by Miranda Lee
‘The point would be that when a man asks you out, you will happily go! Or do you want to spend the rest of your life without a social life?’ Or a sex life, he thought but didn’t say. ‘Look, Grace will know who to put you in touch with. I’ll get her to contact you tomorrow. Now no more objections,’ he said when she opened her mouth to protest. ‘You are going to the party with me and that’s that!’
CHAPTER EIGHT
CLEO KNEW SHE should continue to protest. The man was like a bulldozer, running roughshod over her feelings. And her life. Normally, she wouldn’t stand for such behaviour. But somehow Byron didn’t offend her the way another man would have. So instead of opening her mouth and making some futile objection—and it would be futile, she knew—Cleo settled back in the superbly comfortable leather seat, doing her best to look coolly resigned, instead of secretly excited. Because she did want to go with him, didn’t she? The only thing stopping her was fear over making a fool of herself.
‘I’ll contact Grace from the plane,’ Byron said. ‘She won’t be in the office yet and I don’t like to ring her at home.’
‘Why’s that?’ Cleo asked, proud of her composed demeanour. ‘Scott often rings me at home.’ Her boss had made it clear from day one that being his PA would not be a nine-to-five job.
‘That’s because you don’t have a husband to object. Oh, I’m so sorry. That was insensitive of me.’
‘No, don’t apologise,’ she replied a little stiffly. The last thing she wanted to think about at that moment was Martin. ‘Frankly, I’m glad I don’t have a husband at home to object.’ And Martin would have, no doubt about that. Not that she would have ever had her present job if Martin had been alive and well. She would not have even been working at McAllister Mines if that had been the case—she would have left Martin and her job. Lord knew where she would be by now, if that had happened. Certainly not here, in this gorgeous car, sitting beside a gorgeous though slightly irritating man.
‘You don’t want to get married again, Cleo?’
An involuntary shudder ran through her before she could stop it. ‘No,’ she said with faked calm. ‘No, I don’t.’ She didn’t have to explain why to him. She imagined lots of widows didn’t want to get married again. Doreen never had, for the same reason Cleo didn’t. Madly controlling husbands left behind women who were wary of trusting their lives to a man ever again.
‘What about children?’ he asked.
Cleo’s heart twisted. She had wanted children. At first. But even that desire had been ripped out of her once she’d recognised the hell her life would be as a stay-at-home mother with Martin at the helm and his children having to follow endless rules and restrictions.
‘I did want children,’ she confessed. ‘But Martin insisted on paying our mortgage off first so that I could leave work when I fell pregnant. But before that happened, he was diagnosed with cancer. Since I don’t want to get married again, children are out of the question.’
‘Not really. You don’t have to be married to have a baby.’
Such a thought had never crossed Cleo’s mind. But now that it did, she didn’t like it much. ‘I don’t want to be a single mother.’
‘Fair enough. Ah, here we are.’
Cleo was glad that that conversation had been terminated. Hopefully, Byron wouldn’t bring up the subject of marriage and children ever again. She did her best not to gasp at the sight of the fabulous-looking jet that stood waiting for them on the tarmac. It wasn’t enormous. But it was the stuff dreams were made of. White and glistening in the morning sun, it had sleekly powerful lines that promised speed and the total luxury of private plane travel.
‘Yes, it’s quite something, isn’t it?’ Byron said as he helped her out of the car then led her up the steps, which actually had a red carpet running up the middle. ‘It’s a Gulfstream. It can accommodate twelve passengers and can fly over seven thousand miles non-stop.’
‘Goodness.’
Cleo tried not to gape, or gawk, as she was led through the open doorway into the jet’s interior. Talk about utter luxury! There were heaps of cream leather seats, some arranged around rich walnut tables. After that there was a home theatre and a beautifully equipped kitchen, opposite which was an unbelievably spacious bathroom. Beyond that Cleo glimpsed a bedroom, which had a door that could obviously close for complete privacy.
‘This must have cost you a small fortune,’ she blurted out before she could think better of it.
