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