by Miranda Lee
Unfortunately, neither relationship had gone the distance from engagement to the altar. The fact it had been his decision both times didn’t alter his disappointment. Plus, it wasn’t cheap to dispose of an eager fiancée quietly when you were as rich as he was. But Byron didn’t regret either break-up, not once he realised he could not spend the rest of his life with a woman he no longer loved, or perhaps never had loved in the first place.
Within a few short weeks of his putting a ring on each woman’s finger, his rose-coloured glasses had fallen off and he’d seen them for what they were. Not true loves at all, but vain, ambitious women who wanted the status of being married to him more than they wanted to actually be married to him.
True love, Byron decided as he lined up his next putt, was a rare commodity, though his father seemed to have been lucky second time around. During his recent visit to New York for his new half-sister’s christening, Byron had been impressed with Alexandra’s devotion to her husband. But maybe he was deluding himself on that score. Lloyd Maddox was, after all, one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. How would he ever know if a woman loved him, or his money?
Byron swore when his putt was as unsuccessful as all the others, the ball hitting the side of the practice chute. Frustrated, he strode over to throw open his office door.
‘Grace!’ he called out to his PA. ‘Could you spare a moment or two? I need your advice on something.’ Grace and her husband were regular golfers; perhaps she could spot what he was doing wrong.
‘I hope you haven’t forgotten that you have to be ready for a business luncheon with Cleo Shelton in fifteen minutes,’ Grace reminded him as she walked in, balefully eyeing the golf club in his hand, plus his rolled-up shirt sleeves.
A swift glance at the gold Rolex on his wrist showed that it was a quarter past twelve. ‘Hell on earth,’ he muttered. ‘Where has the time gone this morning?’
‘They say time flies when you’re having fun,’ Grace offered.
‘Fun! Golf’s not fun. It’s sheer bloody torture. I have to endure eighteen holes with the owner of Fantasy Productions this Friday. The man plays off scratch. If I don’t fix my putting he’ll slaughter me.’
It irritated Byron that he had been so far unable to master golf. At school, he’d excelled at cricket, tennis, swimming and rugby.
Grace smiled. ‘I can imagine,’ she said as she followed him into his office. ‘But look on the bright side. If you let Blake Randall humiliate you on the golf course, he’ll be more inclined to agree to bigger investment from you in his next movie. Fantasy Productions is on a roll, especially since they snapped up that handsome young hunk straight out of NIDA and made him a star.’
She was right. Byron knew she was right. Grace was always right. In her late forties, Grace had worked for the CEO of a merchant bank before Byron had head-hunted her five years ago.
Byron threw Grace a droll look. ‘Just tell me what I’m doing wrong here, please.’
Byron lined himself up for another putt. He took his time, aimed, struck the ball. And missed again.
His four-letter swear word did not faze Grace one bit.
‘Okay,’ he grumped. ‘What am I doing wrong?’
‘Only two things that I could see on such a short sample. First, your feet aren’t straight. Your left toes are in front of your right. Second, you’re moving your hips during your backstroke. You have to keep still, and swing your shoulders back and forth in a gentle pendulum motion when you putt, not attack the ball like you would on the fairway.’
Byron frowned, then tried again, following Grace’s instructions with perfect concentration. The ball rolled smoothly along the carpet, then right up the centre of the chute and into the plastic cup.
‘See?’ Grace said smugly when Byron lifted an amazed face to her. ‘But watch it. Keep doing that and you might win on Friday.’
‘Heaven forbid,’ he said, grinning his delight at the thought.
‘Now, I think you should put your putter away,’ Grace advised. ‘Your visitor will be here shortly. Cleo doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to be late. Best roll down your sleeves and put your jacket on as well. First impressions, you know.’
Byron snorted. ‘It’s not me who has to do the impressing. I’m still quite annoyed that McAllister has sent a secretary in his place whilst he swans off on holidays.’
‘Cleo Shelton’s a lot more than a secretary, Byron,’ Grace chided. ‘From what I’ve gleaned on the grapevine, she’s Scott McAllister’s deputy, not just his assistant. I wouldn’t underestimate her if I were you. Neither would I get on her bad side if you’re seriously considering a partnership in McAllister Mines.’
