“There’s nothing more desirable than a woman who wants you, despite herself.”

Australian tycoon and international playboy Byron Maddox is used to getting what he wants. And for some reason, he wants shy PA Cleo Shelton.

Cleo is sure it’s only because she turned him down—finally free of an abusive marriage, Cleo is enjoying her independence, and has no intention of being under the thumb of another man! Especially a man she finds irresistibly alluring...

But Byron won’t be thwarted so easily—and when he proposes one sizzling night together, Cleo’s resistance crumbles under the force of his expert seduction!

‘I want to be alone with you, Cleo.’

Cleo sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Why?’ she blurted out before she could stop herself.

‘You know why,’ Bryon said quietly.

‘You...you want to have sex with me?’ It sounded incredible once she’d said it out loud. Cleo knew she wanted to have sex with him but had never imagined her desire was returned.

‘Yes, of course I do.’

His casual admission took her breath away. It also angered her.

‘I’ve wanted to have sex with you since thirty seconds after I met you,’ he added with a rueful smile in his voice and on his face.

If his earlier admission had taken her breath away, this one left her speechless.

‘Are you going to say something?’ he queried when she just sat there in stunned silence for several seconds.

‘But why?’

‘Why?’ he echoed thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps it’s because I glimpsed the real you underneath the drab facade.’

‘The real me?’ What on earth was he talking about?

‘The one who stared at me for a split second like I was a drink of water after a long and dusty desert trek.’

‘Oh,’ she said, embarrassed now.

‘There’s nothing more desirable,’ he said, ‘than a woman who wants you despite herself.’

Marrying a Tycoon

Australia’s most eligible tycoons

meet their match at the altar!

Magnate Scott McAllister believes he has the perfect

compliant wife—until she defies him! Suddenly he

discovers the passionate nature she hides...

and is determined to awaken it!

The Magnate’s Tempestuous Marriage

Already available!

Tycoon Byron Maddox doesn’t do commitment, but shy PA Cleo intrigues him instantly! He wants her in his bed—but will he want her to wear his ring?

The Tycoon’s Outrageous Proposal

Available now!

You won’t want to miss this dramatic, passionate duet from Miranda Lee!

The Tycoon’s Outrageous Proposal

Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Born and raised in the Australian bush, MIRANDA LEE was boarding-school-educated, and briefly pursued a career in classical music before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.

Books by Miranda Lee

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Taken Over by the Billionaire

A Man Without Mercy

Master of Her Virtue

Contract with Consequences

The Man Every Woman Wants

Not a Marrying Man

A Night, A Secret...A Child

Marrying a Tycoon

The Magnate’s Tempestuous Marriage

Rich, Ruthless and Renowned

The Italian’s Ruthless Seduction

The Billionaire’s Ruthless Affair

The Playboy’s Ruthless Pursuit

Three Rich Husbands

The Billionaire’s Bride of Vengeance

The Billionaire’s Bride of Convenience

The Billionaire’s Bride of Innocence

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Marrying a Tycoon

Title Page

About the Author

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CLEO DIDN’T CRY when she placed the flowers on her husband’s grave. She’d cried buckets that morning, once she realised she’d forgotten the anniversary of Martin’s death. When she explained to her very concerned boss that she always visited Martin’s grave with her mother-in-law on the anniversary of his death, he’d given her the rest of the day off, insisting that she collect Doreen and go.

So here she was with her eyes strangely dry whilst Martin’s mother cried buckets instead.

Maybe she was all cried out. Or maybe—just maybe—she’d finished with grieving. She’d loved Martin. In the end. And in the beginning. But there’d been that awful time in the middle when she hadn’t loved him at all. Hard to stay in love with a man who tried to run every aspect of your life, from where you worked to what you wore and who your friends were. At home, it had been just as bad. From the day they were married, Martin took control of the money, paid all the bills, and made all the decisions.

Her own fault, of course. At first, she’d liked his ‘take control’ attitude, had thought it manly. His decisiveness had appealed to her own lack of confidence and maturity. She’d been engaged at twenty, married at twenty-one. Just a baby, really, in more ways than one.

