Gn 002 book-00079

A package from Bolivia…delivered by a

courier person fulfilling the instructions to have Oberon Hunter sign for it

himself so that the delivery to himself was personally assured and there was no

chance at all of the package being mislaid and not reaching him. The package

from Bolivia…the one his father, the biological one has sent. Oberon could not

believe that the man who had never thought of accepting his son in his life

time would now go and do that at his sixties. But now he did not need a father

any longer.

He did not want to open the packet and

envelope lying on his desk in front of him. And neither did he want to take a

look at it. The hand that had directed this package to him, the hand of his

father tied by blood who had not earned the right to touch his life in any way

and definitely no right whatsoever to force an entry in his current life. That

door had been closed sixteen years ago.

No, much earlier than that.

A lot earlier.

The memory of himself as a young school boy

not understanding anything at all stirred Oberon out of the chair with a shot

and surge of adrenaline in his system. He had to move away and get away from

the package that had been sent to him from Bolivia. At seven he had been a

complete innocent, a child caught in the web of adult deceptions and lies

trying to see where he fit. But then he had come to understand in the very hard

way that he did not. So he had realized the brutal truth that he did not.

Anywhere.

So he had learnt to make his own place.

And this house, this penthouse apartment

was a part of that place, driving the centre of the advertising company that

occupied a complete building in one of the most prestigious points and

commanding view of Sydney Harbours, in Circular Quay. It was his company alone.

Not his friends, not his family and not anyone else’s. His alone. Oberon had

built it up without any help of anyone else just based on the concept of what

the market exactly needed and what he would be able to provide it. It was the

basic principle of demand and supply and he had been correct. Dazzlingly and

spectacularly correct.

As he stood at his balcony and looked out

at the opera house and then thought about it sardonically. It was more like a

reflection on a fact that everyone knew. Everyone knew that sex sold and that

was a fact.

Sex and glamour. And it sold, no matter

what. But he knew it personally, and he had seen it all his life so intimately

and from close quarters that he had the knack of packaging it better than

anyone else. Oberon was perfectly aware that which scenes and which backdrops

were going to work creating the maximum impact shots which were highly

memorable. And it was easy to imprint the target product in the memory of

people with his viewpoint and it did not let people forget his ads or ad-series

easily. It was his unique view-point which had made him an immensely wealthy

man. His style and his work and dedication to it had made him an enigma.

Here he was standing on the top of his

world, totally self-sufficient, independent and a successful man in his own

right. He did not need anything from his fathers, thought Oberon as he could

feel the bile rising up his throat. Not from the one that had been the cause of

his birth and definitely not the ones that his mother had been stringing all

her life, attracting them and taking it what ever her heart coveted. After all

she was a star in her own right and merit and she had never let the world

forget that ever.

Over the years of his boyhood and teenage

and adolescence these men had shelled out a lot to him, in the desperate

attempt to keep his mother pleased but there was one thing she had made clear

in her life and to all those who came in it. She had only one son and he was

going to be her only child forever no matter what. And she had not backed out

of that commitment.

But he didn’t take anything from anyone any

longer.

Didn’t need to.

Definitely didn’t want to.

And it was definitely too late for Sir

Cedric Hunter to offer him anything at all which he might want for himself. The

Bolivian Knight had two chances in his life to make things right and to take

the chance that fate had offered him. One when he had been the cause of the

disaster of his birth. Second time when Oberon had turned up in his ancestral

home just at seventeen to acquaint himself with his father whom he had never

known Oberon had met with the disgust and resentment at his impudence of

calling himself his own son.

“What do you want from me? What do you

think that you can get out of me?” the Bolivian had sneered at him.

The jeering contempt from the man he had

come to know to be his father had stung him bad. And Oberon had not pased or

missed a bit while replying the highly placed man.

“Nothing at all. I just wanted to see you

and meet you in flesh. Let you know that you had borne a son. But I will take

your name. I can see that now it clearly belongs to me,” Oberon had replied.

There was no point in denying the strong

genetic pattern that had been handed down from father to son. The same thick

black dark hairline, high cheekbones and olive skin which gave them a regal

air, deeply set green and golden eyes which would remind you of a jaguar

looking at you silently from over the top of the hill with thick double lashes.

A long aquiline and aristocratic nose and a cleft in the left of the chin which

gave him a rakish air and a charming smile which no woman would be able to

resist.