He wasn’t. Not really. They’d sought him out, not the other way around. It was hardly the right time to be investing in the mining industry. He’d agreed to the meeting more out of curiosity than genuine interest.
‘And for your information,’ Grace added, ‘Cleo’s boss hasn’t just swanned off on any old holiday. He’s taken his wife on a second honeymoon after they experienced some kind of crisis in their marriage.’
Byron was constantly amazed at how much inside knowledge Grace managed to acquire about the people he did business with. Not that he was complaining; knowledge was power. He wondered what their marital crisis had involved. Another man perhaps?
Byron had met McAllister and his wife once at the spring racing carnival last year. Whilst he’d not been anything to write home about, she’d been a real looker, the sort of girl men would pursue, married or not. Such a thought reminded Byron that he had made a narrow escape in not marrying either of his fiancées. They’d been beautiful as well. Next time, he’d pick a girl who didn’t stop traffic. Someone only marginally attractive. Someone with brains. God, but he couldn’t bear the thought of a wife without brains. Whilst his previous fiancées had not been dumb, they’d been shallow thinkers. And eventually, dead boring.
Boring was the ultimate sin in Byron’s opinion.
‘So when will McAllister be back?’ he asked as he rolled down his shirt sleeves and did up the buttons.
‘Cleo said two weeks. She wasn’t sure of the exact date and time of his return. His going away was rather...spontaneous.’
Byron nodded, then walked around and lifted his suit jacket off the back of his chair.
‘Try not to be patronising with Cleo,’ Grace advised.
Byron scowled as he put on his jacket. ‘I am never patronising.’
‘Yes, you are. When you think you’re cleverer than the person you’re with.’
‘Only when they really are stupid. I can’t abide stupid people.’
Grace smiled. ‘I’ve rather gathered that. But Cleo doesn’t come across as at all stupid.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that. How old is she, do you know?’
‘My guess would be somewhere between thirty and forty, given her position in the company.’
‘That narrows it down,’ he said with a wry laugh.
‘Hopefully, she won’t be a blonde with false eyelashes and enhanced breasts.’
Byron recognised a jibe when he heard one. Both his fiancées had been blonde, with eyelashes and breasts that defied reality. His sigh demonstrated how foolish he felt now that he’d ever been taken in by them.
‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Well, show her in when she arrives and I’ll do my best to be charming and not patronising. What time did you make our reservation for?’
‘One o’clock.’
‘Perfect.’
CHAPTER THREE
THE SHOWER CAME out of the blue, just as Cleo was crossing the road at the intersection of Elizabeth and King Streets. Not a light drizzle but a real dumping. By the time she found shelter under the shop awnings on the other side, Cleo was very wet indeed.
‘Damn and blast,’ she muttered under her breath as she brushed the heavy droplets off her shoulders then smoothed back her damp hair. ‘Should have caught a taxi.’
The trouble was that catching
taxis in the CBD of Sydney often promised a very slow ride, construction on the new light rail network having caused havoc with the traffic. So Cleo had set off in plenty of time to walk the four blocks from the building where she worked down to the skyscraper that housed BM Enterprises. Her appointment was for twelve-thirty, where she was having a short meeting with Byron Maddox in his office before enjoying a long business lunch with him.
Or, at least she assumed it would be long. Cleo had found, over the time she’d been Scott’s PA, that successful men like Maddox liked to linger over their business lunches whilst they plied their dinner guests with bottles of the very best wine, playing one-upmanship to the hilt. She’d noticed that the smartest of them didn’t drink all that much themselves, taking advantage of their guests’ sozzled states to ferret out facts that a more sober brain wouldn’t have let slip.
Scott had never fallen for that trick. He was too canny for that. Neither did he ever do business that way himself. He was a man of the utmost integrity and honesty in all his dealings with others. He also actually cared about his employees. Of course, Scott hadn’t been brought up and trained by the most ruthless business brain in the world. Cleo was under no illusions that, despite his reputation, Byron Maddox was as cunning and as ruthless as his father. She had no intention of falling victim to any of his ploys. Cleo had a very important mission on her plate today.