But all babies eventually grew up, and she’d come to see how stifling it was being married to a man who wanted you to stay totally dependent on him, who wouldn’t even let you have a baby until the mortgage was totally paid off so he could afford for you to be a full-time stay-at-home mother, a prospect that hadn’t appealed to Cleo. She’d liked her job in the marketing section of McAllister Mines, despite it having been chosen for her by Martin, solely because he’d worked there in the accounts division.

Cleo had made the momentous decision to leave Martin on the very day when he’d told her that he’d been diagnosed with cancer, a particularly aggressive melanoma, which the doctor had warned might not be curable.

It had turned out it wasn’t. But it had taken Martin two long years to die, during which time Cleo had learned to love him again. How brave he’d been during that terrible time. And how sorry for what he’d put her through during their marriage. Oh, yes, he knew exactly what he’d been doing all along; had known it was wrong, but said he couldn’t seem to help himself. Apparently, his father had treated his mother the same way, and consequently it was all he’d known as a model for marriage. In Cleo’s eyes it was no excuse, but it was at least an explanation for his behaviour.

His debilitating illness forced him to give up his controlling nature, gradually relying on Cleo to do everything for him. The balance of power shifted substantially, giving Cleo a new confidence in her ability to cope once Martin died, which soon became inevitable, once the cancer spread to his brain. She’d thought she’d be relieved when he passed away, and she was, in a way. But not long after, she’d become very depressed. If it hadn’t been for the boss of McAllister Mines promoting her to the challenging position of his PA, she wasn’t sure what might have become of her. She’d always suffered from depression, ever since her parents had been killed in a car accident when she was a teenager, leaving her to be raised by her paternal grandparents who were way too old—and way too old-fashioned—to know what a thirteen-year-old girl needed.

Thinking of her sad teenage years sparked the tears that had been absent up until then.

Doreen saw them and came over to link arms with her. ‘Now, now, love,’ she said, dabbing at her own tears with a wad of tissues. ‘We shouldn’t be sad. He’s not in pain any longer. He’s at peace now.’

‘Yes,’ was all Cleo could think of to say. She could hardly tell Martin’s mother that she was crying for herself, not Martin.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t do this any more, Cleo,’ Doreen added. ‘It’s been three years, and it’s not always good to dwell on the past. You’re still a young woman. You should be out there, dating.’

‘Dating?’ Cleo could not have been more surprised if Doreen had said fishing. Cleo hated fishing. Martin, however, had loved it, and had insisted she go along with him, even on their honeymoon.

‘You don’t have to sound so shocked,’ Doreen said.

‘And who, precisely, do you envisage me dating?’

Doreen shrugged. ‘You must meet plenty of attractive men in the course of your work.’

‘Actually, I don’t. If they are even marginally attractive, they’re always married. Besides, I’m not interested in dating.’

‘Why not?’

Cleo could hardly tell her mother-in-law that her son had killed off any interest she’d had in sex. She’d quite liked it, to begin with. But her hormones had gone into hibernation once they were married, once he started telling her what to do and how to do it, blaming her when she didn’t come, forcing her to start faking her climaxes, just to get some peace. It had been a relief when chemo affected Martin’s testosterone levels. Sex was the last thing on his mind when he was fighting for his life, and without the toxic effect of their missing physical connection, Cleo found she could be genuinely affectionate with her husband. She’d been holding his hand and telling him how much she loved him when he died.

And it had been true. She had loved him. But the damage had been done by then. She never looked at a man these days and thought of sex. She didn’t want it, dream of it, or crave it. So naturally, she never entertained the thought of dating, or getting married again. Because marriage meant sex; it meant having to consider a man’s wishes.

‘I don’t want to date,’ Cleo said at last. ‘And I definitely don’t want to get married again.’

Doreen nodded, as though she understood perfectly. She must have seen that her son was a chip off the old block. If Cleo had been emotionally abused in her marriage, then so had Doreen. Damaged, they were. Both of them.

Cleo looked at her mother-in-law and thought it was a shame. Doreen was still young, only fifty-two, and still slim and attractive. She should be the one getting out and dating. There had to be some nice men left in the world. Surely.

Of course there were, Cleo conceded, thinking of her boss. Scott was a wonderful man. Kind. Caring. A good husband. When he wasn’t being stupid, that was. Cleo could not believe how close he and Sarah had come to breaking up. Still, all was right in their world again now, which was a relief. Last week had been a nightmare!

