Marriage had meant she had to give up her year as Miss Universe, but having won the title, his mother had never relinquished it and always—still—lived up to it.
The whole history of their mother-son relationship marched through Nick’s mind as she raved on about the Ramirez emerald mines in Bolivia as though he had some legitimate claim on them. His mother specialised in making convenient claims.
Nick wondered if he would have remained Brian Steele’s son if she had not been caught out in the lie. Even after the divorce and with both his parents remarried, Nick had still believed Brian Steele was his natural father, finally fronting up to him to demand why he didn’t visit him at school, attending sporting events as other divorced fathers did.
‘Ask your mother,’ had been his harshly dismissive reply.
‘It’s not my fault you don’t love my mother any more,’ Nick had argued with a fierce sense of injustice. ‘I’m not only her son. I’m yours, too.’
‘No, you’re not.’
Shocked, hurt, angry, Nick had fought against such an unfair and outright rejection. ‘You can’t divorce children. You’re my father. Just because you’ve started another family doesn’t mean…’
‘I’m not your father.’ The denial had been thundered back at Nick in red-faced rage. ‘I was never your father. For God’s sake, boy! Look at yourself in a mirror. There’s not a trace of me in you.’
This further punch of shock had been countered by a rush of disbelief. It was true he didn’t have red hair, fair skin or blue eyes, but he’d simply assumed he’d inherited his mother’s darker colouring, and that was what his father hated in him—the constant reminder of her.
‘You just don’t want me, do you?’ he’d flung out, tasting the bitterness of being the victim of a broken marriage, yet still intent on making his father face up to being his father.
‘No, I don’t. Why would I want another man’s bastard as my son? Your real father’s name is Enrique Ramirez and when he’s not playing international polo, he lives in Brazil. I doubt he will ever visit your school to watch you play sport but you can try asking your mother to get in touch with him on your behalf.’
Having absorbed this new parentage and with seven-year-old determination, Nick had tried.
‘Darling, I’m sorry you’re upset about Brian not being your father.’ His mother’s brilliantly sympathetic smile had glossed over the dark wound he’d been nursing, as did her next words. ‘But you have a perfectly good stepfather in Harry who’s much more fun to have around…’
‘I want to know about my real father,’ he had bored in stubbornly.
‘Well, he’s married, dear. No chance at all of a divorce, I’m afraid. All wrapped up in the religion and politics of his country.’ Her graceful hands had fluttered appealingly. ‘So we can never form a family even if we wanted to.’
‘Does he know about me?’
‘Yes, he does.’ A rueful sigh. ‘One of those unlucky coincidences in life. He came out to Australia to play polo and your grandfather—well, he’s not really your grandfather as you obviously realise now—invited him to play on his country property near Singleton, having built himself a private polo ground and fancying himself quite an accomplished player. It was a huge festive weekend. Impossible to get out of going. And I did think Enrique would be discreet and pretend not to know me.’ Another sigh. ‘It was seeing you that caught him off-guard.’
‘He recognised me as his son?’
‘Well, there was the matter of timing. Your age, as well as how you look, dear. The two things together…I had to admit it to him…and he used the secret to…uh…’
Blackmail her into bed with him.
And that was all Nick had meant to his biological father—a handy by-blow who’d given him the leverage to have his way with the ex-Miss Universe again. Though Nick suspected the arrogantly handsome and charismatic Brazilian had not needed much leverage. Never mind the risk of scandal they’d both run. Never mind the fall-out for Nick when both their old and current affairs had been discovered.
‘Your mother was as hot for me as I was for her,’ Enrique had blithely excused when Nick had eventually laid out to him the consequences of his actions. Not a twinge of guilt to be seen. He’d thrown out elegantly dismissive hands. ‘She could have said no. I have never made love to an unwilling woman. It was her choice. Her life.’
‘And my life was irrelevant to you,’ Nick had shot at him accusingly.
Enrique had snapped his fingers at what he considered a stupid complaint. ‘I gave you life. Get on with finding pleasure in it. This dragging through the past will bring you no joy whatsoever.’
Good advice.
Nick had taken it.
Which was why he still didn’t want to touch the packet from Brazil.
‘What did he gift to you, darling?’ his mother finally queried, her honeyed voice lilting with avid curiosity. The emerald necklace had certainly whetted her appetite for more treasure from Brazil.
‘I’d say most of my physical features,’ Nick mocked.
‘True, dear, but that’s not what I meant and you know it. Don’t be tiresome. He wrote me that the necklace was a token of gratitude for having borne him such an impressive son. Obviously, if Enrique was pleased with you, he’d leave you much more than a necklace.’
‘I haven’t opened the packet yet.’
‘Well, do get on with it, Nick. I expect to hear all when I get to your office. This is so exciting I can hardly wait. Your father was fabulously wealthy, you know.’
Yes, he knew, having seen the incredible riches displayed in Enrique’s home—a veritable treasure trove everywhere one looked—old, old wealth, the kind that belonged to aristocracy and was kept in the family, passed on from father to son.
But Nick didn’t want it. His whole body burned to reject everything attached to the life that had meant so much more to his father than getting to know or playing any part in the life of his bastard son.
‘I should be there in fifteen minutes,’ his mother archly warned, clearly anticipating a happy sharing time together. ‘Isn’t it wonderful to be remembered like this after all these years?’
As always, she was totally self-centred in her view of the world and every situation in it. Nick was niggled into drawling, ‘No, it isn’t wonderful, Mother. I actually find it grossly insulting for my father to wait until he’s dead before granting me some acknowledgement.’