Miranda Lee - The Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal

‘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 putter away,’ Grace advised. ‘Your visitor will be here shortly. Cleo doesn’t strike me as the sort of woman to be late. Best roll down your sleeves and put your jacket on as well. First impressions, you know.’

Byron snorted. ‘It’s not me who has to do the impressing. I’m still quite annoyed that McAllister has sent a secretary in his place whilst he swans off on holidays.’

‘Cleo Shelton’s a lot more than a secretary, Byron,’ Grace chided. ‘From what I’ve gleaned on the grapevine, she’s Scott McAllister’s deputy, not just his assistant. I wouldn’t underestimate her if I were you. Neither would I get on her bad side if you’re seriously considering a partnership in McAllister Mines.’

He wasn’t. Not really. They’d sought him out, not the other way around. It was hardly the right time to be investing in the mining industry. He’d agreed to the meeting more out of curiosity than genuine interest.

‘And for your information,’ Grace added, ‘Cleo’s boss hasn’t just swanned off on any old holiday. He’s taken his wife on a second honeymoon after they experienced some kind of crisis in their marriage.’

Byron was constantly amazed at how much inside knowledge Grace managed to acquire about the people he did business with. Not that he was complaining; knowledge was power. He wondered what their marital crisis had involved. Another man perhaps?

Byron had met McAllister and his wife once at the spring racing carnival last year. Whilst he’d not been anything to write home about, she’d been a real looker, the sort of girl men would pursue, married or not. Such a thought reminded Byron that he had made a narrow escape in not marrying either of his fiancées. They’d been beautiful as well. Next time, he’d pick a girl who didn’t stop traffic. Someone only marginally attractive. Someone with brains. God, but he couldn’t bear the thought of a wife without brains. Whilst his previous fiancées had not been dumb, they’d been shallow thinkers. And eventually, dead boring.

Boring was the ultimate sin in Byron’s opinion.

‘So when will McAllister be back?’ he asked as he rolled down his shirt sleeves and did up the buttons.

‘Cleo said two weeks. She wasn’t sure of the exact date and time of his return. His going away was rather...spontaneous.’

Byron nodded, then walked around and lifted his suit jacket off the back of his chair.

‘Try not to be patronising with Cleo,’ Grace advised.

Byron scowled as he put on his jacket. ‘I am never patronising.’

‘Yes, you are. When you think you’re cleverer than the person you’re with.’

‘Only when they really are stupid. I can’t abide stupid people.’

Grace smiled. ‘I’ve rather gathered that. But Cleo doesn’t come across as at all stupid.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that. How old is she, do you know?’

‘My guess would be somewhere between thirty and forty, given her position in the company.’

‘That narrows it down,’ he said with a wry laugh.

‘Hopefully, she won’t be a blonde with false eyelashes and enhanced breasts.’

Byron recognised a jibe when he heard one. Both his fiancées had been blonde, with eyelashes and breasts that defied reality. His sigh demonstrated how foolish he felt now that he’d ever been taken in by them.

‘Indeed,’ he agreed. ‘Well, show her in when she arrives and I’ll do my best to be charming and not patronising. What time did you make our reservation for?’

‘One o’clock.’

‘Perfect.’

CHAPTER THREE

THE SHOWER CAME out of the blue, just as Cleo was crossing the road at the intersection of Elizabeth and King Streets. Not a light drizzle but a real dumping. By the time she found shelter under the shop awnings on the other side, Cleo was very wet indeed.

‘Damn and blast,’ she muttered under her breath as she brushed the heavy droplets off her shoulders then smoothed back her damp hair. ‘Should have caught a taxi.’

The trouble was that catching taxis in the CBD of Sydney often promised a very slow ride, construction on the new light rail network having caused havoc with the traffic. So Cleo had set off in plenty of time to walk the four blocks from the building where she worked down to the skyscraper that housed BM Enterprises. Her appointment was for twelve-thirty, where she was having a short meeting with Byron Maddox in his office before enjoying a long business lunch with him.

Or, at least she assumed it would be long. Cleo had found, over the time she’d been Scott’s PA, that successful men like Maddox liked to linger over their business lunches whilst they plied their dinner guests with bottles of the very best wine, playing one-upmanship to the hilt. She’d noticed that the smartest of them didn’t drink all that much themselves, taking advantage of their guests’ sozzled states to ferret out facts that a more sober brain wouldn’t have let slip.

Scott had never fallen for that trick. He was too canny for that. Neither did he ever do business that way himself. He was a man of the utmost integrity and honesty in all his dealings with others. He also actually cared about his employees. Of course, Scott hadn’t been brought up and trained by the most ruthless business brain in the world. Cleo was under no illusions that, despite his reputation, Byron Maddox was as cunning and as ruthless as his father. She had no intention of falling victim to any of his ploys. Cleo had a very important mission on her plate today.

Almost a mission impossible, she conceded as she hurried down the street. It wasn’t going to be easy to persuade the billionaire owner of BM Enterprises that, despite the economic climate in the mining world today, it was the perfect time for him to become a partner in McAllister Mines. Because without his partnership—and buckets of his money—McAllister Mines was headed for big trouble. Scott had been way too distracted lately to realise how serious things were, but Cleo had her finger on the pulse. If she didn’t pull off this coup, the company she loved was headed for dire financial trouble.