‘How much time?’
‘A day or two—maybe three,’ she answered, recalling her interminable wait for him in Reception.
He seemed to give her response some thought.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘You have three days. I’ll meet you at your office at twelve noon on Friday, but I want no further delays.’
‘What exactly is the hurry on this?’ she asked. ‘You surely know enough about the business to realise a good job takes time?’
He tossed aside the pen he’d been clicking.
‘I wish to move into the house as soon as possible. As it is, I’ve been at a hotel for three weeks and I’m getting a little impatient with all the stalling.’
‘This is your house?’ She looked at him in shock. ‘You’re going to live there?’
He nodded.
‘But…but you live in Melbourne,’ she said in rising panic. ‘What about your family? And your business?’
‘I decided it was time for a change.’
She took one deep swallow, hoping he couldn’t see the way his words had unsettled her.
‘The telephone directory is full of interior designers crying out for work,’ she said, disguising her inner turmoil with an even tone. ‘Why me?’
‘Why not you?’
‘Because there are so many more talented designers than me, that’s why.’
‘But I want you.’
Four simple words, but somehow she sensed a double meaning in them. She sat on the edge of her seat, her hands clamped down on her knees to keep them from trembling in reaction.
‘I’m flattered, of course,’ she said without sincerity.
He got to his feet and his face came out of the shadows. Cara felt her breath trip in her throat at his sheer height and presence. His six feet five to her five feet seven had always been slightly intimidating, and now it was even more so. His dark straight hair was cut short and smoothed into place with styling gel. His clean-shaven jaw was already developing an evening shadow. The soft skin of her cheeks tingled in remembrance of the feel of his masculine skin rasping along hers. His mouth was set in a grim line, as if he was no longer in the habit of smiling. She mentally recalled his smile; it had been the first thing she’d noticed all those years ago: straight, even white teeth, and lips that curved upwards, sending crinkles of amusement to the corner of his chocolate eyes. Those eyes held no trace of such laughter now.
‘You’ve changed your hair.’
Cara was knocked out of her silent reverie at his words. She got to her feet and self-consciously tucked a strand of blonde highlighted hair back behind her ear.
‘Yes.’
She reached for the plans, but her hands fumbled picking them up and she watched as they slipped from her nervous grasp to lie in disarray on the floor. She bent down to retrieve them, but Byron had already swooped and was gathering them up. Cara reached for the last paper at the same time he did, her fingers touching his briefly. She pulled her hand away as if she’d been stung and got awkwardly to her feet.
She could feel his eyes on her and it made her angry that she couldn’t get through this meeting without falling apart. She was sure he was enjoying her discomfiture. She was almost certain he’d engineered the whole enterprise. But why? He hadn’t seen her in seven long years. What could he possibly want with her now?
The intercom buzzed and Cara let out her halted breath as he moved to the desk, her heart fluttering like an injured bird in her chest.
The cool, clear tones of the receptionist filled the silence.
‘Byron, Mr Hardy is here to see you.’
‘Thank you, Samantha.’
Cara gathered up her things and wondered what he called her in private. Would it be Sam, or Sammie? Grinding her teeth, she put the plans in her portfolio, resentment rising with every second.
‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘Please take a seat; I’ll get Sam to bring you some coffee.’
‘No, I must—’ She looked up to protest but he’d already left the office.
Cara had no choice but to put her things back down and wait for him. Indignation fuelled along her veins at his overbearing handling of her—as if she had nothing better to do with her time than play musical chairs in his suite of offices.
She ignored the chair she’d perched on earlier and, checking over her shoulder, approached the desk. His leather office chair still held the impression of his muscled thighs and she tore her eyes away from it. She didn’t want to think about those thighs entwined with hers, his hair-roughened legs scraping along the smooth flesh of her own as he…
She swung away to inspect his desk. It was crafted out of Tasmanian myrtle, the rich red hues of the timber creating a type of warmth that made her want to reach out and touch it.
There was a photograph on the right-hand side of his computer console and before she could stop herself she picked it up and looked at it.
The Rockcliffe family were all there, with their various partners—two of whom she didn’t recognise—and gathered around them like trophies were six small children. Cara examined the features of each individual child and saw a little bit of Byron in each of them. An ache settled somewhere almost unreachable inside her, and she put the photograph down just as the office door reopened.
Byron’s gaze swept over her standing behind his desk.
‘I see you’ve reacquainted yourself with the family.’ His tone was dry.
Cara stepped away from the desk with a guilty flush.
‘That’s quite some stud you’ve got happening down there,’ she said in a voice that belied the true state of her feelings. ‘Tell me, Byron, which children are yours?’
His eyes hardened momentarily. Cara prepared herself mentally for his reply, hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much to hear how he was the father of one or two of those beautiful little faces in the photograph, not to mention the pain of finding out which of the young women was his new wife.
‘None,’ he stated flatly.
It took Cara a while for his one-word reply to sink in.
‘None?’
‘None.’
He took the chair she’d been sitting in earlier and propped one ankle across his knee in a casual pose. Cara envied his calm as he sat and watched her like an eagle, circling way above its prey, patiently waiting until it was finally time to swoop.
She couldn’t hold his gaze. She absently fiddled with a paperclip on his desk, trying to frame the question that tore at her insides like rough claws. But before she could ask he asked one of his own.
‘Any regrets, Cara?’
‘What do you mean?’ She glanced towards him briefly, not trusting herself to linger too long on his face. She didn’t want him to see the pain in her eyes, the deep pang of regret and self-recrimination that was nearly always reflected there.
‘Choosing your career over motherhood. Tell me, has it been as fulfilling as you anticipated?’
The paperclip pricked her finger and she let it drop back in the tray with an audible ‘ping’.
‘Of course,’ she answered without meeting his gaze.
She could tell he didn’t believe her.
‘I love my job,’ she said