CHAPTER FOUR

      HOW PREDICTABLE, CLEO thought ruefully as he cupped her left elbow and steered her from his office. A penthouse pad to go with his penthouse lifestyle.

      Still, Byron Maddox was exactly as she had expected. A charmer, who, despite his obvious intelligence and business acumen, lived the life of a playboy. Cleo wondered why he had bothered to get engaged those two times. Neither engagement had lasted long, and each time the press had had a field-day, which was why she’d been able to find so many articles about him on the Internet.

      What Cleo hadn’t expected, however, was that she would fall victim to his charm. Or was it just his looks that had fired up her female hormones? He was, after all, exceptionally handsome.

      Yes, possibly it was just that. She wouldn’t be the first girl to lose her head over Byron Maddox. Though she was hardly a girl. She was twenty-nine, for pity’s sake. Not that Cleo had any intention of actually losing her head over him. Still, it was proving awfully hard not to react to the touch of his hand at her elbow, not to freeze in fear or to shiver in ecstasy, making her wonder what it would feel like to have those long, elegant fingers on other parts of her body. And in other parts of her body.

      Stop it!

      Cleo carefully scooped in a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

      ‘Have a good lunch,’ Grace said jauntily as Byron guided Cleo past his PA’s desk.

      ‘Indeed we will,’ Byron replied cheerfully.

      Cleo smiled through gritted teeth.

      The restaurant was called Thirty—named, no doubt, after the floor it was on.

      Cleo liked its spacious feel and unfussy decor, the floors done in large, pale grey tiles; the tables were covered with dark grey linen tablecloths and set with elegant cutlery and glasses. The white walls were broken up by a multitude of long rectangular windows, the high ceiling painted black with subtle recessed lighting. There was a black circular bar in the centre of the room, which wasn’t too glitzy.

      They were led past the bar to a far table set for two—but which would have accommodated four guests—situated next to a window that had a view of the botanical gardens, the Opera House and the harbour beyond. The waiter assigned to look after them was named André and was quick to pull out Cleo’s chair for her. Byron seated himself opposite and immediately ordered cocktails for them both without consulting the drinks menu, or her.

      Now, if anything was certain to annoy Cleo—as well as dampen any unwanted desires—it was a man who didn’t consult. She had little appreciation of chauvinism; of men who thought they knew better than women. There’d been a time when she’d been happy to play the compliant little woman, deferring to Martin in all matters. But those days had long passed. Any man these days who dared to make decisions for her did so at his peril. Only the fact that she was supposed to be winning this man over for her boss had her holding her tongue.

      But she suspected already that Byron Maddox was not a suitable investor for McAllister Mines. Scott wanted a hands-on partner, not just a money man; someone to take some of the day-to-day load off him, leaving him more time for his wife and future family. Sarah had confided to her before she left on their second honeymoon yesterday that she was pregnant, news that had made Cleo very happy indeed. She’d been seriously worried about their marriage for a while. Scott had been over the moon, of course. What a lovely genuine man he was.

      ‘I possibly should have asked you what drink you preferred,’ Byron said, interrupting her train of thought. ‘But the cocktails here are to die for and I wanted you to experience at least one.’

      ‘How thoughtful of you,’ she said, gritting her teeth.

      * * *

      ‘So,’ he said, picking up the two leather-encased menus sitting in the centre of the table, handing her one then opening the other. ‘What do you fancy, Cleo?’

      Still you, she conceded with a smothered sigh.

      She could hardly take her eyes off him. But she did, dropping her gaze to the menu.

      ‘The seafood here is very good,’ he said. ‘But so are the steaks. Do you want an entrée to begin with? I would recommend the scallops, if you like seafood.’

      Cleo’s appetite had fled since she was not used to being affected like this by a man. Her thoughts kept straying into strange territory. The temptation to flirt was extreme, and very perturbing. It had rattled her.

      Her stomach contracted as she stared blankly at the menu. ‘I’m honestly not very hungry,’ she admitted at last. ‘I haven’t been sleeping all that well lately. Things have been rather hectic at work. And stressful,’ she added.

      When Cleo glanced up she was surprised to see a spark of genuine sympathy in those sexy blue eyes of his.

      ‘You poor thing,’ he said, his kind words rattling her even further. ‘Scott did dump you in it, going away suddenly like that when his business was in trouble. But if you’re not sleeping then you definitely need to eat,’ he went on cheerfully. ‘Unless, of course, you’re so catatonic that you’ll fall asleep with your head in the soup.’

      His smile—plus his good humour—bewitched her even more than his looks. Before she knew it, she found herself smiling back at him.

      ‘I’m not that bad. But my head is a little fuzzy.’

      He laughed. ‘It’s going to be even fuzzier once you get the cocktail I ordered into you. When I said it was to die for, I wasn’t just talking about the taste. The alcoholic content is off the Richter scale. Ah, here it is.’

      It was, as he’d warned her, deadly. But delicious. And decadent. And not designed to dampen desire.

      On the plus side, it did relax her, at the same time rendering her a little reckless. She didn’t flirt with him exactly. But she let him order the food for her, as well as a bottle of white wine. Before she knew it, she was blurting out all the pitfalls besetting the mining industry at the moment. By the time dessert arrived—a light dish of fresh tropical fruits topped with a mango-flavoured yoghurt—Cleo realised suddenly how unwise she’d been and did her best to redress the situation.

      ‘Of course, things will turn around eventually,’ she told a seemingly fascinated Byron. ‘The prices of iron ore will go back up, as will coal and most of the other minerals. It’s just a matter of time.’

      ‘What about Scott’s nickel refinery?’ he asked. ‘I heard that it was on the point of bankruptcy.’

      Cleo knew there was no saving the refinery. Not at the moment. But to say so would be the kiss of death to any potential investor in McAllister Mines. As much as she didn’t think Byron was the right man for the role of Scott’s business partner, neither did she want to be responsible for killing off his interest entirely.

      ‘The refinery is in deep trouble, no doubt about that,’ she admitted. ‘But it’s not bankrupt.’ Not yet, anyway.

      ‘Hmm,’