The Blackmail Pregnancy
MELANIE MILBURNE
Millionaire tycoon Byron Rockcliffe storms back into Cara's life, even though their marriage is long finished. Knowing that Cara's design business is on the verge of collapse, Byron offers to save her from financial ruin by giving her the contract of a lifetime.Although he says his proposal comes with no strings, there's a catch: he's not just looking for an interior designer to complete his luxury home–he wants Cara to furnish him with a baby….
“I’m digging you out of bankruptcy. I’ll settle the overdraft and pay off any outstanding debts you might have.”
“Why would you do that?” she asked, her mouth suddenly bone dry. “What possible reason could you have for doing that?”
“I have a very good reason,” he said evenly.
A flutter of apprehension settled deep in her stomach. Here comes the fine print, she thought to herself: his conditions. “And that is?” She managed to get the three words past the stiff line of her mouth.
His dark eyes held hers for a lengthy period before he finally spoke. “I want you to have my baby.”
The Blackmail Pregnancy
Melanie Milburne
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Dedicated to my husband Steve—love you to pieces.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘IF YOU don’t nail this deal, Cara, we’re sunk.’
Cara stared at her business partner in shock.
‘What do you mean “sunk”?’ she asked, her palms moistening in mild panic.
Trevor flapped his hands in the air theatrically as he answered, ‘Kaput, finito, washed up.’
She swallowed the lump of fear in her throat as she met his troubled gaze across the desk.
‘But we’re doing all right,’ she said. ‘You said so only last month at our planning meeting. And with the Pritchard account due any day now—’
Trevor shook his head.
‘I had a meeting with the accountant this morning. Our business loan is stretched to the limit and the paltry Pritchard pennies won’t even cover this week’s interest, let alone next month’s. That’s why the Rockcliffe account is so crucial. We literally can’t survive without it.’
Cara automatically stiffened at the mention of that name. Tiny feathers of fear tickled the length of her spine as she brought its owner’s dark features to mind.
‘Why me?’ she asked after a lengthy silence, her skin still prickling in apprehension.
‘Because you’re the one he asked for, darling,’ Trevor’s tone was full of affront as he inspected his perfectly manicured nails. ‘He insisted on you handling the whole account. Quite homophobic of him, I thought. But then you’d know all about that since you were once married to him.’
Cara’s eyes gave little away, but inside she felt as if her stomach was unravelling.
‘It was a long time ago, Trevor,’ she said as dispassionately as she could. ‘Seven years, in fact. I hardly even remember what he looks like. Probably got a paunch by now, and a bald patch the size of a lawn,’ she added for effect.
‘Perhaps that’s why he asked for you.’ He grinned boyishly. ‘He might want to refresh your memory a bit.’
She gave him a reproving look.
‘I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with Byron Rockcliffe’s memory,’ she said. ‘It’s his motives that worry me.’
‘Motives?’ Trevor’s eyes widened expressively. ‘Who gives a fig about his motives? He’s doing our business a favour by engaging your services. Think of it! A harbourside mansion in Cremorne. Carte blanche, no questions asked.’
‘It sounds too good to be true,’ she cautioned. ‘I’d prefer to see the fine print before I commit myself.’
‘It’s too late for that. I’ve already committed us—I mean you.’ He gave her a shame-faced look and continued, ‘Sorry, pet, but I had to do it. I couldn’t see all that money going to someone else. You know what they say about looking a gift horse in the mouth.’
‘Yes,’ she said, getting to her feet and reaching for her portfolio. ‘I do know what they say, and you’d do well to remember it. A horse’s age is commonly assessed by the length of its teeth. You have only to insist on the horse’s mouth being opened to see if what you’re getting is really a good deal.’
‘I’m not sure it would have gone down too well if I’d asked Byron Rockcliffe to open his mouth for me to peer in.’ Trevor chuckled. ‘Perhaps I’ll leave that to you.’
Cara gave him a fulminating look as she opened the office door to leave.
‘If I don’t show up for work tomorrow it will be your entire fault. You’ve put me in over my depth and I’m holding you totally responsible.’
‘If you don’t show up for work tomorrow I’ll assume Byron Rockcliffe has talked you back into his bed,’ Trevor said with a wolfish grin. ‘He sounds so deliciously male. Mmm…such a waste.’
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?’
‘She’s dead.’
Cara felt a faint glimmer of satisfaction at his reaction. Her simple statement had jerked him upright in his chair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t heard.’
She shrugged her slim shoulders dismissively.
‘It was a very private funeral.’ Her voice was flat and unemotional. ‘My mother had few friends.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Three years,’ she said. ‘It was very…quick.’
‘Cancer?’
‘No.’ She met his dark gaze briefly. ‘Complications after simple surgery.’
‘It must have been a terrible shock for you.’
Cara rolled her lips and lamented the absence of lipstick. Ironic, really, that the absence of lipstick was more important to her than the demise of her mother.
‘One moves on,’ she said dispassionately.
‘One does,’ he replied, watching her steadily.
‘So.’ She swivelled her chair so that she was on a level with his dark eyes. ‘Let’s get down to business. Trevor said the property is in Cremorne. Does it have a harbour view, or is it—?’
‘I’ll take you there this afternoon,’ he interjected.
‘I can make my own way there,’ she put in hastily.
‘As you wish.’
Cara bit her lip. This was all wrong. She didn’t feel at all like a person who laid down colour sheets and furniture brochures for the client’s appraisal. She felt inadequate and on edge, as if the floor beneath her was going to be ripped out from under her.
‘I need to go over colour schemes,’ she said. ‘I need to get some idea of layout, and—’
‘I’ve got the plans here.’ He reached towards a black shiny briefcase on one end of the large desk. He handed a sheaf of papers to her. ‘All the specifications are there.’
She glanced down at the papers in her hands.
‘What’s the date of completion?’ she asked.
‘October first.’
‘That’s not a lot of time.’
‘A month,’ he said. ‘Long enough.’
She lifted her eyes to his.
‘Most furniture manufacturers require at least six to eight weeks’ notification—fabric availability and so on.’
‘So choose ones that only take a month,’ he suggested.
‘But—’
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you of all people can pull a few strings to bring it about.’
Cara swallowed her answering retort and instead focused on the plans on her lap. The intricate architectural drawings blurred in front of her; it was like trying to read an ancient script with no prior knowledge of the language. She felt her nerves tightening in the back of her neck as she struggled to make sense of what was usually second nature to her. How swiftly he had unsettled her! She’d gone from a professional, highly skilled interior designer to a jittery mess in the space of a few minutes.
‘I’ll need some time to think about this,’ she said, after another heavy silence. As she lifted her head she felt the clash of his dark gaze on hers.
‘How much time?’
‘A day or two—maybe three,’ she answered, recalling her interminable wait for him in Reception.
