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,
