ugly. She liked art to be sensible and pleasing to the eye, again the result of being raised by people who thought modern art was a con.
‘Utter rubbish,’ her grandfather had snorted whenever he saw a modern painting. ‘Any child in kindergarten could have done just as well.’
Cleo smiled at the thought. Grandpa had been a character; her grandma, not so much. She’d been the sort of woman who’d found it hard to show love. Not a hugger, that was for sure.
Once Cleo found a lift that wasn’t full, she pressed the button for the thirty-ninth floor, and when the doors opened she entered a reception area that was so glamorous it was hard not to blink, or to stare.
Black marble-tiled floors. White Italian leather lounge furniture. Glass coffee and side-tables. Even a chandelier overhead, for pity’s sake. But the finishing touch was the stylishly curved, glass reception desk that framed a receptionist who was straight out of a Hollywood casting. Possibly thirtyish, she was glamour personified with her ash-blonde hair styled into a shoulder-length bob, her attractive face perfectly made up. Her lipstick was a bright red gloss, highlighting her full lips and contrasting vibrantly with her expensive-looking white woollen dress. Her legs were visible underneath the desk. They were long and shapely, crossed at the knees and shod in the highest of high heels.
Suddenly, Cleo felt like a fish out of water in her ugly pants suit and plain white shirt. Her eyes dropped to her boring black pumps and her even more boring black briefcase. Maybe she’d made a mistake dressing the way she had for a meeting with Byron Maddox. She should have known that the playboy billionaire liked women looking as if they had stepped straight out of a beauty salon. She’d checked him out on the Internet, hadn’t she? But then, even had she wanted to, she wouldn’t have known how to doll herself up like this girl. She didn’t have the looks, the clothes, nor any sexy shoes.
‘May I help you?’ the girl asked with that slightly superior manner that, in Cleo’s experience, beautiful girls sometimes adopted with their less attractive sisters.
Cleo shrugged off the momentary temptation to let it affect her, smiling at the girl and informing her that she had an appointment with Mr Maddox at twelve-thirty.
That changed the girl’s snooty attitude.
‘Oh,’ she said, uncrossing her legs and standing up straight away. But she did frown as she gave Cleo a second once-over, as though wondering what on earth someone like her was doing going out to lunch with her very handsome bachelor-of-the-year boss.
It was an undermining experience to be on the end of such a critical scrutiny. Scott didn’t care what she looked like, as long as she did her work. Not that she didn’t always look neat and tidy. She just didn’t know anything about fashion, but even she knew her working wardrobe was very bland.
And, let’s face it, Cleo, boring.
‘This way, please,’ the girl said crisply, before taking off down a nearby hallway, her hips swinging as she walked.
Following her was an education, Cleo thought, though she doubted she could walk so confidently in six-inch heels. She’d never worn high heels at all after meeting Martin, because he was short and didn’t like her to tower over him. Then, after his death, she didn’t care enough to dress differently. By then she was used to low heels, anyway. They were way more practical and comfortable.
Somehow, however, being practical and comfortable didn’t cut it today. For a crushing moment, Cleo wished she were sashaying into this meeting looking elegant and glamorous, and done up to the nines. But then she pulled herself together and told herself not to be so silly. Byron Maddox was a clever businessman, above all else. He wouldn’t really care what she looked like, as long as she knew her stuff. And at least in that she was confident.
This last thought reassured her so that when she was shown into Grace’s office, Cleo felt reasonably composed. Though seeing Grace in the flesh didn’t exactly help her confidence. Maddox’s PA was considerably older than his receptionist—possibly in her late forties—but still very attractive and groomed within an inch of her life. A blonde too. Clearly, Byron Maddox preferred blondes. His former fiancées had both been blondes. Cleo had seen their photos on the Internet.
Grace’s manner, however, was nothing like the receptionist’s. She was warm and welcoming, with not a hint of disapproval over Cleo’s appearance. If anything, she seemed to approve of how Cleo looked, which was a relief.
‘I knew you wouldn’t be late,’ she said with a ready smile.
‘I almost was,’ Cleo returned. ‘I got caught in a sun shower on the way over and had to make a side trip to the ladies’ before coming up. I’m afraid my hair is still damp,’ she added, patting it with her right hand.
‘You walked all the way here?’ Grace said, sounding surprised.
Cleo nodded. ‘Faster than a taxi these days.’
The woman’s eyes dropped to Cleo’s shoes, then to her own. They had stiletto heels, though not as high as the receptionist’s.
‘I can never walk far in these shoes,’ Grace said. ‘Yours are way more sensible. But enough of this chit-chat. Byron’s anxious to meet you.’
Cleo’s stomach tightened as she was ushered over to the door that clearly led into Byron Maddox’s inner sanctum. She wasn’t usually given to nervous anxiety. Since Martin’s death, nothing much fazed her any more. Watching your husband die slowly of cancer did something to your emotions. She sometimes envied Scott’s wife, Sarah, who had a warm, bubbly personality. Cleo suspected that most people she met and dealt with found her distant, and cold. Scott really should be the one to be here doing this, not her.
Oh, well, she thought resignedly as Grace knocked on the door. What will be, will be.
‘Come in,’ a male voice invited. It was a pleasant enough voice. Not too deep or too threatening. She disliked bosses who barked at their employees, especially their PAs. But, of course, Byron Maddox would not be a barker. He’d be a charmer. Cleo had read up about him. Underneath the charm, however, would lie the mind of a man who’d built his own successful company in five short years. She had to be careful not to underestimate him. He might have the look of a playboy—and the lifestyle—but he was sure to be a chip off the old block. No one would dare underestimate Lloyd Maddox. Colleagues and enemies had done so in the past at their peril. Or so she’d read in an article written by a journalist in Forbes magazine.
Grace opened the door. ‘Cleo’s here,’ she said in a highly natural and familiar manner, which boded well. Clearly, she wasn’t afraid of her boss. Cleo’s own tension eased somewhat.
She stepped into an office that would have done a Hollywood producer proud. Everything was very spacious, very expensive and very male, from the thick sable-coloured carpet to the book-lined walls and the built-in drinks cabinet. Two chocolate-brown chesterfields flanked the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window that stretched along the far wall and provided an uninterrupted view of Sydney and the harbour, with all its splendid icons. Stretched in front of this window was a huge desk, made in a rich dark wood, behind which sat Byron Maddox in a high-backed brown leather swivel chair.
He rose immediately after Grace retreated and closed the door, thus giving Cleo a complete view of his attractions. Which were considerable.
Cleo already knew he was a handsome man, a tall, fair-haired god with the kind of even facial features and good bone structure that made male models and movie stars so photogenic. But in the