He seemed to give her response some thought.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You have three days. I’ll meet you at your office at twelve noon on Friday, but I want no further delays.’
‘What exactly is the hurry on this?’ she asked. ‘You surely know enough about the business to realise a good job takes time?’
He tossed aside the pen he’d been clicking.
‘I wish to move into the house as soon as possible. As it is, I’ve been at a hotel for three weeks and I’m getting a little impatient with all the stalling.’
‘This is your house?’ She looked at him in shock. ‘You’re going to live there?’
He nodded.
‘But…but you live in Melbourne,’ she said in rising panic. ‘What about your family? And your business?’
‘I decided it was time for a change.’
She took one deep swallow, hoping he couldn’t see the way his words had unsettled her.
‘The telephone directory is full of interior designers crying out for work,’ she said, disguising her inner turmoil with an even tone. ‘Why me?’
‘Why not you?’
‘Because there are so many more talented designers than me, that’s why.’
‘But I want you.’
Four simple words, but somehow she sensed a double meaning in them. She sat on the edge of her seat, her hands clamped down on her knees to keep them from trembling in reaction.
‘I’m flattered, of course,’ she said without sincerity.
He got to his feet and his face came out of the shadows. Cara felt her breath trip in her throat at his sheer height and presence. His six feet five to her five feet seven had always been slightly intimidating, and now it was even more so. His dark straight hair was cut short and smoothed into place with styling gel. His clean-shaven jaw was already developing an evening shadow. The soft skin of her cheeks tingled in remembrance of the feel of his masculine skin rasping along hers. His mouth was set in a grim line, as if he was no longer in the habit of smiling. She mentally recalled his smile; it had been the first thing she’d noticed all those years ago: straight, even white teeth, and lips that curved upwards, sending crinkles of amusement to the corner of his chocolate eyes. Those eyes held no trace of such laughter now.
‘You’ve changed your hair.’
Cara was knocked out of her silent reverie at his words. She got to her feet and self-consciously tucked a strand of blonde highlighted hair back behind her ear.
‘Yes.’
She reached for the plans, but her hands fumbled picking them up and she watched as they slipped from her nervous grasp to lie in disarray on the floor. She bent down to retrieve them, but Byron had already swooped and was gathering them up. Cara reached for the last paper at the same time he did, her fingers touching his briefly. She pulled her hand away as if she’d been stung and got awkwardly to her feet.
She could feel his eyes on her and it made her angry that she couldn’t get through this meeting without falling apart. She was sure he was enjoying her discomfiture. She was almost certain he’d engineered the whole enterprise. But why? He hadn’t seen her in seven long years. What could he possibly want with her now?
The intercom buzzed and Cara let out her halted breath as he moved to the desk, her heart fluttering like an injured bird in her chest.
The cool, clear tones of the receptionist filled the silence.
‘Byron, Mr Hardy is here to see you.’
‘Thank you, Samantha.’
Cara gathered up her things and wondered what he called her in private. Would it be Sam, or Sammie? Grinding her teeth, she put the plans in her portfolio, resentment rising with every second.
‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Please take a seat; I’ll get Sam to bring you some coffee.’
‘No, I must—’ She looked up to protest but he’d already left the office.
Cara had no choice but to put her things back down and wait for him. Indignation fuelled along her veins at his overbearing handling of her—as if she had nothing better to do with her time than play musical chairs in his suite of offices.
She ignored the chair she’d perched on earlier and, checking over her shoulder, approached the desk. His leather office chair still held the impression of his muscled thighs and she tore her eyes away from it. She didn’t want to think about those thighs entwined with hers, his hair-roughened legs scraping along the smooth flesh of her own as he…
She swung away to inspect his desk. It was crafted out of Tasmanian myrtle, the rich red hues of the timber creating a type of warmth that made her want to reach out and touch it.
There was a photograph on the right-hand side of his computer console and before she could stop herself she picked it up and looked at it.
The Rockcliffe family were all there, with their various partners—two of whom she didn’t recognise—and gathered around them like trophies were six small children. Cara examined the features of each individual child and saw a little bit of Byron in each of them. An ache settled somewhere almost unreachable inside her, and she put the photograph down just as the office door reopened.
Byron’s gaze swept over her standing behind his desk.
‘I see you’ve reacquainted yourself with the family.’ His tone was dry.
Cara stepped away from the desk with a guilty flush.
‘That’s quite some stud you’ve got happening down there,’ she said in a voice that belied the true state of her feelings. ‘Tell me, Byron, which children are yours?’
His eyes hardened momentarily. Cara prepared herself mentally for his reply, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much to hear how he was the father of one or two of those beautiful little faces in the photograph, not to mention the pain of finding out which of the young women was his new wife.
‘None,’ he stated flatly.
It took Cara a while for his one-word reply to sink in.
‘None?’
‘None.’
He took the chair she’d been sitting in earlier and propped one ankle across his knee in a casual pose. Cara envied his calm as he sat and watched her like an eagle, circling way above its prey, patiently waiting until it was finally time to swoop.
She couldn’t hold his gaze. She absently fiddled with a paperclip on his desk, trying to frame the question that tore at her insides like rough claws. But before she could ask he asked one of his own.
‘Any regrets, Cara?’
‘What do you mean?’ She glanced towards him briefly, not trusting herself to linger too long on his face. She didn’t want him to see the pain in her eyes, the deep pang of regret and self-recrimination that was nearly always reflected there.
‘Choosing your career over motherhood. Tell me, has it been as fulfilling as you anticipated?’
The paperclip pricked her finger and she let it drop back in the tray with an audible ‘ping’.
‘Of course,’ she answered without meeting his gaze.
She could tell he didn’t believe her.
‘I love my job,’ she said to cover the silence. ‘And Trevor is fun to be around. He’s so creative, inspiring me to do things I haven’t done before.’
‘Like go bankrupt?’ he put in neatly.
She flashed him a resentful glare.
‘Things are tight just now, but I’m sure we’ll get out of it.’
‘Your confidence does you credit,’ he said. ‘But from what I’ve gathered so far, things are very much on the downhill run.’
‘That’s not true!’ Her denial was overdone but she couldn’t stop herself in time. She just couldn’t allow him to gloat over her failure. Her pride wouldn’t cope. She wouldn’t cope.
‘Did Trevor tell you the bank is threatening to foreclose on your business loan?’ he asked.
Panic rose in her throat and she swallowed it down with difficulty.
‘I…’
‘And that unless your cashflow increases dramatically everything you’ve put into the business will be lost, as well as any assets you might have accumulated over the past seven years?’ He paused for effect. ‘I trust you do have some sort of asset base?’
‘Of course I do!’ She glared at him angrily. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’
‘I’m making it my business.’