She shook her head and sighed wearily.

‘I think we should go home,’ Doreen said gently, obviously misinterpreting that sigh.

Cleo smiled at the woman who was more than a mother-in-law these days. She was her best friend, having moved in to help Cleo with Martin towards the end of his illness...and never leaving. Widowed just before Cleo had met Martin, Doreen had never owned a house with her husband, so after Martin died, Cleo had asked Doreen to move in with her permanently. She’d jumped at the chance and neither woman had ever regretted it.

Thanks to Martin’s taking out enough life insurance to cover the mortgage, Cleo owned her house in Leichardt, an inner western suburb where the value of properties had skyrocketed lately, due to its proximity to Sydney’s Central Business District. It wasn’t a large house, and it was a little run-down, but, still, it was hers and it meant independence and freedom.

‘Good idea,’ Cleo returned and started walking back to the car park. ‘What’s on TV tonight?’

‘Not much,’ Doreen replied. ‘We could watch one of the movies I put in the planner.’

‘Okay,’ Cleo said, always happy to watch a movie. ‘But I hope it’s not a miserable one,’ she added. ‘I can’t stand those dreary issue movies.’ She wanted to be entertained, not depressed.

Before Doreen could comment, Cleo’s phone rang, and she rifled in her handbag to retrieve it. It was Scott, as she suspected. Not many other people ever rang her, except scam callers. And they always waited until she was home in the evening, cooking dinner.

‘It’s my boss,’ she said, putting her phone up to her ear with one hand whilst she handed Doreen her car keys with the other. ‘I have to take this. You go back to the car. I won’t be long. Scott! What’s up?’ She hoped everything was still good with his wife.

‘Nothing drastic,’ he replied. ‘Sorry to intrude on your afternoon off. Everything go all right with the flowers?’

‘Oh, yes. Fine.’ Cleo’s conscience pricked that her visit to the cemetery was already out of her mind.

‘Good. Just thought I should let you know I’ve decided to take Sarah away to Phuket on a second honeymoon.’

‘Oh, Scott, what a wonderful idea! When?’

‘That’s why I’m ringing you. We’re leaving tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Tomorrow!’

‘Yep. And we’ll be gone for two weeks.’

‘But you’ve got an appointment with Byron Maddox at lunchtime this Wednesday,’ she reminded him. With the price of minerals plummeting recently—and that infernal nickel refinery a virtual money pit—McAllister Mines was in financial trouble. Scott had asked her to find him a potential partner with sufficient funds to improve his cash flow and take the load off him. And his marriage.

Byron Maddox had been first cab off the rank. Actually, the only one she could find on short notice who had enough money to qualify, Scott having asked Cleo to find him an Australian investor this time.

‘I know,’ Scott said, not sounding at all worried. ‘I thought you could stand in for me.’

‘He’s not going to be happy with that, Scott. It’s you he wants to see, not me.’

‘Not necessarily. He just wants the heads up on the business at this early stage. You know as much about McAllister Mines as I do.’

‘That’s very flattering but not true.’

‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Cleo. I have every confidence in you.’

Good Lord, he was going to go off and drop her right in it, wasn’t he? Cleo knew full well that she wasn’t at her best dealing one-on-one with a man like Byron Maddox. She could handle being Scott’s assistant during business meetings, but her social skills faltered badly when she was left on her own with men who expected every female they dealt with to flirt and flatter them inordinately.

Cleo would never be a flirt or a flatterer. Neither was she ingratiating or coy or submissive. Though there’d been a time when she’d been guilty of the latter. These days, she was a very up-front, straight-down-the-line girl who found it impossible to use feminine wiles when doing business. This made her popular with wives—if there were wives—but not with their spouses. And certainly not with the bachelor businessmen she’d come across.

Cleo winced at the thought of going—alone—to a business lunch with Byron Maddox.

‘I’ll do my best,’ she told Scott with resignation in her voice. ‘But please don’t expect miracles.’

‘Like I said, Cleo, I have every confidence in you. Now I have to ring Harvey as well as all my section managers and let them know that you’re in charge for the next two weeks. Then I really have to go home. Sarah’s in a flap about being ready in time. Look, I probably won’t see you at all tomorrow so I’m saying my goodbyes now.’

