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 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?’