His statement held a trace of implacability about it that totally unnerved her. She released her clenched fists with an effort. She held on to the back of his office chair for support but it offered little; her fingers were trembling and the chair shifted under their feeble grasp.
‘Wh…what do you mean?’
He waited until her eyes had returned to his to answer.
‘I’m digging you out of bankruptcy. I’ll settle the overdraft and pay off any outstanding debts you might have.’
‘Why would you do that?’ she asked, her mouth suddenly bone dry. ‘What possible reason could you have for doing that?’
‘I have a very good reason,’ he said evenly.
A flutter of apprehension settled deep in her stomach. Here comes the fine print, she thought to herself: his conditions.
‘And that is?’ She managed to get the three words past the stiff line of her mouth.
His dark eyes held hers for a lengthy period before he finally spoke.
‘I want you to have my baby.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘YOU’RE out of your mind!’ Cara threw the words at him in disbelief. ‘You surely can’t be serious?’
‘Deadly serious.’
‘But…’ She ran her tongue over her parched lips agitatedly. ‘But why? Why me?’
‘As I said earlier, you’re the one I want.’
She gaped at him with a combination of incredulity and dread.
‘But why now?’ she asked in desperation. ‘Why now, after all this time?’
He got to his feet and she fought against the instinct to shrink behind his desk. He didn’t approach her, but his eyes were like diamond chips as he stood watching every nuance of her expression.
‘I’m the only one left in my family without children. I’m thirty-six years old and I want to look my own son or daughter in the eyes, not just those of my nieces and nephews.’
‘But there are any number of women out there who would jump at the chance,’ she croaked. ‘With your sort of money you could even pay someone to do it, for God’s sake!’
‘I am paying someone to do it,’ he said.
‘Not me, you’re not.’ She shook her head. ‘No way.’
She brushed past him to pick up her bag, but his hand snaked out and caught her, bringing her up short. She was suddenly much too close to him—too close to breathe, too close to think, too close to escape.
‘Think about it, Cara.’ His voice was gravelly. ‘You can have it all. You can still have your career—my money will re-establish it.’
She tested his hold but it was firm. She met his eyes but they were implacable, determined. She felt cornered, like a small animal in a carefully constructed snare, all the tiny wires pulling against her resisting flesh.
‘Don’t do this to me, Byron,’ she choked. ‘Surely you don’t hate me this much?’
He took his time answering and Cara felt the warmth of his breath on her face as he stood so close to her. Her traitorous body was already leaning towards him, looking for him, as if searching for her missing link.
‘I don’t hate you any more,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘I don’t feel anything where you’re concerned. I know what I want and I want you to be the one to give it to me.’
‘But why?’ she asked again. ‘Is this some sort of sick seven-year plan for revenge?’
He shook his head, his hand still hard on her wrist.
‘Not at all. As I told you, I’ve come to a certain point in my life where I want to achieve certain things. I don’t want to be too old to enjoy my children. Nor do I want to wake up on the morning I turn forty and think—Oh, my God, I forgot to have kids! Don’t you think about that sometimes, Cara?’
‘Never,’ she lied. ‘I never think about it.’
‘Well, I do,’ he said. ‘I think about it constantly. My three siblings are all younger than me and they all have children. Felicity is having her second in five weeks or so.’
Cara thought of Byron’s younger sister in the last stages of pregnancy and swallowed deeply.
‘Please don’t ask this of me,’ she pleaded with him. ‘I’m not the right person. I don’t have what it takes.’
‘You do, but you just won’t admit it. Deep down inside, where the real Cara is buried, you want the same thing I want. God knows I tried to get you to see it seven years ago, but failed. I’m not letting this opportunity pass without another attempt.’
‘This is so cold-blooded!’ she railed. ‘How can you even think of bringing such a scheme about? It’s inhuman. It’s despicable, it’s—’
‘Nevertheless, it’s what I want.’
‘And what you want you automatically get?’
‘Sometimes. Not always. But this time I’m counting on it.’
‘Well, Byron, you’ve counted all wrong, because I’m not playing the game. Go find yourself another incubator—this one’s not for sale.’
She wrenched herself out of his grasp and threw herself towards the door. She got to the lift and stabbed at the button, almost falling over in shock when immediately the doors pinged open. The lift whooshed down to the ground floor before the colour had returned to her face. She stepped out onto the busy city street and lost herself amongst the milling crowds, all the while trying to make some sense of the last hour.
Byron was a stranger to her now. Gone was the easygoing young man who’d swept her off her feet with one quick smile. In his place was a man determined to bring about his own agenda, no matter what it cost. She could only see it as a plan for revenge—but why had he waited so long to activate it? Had he been biding his time, waiting until she was truly vulnerable to swoop down and capture her?
‘Trevor.’ Her voice was ragged as she clutched the mobile to her ear. ‘Tell me what the hell’s going on.’
‘Sweetie.’ Her partner’s tone was placating. ‘You sound distracted. Didn’t the meeting with Lord Byron go so well?’
‘Lord is right,’ she answered wryly. ‘If anyone has a god complex it’s Byron Rockcliffe.’
‘I take it he’s calling the shots?’
‘More than you realise.’ She stalled for breath before she asked, ‘Trevor, why didn’t you tell me how bad things really were?’
‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been down the last couple of months, and—’
‘Trevor! I’ve been “down” for years, let’s be honest. Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I feel it’s my fault,’ he confessed awkwardly. ‘I’ve pushed you along with my “creative genius”, as you so fondly call it, but I haven’t stopped to consider the risks. Now, I’m afraid, you’re paying the price for that oversight.’
‘I’m not paying any price,’ she reassured him. ‘Byron is over the top. I’m not doing what he wants.’
There was an ominous silence at the end of the line.
‘Trevor?’
‘Listen, Cara,’ his tone was resigned. ‘We have no choice. We’re going belly-up without his help, and I can’t call in any more favours to see us through. Just do what he says and let’s get on with it. Surely it can’t be that hard to decorate his castle and move on?’
‘Harder than you know,’ she said hollowly.
‘If you need any advice, you know where I am,’ he offered.
In spite of her troubles she had to laugh.
‘Somehow, Trev, I don’t think I’ll be calling on you for help,’ she said.
‘Well, if you do, you know the number. Did I tell you I’ve got a hot date tonight?’
‘No—with whom?’
‘Antonio.’
‘I thought he was on the back boiler?’
‘I’ve been rethinking the whole issue. Better to have loved and left than never to have loved at all.’
‘That’s not quite how that saying goes,’ she said with a wry twist to her mouth. ‘But have a good time. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Cara spent the next three days going through the books to see for herself how bad things really were. She met with the accountant and the bank manager, but the writing was well and truly on the wall—in neat and very precise figures. The bank manager was apologetic but realistic. He referred to the recent recession and advised her to accept the very generous financial help being offered; it was either that or declare herself bankrupt.
