by Miranda Lee
No. If he wanted this woman—and he did, by God!—he would have to seduce her. She wasn’t about to make it easy for him.
The prospect both challenged and aroused Byron. How long had it been since he’d actually had to seduce a woman? Five years? Ten? Twenty? In truth, he’d never had to.
His flesh stirred further at how satisfying it was going to be, once he succeeded. Satisfying for her as well as him. He was a good lover. And a confident one. She wouldn’t regret going to bed with him.
‘You’re very young to be a widow, Cleo,’ he said. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, how did your husband die?’
‘Cancer. A very malignant melanoma, which wouldn’t quit, no matter what the doctors threw at it. Martin fought it with every ounce of his being. But it was too strong for him in the end,’ she finished up, her eyes moistening at the memory.
A momentary guilt threatened to derail Byron’s lust. But she couldn’t grieve for her husband for ever, no matter how much she’d loved him or how tragic his demise. Life moved on. She had to move on. And he was just the man to help her do so.
Byron’s conscience decided magnanimously that his taking Cleo to bed would be the best thing for her. She needed someone to bring her back to life, and he was just the man to do it!
‘That’s very sad, Cleo,’ he said gently. ‘Cancer is the very devil, isn’t it? My mother had breast cancer a few years ago, but thankfully she survived.’
‘Then she’s very lucky.’
‘Indeed. She’s going to turn sixty next weekend. She’s having a big bash of a party,’ he went on, reminding himself that he would have to attend. She was sure to have lined up a prospective daughter-in-law or two for him to look over, Byron having been foolish enough to confide in his mother recently that he really did want to get married and give her grandchildren.
‘Perhaps you’d like to come with me?’ he said impulsively, despite knowing the invitation was both presumptuous and premature.
Cleo stared at him as though he’d just asked her to accompany him to the moon.
‘You want me to go to your mother’s birthday party with you?’ she asked him incredulously.
‘Yes. Why not?’ He wasn’t about to back-pedal. Byron never back-pedalled.
‘I think why is more like the right question,’ she countered brusquely.
‘Do I need a reason?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because I like you and find your company stimulating.’
Her smile was wry. ‘Now what’s the real reason?’
He could hardly tell her that it had been an impulse invitation, one driven by his darker side. But now that he’d made it, he could see that it actually had potential in a more practical sense.
‘You’ve forced it out of me,’ he said, smiling back just as wryly. ‘The thing is, my dearest mother is keen for me to settle down and have a family, so there’s bound to be a few potential brides for my perusal at this event. Since I would prefer to pick my own future wife, I need protection from her matchmaking. If I show up with a woman of my own choice on my arm, I might have a chance of actually enjoying myself.’
* * *
Cleo couldn’t help it. She laughed.
‘As much as I would like to help you out,’ she said, still chuckling inside, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to say no.’
‘Why?’ he asked, sounding most put out. Clearly, not many women said no to Byron.
Cleo listed all the reasons in her head.
Because I don’t have a thing to wear to such an occasion.
Because I would be like a fish out of water in your mother’s social circle.
Because none of the guests would believe I was really your date.
Because I don’t want to torture myself by pretending to be your date.
‘Because I don’t actually enjoy parties,’ she said instead. ‘Sorry. I’m sure you can find someone else to be your pretend girlfriend for one night.’
‘Actually no, I can’t,’ he growled as he pulled a face. ‘I’m between fiancées at the moment.’
Cleo smiled ruefully. ‘How unfortunate,’ she murmured, amused by his little-boy pout. ‘Still, I would imagine you know scores of unattached women who would jump at the chance of accompanying you.’
‘True. But all of them would also jump to the conclusion that they were in with a chance to become fiancée number three.’
Cleo bristled at the implication that she wouldn’t do any such thing. And she knew why. Because she was far too ordinary to contemplate anything so extraordinary. The woman who eventually wore Byron’s wedding ring on her finger would be out of the ordinary in every way. He wasn’t about to settle for just anyone. He’d already discarded a Victoria’s Secret model and a stunning actress. Cleo momentarily wondered what it was about them that had caused those break-ups. The articles she’d read about Byron suggested the splits had been his doing. But who knew? Maybe he was a player, even when he was engaged. Wealthy men often were.
