‘That’s the ideal, of course, but life doesn’t always go to plan. There are literally thousands of households headed by single parents. No one could say they’re doing a substandard job; they’re just getting on with it—bringing up the next generation as best they can.’
Cara toyed with her food, rearranging it without lifting any morsel of it to her mouth.
‘Some do better than others,’ she said, pushing her plate away.
Byron knew her statement was loaded but decided against pressing her. She looked tired, almost defeated, as if the world had been cast upon her slim shoulders. She was visibly sagging. Her eyes refused to meet his and her shoulders were slumped as if in surrender. He thrust his napkin aside and got to his feet.
‘Come on. I’ll take you back to your office.’
She was glad of the reprieve. She felt uncomfortable in his company and couldn’t wait to be free of it so she could think clearly. Having him so near clouded her thoughts, ran them together—like a red T-shirt thrown amongst white washing.
He settled the bill and she allowed him to lead her by the elbow towards the car.
‘I’ll see you on Sunday,’ he said when he left her outside her office. ‘I’ll pick you up from your home. Trevor gave me your address the other day.’
Cara waited until his car had disappeared down the street before she turned towards her office, her thoughts jumbled inside her head.
Trevor was waiting for her.
‘How was it?’
‘How was what?’
‘The house,’ he said in excitement. ‘Was it everything and more?’
She gave him a vague smile and pushed past to go to the sanctuary of her office.
‘It was that and more. I’m going to take the job and start work immediately. I’ve got a house—no, a mansion to fill with furniture, and only four weeks in which to do it.’
Trevor gave a whoop of delight.
‘That’s my girl!’ he crowed. ‘We’re not going under!’
No, she thought. You’re not going under—just me. And she closed her office door on his carefree smiling face.
Byron was right on time when he pulled up in front of her small rented apartment on Sunday evening. Cara had been watching from the window and now stood in the hall, waiting for his knock.
She opened the door and felt her stomach tilt at the sight of his tall frame before her. He was wearing dark trousers and a lightweight knit top that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders.
She had chosen to go casual as well. Her camel coloured pants teamed nicely with her black top, and her hair was loose for a change. She saw his eyes flick over her as she stood before him, his expression giving nothing away. She wanted to say hello, but instead reached for her bag, trying to cover her unease.
‘I thought we might go somewhere quiet and discuss your decision over dinner,’ he said as she followed him out to his car.
‘Fine.’
One-word answers were all she could manage on the way to a little Italian restaurant in Glebe. Cara sat twisting the strap of her bag and wondered what he was thinking. Was he anticipating resuming their relationship tonight? Or would he wait until she’d finished the house?
They were seated with drinks and menus in front of them when Byron asked, ‘Have you come to a decision?’
She looked up at him in alarm. Couldn’t he at least wait until their food had been ordered?
‘I meant about the food,’ he added with a small tilt of his mouth as he noticed her troubled expression. ‘You don’t need to panic just yet.’
‘I’m not panicking.’
‘Yes, you are. I can feel your tension from here.’
‘I’m not tense, I’m…I’m concentrating.’
‘On what?’
‘The menu.’
‘What do you feel like?’ he asked.
‘What?’
He gave her another frustrated look.
‘I’m still talking about the food.’
‘I haven’t had time to look,’ she replied coolly. ‘You keep badgering me with questions.’
‘Sorry.’ His apology was gruff as he returned to his own menu. ‘I realise this isn’t easy for you.’
‘Are we still talking about food?’ she asked.
His mouth twisted as he met her eyes across the table.
‘No, not this time.’
The waiter appeared and asked for their order. Cara rattled off the first thing she’d seen under main courses and sat back and waited for Byron to relay his own preference. Once the waiter had bustled away she felt the full heat of Byron’s gaze.
‘So, what have you decided, Cara?’
‘I’d hardly call it a decision,’ she said with some resentment. ‘You’ve made it very difficult for me to do anything else.’
‘I made it difficult?’ he asked with heavy irony. ‘I wasn’t the one who didn’t take a decent look at the business end of things until it was too late to do anything. What world are you living in, Cara? You can’t blame other people for your own mistakes—even if they were innocently made.’
She gave him a tight-lipped cold stare.
‘Trevor is not an ideal business partner,’ he continued.
‘Why?’ She threw the question at him crossly. ‘Just because he’s gay?’
‘No,’ he answered evenly. ‘It has nothing to do with that. He hasn’t got what it takes to run a business.’
‘And neither do I?’
He reached for his glass of red wine and twirled it in his hand before responding.
‘No. Your heart’s not in the books—it’s in the design end of things. I could see it in your eyes when you saw my house.’
He was right, but she wasn’t going to let him enjoy that little victory.
‘We can’t all be highfliers like you, Byron,’ she said. ‘Trevor and I weren’t educated in one of Victoria’s most prestigious fee-paying schools. We don’t have family money to back us.’