‘Do you want me to call you after the meeting with Maddox?’ she asked before he could escape.

‘Absolutely. Have to go, Cleo. Good luck.’

And he was gone.

Cleo sucked in a deep breath then let it out slowly as she walked back to the car. She didn’t begrudge Scott his happiness. She also didn’t mind being in charge of the office for a couple of weeks. But she certainly wasn’t looking forward to Wednesday.

‘What did your boss want?’ Doreen asked as she climbed in behind the steering wheel. ‘You look worried.’

Cleo sighed as she gunned the engine. She was worried. Very worried indeed.

CHAPTER TWO

WHO WOULD HAVE thought that getting married would prove so difficult?

Byron pondered this surprising reality as he practised his putting on the smooth grey carpet that covered the floor of his spacious office.

One would have thought that a highly eligible bachelor of his wealth and looks would have found little trouble in securing himself a bride.

Not so, it seemed!

After Byron cut business ties with his media mogul father five years ago, he returned home to Sydney with two missions in mind. First, to establish his own successful investment company; second, to marry and enjoy the same happy family life his father had finally found. He’d achieved his first goal but so far had failed spectacularly with the second.

It wasn’t that Byron hadn’t tried. He’d actually been engaged twice during the last two years, both of his fiancées having been exceptionally beautiful young women who were very keen to wed the only son and heir of the Maddox Media Empire.

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.

He rose immediately after Grace retreated and closed the door, thus giving Cleo a complete view of his attractions. Which were considerable.

Cleo already knew he was a handsome man, a tall, fair-haired god with the kind of even facial features and good bone structure that made male models and movie stars so photogenic. But in the flesh, he was more than that. Maybe it was his sparkling blue eyes, or his sexy mouth, or his tall, broad-shouldered frame, which was superbly housed in the type of business suit that screamed Italian tailoring. His effect on Cleo was instantaneous and quite startling. Her female hormones—which she’d believed dead and buried—leapt into life, threatening to bring an unwelcome and humiliating heat to her neck and face.

Luckily, she managed to keep her reaction restricted to just a racing heartbeat and a squishy feeling in her stomach, but it was the disorientating effect on her brain that rattled her the most. She could hardly think straight!

Cleo was still out of kilter when he said something in greeting, then reached out his hand to shake hers, accompanying the gesture with a winning smile that showed perfect white teeth. Her own returning smile felt robotic, her teeth clamped tightly together as the corners of her mouth lifted only slightly. She must have put her own hand out as well, because suddenly it was encased within the warmth of his, his other hand reaching to cover their handshake at the same time, keeping her fingers solidly captive in his clasp.

It was possibly a well-practised ploy, Cleo was to think later—after her brain started working again—but it worked brilliantly at the time, making her warm to him even further as well as want him in a way she’d never wanted a man before.

This last appalling thought snapped her out of her uncharacteristically muddled state of mind. How could she possibly want Byron Maddox like that? And so quickly? It had taken her weeks to go to bed with Martin. And she’d been deeply in love with him. Yet within seconds of meeting Byron Maddox all she could think about was how it would feel to lie naked in his arms, to have his mouth explore every part of her.

Cleo was shocked by her desires. He’d be good in bed, she just knew it. After all, he’d had plenty of practice. Martin had been a virgin when they met, as had she. They’d both been highly embarrassed after their first fumbling attempts at sex. They’d worked things out eventually and she’d quite enjoyed herself at the beginning of their relationship. But not all the time. No, definitely not all the time.

Cleo stared into Byron Maddox’s blue eyes with the certainty that she would enjoy herself every time with this man.

But it was all just fantasy, she knew, using her hard-won strength of character to control her rampant desires and face reality. Cleo knew full well that she would never have the opportunity to find out what kind of lover Byron Maddox was. She was not the sort of woman this bachelor playboy took to bed. She wasn’t blonde, or beautiful, or sexy. She was a very ordinary brunette with no fashion sense and zero sex appeal.

Well, that was life, she supposed. Her life, anyway. It was perverse, however, that after not caring about men or sex since Martin’s death, the one man she found fascinating in that regard was totally out of her reach.