‘Come on, Cleo,’ he said with a very bewitching smile. ‘Help me out here.’
It annoyed Cleo how tempted she was to say yes, an answer she knew she would instantly regret. As fascinating as she found Byron, no way would she put herself in a position that would ultimately be humiliating. Neither did she like the idea of being used. It also worried her that this attraction she was feeling could escalate into infatuation, if she spent too much time with him. And she didn’t want that. In truth, Cleo rather liked her independent existence. It made for a stress-free personal life, leaving her to concentrate on the one thing she genuinely enjoyed and that she could count on: her job. The last thing she needed were the emotional upsets that inevitably came with relationships. Just look at the mess Sarah and Scott had been in this past week or so. Far better to steer well clear of the opposite sex, even if it meant spending the rest of her life alone.
Of course, she hadn’t counted on her libido coming back to life in such a remarkable fashion. Still, it was nothing that wouldn’t simmer down, in time. It was a pity she had to spend tomorrow with him. But she was certain she could remain professional in his presence, especially if she established proper boundaries now.
‘I’m sorry, Byron,’ she told him coolly. ‘But I really can’t. Maybe you should just go to your mother’s party alone and face the music.’
‘You don’t know my mother,’ he said drily.
‘Perhaps you should just tell her that you don’t want to get married; that you prefer the life of a...a bachelor.’ She’d almost said playboy, but had known instinctively that he wouldn’t like that tag. Admittedly, Byron wasn’t known for being a heartless womaniser, but his two broken engagements had had a lot of publicity.
A heavy sigh wafted from Byron’s lungs, his eyes rolling in exasperation. ‘That’s the crux of the problem. The fact is, I do want to get married. But only to the right sort of girl, not the kind my mother would dish up to me.’
‘I see,’ Cleo said slowly. ‘And what kind is that?’
‘Oh, you know,’ he said, waving his hand around in a circular fashion. ‘Society princesses whose only aim in life is to marry well, which translates to a husband with money. And lots of it. Then they can live in a Double Bay mansion, dress in designer clothes and have their children looked after by nannies whilst they sit on charity boards or do ladies’ luncheons in between holidays to Tuscany, or possibly to New York, where they can shop their greedy little hearts out.’
Cleo was taken aback by his cynical tirade.
‘You don’t have to marry any of them,’ she pointed out.
‘I don’t intend to,’ he said ruefully. ‘Now. Do you want coffee? Or would you prefer a cognac?’
CHAPTER SIX
CLEO RANG SCOTT when she got back to the office, still slightly tipsy, at three-thirty. The time difference between Sydney and Thailand was three hours so she figured Scott would have to be awake. He answered after a few rings, sounding happy.
‘So how did it go with Maddox?’ he as
ked.
Cleo cut straight to the chase. ‘He wants to visit the refinery. Tomorrow,’ she added. ‘In his private jet.’
‘Oh, hell. That could be a disaster.’
Cleo agreed, but not for the reasons Scott was talking about. Already she was looking forward to seeing Byron again.
‘He has to know the truth sooner or later,’ she said with her usual pragmatism.
Scott sighed. ‘Tell him I’m planning on closing it down until the nickel prices go back up again.’
‘That might be wise.’
‘Aside from that, what did you think of the man?’
‘Not sure yet. He’s very suave. And way too sure of himself.’
‘That’s what Sarah said. She wasn’t a fan when we met him at the races last year. But possibly that was because she didn’t like his fiancée. I gather she’s no longer in the picture, but, still, the crucial point is...does he have shifty eyes?’
Cleo wasn’t sure what he was talking about for a second, until she recalled how she’d recently dismissed a potential investor because he had shifty eyes.
