How To Marry A Billionaire. Ally Blake
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then,’ Adam began, ‘first things first, Chris ain’t anywhere near brazen, so wipe that idea out right now. Picture a man…’
Cara leant forward, resting her chin on the heel of her palms as the guy across the table gave a rundown of the life and times of Chris Geyer. Stories of childhood antics, of bad dates, of a love of education, of a twenty-year friendship ran thick and fast. Cara listened with half an ear, smiling in all the right places, building up the idea of a friendly teddy-bear type whom she was more and more looking forward to meeting.
But the other half of her mind was focussed on the man telling the story. All efforts at nonchalance put aside, he became a charismatic, vibrant story-teller. Her nerves dissolved with every captivating word and she couldn’t take her eyes off him.
She could tell that he usually hid behind his laconic attitude so that he could measure the world without it measuring him. But behind the attitude lurked the guy who ran one of the most successful marketing campaigns the country had ever seen. This was the guy who could sell cookies to Girl Guides, he was just that compelling.
As she often did when she met new people, Cara pictured how she would light him. If ever, one day, she had the chance to do so, it would be all about shadows, taking advantage of those fantastic cheekbones and that straight nose. She would brush his hair back a tad further, knowing that he would only curl up more inside himself and make himself that much more intriguing. The carefully constructed remoteness, the seriously attractive mystery, the gorgeous depths of those navy-blue eyes…
‘Don’t you need to take any notes?’ Adam asked, his hands stopping mid-demonstration of how a mobile phone was built.
Cara snapped back to the present with such a jolt, her elbow slipped off the table and she had to catch herself before her chin followed in its wake.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked, lifting from his seat, reaching for her, his expression bright with surprise.
Bad. Bad Cara. What on earth had she been doing, daydreaming like that? Her attention had become wrapped in the words of some strapping stranger when her focus for the next two weeks should be blissfully caught up in the ins and outs of the most challenging and significant job of her life.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘And no as well. I don’t need to take notes. Really.’ She jabbed furiously at her temple. ‘All stored up here.’
‘So are you a Cary Grant fan?’ he asked as he poured her a glass of wine.
Cara fought to remember a single word of his conversation and came up blank. ‘A who…what?’
Adam’s eyes narrowed. ‘Cary Grant. Chris’s favourite actor? He’s in The Philadelphia Story, His Girl Friday…’
Cara shook her head hard to clear out the soft and fuzzies that had gathered therein. ‘Sure. Of course. I love Cary Grant. I think he’s marvellous. I can even do an impression if you’d like.’
‘No need. Really.’
She fully deserved Adam’s bemused smile.
‘So to recap, Chris is a great guy who loves Cary Grant, collects bells—’
‘Shells,’ Adam corrected, pouring himself a glass of wine.
‘Shells,’ she said without missing a beat. ‘And shells…sells telephones for a living.’
Adam nodded slowly. ‘In a nutshell, yes. And he deserves a toast, don’t you think, for being the one to bring us together for this lovely lunch?’
‘Who?’ Cara asked, the soft and fuzzies winning hands down. ‘Cary Grant?’
Adam laughed, his head shaking, his eyes bright with amused confusion. ‘Why the heck not?’ He lifted his glass. ‘To Cary Grant.’
Cara had had enough. Another second of this conversation and she would probably forget her own name. She stood, dropped her napkin to the arm of her chair and then didn’t know where to put her hands. ‘You’ve been a fantastic help, but it’s time for me to be…elsewhere. Thanks for lunch. And I guess I’ll…see you ’round like a rissole!’
Before she could plant her foot deeper in her mouth Cara took off. She weaved through the tightly packed restaurant tables with her mind on the task ahead. Get to the television station. Meet Chris. Do the best job she could. Keep said job. Take home pay. Own St Kilda Storeys. So long as she kept that mantra going through her head, she was unstoppable. Surely?
Adam Tyler and his dreamy, distracting blue eyes did not come into the mantra once, so the bigger the distance between the two of them, the better.
Adam remained seated, debating internally whether it was better to watch her walk away, her lithe hips swinging as she mastered her outrageous shoes, or to watch her from front on, her lovely face so animated, her hands forever moving with nervous energy, and that huge flower bouncing about atop her head.
He dragged his interest away with some regret.
So, it looked as though Chris was going to be The Billionaire Bachelor. He cringed again. But that would have to be the last time. He had no choice. He was going to have to join bloody Chris on the set for the next two bloody weeks and act as babysitter to his bloody best friend.
‘Sex sells,’ Cara had said. He knew she was spot on. And if that feisty employee was anything to go by, he had the unsettling but mounting feeling that this show was going to produce fireworks…and that it would be in Revolution Wireless’s interest to be seen to be lighting the match.
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