‘You had my money. The divorce money.’
‘It’s expensive setting up an office,’ she said. ‘The computers and so on.’
He seemed to accept her answer and she inwardly sighed with relief.
‘How soon can you get the house ready to live in?’ he asked, unsettling her again.
‘I…I’ve got a few ideas about furniture, but it could be weeks.’
‘I told you a month—that’s all.’
‘It’s not long enough.’
‘Surely we can live in the house with the bare essentials?’ he said. ‘All we need is a bed and—’
‘You expect me to live with you?’ she asked in alarm.
‘Of course. I thought you understood that.’
‘But what about my apartment?’
‘You call that shoebox an apartment?’
She gave him another cold, resentful glare.
‘I would’ve thought you’d have the most sensational home after all those years in the business. Or is this yet another case of the plumber with a leaky tap?’ he added when she didn’t respond.
‘I had other priorities. I’m hardly home, so it didn’t seem important,’ she said.
‘Well, you can sell it, or rent it out for the time being. I want you to live with me at the Cremorne house and I want you to start tomorrow—furniture or no furniture.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Her eyes widened in panic.
‘I’m signing on the dotted line tomorrow with your financial people. I expect you to fulfil your part of the contract.’
‘I hardly call it a contract,’ she ground out bitterly. ‘More like a dictatorship.’
‘Call it what you like. It’s immaterial to me. I’m putting a lot of money in your business and I want some immediate returns on my investment.’
‘You’re sick,’ she fired at him. ‘How can you sit there and discuss this…this farce, so clinically?’
‘Quite frankly, Cara, I don’t really care what you think about me personally. I have a goal in mind, and this time n
ot even you are going to stand in my way.’
‘You definitely need help,’ she muttered as she savaged her bread roll. ‘I’ve never met anyone with such a big ego.’
‘And I’ve never met anyone with a lesser one,’ he countered neatly.
Cara’s butter knife clattered against her plate as she looked away from his penetrating gaze. Fortunately the waiter appeared just then, with their food, and she was spared the right of reply. Not that she could think of one; he was right—she had no self-esteem, never had. Her mother had seen to that, right up to the very day she died.
She forced herself to eat at least some of the food set before her, even though her appetite had completely disappeared.
‘You don’t seem to be enjoying that,’ Byron observed some minutes later. ‘Would you like something else instead?’
She shook her head and forced another mouthful down.
‘You look as if you’re going to face a firing squad at dawn,’ he said after another minute or two had elapsed. ‘Relax, Cara. You might even enjoy it.’
A vision of their passion-locked bodies flitted unbidden into her mind and she lowered her head to her plate to disguise the heat she could feel coursing across her cheeks.
After a few painful minutes she pushed her plate away in defeat. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and caught the hard glint in his eyes.
‘You’d do anything but talk to me, wouldn’t you, Cara? Even force-feed yourself a meal you don’t want so you don’t have to speak to me.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about, How was it for you that day I left? Were you upset? That would be a good place to start.’
Her hands tightened in her lap but she didn’t answer him.
‘Or what about, Did you know I was pregnant when I left? That would make for a very interesting conversation, now, don’t you think?’
Cara stared at him in abject horror, all the colour draining away from her face. His expression was clouded by anger, his dark eyes glittering dangerously with it, showing her that this was no time for denial. Without warning the moment of truth she’d quietly dreaded for seven years had finally caught up with her.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE couldn’t speak. Anguish tied her tongue and sent tremors of reaction to her very fingertips. They were already fizzing, as if her blood couldn’t quite make the distance to them. She felt as if she would faint—hoped for it, in fact. How could she avoid the subject she dreaded the most?
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Byron suddenly broke the heavy silence by getting to his feet and signalling to the waiter for the bill.
Cara got to her feet with considerably less agility. Her legs were shaking, her palms moist, and the rest of her body felt as if it had been clubbed.
Byron fixed the bill and led the way back to his car in silence. He unlocked the doors with a snap of the remote that sounded like a gunshot and she had to stop herself from flinching.
‘Get in.’
His words were just as sharp, hitting her like bullets. She got in the car, glad that her legs didn’t have to hold her upright any more. He started the car with a roar that indicated the depth of his anger. Although he’d hidden it well, he’d waited until she was lulled into a false sense of security and then struck her where she was most vulnerable.
He drove towards her apartment with a grim determination that did little to settle Cara’s nerves. She had so much to say, but most of it could never be for his ears. He’d never understand the sort of decisions she’d had to make. The secrets she’d kept; the pain she’d hidden in order to survive.
He walked her to her apartment, all the while maintaining cold silence. She didn’t know what was worse. Hearing him castigate her, bearing his stony silence or torturing herself with what she imagined he was thinking.
At the door of the apartment she turned to him, forcing herself to meet his diamond-hard gaze.
‘Thank you for dinner.’
