The Blackmail Pregnancy

Cara turned on her heel and shut the door on her partner’s teasing expression.

‘Good luck!’ Trevor’s voice called from inside.

She didn’t answer; she needed more than luck to get through the next hour or so. She needed a miracle.

The offices of Rockcliffe and Associates were huge even by Sydney standards. Cara took the shiny lift to the nineteenth floor, her heart beating a steady tattoo in her chest at the thought of seeing her ex-husband again.

The lift stopped on the thirteenth floor to let some people in and she wondered if it was some sort of omen. She pressed herself to the back of the stainless steel and mirrored walls and tried to concentrate on getting her breathing under some sort of control.

The lift stopped three more times, prolonging the agony, and she stared at the illuminated numbers above her head as if they were a countdown to disaster…Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…nineteen.

The doors pinged open and she jerked upright. Another wall of mirrors faced her as she stepped out. She looked at her reflection as if seeing it for the first time. Her mid-brown hair with its blonde highlights was falling from its clasp, her cheeks were flushed as if she’d just run up the nineteen floors, and the dark blue business suit she’d thrown on this morning shrieked off-the-peg. It was two seasons old and she’d lost weight since she’d bought it.

The blonde receptionist, however, was armoured with Armani and a heady perfume to match. Cara approached the arc of the front desk with a resentful trepidation.

‘I have an appointment with Mr Rockcliffe,’ she said in a voice that sounded distinctly rusty. ‘At three p.m.’

The receptionist glanced at the appointment file on the computer screen in front of her.

‘Ms Gillem?’

‘Yes,’ Cara answered.

‘He’s running a little behind.’ The receptionist lifted a clear blue gaze from the screen to meet Cara’s hazel one. ‘If you don’t mind waiting…’

‘How much behind?’ Cara interjected in irritation.

Now that she was here she wanted it over. She didn’t want to be cooling her heels in his reception area under the catwalk gaze of his latest flavour of the month.

‘Twenty minutes?’ The blue eyes held no trace of apology. ‘Maybe thirty.’

Cara took a steadying breath.

‘I’ll wait.’

Forty-three minutes later Cara heard the buzz of the intercom and buried her head back in the magazine she’d been pretending to read. Her heart thumped and her fingers shook as she turned the next page.

‘Ms Gillem?’ The receptionist’s cool voice lifted Cara’s head from the article on off-the-road four-wheel driving.

‘He’ll see you now,’ she said. ‘It’s the first door on your right down the hall.’

Cara got to her feet, put the magazine down amongst the others and made her way down the hall on legs that threatened to give way beneath her. The hand she lifted to knock on the door marked ‘Byron Rockcliffe’ was visibly trembling, but she straightened her back and waited for his command.

‘Come in.’

His deep voice washed over her in waves as she turned the doorknob. Her eyes searched for him as soon as the door was open, and found him seated casually behind his gargantuan desk. She was at an immediate disadvantage, as his broad shoulders blocked the afternoon light slanting in from the windows behind his desk. Although most of his face was in shadow, she could somehow sense his expression. She knew it would be mocking, sardonic, unaffected, while she stood before him like a reprimanded schoolgirl, her knees threatening to break the cool silence with their attempt to knock against each other.

‘Cara.’

One word. Two syllables. Four letters.

‘Byron.’

So formal. So coldly formal.

‘Have a seat.’

She sat.

He leant back in his chair and surveyed her face for interminable seconds.

‘Would you like a drink? Coffee? Something stronger?’ he asked.

She shook her head and tightened her grasp on the portfolio she had clutched to her chest.

‘Nothing, thank you. I’d prefer it if we were to get straight down to business.’

He reached for a pen, twirling it in his hand as his dark chocolate gaze met and held hers.

‘Ah, yes,’ he said, putting the gold pen down. ‘The business. How’s it going, by the way?’

‘Excuse me?’ Her tone was wary.

‘Your business.’

‘Fine.’

Even in shadow she could see the sceptical quirk of one dark brow.

‘Fine?’

She swallowed and clutched her folder a little closer, as if it would protect her from the heat of his penetrating gaze.

‘I’m sure you know I wouldn’t be here if it were fine,’ she said in a cold, almost detached voice.

‘Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged you?’ he quipped.

‘I thought Melbourne was your stamping ground,’ she said.

‘I’ve expanded,’ he said. ‘Business is booming.’

‘Congratulations.’ Her tone was anything but congratulatory.

‘Thank you.’

‘Trevor informed me of your request,’ she said into the tight silence that had fallen between them. ‘I can’t imagine why you insist on me doing the work. Trevor is the creative brains behind our decorating business.’

‘Your tendency to undersell yourself hasn’t faded, I see,’ he commented idly. ‘How is your mother, by the way?’