his petition to have custody of Brody. Her insides felt as though they were being torn apart but she daren’t give him so much as an inkling of how much this killed her inside, inch by slow painful inch. She lifted her hand to close the door but he was faster and inserted his large frame in the doorway.
“You’re right, I don’t. But what if I want to?”
“It’s too late for that, Mason. Look, if you really want to know, I’m selling the house to put the money back into
Davies Freight. Okay, are you satisfied? Now you know, you can leave.”
She lifted her hand to the door again, but he held his stance refusing to budge.
“But I’m not nearly satisfied, Helena.” His voice was low and rich, like the texture of velvet. “Are you?”
“Don’t play games with me, Mason. I’m not in the mood.”
“Okay. No games. But do one thing for me.”
“One thing. And then you’ll leave me alone?”
“One thing, and then, yeah, if that’s what you really want, I’ll leave you alone.”
He was up to something, she was certain, but for the life of her she couldn’t gauge what it was. There was a look in his eyes that she couldn’t quite define. Surely he would be satisfied she was selling her home to refinance the company. Something didn’t sit right with her though, and caution urged her to find out what he wanted before she would agree to anything.
“So what is it?” she demanded. “What’s this one thing you want from me?”
Your forgiveness would be a start. The words echoed silently in his head and Mason had to think twice before answering. He’d set this process in place and he planned to follow every step to the letter. No shortcuts. If he got this right, everything would be worthwhile. If he didn’t…well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Failure was not an option. Not now, not with Helena.
“I need you to come with me.” He reached out to take her hand and urged her gently out onto the front porch.
“Come with you? Where?” She pulled back, resisting his gentle coercion.
“You’ll find out when we get there.”
“Just because I’m paying money into Davies Freight doesn’t mean I’m admitting anything. It had better not be a police station you’re taking me to, Mason, or God help me, I’ll—”
The Tycoon's Hidden Heir Page 13
