jealousy.
‘No boyfriend wants his girlfriend working for a billionaire,’ Daryl had complained soon after she’d started the job. ‘Certainly not one with Hugh Parkinson’s reputation. What if he makes a move towards you? What if he asks you to go away with him to a conference or something?’
She’d placated Daryl at the time, telling him that he was being silly, that she loved him and only him, and that she would never have her head turned by the likes of Hugh Parkinson.
Daryl had asked her to prove it by agreeing to marry him.
Kathryn had still been reluctant. Although she wanted marriage, underneath she was afraid of it. Afraid of trusting her life to any man. Over the years she’d had a history of falling for guys who’d proved to be less than perfect.
But then two things had happened to change her mind. Firstly, Val had finally succumbed to the cancer she’d been battling for several years. Not an unexpected event, but still very upsetting. Then Kathryn had received a letter from a solicitor shortly after Val’s funeral, saying that Val had willed the beach house to her, provided she marry before she turned thirty. If she was still single on that date—which at that time had been a few months away—the house would be sold and the proceeds given to cancer research.
Kathryn had initially been shocked with her old friend for using emotional blackmail to push her into marriage. In the end, however, she’d been grateful to Val for forcing the issue and making her see common sense.
OK, so Daryl wasn’t perfect. But then neither was she. If she kept waiting for Mr Perfect to come along, she would die a lonely old maid.
Initially, Daryl hadn’t been too thrilled when she accepted his proposal. He’d accused her of not really loving him, of just using him to get her hands on a million-dollar property. Which was what the Pearl Beach weekender was currently worth. She’d soothed him by revealing that she had no intention of ever selling the house; that it was a place of great sentiment to her. He’d soothed her in return by taking her to bed and showing her why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place.
Once Kathryn had decided on marriage to Daryl, she’d embraced the idea one hundred and ten per cent, immediately making detailed plans for their future together. Naturally, she’d chosen the ring—Daryl might have picked something ridiculously expensive—and made all the arrangements, insisting that they have an inexpensive ceremony and reception—only ten guests—followed by an even more inexpensive honeymoon.
When Daryl complained about her miserliness, she’d explained that she wasn’t going to waste any of her hard-earned savings on what was really just a party and an excuse for a holiday, both come and gone in a flash. She needed every cent for a decent deposit on a house here in Sydney.
Sydney was, after all, the most expensive city in Australia to live in. Houses came at a premium. So did interest rates. She wasn’t about to fall into the trap of having too large a mortgage which they wouldn’t be able to pay back, once she left work to have a baby.
Neither she nor Daryl had well-off families to fall back on in times of financial difficulty. In fact, neither of them had any family to fall back on. Both of them had come from troubled, single-parent households. Each had seen what little close family they had finally being snuffed out through drink, drugs and disease.
But where Kathryn’s background had formed her into a careful, highly organised, money-wise character, Daryl was more impulsive and not good with money at all. Still, he was very good at his job, being a top sales representative for a successful office-supplies company. His salary was excellent and he had a company car. Kathryn felt sure she could rein in his tendency to be extravagant, once they were married.
He was going to make a good husband and father. In time.
Right now, however, he was being a right pain in the neck, his jealousy not having been helped by her temporary promotion. Already he was complaining about the extra hours she was working. Last night, when she’d arrived home at seven-thirty— the preparations for today’s board meeting had been endless—he’d demanded she hand in her notice.
‘After we’re married,’ she’d hedged.
‘You’re just saying that,’ he’d retorted. ‘I know you. You like working for that rich bastard. You fancy him. I know you do.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she’d snapped, tired of their endless arguments about her job and her boss.
‘I’m not being ridiculous. I’m not blind, you know. He fancies you too. I saw the way he looked at you at the Christmas party.’
‘Oh, for pity’s sake!’ she’d exclaimed with considerable exasperation. ‘Now you’re being even more ridiculous! In all the months I’ve worked for Hugh Parkinson, not once has he ever done or said anything remotely out of line. He does not fancy me. Never has, never will.’
Which was probably what was adding to her irritation today, Kathryn accepted with a flash of feminine insight: Hugh’s lack of male interest in her.
No girl liked to be looked straight through all the time the way Hugh did her, as if she was part of the wallpaper.
Not that any of the offices in Parkinson Media had wallpaper, especially this one. It was wall-to-wall wood panelling in here, totally different from the sleekly modern open-planned offices which filled the floors before. The big boss’s suite of rooms was straight out of an élite English men’s club, all the furniture antiques, the carpets richly patterned, heavy silk curtains framing the windows.
Kathryn’s office-cum-reception area was ridiculously large, with a plush sitting space, along with its own powder room and cloakroom as well as a small kitchen where she could prepare coffee or tea. Her desk was a huge leather-topped slice of solid walnut with carved legs and more drawers than she could ever fill. The computer and printer occupied less than a quarter of the available work surface.
In truth, she preferred her other office and her other desk.
But she wasn’t about to complain, not with the additional money she would earn over the next four weeks. She was already planning what she could buy with it: some extra-nice sheets, for starters, Egyptian cotton. She might be frugal by nature but she liked nice things. Quality things, that lasted.
Take her clothes, for instance. She didn’t have a huge wardrobe but she bought good clothes. Not top designer-wear, she couldn’t afford that, but well-made suits and real silk shirts and camis in mix-and-match colours, along with genuine leather shoes and bags. None of that cheap vinyl stuff. Her jewellery was minimal but quality too, not too expensive since she preferred silver to gold.
She was admiring the delicately designed silver watch which she’d treated herself to at Christmas when the phone on her desk rang, the security man downstairs informing her that a delivery guy was on his way up with a food order.
‘Not the same guy as yesterday,’ he added. ‘I had to give this chap instructions on how to get to your office.’
‘Wow!’ the spotty-faced youth exclaimed when he finally arrived. ‘This is some place. The view must be fantastic!’
‘Quite,’ she said coolly. ‘Thank you, Ken.’
‘You know my name!’
She pointed to the name tag on his shirt pocket.
‘Oh,