She left the bank in turmoil, blaming herself for not keeping a closer watch on things. Trevor was right; she had been down for the last couple of months—more than usual. Her twenty-ninth birthday was rapidly approaching and she hated her birthday. It reminded her of all she’d missed out on as a child.
She’d not long returned to the office when Trevor announced Byron’s arrival. Cara glanced at her watch, her stomach freefalling in alarm. She hadn’t heard from him since Tuesday afternoon, when she’d thrown his offer with its conditions in his face. She’d been pretending to herself that all of this was going to simply disappear. However, each morning she’d woken despairingly to the sickening realisation that this wasn’t just a bad dream.
‘Cara.’
She looked up to see him standing in the door of her office, his tall frame taking up much of the space. Any thoughts she’d had about making a timely escape were lost in the maelstrom of feeling that assailed her at seeing him once more.
He was dressed in a charcoal-grey business suit, which she assumed would be worth more than the contents of her entire current wardrobe. His shirt was white and his tie patterned in black, with tiny flecks of carmine. He looked fabulous.
She got up on unsteady legs and greeted him formally.
‘Mr Rockcliffe, I—’
‘Cara.’ His deep voice cut her off. ‘Let’s drop the formalities, shall we? This is you and me, remember?’
She tore her eyes away from the chocolatey depths of his and instead concentrated on the knot of his tie.
‘Byron, I don’t wish to be rude, but I think we should stop this right here and now. Your…your offer to help is a very generous one, but I’m afraid I can’t meet the terms.’
She saw his throat move up and down in a swallow and lifted her eyes slightly. He was frowning at her darkly, the line of his mouth hard.
‘So you’d rather lose everything you own in the world rather than resume a temporary relationship with me?’
‘Temporary?’ Cara blinked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Of course temporary,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want it any other way, would you?’
‘I…No, of course not,’ she said, looking away.
‘Well, then,’ he continued. ‘Let’s look at your options. You can come with me now, or you can ask me to leave. It’s as simple as that.’
Cara couldn’t speak. Thoughts were tumbling about her brain like clothes in a dryer. One thought kept tangling around the others until her head started to pound with the effort of keeping control of it.
‘What’s it to be, Cara?’ he asked. ‘Bankruptcy is no picnic. It’s like a scar that has to be worn for the rest of your financial life.’
She knew all about scars. How intuitive of him to use that analogy! She so wanted to resist his offer, but a vision of the balance sheets swam before her eyes. She imagined herself trying to approach a bank for a loan in the future. It would be hopeless; she’d be considered a risk through no fault of her own other than naïvety.
In an attempt to escape the past she’d thrown everything into her career. She’d clawed her way through her course with high distinctions, finding solace in restoring older houses to their former glory. She’d decorated new houses to offset the wonderful designs that came across her desk, using to advantage every colour, every fabric and drape to make a lasting impression. Now all her hard work was going to go to waste unless she agreed to one small condition. Not so small, she reminded herself. Not small at all.
‘Cara?’
She looked up at him once more, her throat tight with emotion.
‘Could…could I see the house first?’
His brow furrowed into an even deeper frown.
‘Why?’
She swallowed the restriction in her throat before answering.
‘I’d like to see the house, that’s all.’
‘So you can weigh up the benefits?’ His voice was hard with cynicism.
She turned away from the dark glitter of his eyes.
‘I no longer make hasty, emotionally driven decisions,’ she said in a cold, detached tone. ‘I like to see things from several angles first.’
‘Wise of you,’ he commented, watching her closely.
She schooled her features into impassivity and reached for her handbag.
‘Shall we go?’
The house was huge. Cara took a deep breath as Byron opened the front door and she stepped into the large foyer before him. A magnificent wrought-iron balustrade staircase swept the path of her eye upwards to the landing above where bright sunlight shafted through tall windows. The creamy marble floors in the living areas were interspersed with a toning plush crème carpet, creating added warmth.
She so wanted to do this house! It had an atmosphere like no other she’d ever been in.
‘What do you think?’ Byron spoke from behind her right shoulder.
She turned to face him, her eyes wide and expressive.
‘It’s…breathtaking.’
‘Come and look at the view,’ he said, leading her to the nearest window overlooking Neutral Bay.
She looked down on to the marina, beyond that to Kirribilli, and watched as the sunlight caught the mast of a passing yacht.
‘From the master bedroom you can see Shell Cove,’ he said into the silence.
‘It’s lovely, Byron.’ She turned to him once more. ‘It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.’
‘Praise indeed.’
She couldn’t distinguish his tone. His expression was masked, as if he didn’t want her to see what he was really thinking. She looked into his eyes, looking for reassurance. She found none. His eyes were like cold, deep pools—unfathomable, unreachable.
She moved away from the window and stepped down into the sunken lounge, her footsteps echoing along the floor. A large open fireplace took up almost one wall, and she imagined cosy evenings curled up on comfortable leather sofas, watching the flickering flames.
She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of Byron’s approach. She swung away from the fireplace and headed for the kitchen, uncomfortable with being in the same room as him for too long.
‘The kitchen, as you can see, has already been decorated.’ Byron spoke from his leaning position against the doorframe.
‘It’s very nice,’ she offered, running a hand across the black gleam of the granite countertop.
Stainless steel appliances added to the modern effect, and she knew she would have chosen exactly the same. She wondered if he’d chosen the design himself, or if perhaps his sister Felicity had helped him.
‘I thought it would be best to get a head start on this. You can choose the colours for the rest of the house—the carpets and furniture and drapes and so on. Do whatever you think. I won’t balk at the price.’
Cara’s hand fell away from the smooth countertop as he stepped towards her.
‘Byron, I—’
He cut off her speech with a long lean finger pressed gently but firmly against the soft swell of her lips.
‘No, Cara,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t want to hear your final decision yet.’
Her eyes communicated her distress.
‘You haven’t made up your mind, I can tell,’ he continued, his dark eyes never once leaving her face. ‘But you’re sorely tempted—aren’t you, Cara?’
She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t move under the caress of his finger, tracing the line of her bottom lip on a path of rediscovery that sent tremors of feeling to her curling toes and back.
‘You want the house but you haven’t quite made up your mind about all that comes with it, have you?’
She opened her mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out.
‘I’ll give you until the end of the weekend to decide,’ he said, stepping away from her. ‘But that’s all. On Sunday night I want your final answer.’
She felt cold without his warm body so close to hers. Her mouth felt dry and overly sensitive, and she ran her tongue over her lips and tasted where his finger had been.
‘All right,’ she said in a voice she hardly recognised.
He lifted his dark brows slightly, as if surprised by her acquiescence.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Come and I’ll show you the garden. I think you’ll like it.’