He seemed about to say something, but then changed his mind. He raked a hand through his dark hair and the lines around his mouth appeared to relax a little.
‘Will you need some help packing?’ he asked.
‘No, I’ll be fine. I don’t have all that much to pack,’ she answered in a subdued tone.
Byron watched as she unlocked the door and stepped through, hesitating, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to come in or not. He guessed not. He hadn’t really intended to ask her that question tonight, but he’d been increasingly annoyed by her attitude towards him. She barely tolerated his presence and it irritated him. He had felt like shaking her out of her skin.
Her eyes, when they met his again, looked wounded, which instantly made him feel like the bad guy. How did she do that? He had every right to be furious with her. She had no right to play the injured innocent. No right at all.
‘What time would you like me to be at Cremorne?’ she asked.
Byron hunted her face for any sign of her composure cracking, but apart from that hurt look in her eyes there was none. She’d effectively shut him out once more, and apart from flaying her with his tongue right here and now there was little he could do but accept it for now. He’d bide his time and get the answers he was after—even if it took him months.
‘In the evening’s fine,’ he answered, giving her a key.
He noticed she took it from him without touching his hand. That too made him angry. She’d have to get used to him touching her, because that was all he wanted to do—from the moment he woke until he fell asleep at night. His body craved her. Being so close to her had stirred his desire to a persistent dull ache, and he wondered if she sensed it.
He turned to leave before he was tempted to do something about it then and there. He muttered a curt goodnight as he closed the door on her expressionless face.
Cara sagged against the wall once he’d gone, burying her face in her hands, slipping down until she found the floor.
She stayed up most of the night packing. She knew sleep was impossible, so continued on until her vision blurred. The last bag was packed and she stood up and looked around her tiny apartment. Three bags and a box wasn’t much to show for her almost twenty-nine years, but then, she reflected ruefully, she had enough internal baggage to sink a container ship.
She sat and sipped a glass of water as she watched the moon make its way across the early morning sky until the brightness of the rising sun took over.
This was the first day of the rest of her life. She knew from this day on nothing could ever be the same. Seeing Byron again had torn her seeping wounds apart, and no matter how hard she tried she’d never be able to tie the ragged edges together again. She almost hated him for his cruelty. Almost, but not quite.
Cara spent some time at the office—more to fill in the day than because of any pressing work commitments. Trevor took one look at her shadowed eyes and whistled through his teeth.
‘You’re looking a bit the-morning-after-the-fight-before.’
She gave him a you-can-say-that-again look and flopped into her chair.
‘I’m not even going to correct your misquote of that adage, because your version’s far more accurate.’
He perched on the edge of her desk, his expression empathetic. ‘Lord Byron giving you a hard time?’
‘You could say that.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m moving in with him this evening.’
Trevor’s eyes widened, his brows disappearing under his floppy fringe.
‘Is that wise?’
She gave him an ironic look.
‘No, but wisdom doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. It’s a matter of do or be damned.’
‘Is he forcing your hand?’
‘Oh, I had a choice,’ she said. ‘Sort of.’
‘I’m sorry, Cara,’ he said. ‘This is all my fault. It’s not fair that you’re being forced to pay the price.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ sh
e reassured him. ‘I’ll be fine. Byron will soon tire of me. I’m what is commonly referred to by most men as “hard work”.’
‘You’re not hard work,’ he said. ‘You’re wounded. That’s totally different.’
She gave him a small wry smile.
‘Only you would see the difference.’
‘I’m sure he will too, in time. Maybe you should be totally honest with him. He might understand more than you think,’ he offered hopefully.
‘Byron’s not the understanding type. He’s had life too good. What would he know about how the other half live? He’s had everything handed to him on a plate—including me.’
‘Do you still care for him?’
‘I don’t know what I feel,’ she answered honestly. ‘I’ve taught myself not to feel anything for so long I can’t quite find the on switch any more.’
‘It will come back if you give yourself some time. You need to let the dust of the past settle for a little longer, get some more perspective.’
‘You should’ve been a counsellor, Trev,’ she said. ‘You’ve got all the answers.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ He kissed the top of her head as he jumped down from her desk. ‘I just know what the questions are.’
Cara drove towards Cremorne, her heart still heavy in her chest at what she was about to commit to. Byron was little more than a stranger to her now. How was she to simply slot back into his life as if nothing had happened? It would take all the acting ability she had to survive.
His car was in the large garage, and she parked in the space alongside it. Her run-down Mazda looked very out of place next to his Mercedes—but then, nearly everything about them was just as disparate.
He came to help her with her things and she felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over her as his eyes took in her tired-looking bags and the single cardboard box.
‘Is that all?’ he asked, tucking the third case under his arm.
‘Yes.’
‘What about your furniture?’
‘I don’t have any.’
He shouldered the front door open as he looked at her questioningly.
The Blackmail Pregnancy Page 4