‘Not a single cent,’ he told her. ‘It belongs to my father. He’s here in Australia at the moment. He said I could use it, so I am. It’s rather over the top, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, no, I think it’s fabulous!’ she said, finally giving in to the urge to gush.
He smiled. ‘Pleased you like it. Now, best sit down and buckle up. I can feel we’re already on the move.’
All the seats on the left side were window seats. After Cleo chose one, Byron sat down in the seat directly across the aisle from her.
‘I’m afraid there’s no steward to serve us drinks or anything,’ he told her. ‘Once we’re airborne, I’ll raid the kitchen for some food and drinks. I haven’t eaten anything yet.’
‘That’s very naughty of you,’ she said. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’
‘Then I must be a very naughty boy. Because I rarely have breakfast. Of course, I do usually stay up late. And I have dinner late.’
Cleo didn’t want to think about the reasons for him always staying up late.
Her eyes slid across the aisle, surreptitiously looking him over. His profile was striking and she could hardly tear her eyes from his face. She was going to a party with him this Saturday night.
Her stomach fizzed at the thought.
‘Don’t forget to contact Grace once she’s in the office,’ she reminded him. Now that she’d agreed to go to that party with Byron, she wanted to look as good as she possibly could. The thought of embracing a substantial makeover was daunting. But she was determined.
His head turned her way, his smile wry. ‘I won’t forget.’
Just then the plane accelerated down the runway and took off, Cleo gripping the arm rests as it did so. She wasn’t afraid of flying, but she didn’t like take-offs. As a distraction, she gazed down at the view below, thinking what a beautiful city Sydney was. Before long, however, the jet headed out to sea then up into the air and there was nothing to see but clouds. The seat-belt sign was switched off and Byron stood up straight away.
‘Time,’ he said, ‘for some refreshments.’
He returned with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.
‘Surely that’s not all you’re having,’ she chided as he poured.
‘What are you,’ he said, ‘the food police?’
‘Very funny.’
‘A first-class flight always starts with a glass of champagne. And don’t tell me you don’t like champagne because I won’t believe you.’
‘I do like champagne.’
‘Good. Then drink up.’
It was utterly delicious and no doubt as expensive as everything else around her.
Byron settled back down and took a long swallow, a thoughtful expression on his face. Finally, he turned to glance over at her.
‘If you were me, would you invest in McAllister Mines?’
Cleo’s smile carried dry amusement. ‘Now that’s not fair, Byron, and you know it.’
‘Business dealings are rarely fair, Cleo.’
‘They can be,’ she contradicted. ‘Scott is always fair in his business dealings.’
‘Which is perhaps why he’s in financial difficulties. You have to be ruthless to survive in business these days, Cleo.’
This rather harsh opinion brought a stab of disappointment. Still, she should have known he’d be as ruthless as his father. This thought reminded Cleo that she needed to have a more thorough look through Harvey’s report. It would be naive of her to take everything Byron said at face value. As bewitchingly attractive
and charming as he was, he was still Lloyd Maddox’s son.
Putting down her near empty champagne glass in the drink holder next to her, Cleo bent to extract her phone from her handbag, which she’d dropped at her feet.
‘Would you mind terribly if I did some work for a while? I need to check my emails, plus I have a few to send myself.’ Total lies. But you had to be ruthless in business, didn’t you?
‘Go right ahead. I’m going to catch up on some shut-eye.’
Harvey’s report didn’t really tell her all that much more than she’d already gleaned herself via the Internet. There were some additional but rather dry details about his birth, his background and very privileged upbringing. He’d been born in a private clinic in Sydney thirty-five years ago. He’d been an only child until his mother had a girl, sixteen years later. Lara Audrey. Byron’s middle name was Augustus, the same as his grandfather, who’d been a newspaper proprietor in Sydney in the fifties. He’d been educated at the exclusive Riverview College, was dux of his school, as well as captain of various sports teams and the debating team.
Which meant he would be a good negotiator. Or liar. Or both.