What was not to like? Cara thought as she followed him around the grounds. The crinkling surface of the lap pool glistened in the dancing sunlight and the fragrance of jasmine was heady in the air. Potted azaleas cascaded their bright blooms and the verdant expanse of lawn led down to a tennis court built on the lower terrace. The harbour sparkled in the distance and Cara breathed in the salty air and wished with every fibre of her being that she could turn back the clock.
As he came closer all the fine hairs on the back of her neck rose like antennae.
‘Do you still play?’ he asked, indicating the lush green of the tennis court as he stood beside her, his broad shoulder brushing against her.
She turned to look up at him, her throat suddenly dry.
‘I haven’t played in years.’
‘Shame.’ He looked down at her. ‘You should take it up again. You were good. Damn good.’
Time seemed to stand still. Cara was almost certain she could hear the sound of children’s laughter somewhere in the distance, but wondered if she’d just imagined it. The chirruping sparrows and the cooing doves on the lawn faded into the background as she lost herself in the deep, dark and mesmerising gaze of her ex-husband.
His head lowered towards hers, hesitated for an inestimable pause, then finished the distance with a soft press of his lips to hers. Her lips swelled in response. She could feel the tingle of their heightened sensitivity from that merest touch. His warm breath caressed her face before he pressed his mouth to hers once more—firmer this time, but only just.
A part of Cara demanded she step away from that tempting mouth. But an even bigger part of her overruled it. It was just a kiss, she reassured herself. Almost a kiss between strangers.
But there was nothing strange about Byron’s mouth when he swooped a third time. Her mouth flowered open beneath his, just like one of the spilling azalea blooms at their feet. His tongue grazed her bottom lip and her fight was over before it had even truly begun. His tongue tangled with hers and she would have fallen if it hadn’t been for the steel band of his arm coming around her to draw her into the hard wall of his body. She jolted against him in a combination of shock at his ready arousal and shame at her instant response to it. She wanted him. After seven long years she was his for the asking, and his mouth was responding to hers as if he knew it as well.
Cara felt the brush of his hand underneath her breast and ached for the cradle of his palm on her engorged flesh. He pulled her further into his body and her pelvis loosened at the feel of his hips grinding into hers. He was rock-hard, and even through the barrier of their clothes she could feel his scorching heat. Her secret place remembered and responded, moistening in preparation for the intimate invasion she’d spent seven years trying to expunge from her mind.
He lifted his mouth from hers and stepped away. Cara steadied herself by grasping the wrought-iron railing that divided the lap pool from the lawn. She brushed back her loosened hair with a hand that threatened to betray her outward composure.
‘I’ll be waiting in the car,’ he said in a flat, emotionless tone. ‘Take your time looking around. I have some phone calls to make.’
As he strode towards the side gate Cara stared after him until he disappeared from view. She ran her tongue over her swollen mouth and tasted him. Familiar, yet strange. Known but now unknowable.
She looked up at the big empty house and agonised over what her decision would be on Sunday evening. She wasn’t sure she had much say in the matter; the way her body was feeling had already decided for her. Did she have the strength to walk away from him a second time?
She went back through the house via the bathroom, to tidy herself before rejoining Byron at the car. She stared at her reflection in the mirror and was a little shocked by the wild, abandoned look in her hazel-flecked eyes. Passion burned in her gaze—a dormant passion now stirred into blistering life by just one kiss from a mouth that still hadn’t once smiled at her.
CHAPTER THREE
BYRON was leaning against the car, listening to someone on the other end of his mobile phone, his eyes squinting slightly against the bright sunshine. Cara approached the car and he turned as if he sensed her behind him. He carefully avoided her eyes as he came around and opened the door for her. He finished the call and slid into the driver’s seat, all without addressing a single word to her.
Cara wanted to break the silence but couldn’t think of anything to say. What did one say to an ex-husband in these situations? I still love you after all these years? I made a mistake, the biggest mistake of my life, when I left you? Can we try again?
‘No.’
‘Did you say something?’ His eyes flicked her way as he turned the wheel.
She hadn’t realised she’d spoken out loud, so deep was her concentration on the past.
‘No, nothing…’
He turned the car into the traffic before speaking again.
‘I thought we could have lunch.’ He glanced at the car clock. ‘I have a client at two, but if we’re quick we can grab a sandwich and a coffee somewhere.’
Cara didn’t want to appear too desperate for his company, and wished she could invent two or three clients of her own, but the rest of her afternoon was unfortunately very free.
‘I should get back to the office—’
‘And do what?’ He glanced at her again. ‘Your business has ground to a halt. Is my company so distasteful to you that you can’t even stomach the thought of sharing a simple meal with me?’
She flinched at the bitterness in his voice.
‘No, of course not.’ But even to her own ears her tone lacked conviction.
‘No wonder you’re balking at the suggestion of sharing my bed,’ he ground out. ‘Let alone bearing my child.’
Cara stared at her tightly clenched hands in her lap, and before replying waited until she had her emotions under some sort of control.
‘Lunch will be fine,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t have any other engagements.’
He drove to a café in Neutral Bay in stony silence. Cara looked at him once or twice, but his attention was on the traffic ahead. His normally smooth brow was deeply furrowed, the lines around his mouth tightly etched, as if he were only just managing to keep control of his anger. She knew he was angry with her. Seven years of anger separated them just as much as the issues that had caused the first rift.
She’d been adamant from their very first date that she had no intention of ever having children. She hadn’t told him the real reason, but instead had grasped for the generally held assumption that young career-driven women had better things to do with their time than haunt some man’s kitchen barefoot with a protruding belly. The fact that she hadn’t at that point in her life had a career hadn’t taken away the strength of her argument. But at twenty-two years old what truths of the world had she really known? She’d flitted from job to job, searching for something she had known was out there somewhere for her to devote herself to. But back then it hadn’t yet appeared on the horizon.
It had taken the bitter divorce to propel her into the field of interior design. She’d immersed herself in her studies, trying to dull the throb of pain that just wouldn’t go away. And yet for all her efforts the pain was still there, waiting for a chance to break free of its bounds.
Byron parked the car and she joined him on the pavement outside the café. A waitress led them to a table shaded by a huge leafy tree and Cara sat down and stared at the menu sightlessly.
‘Cara?’
She looked up and his eyes clashed with hers.
‘What sort of coffee would you like?’ he asked, indicating the hovering waitress.
‘I’ll just have a mineral water, please,’ she told the waitress, who then moved to the next table.
She could feel Byron’s speculative gaze on her and fidgeted with the hem of the tablecloth to distract her.
‘What happened to the latte lady?’ he asked.
She gave a shrug and examined the menu once more.
‘She couldn’t sleep.’
As she looked up and caught the tail-end of a small smile she wished she’d looked up earlier.
‘Do you drink?’
‘Alcohol, you mean?’