Almost a mission impossible, she conceded as she hurried down the street. It wasn’t going to be easy to persuade the billionaire owner of BM Enterprises that, despite the economic climate in the mining world today, it was the perfect time for him to become a partner in McAllister Mines. Because without his partnership—and buckets of his money—McAllister Mines was headed for big trouble. Scott had been way too distracted lately to realise how serious things were, but Cleo had her finger on the pulse. If she didn’t pull off this coup, the company she loved was headed for dire financial trouble.
In light of her mission, Cleo had chosen her clothes carefully that morning. Nothing sexy—not that she ever dressed sexy. The idea was ludicrous, given she had no interest in attracting men. She’d finally selected her most professional, severely tailored black trouser suit, teaming it with a crisp white shirt and low-heeled black pumps. Her thick and somewhat wayward dark hair she’d tied back into a tight bun at the nape of her neck. A fortuitous choice, now that her hair was wet. If she’d left her hair down she would have looked like a drowned rat. Hopefully, by the time she reached her destination, she would have dried out somewhat.
However, it was not to be. She greeted her reflection in the mirror of the powder room with little pleasure, but, not being vain, she only cared that she presented a professional image to Mr Maddox.
‘Not too bad,’ she reassured her reflection. Thank heavens she never wore make-up, otherwise she might have had to use up valuable minutes doing an emergency repair job. Cleo did so hate being late for appointments, a hangover from being brought up by her very elderly grandparents who considered punctuality one of the most important virtues. That, along with cleanliness, loyalty, honesty and modesty.
After Cleo dried her briefcase with some paper towels, she headed out to find the lifts. They were at the back of the cavernous foyer behind a huge cement sculpture, which Cleo thought was ridiculously large and downright ugly. She liked art to be sensible and pleasing to the eye, again the result of being raised by people who thought modern art was a con.
‘Utter rubbish,’ her grandfather had snorted whenever he saw a modern painting. ‘Any child in kindergarten could have done just as well.’
Cleo smiled at the thought. Grandpa had been a character; her grandma, not so much. She’d been the sort of woman who’d found it hard to show love. Not a hugger, that was for sure.
Once Cleo found a lift that wasn’t full, she pressed the button for the thirty-ninth floor, and when the doors opened she entered a reception area that was so glamorous it was hard not to blink, or to stare.
Black marble-tiled floors. White Italian leather lounge furniture. Glass coffee and side-tables. Even a chandelier overhead, for pity’s sake. But the finishing touch was the stylishly curved, glass reception desk that framed a receptionist who was straight out of a Hollywood casting. Possibly thirtyish, she was glamour personified with her ash-blonde hair styled into a shoulder-length bob, her attractive face perfectly made up. Her lipstick was a bright red gloss, highlighting her full lips and contrasting vibrantly with her expensive-looking white woollen dress. Her legs were visible underneath the desk. They were long and shapely, crossed at the knees and shod in the highest of high heels.
Suddenly, Cleo felt like a fish out of water in her ugly pants suit and plain white shirt. Her eyes dropped to her boring black pumps and her even more boring black briefcase. Maybe she’d made a mistake dressing the way she had for a meeting with Byron Maddox. She should have known that the playboy billionaire liked women looking as if they had stepped straight out of a beauty salon. She’d checked him out on the Internet, hadn’t she? But then, even had she wanted to, she wouldn’t have known how to doll herself up like this girl. She didn’t have the looks, the clothes, nor any sexy shoes.
‘May I help you?’ the girl asked with that slightly superior manner that, in Cleo’s experience, beautiful girls sometimes adopted with their less attractive sisters.
Cleo shrugged off the momentary temptation to let it affect her, smiling at the girl and informing her that she had an appointment with Mr Maddox at twelve-thirty.
That changed the girl’s snooty attitude.
‘Oh,’ she said, uncrossing her legs and standing up straight away. But she did frown as she gave Cleo a second once-over, as though wondering what on earth someone like her was doing going out to lunch with her very handsome bachelor-of-the-year boss.