‘No,’ she said with a dry laugh. Byron’s eyes weren’t at all shifty. Instead they were very blue and very beautiful, fringed by lashes that any woman would envy. They were also knowing and intelligent and sexy as hell.
‘Good,’ Scott said. ‘So you liked him, then? In the business sense, that is?’
‘I suppose so. I’ll be able to make a better judgment after tomorrow. Do you want me to ring you again tomorrow night, after I get back?’
Scott’s hesitation was telling. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘No, don’t do that. I promised Sarah to put work aside for these next two weeks and that’s what I intend doing. Not much I can do from here, anyway. I trust you to make the right calls, Cleo. Only ring me from now on if there’s an emergency.’
‘Okay.’ She decided not to mention that Byron’s accountant was coming to check the books tomorrow as well. He and Sarah obviously needed this time together without the distraction of the business. It wasn’t as though there was anything to worry about. Their own accountant was both meticulous and ethical. Scott didn’t hire any other kind of employee, though he always did a full background check before he employed anyone.
Cleo decided it might be wise to do one on Byron Maddox. Looking up articles on the Internet didn’t quite match a full security check. As soon as she got off the phone to Scott, Cleo rang Harvey, their head of security.
‘Harvey,’ she said. ‘I have a rush job for you.’
‘Shoot.’ Harvey was a man of few words.
‘I want you to find out everything you can for me on Byron Maddox.’ Cleo refused to concede that there was a measure of feminine curiosity driving her request. This was strictly business. Scott was trusting her to negotiate with this man and she wasn’t going to let him down. People always said knowledge was power. That was what Cleo felt she needed before tomorrow. More power.
‘The Byron Maddox?’ Harvey said, sounding surprised.
‘Yes. I have an important business meeting with him tomorrow. Could you email me a full report by ten tonight?’
‘Will do. Boss,’ he added on a drily humorous note, then hung up.
Cleo was smiling as she hung up. She’d rather liked being called boss. What a shame she didn’t have millions of dollars. Then she could have put herself forward as Scott’s new partner, instead of trying to con Byron Maddox into taking the job.
And it would be a con. Because no businessman in his right mind was going to invest in the mining industry at the moment. The only way to make it palatable would be for Scott to offer a fifty per cent partnership in McAllister Mines at a very reduced price. Which he just might be prepared to do. When he got back. Meanwhile, it was up to Cleo to keep Byron sweet.
The thought came that maybe she should have accepted his ridiculous invitation to go to his mother’s birthday party. Obviously, Byron didn’t realise she would be an embarrassment to him. Possibly he imagined that she was one of those women who after work could transform herself into a femme fatale. Cleo had seen a perfume ad on TV once where the prissy secretary suddenly whipped down her hair, shrugged out of her jacket, slapped on some red lipstick, undid the top buttons of her silky blouse, and—whammo! Instant vamp!
Cleo knew she wasn’t capable of achieving that kind of miracle, even if she spent hours on herself. She’d never had any fashion sense, or know-how when it came to hairstyles and make-up. It would be easy to blame her grandmother’s influence for her lack of style. And there was no doubt her grandmother’s old-fashioned ways were a contributing factor. But Cleo suspected it was something she’d been born with. Some people—like Scott’s wife, Sarah—had an innate sense of style. They knew exactly what suited them and how to make the best of themselves. Cleo had never had that ability. She’d been a shy teenager, lacking confidence in her looks. She’d always thought herself plain, with a too big mouth and too big everything. Breasts. Bum. Thighs. No wonder she’d still been a virgin when she’d met Martin at university. And no wonder she’d been bowled over when he’d said how pretty he thought she was, and how much he liked the way she dressed, complimenting her on wearing no make-up and not looking like a tart.
In hindsight, she understood full well that Martin had liked her not looking too good, especially after her puppy fat had melted away and her figure had improved dramatically. But by then the damage to her self-esteem had been done, and she’d got into the habit of dressing like a dowdy spinster, consoling herself with the fact that Martin loved her for herself. Even after they were married and she’d realised that her husband’s compliments about her modest clothes were his way of controlling her, Cleo had seemed incapable of doing herself up differently. After Martin had become ill, she’d no longer cared what she looked like. It was only when she’d become Scott’s PA that she’d made a conscious effort to at least smarten up her working wardrobe.