He nodded.
‘Not any more.’ She lowered her gaze once more and stared at a tiny crinkle in the tablecloth in front of her.
‘Tell me about your mother, Cara.’
Cara stiffened. Schooling her features back into indifference was hard with him sitting so close. So close and yet so far.
‘I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead,’ she countered, and was relieved when the waitress arrived with their drinks.
She drank thirstily and hoped he’d move onto another subject.
Once the waitress had left Byron spooned sugar into his cappuccino and stirred it thoughtfully. He’d been a little unprepared for seeing Cara again. He’d thought it would be easy. He’d breeze in and call the shots. But somehow something wasn’t quite right. He’d been too young and inexperienced to see it before. He’d fallen in lust and then in love with an ideal—an ideal that had turned out to be a real woman with issues that just wouldn’t go away. He could see that now. Hurt shone from her hazel eyes, hurt that he’d certainly contributed to—but not just him; he felt sure about that.
She’d never let him meet her mother. He wondered now why he hadn’t insisted. Somehow Cara had always found an excuse: her mother was away visiting relatives, couldn’t make it to the wedding, had the flu and wasn’t seeing anyone. He hadn’t pressed her about it. Anyway, her mother had lived in another state, so visiting had mostly been out of the question. He had spoken to Edna Gillem once on the telephone, and it still pained him to recall their conversation. It had well and truly driven the last nail into the coffin that had contained his short marriage.
With the wisdom of hindsight he could see the mistakes he’d made almost from the first moment he’d met Cara. She had been out with a group of friends whom he’d later referred to as ‘the pack’. They had been like baying hounds, crying out for male flesh, and from the first moment he had seen Cara was in the wrong company. She’d looked scared, vulnerable in a way that had dug deeply at the masculine protective devices his father and grandfather before him had entrenched in his soul.
He’d taken her to one side to buy her a drink and one drink had led to another. He’d taken her to his apartment and she’d fallen asleep on his sofa. In three weeks she had been sleeping in his bed, and eight weeks later wearing his ring. He’d never slept with a virgin before, and it had taken him completely by surprise.
He often felt guilty when he recalled his actions of all those years ago. If only he’d taken his time, got to know her—the real Cara, not the shell she presented to the world. Maybe he wouldn’t be sitting opposite her now, in a crowded café, with the pain of seven years dividing them. They could have had kids in school by now—kids with hazel eyes and light brown hair that wouldn’t always do as it was told.
He stirred his coffee and took a deep draught, his eyes catching hers as she reached for her mineral water. What was she thinking? She looked so cool, so composed, but still he wondered…
‘How are your parents?’ she asked.
He gave his coffee another absent stir and Cara saw the hint of a small smile of affection briefly lift the corners of his mouth.
‘They’re fine. Fighting fit. Dad has taken up golf and Mum is part of a bridge club.’
‘And your twin brothers and sister?’
He pushed his half-finished coffee aside and met her interested gaze.
‘Patrick eventually married Sally, and they have five-year-old twins—Katie and Kirstie. Leon and Olivia now have three kids—Ben, seven, Bethany, five, and Clare is three. Fliss has two-year-old Thomas, and is apparently expecting a girl this time.’
Cara drained her glass and set it aside.
‘And your business?’ she added. ‘It finally took off?’
‘Like you would never believe,’ he said, and then added with a rueful twist to his mouth, ‘You should’ve hung around.’
She didn’t respond. The waitress appeared with the sandwiches he’d ordered earlier, and she stared at the food set down before her and wondered how she’d ever force it down her restricted throat.
She’d never doubted he’d be successful as a property developer; he came from a long line of very successful moneyed men. What surprised her was how little that success had fulfilled him. She’d imagined him married, with the brood of kids he’d always wanted, but he was still single—and asking her to resume their relationship temporarily. She didn’t understand him. Perhaps she never had.
Some endless minutes passed before either of them spoke.
‘My parents send their regards,’ Byron said. ‘I was speaking to them last night.’
Cara met his eyes across the table and looked away again.
‘Please send on my own. I’ve thought of them over the years.’
‘What about me?’ he asked after a tiny pause. ‘Have you thought about me?’
She fidgeted with her napkin, ignoring the untouched food in front of her.
‘A bit.’
‘Just a bit?’
‘A lot.’
He seemed satisfied with her answer and she instantly regretted saying anything that would make Byron think she was still hankering after him, like a lovelorn ex-wife who couldn’t get her life back on track.
‘Did Felicity finish her degree?’ She asked the first question that came into her mind.
‘With honours. We’re very proud of her. She’s the first Rockcliffe female to complete a doctorate. My mother got as far as her master’s, but it took Fliss’s determination and brilliance to lift the game that next notch.’
‘I always thought she’d do it,’ Cara said. ‘She’s got what it takes.’
‘Evidently so have you,’ he observed. ‘That’s an impressive degree hanging on your office wall.’
‘It came at a high price.’
‘But worth it, surely?’ he asked. ‘You’ve made your mark on Sydney’s design intelligentsia.’
‘But not on the bank manager.’
‘No, but they’re hard to please at the best of times.’
She felt a smile tug at her mouth.
‘Trevor would be glad to hear you say that,’ she said.
‘Did you meet him at design school?’
She nodded. ‘He was a friend of a friend—you know how it goes.’
‘Have you got a boyfriend? A lover?’
Cara bent her head over her food, playing with the salad garnish. ‘I can’t see that it’s any of your business. What about you?’ She lifted her eyes gamely to his.
His dark gaze gave nothing away. ‘Suffice it to say I’m in between appointments.’
Her heart squeezed at the thought of him involved with someone else, but she fought against revealing her feelings to him. It was none of her business who he slept with—now.
‘So I take it your offer to me is some sort of stop-gap?’
‘You might like to see it that way, but I prefer to see it as an investment in the future.’
‘There’s not much future for children without two loving parents,’ she pointed out. ‘Surely all children are entitled to at least that?’
‘That’s the ideal, of course, but life doesn’t always go to plan. There are literally thousands of households headed by single parents. No one could say they’re doing a substandard job; they’re just getting on with it—bringing up the next generation as best they can.’
Cara toyed with her food, rearranging it without lifting any morsel of it to her mouth.
‘Some do better than others,’ she said, pushing her plate away.
Byron knew her statement was loaded but decided against pressing her. She looked tired, almost defeated, as if the world had been cast upon her slim shoulders. She was visibly sagging. Her eyes refused to meet his and her shoulders were slumped as if in surrender. He thrust his napkin aside and got to his feet.
‘Come on. I’ll take you back to your office.’
She was glad of the reprieve. She felt uncomfortable in his company and couldn’t wait to be free of it so she could think clearly. Having him so near clouded her thoughts, ran them together—like a red T-shirt thrown amongst white washing.
