The Blackmail Pregnancy (2 page)

‘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 to cover the silence. ‘And Trevor is fun to be around. He’s so creative, inspiring me to do things I haven’t done before.’

‘Like go bankrupt?’ he put in neatly.

She flashed him a resentful glare.

‘Things are tight just now, but I’m sure we’ll get out of it.’

‘Your confidence does you credit,’ he said. ‘But from what I’ve gathered so far, things are very much on the downhill run.’

‘That’s not true!’ Her denial was overdone but she couldn’t stop herself in time. She just couldn’t allow him to gloat over her failure. Her pride wouldn’t cope. She wouldn’t cope.

‘Did Trevor tell you the bank is threatening to foreclose on your business loan?’ he asked.

Panic rose in her throat and she swallowed it down with difficulty.

‘I…’

‘And that unless your cashflow increases dramatically everything you’ve put into the business will be lost, as well as any assets you might have accumulated over the past seven years?’ He paused for effect. ‘I trust you do have some sort of asset base?’

‘Of course I do!’ She glared at him angrily. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’

‘I’m making it my business.’

His statement held a trace of implacability about it that totally unnerved her. She released her clenched fists with an effort. She held on to the back of his office chair for support but it offered little; her fingers were trembling and the chair shifted under their feeble grasp.

‘Wh…what do you mean?’

He waited until her eyes had returned to his to answer.

‘I’m digging you out of bankruptcy. I’ll settle the overdraft and pay off any outstanding debts you might have.’

‘Why would you do that?’ she asked, her mouth suddenly bone dry. ‘What possible reason could you have for doing that?’

‘I have a very good reason,’ he said evenly.

A flutter of apprehension settled deep in her stomach. Here comes the fine print, she thought to herself: his conditions.

‘And that is?’ She managed to get the three words past the stiff line of her mouth.

His dark eyes held hers for a lengthy period before he finally spoke.

‘I want you to have my baby.’

‘Y
OU’RE
out of your mind!’ Cara threw the words at him in disbelief. ‘You surely can’t be serious?’

‘Deadly serious.’

‘But…’ She ran her tongue over her parched lips agitatedly. ‘But why? Why me?’

‘As I said earlier, you’re the one I want.’

She gaped at him with a combination of incredulity and dread.

‘But why now?’ she asked in desperation. ‘Why now, after all this time?’

He got to his feet and she fought against the instinct to shrink behind his desk. He didn’t approach her, but his eyes were like diamond chips as he stood watching every nuance of her expression.

‘I’m the only one left in my family without children. I’m thirty-six years old and I want to look my own son or daughter in the eyes, not just those of my nieces and nephews.’

‘But there are any number of women out there who would jump at the chance,’ she croaked. ‘With your sort of money you could even pay someone to do it, for God’s sake!’

‘I am paying someone to do it,’ he said.

‘Not me, you’re not.’ She shook her head. ‘No way.’

She brushed past him to pick up her bag, but his hand snaked out and caught her, bringing her up short. She was suddenly much too close to him—too close to breathe, too close to think, too close to escape.

‘Think about it, Cara.’ His voice was gravelly. ‘You can have it all. You can still have your career—my money will re-establish it.’

She tested his hold but it was firm. She met his eyes but they were implacable, determined. She felt cornered, like a small animal in a carefully constructed snare, all the tiny wires pulling against her resisting flesh.

‘Don’t do this to me, Byron,’ she choked. ‘Surely you don’t hate me this much?’

He took his time answering and Cara felt the warmth of his breath on her face as he stood so close to her. Her traitorous body was already leaning towards him, looking for him, as if searching for her missing link.

‘I don’t hate you any more,’ he said in a flat tone. ‘I don’t feel anything where you’re concerned. I know what I want and I want you to be the one to give it to me.’

‘But why?’ she asked again. ‘Is this some sort of sick seven-year plan for revenge?’

He shook his head, his hand still hard on her wrist.

‘Not at all. As I told you, I’ve come to a certain point in my life where I want to achieve certain things. I don’t want to be too old to enjoy my children. Nor do I want to wake up on the morning I turn forty and think—Oh, my God, I forgot to have kids! Don’t you think about that sometimes, Cara?’