Which was just as well, she thought, as she carefully extracted her hand from his and found her best business face. She already had a difficult mission to achieve today with this man. She didn’t need the distraction of trying to seduce him as well—the ridiculous impossibility of that mission evoked a wild urge to laugh. She smothered the impulse much more easily than she was smothering her highly unwanted cravings.

‘I am so sorry Scott wasn’t able to keep his appointment with you,’ she said with cool politeness. ‘Hopefully, I can tell you everything you need to know over lunch.’

* * *

Byron doubted it. Because he wanted to know quite a lot. Not just about McAllister Mines but about Cleo Shelton, PA extraordinaire. And a woman of contradictions.

Byron was usually a good judge of females but this one had him stumped. When she’d first walked in he’d been taken aback by her appearance. Dull was his initial thought. Dull and boring. He hated boring. He also hated black pant suits and drab black pumps and severe, scraped-back hairstyles. He liked women to look like women.

But when he came closer to her, he’d seen she wasn’t as plain as he’d originally thought. Or as old. No more than thirty. She had lovely unlined olive skin and fine dark eyes. Her mouth was a little wide but her lips were nicely shaped. It was her lack of lipstick—or any make-up at all—that gave a colourless first impression. Her hairdo did little for her as well. Talk about unflattering!

He hadn’t known what to make of her, especially when he saw the look she gave him as he walked towards her. For a few seconds her eyes had glittered the way a girl’s eyes glittered when sexual attraction raised its delightful head. When he’d shaken her hand, he’d felt heat in her palm, plus a slight quivering up her arm. And oddly, he’d responded in kind, suddenly finding his own hormones sparking as well. He’d liked the way she’d stared at him. Liked it a lot, his sexually charged imagination filling with images of how she would look without those dreadful clothes on, her mouth gasping wide with pleasure.

But then abruptly, everything changed. She pulled her hand away and, when she spoke, her voice was as cool as her eyes. Given the way she was dressed, he didn’t believe she was playing hard to get. She was no seductress. Byron knew, however, that he hadn’t made a mistake in his assessment of her initial attraction to him. For some reason, she was pulling back from it, hiding it away as though it didn’t exist.

It was then that he noticed the simple gold wedding band on her left hand.

Byron swore in his head. So that was the reason. Admirable, but still annoying. He’d been looking forward to finding out more about her, to peeling back the layers of her enigmatic personality and discovering exactly what made her tick.

Not much point now. Byron only enjoyed that kind of conversation if it led to bed.

Which it still could do... She might be separated, or divorced. Women didn’t always get rid of their wedding rings. And there was no engagement ring, he noted with a surge of excitement.

Byron’s somewhat desperate reasoning frustrated him. What in hell did it matter? He didn’t do married women, no matter how unhappy they were. He also wasn’t partial to divorcees—too much emotional baggage. Besides, he was in search of a wife, not an affair.

Back to the business at hand!

‘I’m not absolutely sure that mining is my cup of tea,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘But I’d like to hear what you have to say, Cleo. It will be up to you to convince me over lunch of the benefits of putting my money into McAllister Mines. Do you mind me calling you Cleo?’ he added after seeing her flinch slightly at his familiarity.

‘Whatever you prefer,’ she returned with a stiff little smile.

‘Good. And you must call me Byron. And speaking of lunch,’ he went on, glancing at his watch, ‘perhaps we should go downstairs. There’s an excellent restaurant in this building, on the thirtieth floor. Our reservation isn’t until one but it won’t matter if we’re early. We could have a drink or two. You don’t have to drive home, do you?’

‘No. I always catch the train.’

‘Excellent.’

‘What about you?’

‘I own the penthouse in this building.’

CHAPTER FOUR

HOW PREDICTABLE, CLEO thought ruefully as he cupped her left elbow and steered her from his office. A penthouse pad to go with his penthouse lifestyle.

Still, Byron Maddox was exactly as she had expected. A charmer, who, despite his obvious intelligence and business acumen, lived the life of a playboy. Cleo wondered why he had bothered to get engaged those two times. Neither engagement had lasted long, and each time the press had had a field-day, which was why she’d been able to find so many articles about him on the Internet.

What Cleo hadn’t expected, however, was that she would fall victim to his charm. Or was it just his looks that had fired up her female hormones? He was, after all, exceptionally handsome.