He settled the bill and she allowed him to lead her by the elbow towards the car.
‘I’ll see you on Sunday,’ he said when he left her outside her office. ‘I’ll pick you up from your home. Trevor gave me your address the other day.’
Cara waited until his car had disappeared down the street before she turned towards her office, her thoughts jumbled inside her head.
Trevor was waiting for her.
‘How was it?’
‘How was what?’
‘The house,’ he said in excitement. ‘Was it everything and more?’
She gave him a vague smile and pushed past to go to the sanctuary of her office.
‘It was that and more. I’m going to take the job and start work immediately. I’ve got a house—no, a mansion to fill with furniture, and only four weeks in which to do it.’
Trevor gave a whoop of delight.
‘That’s my girl!’ he crowed. ‘We’re not going under!’
No, she thought. You’re not going under—just me. And she closed her office door on his carefree smiling face.
Byron was right on time when he pulled up in front of her small rented apartment on Sunday evening. Cara had been watching from the window and now stood in the hall, waiting for his knock.
She opened the door and felt her stomach tilt at the sight of his tall frame before her. He was wearing dark trousers and a lightweight knit top that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders.
She had chosen to go casual as well. Her camel coloured pants teamed nicely with her black top, and her hair was loose for a change. She saw his eyes flick over her as she stood before him, his expression giving nothing away. She wanted to say hello, but instead reached for her bag, trying to cover her unease.
‘I thought we might go somewhere quiet and discuss your decision over dinner,’ he said as she followed him out to his car.
‘Fine.’
One-word answers were all she could manage on the way to a little Italian restaurant in Glebe. Cara sat twisting the strap of her bag and wondered what he was thinking. Was he anticipating resuming their relationship tonight? Or would he wait until she’d finished the house?
They were seated with drinks and menus in front of them when Byron asked, ‘Have you come to a decision?’
She looked up at him in alarm. Couldn’t he at least wait until their food had been ordered?
‘I meant about the food,’ he added with a small tilt of his mouth as he noticed her troubled expression. ‘You don’t need to panic just yet.’
‘I’m not panicking.’
‘Yes, you are. I can feel your tension from here.’
‘I’m not tense, I’m…I’m concentrating.’
‘On what?’
‘The menu.’
‘What do you feel like?’ he asked.
‘What?’
He gave her another frustrated look.
‘I’m still talking about the food.’
‘I haven’t had time to look,’ she replied coolly. ‘You keep badgering me with questions.’
‘Sorry.’ His apology was gruff as he returned to his own menu. ‘I realise this isn’t easy for you.’
‘Are we still talking about food?’ she asked.
His mouth twisted as he met her eyes across the table.
‘No, not this time.’
The waiter appeared and asked for their order. Cara rattled off the first thing she’d seen under main courses and sat back and waited for Byron to relay his own preference. Once the waiter had bustled away she felt the full heat of Byron’s gaze.
‘So, what have you decided, Cara?’
‘I’d hardly call it a decision,’ she said with some resentment. ‘You’ve made it very difficult for me to do anything else.’
‘I made it difficult?’ he asked with heavy irony. ‘I wasn’t the one who didn’t take a decent look at the business end of things until it was too late to do anything. What world are you living in, Cara? You can’t blame other people for your own mistakes—even if they were innocently made.’
She gave him a tight-lipped cold stare.
‘Trevor is not an ideal business partner,’ he continued.
‘Why?’ She threw the question at him crossly. ‘Just because he’s gay?’
‘No,’ he answered evenly. ‘It has nothing to do with that. He hasn’t got what it takes to run a business.’
‘And neither do I?’
He reached for his glass of red wine and twirled it in his hand before responding.
‘No. Your heart’s not in the books—it’s in the design end of things. I could see it in your eyes when you saw my house.’
He was right, but she wasn’t going to let him enjoy that little victory.
‘We can’t all be highfliers like you, Byron,’ she said. ‘Trevor and I weren’t educated in one of Victoria’s most prestigious fee-paying schools. We don’t have family money to back us.’
‘You had my money. The divorce money.’
‘It’s expensive setting up an office,’ she said. ‘The computers and so on.’
He seemed to accept her answer and she inwardly sighed with relief.
‘How soon can you get the house ready to live in?’ he asked, unsettling her again.
‘I…I’ve got a few ideas about furniture, but it could be weeks.’
‘I told you a month—that’s all.’
‘It’s not long enough.’
‘Surely we can live in the house with the bare essentials?’ he said. ‘All we need is a bed and—’
‘You expect me to live with you?’ she asked in alarm.
‘Of course. I thought you understood that.’
‘But what about my apartment?’
‘You call that shoebox an apartment?’
She gave him another cold, resentful glare.
‘I would’ve thought you’d have the most sensational home after all those years in the business. Or is this yet another case of the plumber with a leaky tap?’ he added when she didn’t respond.
‘I had other priorities. I’m hardly home, so it didn’t seem important,’ she said.
‘Well, you can sell it, or rent it out for the time being. I want you to live with me at the Cremorne house and I want you to start tomorrow—furniture or no furniture.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Her eyes widened in panic.
‘I’m signing on the dotted line tomorrow with your financial people. I expect you to fulfil your part of the contract.’
‘I hardly call it a contract,’ she ground out bitterly. ‘More like a dictatorship.’
‘Call it what you like. It’s immaterial to me. I’m putting a lot of money in your business and I want some immediate returns on my investment.’
‘You’re sick,’ she fired at him. ‘How can you sit there and discuss this…this farce, so clinically?’
‘Quite frankly, Cara, I don’t really care what you think about me personally. I have a goal in mind, and this time not even you are going to stand in my way.’
‘You definitely need help,’ she muttered as she savaged her bread roll. ‘I’ve never met anyone with such a big ego.’
‘And I’ve never met anyone with a lesser one,’ he countered neatly.
Cara’s butter knife clattered against her plate as she looked away from his penetrating gaze. Fortunately the waiter appeared just then, with their food, and she was spared the right of reply. Not that she could think of one; he was right—she had no self-esteem, never had. Her mother had seen to that, right up to the very day she died.
She forced herself to eat at least some of the food set before her, even though her appetite had completely disappeared.
‘You don’t seem to be enjoying that,’ Byron observed some minutes later. ‘Would you like something else instead?’
She shook her head and forced another mouthful down.
‘You look as if you’re going to face a firing squad at dawn,’ he said after another minute or two had elapsed. ‘Relax, Cara. You might even enjoy it.’
A vision of their passion-locked bodies flitted unbidden into her mind and she lowered her head to her plate to disguise the heat she could feel coursing across her cheeks.
After a few painful minutes she pushed her plate away in defeat. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and caught the hard glint in his eyes.
