Ch-2 Eighteen years later

Eighteen years later…

RIC DONATO sat with his executive assistant, Kathryn Ledger, in the Sydney office, checking photographs that had come in, most of them featuring celebrities at the Australian Film Industry Awards. That was the big number this week. Freelance photographers—some reputable, some paparazzi—sent them to his agency via the Internet. His staff sifted through them, choosing the highlights to be sold to magazines around the world.

Always class, Ric reflected with considerable irony. That was what his network of agencies sold—here in Australia, Los Angeles, New York, London, his contacts legion now, all of them eager to jump on his red carpet ride.

The grim realities he’d shot as a photo-journalist covering war zones had won prizes and respect in some quarters but the appeal of those photographs had been very limited. He’d learnt the hard way that it was pretty pictures that sold everywhere. People wanted to see class. They revelled in it, if only vicariously. They turned away from suffering.

Focusing on class had paid off, at both ends of the market. The rich and famous liked his guarantee that nothing negative would be brokered through his agencies. They even alerted his staff about photo opportunities, happy to supply the demands of the media as long as the shots were positive publicity for them. And the magazines lapped up what he could provide, paying mega-dollars for exclusives.

Everybody happy.

The magic formula for success.

Class…

It was the password to paradise, at least in terms of wealth and acceptability into even the highest social strata. He’d known that instinctively at sixteen, forgotten it in his twenties when he’d pursued other quests, learnt it again in time to build up what had turned into a multimillion dollar business.

Kathryn downloaded yet another photograph from the airport—more Hollywood stars departing, Ric thought, idly watching until one of the faces being revealed galvanised his attention.

Lara?

Her head was ducked down. She was wearing sunglasses. Was that discolouration beside her left cheekbone part of a black eye? Her mouth was puffy as though she’d taken a hit there, as well.

He switched his gaze to the man accompanying her. That was Gary Chappel all right—the guy she’d married—heir and current CEO to the Nursing Home empire his father had built. Born to huge wealth and with the kind of clean-cut handsome looks that could have made him a pin-up model if he’d been so inclined.

But he wasn’t looking so attractive in this photo, his mouth thinned into grim lines, hooded eyes emanating a vicious threat. He had one arm wrapped tightly around Lara’s shoulders. His other hand had a tight grip on her arm which was tucked between them. Bruisingly tight.

‘Wow! There’s fodder for the gossip pages,’ Kathryn remarked.

Gary and Lara Chappel—definitely an A-list couple in Australian high society, usually photographed as two of the most beautiful people. Ric had seen plenty of shots of them before, but never like this.

‘Delete?’ Kathryn checked with him before carrying out the action.

‘No!’ It came out forcefully.

Kathryn looked her surprise. ‘It’s not a happy snap, Ric.’

‘Print it for me and buy the copyright.’

‘But…’

‘If we don’t buy it someone else will. As you said, it’s prime fodder for gossip pages and I don’t want it printed publicly,’ he said decisively, acting on his gut instinct which was too strong for him to ignore.

‘It’s not our business to protect, Ric,’ Kathryn reminded him, her eyes searching his for the reason.

He’d trained her to handle all the business that came into the Sydney office. She was in charge when he was elsewhere. He trusted her judgment. But this was personal. Deeply personal. And he couldn’t let it go.

Funny after all these years and having had no contact with Lara Seymour since he’d been taken to Gundamurra…yet the sight of her, looking as though she was the victim of physical abuse by her husband, got to Ric.

And here was Kathryn, looking at him with eyes that questioned if he’d suddenly lost his marbles—green eyes, auburn hair cut in a short chic style, pretty face, trim figure always smartly dressed in a business suit—all in all a very attractive package, housing a brain that invariably displayed a quick intelligence. He liked her, wished her well in the marriage she was planning with her boyfriend who was a hot-shot dealer in a merchant bank.

In fact, he liked her very much and wasn’t sure her fiancé was good enough for her. Yet he’d never wanted Kathryn himself, not how he’d wanted Lara Seymour.

To him she’d been the embodiment of perfect femininity; softly slender, idyllically proportioned, a wonderful flowing curtain of shiny blond hair, a face of features drawn with delicate distinction, eyes the sparkling blue of summer skies, a beautiful smile that was both shy and inviting, smooth unblemished skin that glowed with a sheen he had ached to touch, to stroke. He’d understood the phrase, a swanlike neck, in the way she moved her head. And she’d walked like a dancer, innately graceful.

Every aspect of her had given him intense riveting pleasure, yet she’d also embodied the mystique of the unattainable, compelling him to…but that was far in the past.

‘Lara and I go way back, Kathryn,’ he said quietly. ‘She would hate having this exposed.’

‘You…and Lara Chappel?’ She looked astounded.

‘Lara Seymour…’

‘Is she why…’ An embarrassed flush flooded up her neck and burned her cheeks. Her gaze was hastily switched to the computer screen. ‘I’ll do a print for you,’ she muttered.

‘Why what?’ Ric pursued the point, curious to know what she was thinking.

A rueful glance. ‘Not my business, Ric.’

‘Say it anyway.’

A shrug that disowned any personal interest. ‘People talk about you. Let’s face it…you’d have to be one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. You could have your pick of beautiful women, yet…’

‘Yet?’

She finally gave him a direct look. ‘You never seem to have a serious relationship.’

His smile was wry. ‘I lead a busy life, Kathryn.’

‘Of course.’ She nodded and busied herself producing a print of the photograph on glossy paper.

