The Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal

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‘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.