After graduating school, he’d had a gap year travelling Europe and the Americas, ending with Christmas spent with his father in New York. His parents had been divorced a while by then. Amicably, it seemed. After returning home, the nineteen-year-old Byron started a business degree at Sydney University, barely scraping through during his first year but then knuckling down and gaining distinctions in all his subjects from then on. Not high distinctions, she noted ruefully, perhaps because he also had a very busy social life. According to a fellow student who’d studied with him—how on earth had Harvey managed to find one so quickly?—Byron was a hit with the ladies, his friend claiming there were streams of them going in and out of his on-campus bedroom, despite it being against the rules.
Rules, Cleo decided somewhat cynically, would not apply to the son and heir of the Maddox Media Empire. Money would have greased palms and all rules would have gone out of the window. Not the girls, however. They wouldn’t have climbed through the windows. They would have walked right through the front door.
Such thoughts reminded Cleo to keep her wits about her with this man. He wasn’t to be taken lightly in business. But very lightly when it came to other matters. Byron claimed to want to get married and have children but his past history suggested he got cold feet whenever the reality of commitment came close to fruition. Harvey’s reports on Byron’s years of working with his father all over the world suggested there had been less bed-hopping than at university, but he’d rarely been seen without some very beautiful girl on his arm. And, no doubt, in his bed. Since returning to Sydney to live, he’d had several short-term girlfriends followed recently by two serious relationships, resulting in engagements.
But she already knew all about them, so Cleo skipped over that part of Harvey’s report to inspect the section concerning Byron’s business and financial details. Which was pretty well exactly as she expected. No mining investments. Most of Byron’s money was in property, both commercial and domestic. Some airports figured as well. And then there were the holiday resorts, the retirement villages and the nursing homes. Nothing in the stock market. Not even the so-called blue-chip shares. He had invested in two movies—both of which had made him a profit—but there weren’t any more of what she would call high-risk investments.
Once again, Cleo wondered how Harvey had found out so much about Byron in such a short space of time. Scott called Harvey an IT genius, with more tech savvy than several of those young Silicon Valley experts. Yet Harvey wasn’t at all young, and didn’t look anything like a computer nerd. More like an aging bikie, being big and bald and beefy, with a penchant for leather jackets.
Cleo flipped her phone shut and glanced over at Byron, who’d sunk down in his chair, arms crossed, eyes firmly shut.
A glance at her watch said they’d been in the air only forty minutes. Still over two hours to go.
She sighed.
‘I’m not asleep,’ Byron said, his eyelids lifting. ‘I never can sleep on planes.’
‘Me, either.’ Not that she’d been on that many. Only domestic flights.
Byron unwrapped his arms and stood up abruptly. ‘Come on, let’s go watch a movie.’ And he stretched out his hand to her.
‘A movie?’ Cleo echoed as she put her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.
‘Dad’s got all the latest movies. Movies and television are a good chunk of his business nowadays. That’s why he got this plane decked out with a home theatre, so that he can watch the latest releases whilst he flies across the Pacific, or wherever.’
Cleo tried to concentrate on what Byron was saying and not the tingling heat his touch generated in her hand. And up her arm.
‘He obviously doesn’t sleep much on flights either, then,’ she said as Byron led her along to the large cream sofa that ran along the wall opposite a huge flat-screen TV.
‘Not much.’ He saw her settled on the sofa, then went over to slip a DVD into the built-in player. ‘He was also missing his wife on this last trip over,’ he added as he straightened then turned to face Cleo. ‘Alexandra didn’t want to bring her new baby all this way for just two weeks. Dad’s here to put his harbourside mansion on the market. He reckons if he visits Sydney in future, he’ll stay in a hotel. Right!’ he said, turning back briefly to press play. ‘This is a romantic comedy that a rival company of Dad’s produced late last year. It’s not actually out yet but apparently there’s a real buzz about it. We watched it together on the way over and neither of us liked it much. It’ll be good to get a female opinion. Now, I’ll just rustle up some movie snacks whilst you start watching.’
‘Okay,’ she said, glad to have some mental distraction for the thoughts that kept going through her head. It was a struggle to dismiss the notion that Byron did actually like her. And liked her company. Maybe he hadn’t asked her to go to his mother’s birthday party just to protect himself from predatory women. Maybe he was actually attracted to her.