Not altogether successfully, she feared. Seeing Byron’s PA today had come as a bit of a shock. She envied how Grace looked, wishing she could look half as good. If she did, she would have accepted Byron’s invitation like a shot. She might even have stood a slim chance of having her erotic fantasies about him fulfilled.
This last thought made her laugh. Men like Byron Maddox didn’t sleep with ordinary girls like Cleo. They bedded supermodels, and drop-dead gorgeous actresses. Cleo wouldn’t mind betting that he was already relieved that she’d said no to accompanying him to his mother’s birthday. To imagine that he might ask her again was pure fantasy.
Sighing with a mixture of disappointment and resignation, Cleo lifted her phone to call their accountant before he left to go home. She had to warn him that Byron’s accountant would be dropping by to check the books. He sounded somewhat peeved but that was just too bad. She wasn’t exactly thrilled at having to fly to Townsville at some ungodly hour the next morning, either.
Tomorrow stretched in front of Cleo as one long trial. It wasn’t going to be easy keeping her business head on in the presence of a man who did dreadful things to her hormones without even trying. She was about to close down her computer and head for Central station when her phone rang.
Cleo’s eyebrows went ceilingwards at the identity of her caller.
‘Hello, Byron,’ she answered crisply. ‘Is there a problem with tomorrow’s arrangements?’
‘Do you always assume that there’s a problem when a man calls you?’
‘That depends on the man,’ she said, shocked that her voice was decidedly flirty. She never did flirty.
Until now.
Damn the man!
* * *
Down the line, Byron wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe Cleo wasn’t as sexually repressed as he’d imagined.
Good, he decided.
‘Sounds like you’ve had some difficult men in your life,’ he said. ‘Look, I was thinking that maybe we should stay overnight in Townsville. Otherwise, it’s going to be a very long day. I’ll get Grace to make a ho
tel booking for us. Is that all right with you?’
Byron wasn’t planning any major seduction—not in Townsville anyway. He just wanted some more time to get to know her. Cleo Shelton was a rather intriguing woman.
‘I don’t see a problem with that,’ she stated, an underlying hint of reserve in her reply.
‘Fine. I’ll still pick you up at your house at seven. We should be in the air by eight-thirty at the latest. Bring something to wear to dinner,’ he suggested, wanting to see her in a dress.
‘People don’t get dressed up in Townsville, Byron,’ she said somewhat brusquely.
‘Fine. I’ll just bring a change of jeans then. And a fresh shirt.’
‘Sounds perfect. I’ll do the same.’
He pictured her in tight jeans and thought, yes, that would do. For starters.
‘Great. See you in the morning, then.’
‘I’ll be ready,’ she said before terminating the call at her end.
Byron had no doubt she would be. Grace had said she wasn’t the type of girl to be late. And he knew why. It was because she didn’t spend hours on her hair and face. The women Byron usually dated were always running late, due to their endless titivating.
Of course, tomorrow wasn’t a date. It was a business appointment. He had to keep telling himself that. When Cleo finally agreed to go to his mother’s party with him—he aimed to ask her again—he wouldn’t be surprised to discover a different creature. Women constantly surprised him over how different they could look in different clothes, and with a different hairstyle.
If she comes with you, a small voice intruded all of a sudden, one which didn’t bob up in his head too often. It was the same voice that had appeared shortly after his father left his mother, when Byron had been just sixteen. A very vulnerable age. It was the voice of insecurity, one which reminded him that, sometimes, life served you up something you couldn’t have, or win. Byron had grown up thinking he could have—or win—whatever he wanted. His father leaving his mother had rocked his world. For several months, father and son had been bitterly estranged, until his mother had confessed that she had been the cause of the divorce, that she’d had an affair and that his sister, Lara, was not Lloyd’s biological daughter.
