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.
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