And maybe you’re living in a fantasy world, Cleo Shelton. Why should he be attracted to someone who looks like you do? You’ve seen photos of his ex-fiancées. Even if Grace performs a makeover miracle, you won’t hold a candle to a supermodel, or a beautiful actress.
Cleo glanced down at her own outfit. She wished with all her heart that she’d worn something nicer, instead of these old jeans and the same jacket she’d worn yesterday. She’d believed her clothes were suitable for a visit to a dusty old refinery, but now they just felt dated and dismal.
It was at that moment Cleo vowed to do something about her entire wardrobe. She would get Grace’s advice, not just for a party dress but for everything else, from casual gear to the latest fashions for work. She would probably still lean towards pant suits to wear to the office. But ones with more style, matched with more colourful tops. Maybe even some silk scarves. She’d always admired women who accessorised their outfits with long silk scarves.
‘So what do you think so far?’ Byron asked when he returned to the sofa with a huge bowl of microwaved popcorn.
She could hardly venture a reasoned opinion, since she hadn’t actually been watching.
‘It’s okay so far,’ she said. ‘Mighty fine breakfast you’ve got there.’
When he grinned over at her, her stomach did a total somersault. Under the circumstances, Cleo did the only thing she could think of. She focused on watching the movie. And thankfully so did he. Byron didn’t say another word till the credits started to roll.
‘Well?’ he said, putting aside the now empty bowl.
‘It’s very ordinary,’ she replied. ‘A cheap version of Pretty Woman, but with no star quality and none of the other movie’s appeal.’
‘Wow,’ Byron said, and stared at her. ‘Neither Dad nor I knew what was wrong with it, but you hit the nail right on the head.’
‘That’s only my opinion, remember. So
meone else might think very differently. An American audience might like it very much. I’m not overly fond of slapstick humour. I always think it’s a cheap way to get laughs. The comedy should come from the characters, not the girl dropping hot coffee in the guy’s lap. What’s funny about that? I know the waitress is supposed to be a klutz, but being a klutz isn’t an attractive trait. It’s dumb. She’d be fired in the real world. Aside from that, the plot is very devicey and not believable. I mean, would a billionaire really have his breakfast every morning in such a dreary café? Not only that, this kind of movie is supposed to be about the underdog girl being swept away into a world of wealth and glamour. That didn’t happen. He comes down to her level, not the other way around. I doubt it’s going to be a big success. What’s it called? I missed the title.’
His smile was wide. ‘It’s called The Girl in the Café.’
‘You have to be kidding me.’
‘Nope. I think they’re trying to cash in on all the recent movie successes which had girl in the title.’
‘But they’re all thrillers, not romantic comedies.’
‘I know. What would you call it?’
‘I have no idea. I don’t think any title would save it. The only good thing about it is the soundtrack.’
‘I think Dad should hire you as a consultant. Or I will. Either way, you’re wasted working for a mining company.’
‘But I love working for Scott,’ she countered, despite being thrilled by Byron’s praise.
‘You could work for us, part-time. After hours,’ he added, and gave her a look that sent a decidedly sexual shiver ricocheting down her spine.
‘We’ve begun our descent into Townsville, Mr Maddox,’ the pilot suddenly announced over the intercom. ‘Time to buckle up.’
‘Have I time for a quick dash to the bathroom?’ Cleo asked, trying to ignore her still-racing heartbeat.
‘Sure.’
Ten minutes later they were on the ground. At least, the plane was. An increasingly infatuated Cleo was still up there in cloud land. Or La-La Land, as Doreen called it. The place where the brain ceased to work, leaving nothing but a blank mind and a body that responded on instinct. When Byron put his hand on her elbow to guide her to the plane’s exit, that electric charge once again raced up her arm. Cleo’s head automatically turned to look at him. Partly in puzzlement. Partly in a dazed wonder. He looked back, his own eyes narrowing slightly when she stood there, not moving, just staring at him.