Ric pondered the question she’d raised.

Yes, it was easy enough to get dates with women he found attractive. Somehow the attraction never lasted very long. It usually ended up feeling false, with him becoming too conscious of how pleased the women were with what he could provide. They didn’t know him. They just wanted the part of him that emanated the power of huge success and big money.

He’d certainly fulfilled his ambition of making it to the top. The world was more or less his oyster. He owned apartments in London and New York—prime properties—as well as in Sydney, with a magnificent harbour view. He also had classy cars in each city; a Jaguar in London, a Lamborghini in New York, a Ferrari here.

The Porsche he’d once stolen to impress Lara flitted through his mind. He could have bought one. Didn’t want to. Why remind himself of frustration…defeat? Although he wasn’t that boy anymore…was he?

Did anyone ever really escape the past?

Kathryn handed him the printed photograph and he stared down at it, feeling the past grab him back to that time and place when being with Lara Seymour had seemed more important than anything else. Somehow she’d been the fulfilment of all he’d craved for himself.

‘Got an envelope for this?’ he asked, knowing he was going to act on it.

Kathryn opened a desk drawer, gave him one.

‘Print five more copies…’ His instincts insisted on the precaution. ‘Lock them in the safe. Then delete.’

She nodded, frowning over the unusual commands. ‘What should I pay for the copyright?’

‘I don’t care.’ He slid the photo into the envelope, sealed it, stood up. ‘Negotiate the best price you can.’ He threw her a look of reckless determination as he headed for the door. ‘The bottom line is…I don’t care how much it costs. Just do it.’

‘Right!’ she said, accepting the task without any further questions, though her eyes were full of them.

Ric didn’t care. He could afford a stupid self-indulgence if that’s what it was. It looked to him as though Lara was in a bad situation with Gary Chappel. The photo had been taken at the airport. Had she been attempting to run away from her husband?

Domestic abuse could occur in any household and all too often it was hidden through shame. And fear of more punishment. His own mother had been a victim of it—dying from ruptured kidneys when Ric was only a kid. He’d been too little to protect her, getting beatings for trying. At least his father had gone to jail for it, but Ric had never forgotten the fear of testifying against him in court.

If Lara was living in that kind of fear…

Ric found his hands clenching as he rode the elevator down to the basement car park. It wasn’t his fight. He had no rights in this matter. Nevertheless, he couldn’t ignore it. His heart burned with the need to act. And in his mind flared a wildly wanton exultation in having the power to do it—the power to do anything he chose to do.

He wasn’t a street kid anymore.

He was a rich guy.

With class in spades.

And money to burn any way he liked.

In that respect, he could more than match Gary Chappel.

He was glad he’d dressed in his favourite Armani suit this morning, more for meeting Mitch Tyler for lunch in the city than for business. Barristers always dressed in suits and Mitch was a top-line barrister these days. He’d made it to where he wanted to be. Johnny Ellis had, as well, going platinum on quite a few of his country and western songs. Even after all these years since their time at Gundamurra, the three of them still connected when they were in the same place.

None of them had married.

As Ric got in his Ferrari, he wondered if Mitch and Johnny had the same problem with the women they dated, finding themselves more outside the relationship than in it after a while. The three of them probably understood each other more than any woman could. In fact, he might need Mitch to sort out Gary Chappel if that was what Lara wanted.

He drove out of the car park for the office building at Circular Quay and headed for the Eastern Suburbs. The envelope containing the photograph was on the passenger seat beside him—a major weapon in a war he could wage if Lara wanted to be free.

He knew where she lived. Not that he’d ever kept tabs on her. There’d been a splash of publicity when Gary Chappel had acquired the fifteen million dollar mansion on the harbour foreshore at Vaucluse—a photospread of Lara showing off the refurbishings they’d subsequently done.

The perfect hostess for her station in life, Ric had thought then. He hadn’t imagined for one moment that her station in life might be miserable in private. It had seemed to him she was blessed with everything…and still unattainable as far as he was concerned. No point in manipulating a meeting with her. Leave the past in the past, he’d argued to himself. No good could come of it…only more frustration and defeat.

So why was he butting in now?

Because the picture he’d always had of her charmed life was askew.

What did he hope to achieve by intervention? Who did he think he was? Super-guy to the rescue?

Well, it might turn out as a black joke on him, but Ric knew he wouldn’t rest easy until he knew the truth behind that photograph.

Determination drove him to Vaucluse. Determination took him up to the massively colonnaded front porch and pressed the doorbell. Determination made him endure the long wait for the door to be opened—not by Lara, but by a middle-aged woman. The permed grey hair and royal blue button-through uniform dress instantly cast her as staff in Ric’s mind. Probably the housekeeper.

‘My name is Ric Donato. I’ve come to visit Mrs. Chappel,’ he declared with even more determination.

‘I’m sorry, Mr. Donato. Mrs. Chappel isn’t receiving visitors today,’ came the totally uncompromising statement. But it did reveal Lara was here.

‘She’ll see me,’ he replied grimly, holding out the envelope. ‘Please give this to Mrs. Chappel and tell her Ric Donato has come to discuss its contents with her. I’ll wait for her reply.’

‘Very well, sir.’

She took the envelope and closed the door in his face.

He waited.

In a way, it was blackmail. Lara would know it wasn’t the only copy of the photograph. She would be afraid of what use he might make of it. Fear would open this door to him. Then he would be entering her life again.

For how long he didn’t know.

He thought of it only as…something he couldn’t turn away from.