It was an undermining experience to be on the end of such a critical scrutiny. Scott didn’t care what she looked like, as long as she did her work. Not that she didn’t always look neat and tidy. She just didn’t know anything about fashion, but even she knew her working wardrobe was very bland.
And, let’s face it, Cleo, boring.
‘This way, please,’ the girl said crisply, before taking off down a nearby hallway, her hips swinging as she walked.
Following her was an education, Cleo thought, though she doubted she could walk so confidently in six-inch heels. She’d never worn high heels at all after meeting Martin, because he was short and didn’t like her to tower over him. Then, after his death, she didn’t care enough to dress differently. By then she was used to low heels, anyway. They were way more practical and comfortable.
Somehow, however, being practical and comfortable didn’t cut it today. For a crushing moment, Cleo wished she were sashaying into this meeting looking elegant and glamorous, and done up to the nines. But then she pulled herself together and told herself not to be so silly. Byron Maddox was a clever businessman, above all else. He wouldn’t really care what she looked like, as long as she knew her stuff. And at least in that she was confident.
This last thought reassured her so that when she was shown into Grace’s office, Cleo felt reasonably composed. Though seeing Grace in the flesh didn’t exactly help her confidence. Maddox’s PA was considerably older than his receptionist—possibly in her late forties—but still very attractive and groomed within an inch of her life. A blonde too. Clearly, Byron Maddox preferred blondes. His former fiancées had both been blondes. Cleo had seen their photos on the Internet.
Grace’s manner, however, was nothing like the receptionist’s. She was warm and welcoming, with not a hint of disapproval over Cleo’s appearance. If anything, she seemed to approve of how Cleo looked, which was a relief.
‘I knew you wouldn’t be late,’ she said with a ready smile.
‘I almost was,’ Cleo returned. ‘I got caught in a sun shower on the way over and had to make a side trip to the ladies’ before coming up. I’m afraid my hair is still damp,’ she added, patting it with her right hand.
‘You walked all the way here?’ Grace said, sounding surprised.
Cleo nodded. ‘Faster than a taxi these days.’
The woman’s eyes dropped to Cleo’s shoes, then to her own. They had stiletto heels, though not as high as the receptionist’s.
‘I can never walk far in these shoes,’ Grace said. ‘Yours are way more sensible. But enough of this chit-chat. Byron’s anxious to meet you.’
Cleo’s stomach tightened as she was ushered over to the door that clearly led into Byron Maddox’s inner sanctum. She wasn’t usually given to nervous anxiety. Since Martin’s death, nothing much fazed her any more. Watching your husband die slowly of cancer did something to your emotions. She sometimes envied Scott’s wife, Sarah, who had a warm, bubbly personality. Cleo suspected that most people she met and dealt with found her distant, and cold. Scott really should be the one to be here doing this, not her.
Oh, well, she thought resignedly as Grace knocked on the door. What will be, will be.
‘Come in,’ a male voice invited. It was a pleasant enough voice. Not too deep or too threatening. She disliked bosses who barked at their employees, especially their PAs. But, of course, Byron Maddox would not be a barker. He’d be a charmer. Cleo had read up about him. Underneath the charm, however, would lie the mind of a man who’d built his own successful company in five short years. She had to be careful not to underestimate him. He might have the look of a playboy—and the lifestyle—but he was sure to be a chip off the old block. No one would dare underestimate Lloyd Maddox. Colleagues and enemies had done so in the past at their peril. Or so she’d read in an article written by a journalist in Forbes magazine.
Grace opened the door. ‘Cleo’s here,’ she said in a highly natural and familiar manner, which boded well. Clearly, she wasn’t afraid of her boss. Cleo’s own tension eased somewhat.
She stepped into an office that would have done a Hollywood producer proud. Everything was very spacious, very expensive and very male, from the thick sable-coloured carpet to the book-lined walls and the built-in drinks cabinet. Two chocolate-brown chesterfields flanked the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window that stretched along the far wall and provided an uninterrupted view of Sydney and the harbour, with all its splendid icons. Stretched in front of this window was a huge desk, made in a rich dark wood, behind which sat Byron Maddox in a high-backed brown leather swivel chair.
