‘Harder than you know,’ she said hollowly.
‘If you need any advice, you know where I am,’ he offered.
In spite of her troubles she had to laugh.
‘Somehow, Trev, I don’t think I’ll be calling on you for help,’ she said.
‘Well, if you do, you know the number. Did I tell you I’ve got a hot date tonight?’
‘No—with whom?’
‘Antonio.’
‘I thought he was on the back boiler?’
‘I’ve been rethinking the whole issue. Better to have loved and left than never to have loved at all.’
‘That’s not quite how that saying goes,’ she said with a wry twist to her mouth. ‘But have a good time. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Cara spent the next three days going through the books to see for herself how bad things really were. She met with the accountant and the bank manager, but the writing was well and truly on the wall—in neat and very precise figures. The bank manager was apologetic but realistic. He referred to the recent recession and advised her to accept the very generous financial help being offered; it was either that or declare herself bankrupt.
She left the bank in turmoil, blaming herself for not keeping a closer watch on things. Trevor was right; she had been down for the last couple of months—more than usual. Her twenty-ninth birthday was rapidly approaching and she hated her birthday. It reminded her of all she’d missed out on as a child.
She’d not long returned to the office when Trevor announced Byron’s arrival. Cara glanced at her watch, her stomach freefalling in alarm. She hadn’t heard from him since Tuesday afternoon, when she’d thrown his offer with its conditions in his face. She’d been pretending to herself that all of this was going to simply disappear. However, each morning she’d woken despairingly to the sickening realisation that this wasn’t just a bad dream.
‘Cara.’
She looked up to see him standing in the door of her office, his tall frame taking up much of the space. Any thoughts she’d had about making a timely escape were lost in the maelstrom of feeling that assailed her at seeing him once more.
He was dressed in a charcoal-grey business suit, which she assumed would be worth more than the contents of her entire current wardrobe. His shirt was white and his tie patterned in black, with tiny flecks of carmine. He looked fabulous.
She got up on unsteady legs and greeted him formally.
‘Mr Rockcliffe, I—’
‘Cara.’ His deep voice cut her off. ‘Let’s drop the formalities, shall we? This is you and me, remember?’
She tore her eyes away from the chocolatey depths of his and instead concentrated on the knot of his tie.
‘Byron, I don’t wish to be rude, but I think we should stop this right here and now. Your…your offer to help is a very generous one, but I’m afraid I can’t meet the terms.’
She saw his throat move up and down in a swallow and lifted her eyes slightly. He was frowning at her darkly, the line of his mouth hard.
‘So you’d rather lose everything you own in the world rather than resume a temporary relationship with me?’
‘Temporary?’ Cara blinked at him uncomprehendingly.
‘Of course temporary,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t want it any other way, would you?’
‘I…No, of course not,’ she said, looking away.
‘Well, then,’ he continued. ‘Let’s look at your options. You can come with me now, or you can ask me to leave. It’s as simple as that.’
Cara couldn’t speak. Thoughts were tumbling about her brain like clothes in a dryer. One thought kept tangling around the others until her head started to pound with the effort of keeping control of it.
‘What’s it to be, Cara?’ he asked. ‘Bankruptcy is no picnic. It’s like a scar that has to be worn for the rest of your financial life.’
She knew all about scars. How intuitive of him to use that analogy! She so wanted to resist his offer, but a vision of the balance sheets swam before her eyes. She imagined herself trying to approach a bank for a loan in the future. It would be hopeless; she’d be considered a risk through no fault of her own other than naïvety.
In an attempt to escape the past she’d thrown everything into her career. She’d clawed her way through her course with high distinctions, finding solace in restoring older houses to their former glory. She’d decorated new houses to offset the wonderful designs that came across her desk, using to advantage every colour, every fabric and drape to make a lasting impression. Now all her hard work was going to go to waste unless she agreed to one small condition. Not so small, she reminded herself. Not small at all.
‘Cara?’
She looked up at him once more, her throat tight with emotion.
‘Could…could I see the house first?’
His brow furrowed into an even deeper frown.
‘Why?’
She swallowed the restriction in her throat before answering.
‘I’d like to see the house, that’s all.’
‘So you can weigh up the benefits?’ His voice was hard with cynicism.
She turned away from the dark glitter of his eyes.
‘I no longer make hasty, emotionally driven decisions,’ she said in a cold, detached tone. ‘I like to see things from several angles first.’
‘Wise of you,’ he commented, watching her closely.
She schooled her features into impassivity and reached for her handbag.
‘Shall we go?’
The house was huge. Cara took a deep breath as Byron opened the front door and she stepped into the large foyer before him. A magnificent wrought-iron balustrade staircase swept the path of her eye upwards to the landing above where bright sunlight shafted through tall windows. The creamy marble floors in the living areas were interspersed with a toning plush crème carpet, creating added warmth.
She so wanted to do this house! It had an atmosphere like no other she’d ever been in.
‘What do you think?’ Byron spoke from behind her right shoulder.
She turned to face him, her eyes wide and expressive.
‘It’s…breathtaking.’
‘Come and look at the view,’ he said, leading her to the nearest window overlooking Neutral Bay.
She looked down on to the marina, beyond that to Kirribilli, and watched as the sunlight caught the mast of a passing yacht.
‘From the master bedroom you can see Shell Cove,’ he said into the silence.
‘It’s lovely, Byron.’ She turned to him once more. ‘It’s the most beautiful house I’ve ever seen.’
‘Praise indeed.’
She couldn’t distinguish his tone. His expression was masked, as if he didn’t want her to see what he was really thinking. She looked into his eyes, looking for reassurance. She found none. His eyes were like cold, deep pools—unfathomable, unreachable.
She moved away from the window and stepped down into the sunken lounge, her footsteps echoing along the floor. A large open fireplace took up almost one wall, and she imagined cosy evenings curled up on comfortable leather sofas, watching the flickering flames.
She was startled out of her reverie by the sound of Byron’s approach. She swung