‘You’d do anything but talk to me, wouldn’t you, Cara? Even force-feed yourself a meal you don’t want so you don’t have to speak to me.’
‘I have nothing to say to you.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What about, How was it for you that day I left? Were you upset? That would be a good place to start.’
Her hands tightened in her lap but she didn’t answer him.
‘Or what about, Did you know I was pregnant when I left? That would make for a very interesting conversation, now, don’t you think?’
Cara stared at him in abject horror, all the colour draining away from her face. His expression was clouded by anger, his dark eyes glittering dangerously with it, showing her that this was no time for denial. Without warning the moment of truth she’d quietly dreaded for seven years had finally caught up with her.
CHAPTER FOUR
SHE couldn’t speak. Anguish tied her tongue and sent tremors of reaction to her very fingertips. They were already fizzing, as if her blood couldn’t quite make the distance to them. She felt as if she would faint—hoped for it, in fact. How could she avoid the subject she dreaded the most?
‘Let’s get out of here.’ Byron suddenly broke the heavy silence by getting to his feet and signalling to the waiter for the bill.
Cara got to her feet with considerably less agility. Her legs were shaking, her palms moist, and the rest of her body felt as if it had been clubbed.
Byron fixed the bill and led the way back to his car in silence. He unlocked the doors with a snap of the remote that sounded like a gunshot and she had to stop herself from flinching.
‘Get in.’
His words were just as sharp, hitting her like bullets. She got in the car, glad that her legs didn’t have to hold her upright any more. He started the car with a roar that indicated the depth of his anger. Although he’d hidden it well, he’d waited until she was lulled into a false sense of security and then struck her where she was most vulnerable.
He drove towards her apartment with a grim determination that did little to settle Cara’s nerves. She had so much to say, but most of it could never be for his ears. He’d never understand the sort of decisions she’d had to make. The secrets she’d kept; the pain she’d hidden in order to survive.
He walked her to her apartment, all the while maintaining cold silence. She didn’t know what was worse. Hearing him castigate her, bearing his stony silence or torturing herself with what she imagined he was thinking.
At the door of the apartment she turned to him, forcing herself to meet his diamond-hard gaze.
‘Thank you for dinner.’
He seemed about to say something, but then changed his mind. He raked a hand through his dark hair and the lines around his mouth appeared to relax a little.
‘Will you need some help packing?’ he asked.
‘No, I’ll be fine. I don’t have all that much to pack,’ she answered in a subdued tone.
Byron watched as she unlocked the door and stepped through, hesitating, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to come in or not. He guessed not. He hadn’t really intended to ask her that question tonight, but he’d been increasingly annoyed by her attitude towards him. She barely tolerated his presence and it irritated him. He had felt like shaking her out of her skin.
Her eyes, when they met his again, looked wounded, which instantly made him feel like the bad guy. How did she do that? He had every right to be furious with her. She had no right to play the injured innocent. No right at all.
‘What time would you like me to be at Cremorne?’ she asked.
Byron hunted her face for any sign of her composure cracking, but apart from that hurt look in her eyes there was none. She’d effectively shut him out once more, and apart from flaying her with his tongue right here and now there was little he could do but accept it for now. He’d bide his time and get the answers he was after—even if it took him months.
‘In the evening’s fine,’ he answered, giving her a key.
He noticed she took it from him without touching his hand. That too made him angry. She’d have to get used to him touching her, because that was all he wanted to do—from the moment he woke until he fell asleep at night. His body craved her. Being so close to her had stirred his desire to a persistent dull ache, and he wondered if she sensed it.
He turned to leave before he was tempted to do something about it then and there. He muttered a curt goodnight as he closed the door on her expressionless face.
Cara sagged against the wall once he’d gone, burying her face in her hands, slipping down until she found the floor.
She stayed up most of the night packing. She knew sleep was impossible, so continued on until her vision blurred. The last bag was packed and she stood up and looked around her tiny apartment. Three bags and a box wasn’t much to show for her almost twenty-nine years, but then, she reflected ruefully, she had enough internal baggage to sink a container ship.
She sat and sipped a glass of water as she watched the moon make its way across the early morning sky until the brightness of the rising sun took over.
This was the first day of the rest of her life. She knew from this day on nothing could ever be the same. Seeing Byron again had torn her seeping wounds apart, and no matter how hard she tried she’d never be able to tie the ragged edges together again. She almost hated him for his cruelty. Almost, but not quite.
Cara spent some time at the office—more to fill in the day than because of any pressing work commitments. Trevor took one look at her shadowed eyes and whistled through his teeth.
‘You’re looking a bit the-morning-after-the-fight-before.’
She gave him a you-can-say-that-again look and flopped into her chair.
‘I’m not even going to correct your misquote of that adage, because your version’s far more accurate.’
He perched on the edge of her desk, his expression empathetic. ‘Lord Byron giving you a hard time?’
‘You could say that.’ She gave a deep sigh. ‘I’m moving in with him this evening.’
Trevor’s eyes widened, his brows disappearing under his floppy fringe.
‘Is that wise?’
She gave him an ironic look.
‘No, but wisdom doesn’t come into it, I’m afraid. It’s a matter of do or be damned.’
‘Is he forcing your hand?’
‘Oh, I had a choice,’ she said. ‘Sort of.’
‘I’m sorry, Cara,’ he said. ‘This is all my fault. It’s not fair that you’re being forced to pay the price.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ she reassured him. ‘I’ll be fine. Byron will soon tire of me. I’m what is commonly referred to by most men as “hard work”.’
‘You’re not hard work,’ he said. ‘You’re wounded. That’s totally different.’
She gave him a small wry smile.
‘Only you would see the difference.’
‘I’m sure he will too, in time. Maybe you should be totally honest with him. He might understand more than you think,’ he offered hopefully.
‘Byron’s not the understanding type. He’s had life too good. What would he know about how the other half live? He’s had everything handed to him on a plate—including me.’
‘Do you still care for him?’
‘I don’t know what I feel,’ she answered honestly. ‘I’ve taught myself not to feel anything for so long I can’t quite find the on switch any more.’
‘It will come back if you give yourself some time. You need to let the dust of the past settle for a little longer, get some more perspective.’
‘You should’ve been a counsellor, Trev,’ she said. ‘You’ve got all the answers.’
‘No, I haven’t.’ He kissed the top of her head as he jumped down from her desk. ‘I just know what the questions are.’
Cara drove towards Cremorne, her heart still heavy in her chest at what she was about to commit to. Byron was little more than a stranger to her now. How was she to simply slot back into his life as if nothing had happened? It would take all the acting ability she had to survive.
His car was in the large garage, and she parked in the space alongside it. Her run-down Mazda looked very out of place next to his Mercedes—but then, nearly everything about them was just as disparate.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/melanie-milburne/the-blackmail-pregnancy/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.