Читать книгу The Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal - Miranda Lee - Страница 11

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.’