Yes, possibly it was just that. She wouldn’t be the first girl to lose her head over Byron Maddox. Though she was hardly a girl. She was twenty-nine, for pity’s sake. Not that Cleo had any intention of actually losing her head over him. Still, it was proving awfully hard not to react to the touch of his hand at her elbow, not to freeze in fear or to shiver in ecstasy, making her wonder what it would feel like to have those long, elegant fingers on other parts of her body. And in other parts of her body.

Stop it!

Cleo carefully scooped in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

‘Have a good lunch,’ Grace said jauntily as Byron guided Cleo past his PA’s desk.

‘Indeed we will,’ Byron replied cheerfully.

Cleo smiled through gritted teeth.

The restaurant was called Thirty—named, no doubt, after the floor it was on.

Cleo liked its spacious feel and unfussy decor, the floors done in large, pale grey tiles; the tables were covered with dark grey linen tablecloths and set with elegant cutlery and glasses. The white walls were broken up by a multitude of long rectangular windows, the high ceiling painted black with subtle recessed lighting. There was a black circular bar in the centre of the room, which wasn’t too glitzy.

They were led past the bar to a far table set for two—but which would have accommodated four guests—situated next to a window that had a view of the botanical gardens, the Opera House and the harbour beyond. The waiter assigned to look after them was named André and was quick to pull out Cleo’s chair for her. Byron seated himself opposite and immediately ordered cocktails for them both without consulting the drinks menu, or her.

Now, if anything was certain to annoy Cleo—as well as dampen any unwanted desires—it was a man who didn’t consult. She had little appreciation of chauvinism; of men who thought they knew better than women. There’d been a time when she’d been happy to play the compliant little woman, deferring to Martin in all matters. But those days had long passed. Any man these days who dared to make decisions for her did so at his peril. Only the fact that she was supposed to be winning this man over for her boss had her holding her tongue.

But she suspected already that Byron Maddox was not a suitable investor for McAllister Mines. Scott wanted a hands-on partner, not just a money man; someone to take some of the day-to-day load off him, leaving him more time for his wife and future family. Sarah had confided to her before she left on their second honeymoon yesterday that she was pregnant, news that had made Cleo very happy indeed. She’d been seriously worried about their marriage for a while. Scott had been over the moon, of course. What a lovely genuine man he was.

‘I possibly should have asked you what drink you preferred,’ Byron said, interrupting her train of thought. ‘But the cocktails here are to die for and I wanted you to experience at least one.’

‘How thoughtful of you,’ she said, gritting her teeth.

* * *

‘So,’ he said, picking up the two leather-encased menus sitting in the centre of the table, handing her one then opening the other. ‘What do you fancy, Cleo?’

Still you, she conceded with a smothered sigh.

She could hardly take her eyes off him. But she did, dropping her gaze to the menu.

‘The seafood here is very good,’ he said. ‘But so are the steaks. Do you want an entrée to begin with? I would recommend the scallops, if you like seafood.’

Cleo’s appetite had fled since she was not used to being affected like this by a man. Her thoughts kept straying into strange territory. The temptation to flirt was extreme, and very perturbing. It had rattled her.

Her stomach contracted as she stared blankly at the menu. ‘I’m honestly not very hungry,’ she admitted at last. ‘I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately. Things have been rather hectic at work. And stressful,’ she added.

When Cleo glanced up she was surprised to see a spark of genuine sympathy in those sexy blue eyes of his.

‘You poor thing,’ he said, his kind words rattling her even further. ‘Scott did dump you in it, going away suddenly like that when his business was in trouble. But if you’re not sleeping then you definitely need to eat,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘Unless, of course, you’re so catatonic that you’ll fall asleep with your head in the soup.’

His smile—plus his good humour—bewitched her even more than his looks. Before she knew it, she found herself smiling back at him.

‘I’m not that bad. But my head is a little fuzzy.’

He laughed. ‘It’s going to be even fuzzier once you get the cocktail I ordered into you. When I said it was to die for, I wasn’t just talking about the taste. The alcoholic content is off the Richter scale. Ah, here it is.’

It was, as he’d warned her, deadly. But delicious. And decadent. And not designed to dampen desire.

