The Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal

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 (#ubf781045-6c63-5020-b455-f49bb178dd59)

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.’