The Blackmail Pregnancy. Melanie Milburne
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have an appointment with Mr Rockcliffe,’ she said in a voice that sounded distinctly rusty. ‘At three p.m.’
The receptionist glanced at the appointment file on the computer screen in front of her.
‘Ms Gillem?’
‘Yes,’ Cara answered.
‘He’s running a little behind.’ The receptionist lifted a clear blue gaze from the screen to meet Cara’s hazel one. ‘If you don’t mind waiting…’
‘How much behind?’ Cara interjected in irritation.
Now that she was here she wanted it over. She didn’t want to be cooling her heels in his reception area under the catwalk gaze of his latest flavour of the month.
‘Twenty minutes?’ The blue eyes held no trace of apology. ‘Maybe thirty.’
Cara took a steadying breath.
‘I’ll wait.’
Forty-three minutes later Cara heard the buzz of the intercom and buried her head back in the magazine she’d been pretending to read. Her heart thumped and her fingers shook as she turned the next page.
‘Ms Gillem?’ The receptionist’s cool voice lifted Cara’s head from the article on off-the-road four-wheel driving.
‘He’ll see you now,’ she said. ‘It’s the first door on your right down the hall.’
Cara got to her feet, put the magazine down amongst the others and made her way down the hall on legs that threatened to give way beneath her. The hand she lifted to knock on the door marked ‘Byron Rockcliffe’ was visibly trembling, but she straightened her back and waited for his command.
‘Come in.’
His deep voice washed over her in waves as she turned the doorknob. Her eyes searched for him as soon as the door was open, and found him seated casually behind his gargantuan desk. She was at an immediate disadvantage, as his broad shoulders blocked the afternoon light slanting in from the windows behind his desk. Although most of his face was in shadow, she could somehow sense his expression. She knew it would be mocking, sardonic, unaffected, while she stood before him like a reprimanded schoolgirl, her knees threatening to break the cool silence with their attempt to knock against each other.
‘Cara.’
One word. Two syllables. Four letters.
‘Byron.’
So formal. So coldly formal.
‘Have a seat.’
She sat.
He leant back in his chair and surveyed her face for interminable seconds.
‘Would you like a drink? Coffee? Something stronger?’ he asked.
She shook her head and tightened her grasp on the portfolio she had clutched to her chest.
‘Nothing, thank you. I’d prefer it if we were to get straight down to business.’
He reached for a pen, twirling it in his hand as his dark chocolate gaze met and held hers.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, putting the gold pen down. ‘The business. How’s it going, by the way?’
‘Excuse me?’ Her tone was wary.
‘Your business.’
‘Fine.’
Even in shadow she could see the sceptical quirk of one dark brow.
‘Fine?’
She swallowed and clutched her folder a little closer, as if it would protect her from the heat of his penetrating gaze.
‘I’m sure you know I wouldn’t be here if it were fine,’ she said in a cold, almost detached voice.
‘Wild horses wouldn’t have dragged you?’ he quipped.
‘I thought Melbourne was your stamping ground,’ she said.
‘I’ve expanded,’ he said. ‘Business is booming.’
‘Congratulations.’ Her tone was anything but congratulatory.
‘Thank you.’
‘Trevor informed me of your request,’ she said into the tight silence that had fallen between them. ‘I can’t imagine why you insist on me doing the work. Trevor is the creative brains behind our decorating business.’
‘Your tendency to undersell yourself hasn’t faded, I see,’ he commented idly. ‘How is your mother, by the way?’
‘She’s dead.’
Cara felt a faint glimmer of satisfaction at his reaction. Her simple statement had jerked him upright in his chair.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I hadn’t heard.’
She shrugged her slim shoulders dismissively.
‘It was a very private funeral.’ Her voice was flat and unemotional. ‘My mother had few friends.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Three years,’ she said. ‘It was very…quick.’
‘Cancer?’
‘No.’ She met his dark gaze briefly. ‘Complications after simple surgery.’
‘It must have been a terrible shock for you.’
Cara rolled her lips and lamented the absence of lipstick. Ironic, really, that the absence of lipstick was more important to her than the demise of her mother.
‘One moves on,’ she said dispassionately.
‘One does,’ he replied, watching her steadily.
‘So.’ She swivelled her chair so that she was on a level with his dark eyes. ‘Let’s get down to business. Trevor said the property is in Cremorne. Does it have a harbour view, or is it—?’
‘I’ll take you there this afternoon,’ he interjected.
‘I can make my own way there,’ she put in hastily.
‘As you wish.’
Cara bit her lip. This was all wrong. She didn’t feel at all like a person who laid down colour sheets and furniture brochures for the client’s appraisal. She felt inadequate and on edge, as if the floor beneath her was going to be ripped out from under her.
‘I need to go over colour schemes,’ she said. ‘I need to get some idea of layout, and—’
‘I’ve got the plans here.’ He reached towards a black shiny briefcase on one end of the large desk. He handed a sheaf of papers to her. ‘All the specifications are there.’
She glanced down at the papers in her hands.
‘What’s the date of completion?’ she asked.
‘October first.’
‘That’s not a lot of time.’
‘A month,’ he said. ‘Long enough.’
She lifted her eyes to his.
‘Most furniture manufacturers require at least six to eight weeks’ notification—fabric availability and so on.’
‘So choose ones that only take a month,’ he suggested.
‘But—’
‘Do it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you of all people can pull a few strings to bring it about.’
Cara swallowed her answering retort and instead focused on the plans on her lap. The intricate architectural drawings blurred in front of her; it was like trying to read an ancient script with no prior knowledge of the language. She felt her nerves tightening in the back of her neck as she struggled to make sense