On the plus side, it did relax her, at the same time rendering her a little reckless. She didn’t flirt with him exactly. But she let him order the food for her, as well as a bottle of white wine. Before she knew it, she was blurting out all the pitfalls besetting the mining industry at the moment. By the time dessert arrived—a light dish of fresh tropical fruits topped with a mango-flavoured yoghurt—Cleo realised suddenly how unwise she’d been and did her best to redress the situation.

‘Of course, things will turn around eventually,’ she told a seemingly fascinated Byron. ‘The prices of iron ore will go back up, as will coal and most of the other minerals. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘What about Scott’s nickel refinery?’ he asked. ‘I heard that it was on the point of bankruptcy.’

Cleo knew there was no saving the refinery. Not at the moment. But to say so would be the kiss of death to any potential investor in McAllister Mines. As much as she didn’t think Byron was the right man for the role of Scott’s business partner, neither did she want to be responsible for killing off his interest entirely.

‘The refinery is in deep trouble, no doubt about that,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s not bankrupt.’ Not yet, anyway.

‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘I don’t like to be a doubting Thomas, Cleo, but I won’t take your word for that. Before I commit myself to any kind of investment, I always have it thoroughly investigated. Do you have any objections to me sending my accountant over to check your books?’

Cleo was not surprised by the request. It was a perfectly reasonable one, which Scott had anticipated before he left. ‘That will be fine,’ she said, relieved that the diamond mine was doing well at least. And the two gold mines Scott owned. The rest of McAllister Mines were borderline, the prices for iron ore, coal and cobalt at an all-time low.

‘Good,’ Byron said. ‘I’ll send him over first thing tomorrow morning. Meanwhile, I’d like to go and inspect the refinery for myself.’

Now that surprised her.

Cleo frowned. ‘You do know it’s way up in North Queensland?’

‘That’s all right. I have my own plane. The site will have a runway, surely.’

‘Well, no, it doesn’t. It’s served by road and railway. You’ll have to land at Townsville and drive the rest of the way. It’s about thirty kilometres.’

‘No trouble. I’ll have Grace organise a suitable vehicle to meet us at Townsville airport.’

Cleo blinked. ‘Us?’

‘Yes, you’re coming with me.’

CHAPTER FIVE

BYRON ENJOYED THE shock on her face, almost as much as he’d enjoyed her loosening up over the course of the meal.

Now, suddenly, she was looking very worried.

‘Is there a problem with your coming with me?’ he asked. ‘Would your husband object?’

‘What?’ Her eyes flew to her left hand where she twisted the gold band on her left finger for a second or two before looking up again. ‘No. Martin won’t object,’ she said with a somewhat sad sigh. ‘He can’t. He...he died some time ago.’

Shock—and something else—had Byron sitting up straight in his chair. So she was a widow. Not unhappily married, or divorced. Just a lady with a sad past and likely way too much emotional baggage.

Byron knew he should steer well clear. He didn’t need to deviate from the path he’d set himself. Which was finding the right girl to marry. Clearly, Cleo wasn’t that girl.

But despite all that he was finding her perversely attractive. Even more than he had back at his office. As she’d let down her defences, he’d seen more evidence that she found him as attractive as he found her. The way her eyes had sparkled at him every now and then. Quite lovely eyes, they were. The loveliest feature she had. Though her mouth was very kissable too. You just didn’t focus on it without lipstick. He couldn’t really see her figure underneath that ghastly pant suit, but she wasn’t overweight. He suspected there was a nice curvy shape under there somewhere. Byron liked curves.

It was a truly weird situation, one fraught with danger. He should not be thinking about having sex with her. A wise man did not mix business with pleasure. But he was thinking just that. Oh, yes, he definitely was.

‘How long ago?’ he asked, hiding his lustful thoughts behind a quiet voice.

‘Just over three years.’

A long time for her to be without a man. And it was obvious by the way she’d presented herself today that she hadn’t been out there, dating again. Cleo had the look of a woman still in mourning, a woman who’d forgotten what it was like to be a woman.

Until today, that was...

Byron sensed that something had changed for Cleo today. His male ego suggested it was he who’d changed her. He knew he was attractive to women, having been blessed with the kind of face and body women fancied. Even when girls didn’t know he was filthy rich, they came onto him. Byron didn’t think Cleo was interested in his money. He doubted she was seriously interested in him at all. Otherwise, she’d jump at the chance of being alone with him.

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 asked.

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.

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