‘Never,’ she lied. ‘I never think about it.’

‘Well, I do,’ he said. ‘I think about it constantly. My three siblings are all younger than me and they all have children. Felicity is having her second in five weeks or so.’

Cara thought of Byron’s younger sister in the last stages of pregnancy and swallowed deeply.

‘Please don’t ask this of me,’ she pleaded with him. ‘I’m not the right person. I don’t have what it takes.’

‘You do, but you just won’t admit it. Deep down inside, where the real Cara is buried, you want the same thing I want. God knows I tried to get you to see it seven years ago, but failed. I’m not letting this opportunity pass without another attempt.’

‘This is so cold-blooded!’ she railed. ‘How can you even think of bringing such a scheme about? It’s inhuman. It’s despicable, it’s—’

‘Nevertheless, it’s what I want.’

‘And what you want you automatically get?’

‘Sometimes. Not always. But this time I’m counting on it.’

‘Well, Byron, you’ve counted all wrong, because I’m not playing the game. Go find yourself another incubator—this one’s not for sale.’

She wrenched herself out of his grasp and threw herself towards the door. She got to the lift and stabbed at the button, almost falling over in shock when immediately the doors pinged open. The lift whooshed down to the ground floor before the colour had returned to her face. She stepped out onto the busy city street and lost herself amongst the milling crowds, all the while trying to make some sense of the last hour.

Byron was a stranger to her now. Gone was the easygoing young man who’d swept her off her feet with one quick smile. In his place was a man determined to bring about his own agenda, no matter what it cost. She could only see it as a plan for revenge—but why had he waited so long to activate it? Had he been biding his time, waiting until she was truly vulnerable to swoop down and capture her?

‘Trevor.’ Her voice was ragged as she clutched the mobile to her ear. ‘Tell me what the hell’s going on.’

‘Sweetie.’ Her partner’s tone was placating. ‘You sound distracted. Didn’t the meeting with Lord Byron go so well?’

‘Lord is right,’ she answered wryly. ‘If anyone has a god complex it’s Byron Rockcliffe.’

‘I take it he’s calling the shots?’

‘More than you realise.’ She stalled for breath before she asked, ‘Trevor, why didn’t you tell me how bad things really were?’

‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been down the last couple of months, and—’

‘Trevor! I’ve been “down” for years, let’s be honest. Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I feel it’s my fault,’ he confessed awkwardly. ‘I’ve pushed you along with my “creative genius”, as you so fondly call it, but I haven’t stopped to consider the risks. Now, I’m afraid, you’re paying the price for that oversight.’

‘I’m not paying any price,’ she reassured him. ‘Byron is over the top. I’m not doing what he wants.’

There was an ominous silence at the end of the line.

‘Trevor?’

‘Listen, Cara,’ his tone was resigned. ‘We have no choice. We’re going belly-up without his help, and I can’t call in any more favours to see us through. Just do what he says and let’s get on with it. Surely it can’t be that hard to decorate his castle and move on?’

‘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 away from the fireplace and headed for the kitchen, uncomfortable with being in the same room as him for too long.

‘The kitchen, as you can see, has already been decorated.’ Byron spoke from his leaning position against the doorframe.

‘It’s very nice,’ she offered, running a hand across the black gleam of the granite countertop.

Stainless steel appliances added to the modern effect, and she knew she would have chosen exactly the same. She wondered if he’d chosen the design himself, or if perhaps his sister Felicity had helped him.

‘I thought it would be best to get a head start on this. You can choose the colours for the rest of the house—the carpets and furniture and drapes and so on. Do whatever you think. I won’t balk at the price.’

Cara’s hand fell away from the smooth countertop as he stepped towards her.

‘Byron, I—’

He cut off her speech with a long lean finger pressed gently but firmly against the soft swell of her lips.

‘No, Cara,’ he said softly. ‘I don’t want to hear your final decision yet.’

Her eyes communicated her distress.

‘You haven’t made up your mind, I can tell,’ he continued, his dark eyes never once leaving her face. ‘But you’re sorely tempted—aren’t you, Cara?’

She tried to shake her head, but couldn’t move under the caress of his finger, tracing the line of her bottom lip on a path of rediscovery that sent tremors of feeling to her curling toes and back.