The Tycoon's Outrageous Proposal. Miranda Lee

brides for my perusal at this event. Since I would prefer to pick my own future wife, I need protection from her matchmaking. If I show up with a woman of my own choice on my arm, I might have a chance of actually enjoying myself.’

      * * *

      Cleo couldn’t help it. She laughed.

      ‘As much as I would like to help you out,’ she said, still chuckling inside, ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to say no.’

      ‘Why?’ he asked, sounding most put out. Clearly, not many women said no to Byron.

      Cleo listed all the reasons in her head.

      Because I don’t have a thing to wear to such an occasion.

      Because I would be like a fish out of water in your mother’s social circle.

      Because none of the guests would believe I was really your date.

      Because I don’t want to torture myself by pretending to be your date.

      ‘Because I don’t actually enjoy parties,’ she said instead. ‘Sorry. I’m sure you can find someone else to be your pretend girlfriend for one night.’

      ‘Actually no, I can’t,’ he growled as he pulled a face. ‘I’m between fiancées at the moment.’

      Cleo smiled ruefully. ‘How unfortunate,’ she murmured, amused by his little-boy pout. ‘Still, I would imagine you know scores of unattached women who would jump at the chance of accompanying you.’

      ‘True. But all of them would also jump to the conclusion that they were in with a chance to become fiancée number three.’

      Cleo bristled at the implication that she wouldn’t do any such thing. And she knew why. Because she was far too ordinary to contemplate anything so extraordinary. The woman who eventually wore Byron’s wedding ring on her finger would be out of the ordinary in every way. He wasn’t about to settle for just anyone. He’d already discarded a Victoria’s Secret model and a stunning actress. Cleo momentarily wondered what it was about them that had caused those break-ups. The articles she’d read about Byron suggested the splits had been his doing. But who knew? Maybe he was a player, even when he was engaged. Wealthy men often were.

      ‘Come on, Cleo,’ he said with a very bewitching smile. ‘Help me out here.’

      It annoyed Cleo how tempted she was to say yes, an answer she knew she would instantly regret. As fascinating as she found Byron, no way would she put herself in a position that would ultimately be humiliating. Neither did she like the idea of being used. It also worried her that this attraction she was feeling could escalate into infatuation, if she spent too much time with him. And she didn’t want that. In truth, Cleo rather liked her independent existence. It made for a stress-free personal life, leaving her to concentrate on the one thing she genuinely enjoyed and that she could count on: her job. The last thing she needed were the emotional upsets that inevitably came with relationships. Just look at the mess Sarah and Scott had been in this past week or so. Far better to steer well clear of the opposite sex, even if it meant spending the rest of her life alone.

      Of course, she hadn’t counted on her libido coming back to life in such a remarkable fashion. Still, it was nothing that wouldn’t simmer down, in time. It was a pity she had to spend tomorrow with him. But she was certain she could remain professional in his presence, especially if she established proper boundaries now.

      ‘I’m sorry, Byron,’ she told him coolly. ‘But I really can’t. Maybe you should just go to your mother’s party alone and face the music.’

      ‘You don’t know my mother,’ he said drily.

      ‘Perhaps you should just tell her that you don’t want to get married; that you prefer the life of a...a bachelor.’ She’d almost said playboy, but had known instinctively that he wouldn’t like that tag. Admittedly, Byron wasn’t known for being a heartless womaniser, but his two broken engagements had had a lot of publicity.

      A heavy sigh wafted from Byron’s lungs, his eyes rolling in exasperation. ‘That’s the crux of the problem. The fact is, I do want to get married. But only to the right sort of girl, not the kind my mother would dish up to me.’

      ‘I see,’ Cleo said slowly. ‘And what kind is that?’

      ‘Oh, you know,’ he said, waving his hand around in a circular fashion. ‘Society princesses whose only aim in life is to marry well, which translates to a husband with money. And lots of it. Then they can live in a Double Bay mansion, dress in designer clothes and have their children looked after by nannies whilst they sit on charity boards or do ladies’ luncheons in between holidays to Tuscany, or possibly to New York, where they can shop their greedy little hearts out.’

      Cleo was taken aback by his cynical tirade.

      ‘You don’t have to marry any of them,’ she pointed out.

      ‘I don’t intend to,’ he said ruefully. ‘Now. Do you want coffee? Or would you prefer a cognac?’