LITMIR.BIZ

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last glance. His charcoal suit was cut with the required elegance, enhancing the athletic power of his well-made frame. Likewise, his ebony shirt of finest Italian fabric, his pearl silk tie and hand-stitched shoes. If his blood pressure was slightly elevated, the tense little beat in his temple was contained. His steel-grey eyes held the usual degree of sardonic assurance, his harsh, tanned face the control.

      No one would guess the nightmare he was living.

      He held out his hands and accorded them grim approval. Steady as a rock.

      With his raven hair cut crisp and close, he was as groomed, sleek and polished as any of the race of high-flying billionaires he belonged to. Used to belong to. And would again.

      He clenched his lean hands. If—if he could keep the lid on.

      * * *

      From her desk at the Sydney Clarion’s newsroom, Cate Summerfield could see the Russell yacht, its flags at half-mast, embarked on a graceful honour lap of Sydney Harbour.

      ‘Just look at that,’ Cate glowered, narrowing her green eyes. ‘It’s probably worth enough to feed Africa for a decade.’

      The schooner bowed to the swell, its white sails billowing against the glittering blue. It had been reported that Tom Russell had outfitted the luxury vessel into a floating hospital, so the waves could lull his dying father to sleep on the days he could find no rest.

      It was a far cry from the care Cate could afford for her darling gran. The frail souls at the Autumn Leaves Nursing Home counted themselves lucky even to have beds to rest their aching old bones in. The nurses didn’t even have time to feed the helpless ones. Patients like Gran, who was on the waiting list for heart surgery, had to rely on their relatives to come in and help them eat their evening meals. It was probably that cold reality that had spurred Cate to be unusually terse in the obituary she’d written for the media mogul.

      She’d done thorough research, digging through the archives of all the rival news chains—Russell’s own, even the powerful Wests. Conscientious in her attempts to achieve balance, she hadn’t shrunk from quoting some of his harshest critics, including a choice selection of the epithets his enemies had used to flay him. The piece was her best so far, in her modest opinion. Honest, she’d judged it, though Marge on the neighbouring desk had called it ‘biting.’

      She’d held her breath after she’d filed it, but it had made it past the legal hawks and gone to press. Afterwards people in the newsroom seemed to look at her differently. Steve Wilson, the Clarion’s star reporter and resident heartbreaker, had stopped referring to her as Blondie for at least a day, and Harry, their Chief of Staff, whom she’d never seen show any emotion in two years, had raised his eyebrows and whistled.

      Still, even a work of art wouldn’t win her a spot on the front page. That would go to the journalist lucky enough to cover the memorial service.

      Cate turned her gaze to the newsroom. Though early, already above the ceaseless background buzz of the television monitors the room was alive with the tapping of keyboards, and the constant ringing of the phones.

      ‘The sharks are circling.’ Marge winked towards a little cluster of glory chasers gathered around the news desk.

      The news journalists were lounging about, swapping languid yarns, but everyone knew what they were after. They were waiting for Harry to announce whom he’d chosen to represent the Clarion at the memorial, salivating for the chance to corner Tom Russell.

      Cate’s money was on Steve, who boasted more contacts than Telstra. Even though she’d been engaged to him for a stressful forty-seven days, and knew how clever he was, to her mind Barbara, whose lovely face and sleek hair accompanied a razor-sharp brain, or tough, experienced Toni, who chewed politicians for breakfast, were equally deserving. They all had a special sort of gloss that had nothing to do with conditioning treatments.

      She sighed and pushed a long, wavy strand of her pale hair back behind one ear.

      If—when—she joined that elite group, she’d write stories that mattered. She’d build up a readership, renegotiate her salary. Make it big with a few stories, earn some respect…

      Cate grimaced. Dream on, girl. The Clarion was renowned for its fearless battle against corruption in high places. It had taken down many a politician or dishonest businessman, but she couldn’t take personal credit for any of them. In her two years there, she’d worked on everything except the columns that counted.

      On the night their engagement had crashed, among other vicious remarks Steve Wilson had made about what he called her obsessive concern for Gran, he’d sneered that she was too soft to make a top news reporter. Even Marge said she tried too hard to think the best of people.

      They couldn’t be more wrong. Underneath Cate’s annoying curls, pale skin and the soft curves bequeathed to her by some Scandinavian ancestor, she was tougher than she looked. Long before Gran’s heart emergency, she’d been dying to rip open the fat underbelly of the privileged rich and expose them with her brave, incisive words.

      All she needed was a chance to report on someone living. Dead people, even dead media legends, didn’t generate scoops. Scoops went with live players. And if she was ever to get off Obituaries, a scoop was what she had to have.

      She leafed back through her photo file to a rare shot she’d unearthed of Tom Russell. Now, he was alive. At thirty-four, his harsh, sardonic face with his glinting grey eyes, arrogant cheekbones and firm, masculine chin, was stirring in its vitality.

      ‘Did you manage to dig any dirt on him?’ Marge said, peering over at the image, her lively brown eyes alight with interest.

      Cate hesitated. She’d dug up heaps on old Marcus. It had been easy.

      As a young woman, Gran had worked for one of his big dailies, before he’d sacked her and some of her colleagues in order to turn his respected newspaper into a trashy tabloid. Everything he’d done since had only reinforced Gran’s anger with him.

      Gran had never missed an opportunity to point out the evils of his ways. Even in Cate’s eyes he’d done nothing of value with his wealth, except to indulge his own extravagant tastes and flamboyant lifestyle.

      His son, though, was a more elusive target. Tom Russell had spent a number of years in England, running the Russell media enterprises there. Gran had never had much to say about him.

      ‘I only found what everyone knows,’ she said, handing Marge the photo. ‘You know, about how he came back here to take over a few years ago when the old man first took ill.

      The ruthless strategic war he’s waging against Olivia West’s chain—’

      ‘Not to mention the ruthless strategic war he’s waging against us.’

      Cate shrugged. ‘Well, he is a businessman. It’s strange, though. I couldn’t find a thing about his private life, except the tragedy, of course. Nothing at all about girlfriends.’

      The truth was that, since the death of Tom Russell’s wife in a car accident in England a couple of years ago, very little of a personal nature was ever reported about him. He was never seen at the big society bashes or charity dos.

      ‘His wife was somebody famous, wasn’t she? Wasn’t she a scientist?’

      Marge nodded. ‘Medical research. Some genetic studies, I think.’

      ‘Well, she doesn’t sound like the usual trophy wife men like him seem to go for. Are you sure there would be dirt?’ Cate met Marge’s cheerful, cynical gaze. ‘Maybe Tom isn’t over her death.’

      ‘Oh,’ Marge scoffed, ‘give me a break. She died two years ago, but I’m sure I heard they were separated long before that. Anyway, a man like him knows how to move on. You can’t be that rich without being a villain, one way or another. He’s a man. And a very attractive one.’ She gave the photo a tap. ‘Think of the world he’s been brought up in. He’d have women by the boatload.’ She frowned

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