There’d been not a hint of flirtation in his manner, however, and she’d been prepared to concede that perhaps the tabloid Press had it all wrong. He wasn’t a playboy, she’d decided that day. He was a serious businessman whose bachelor status and movie-star good looks made him an easy target for salacious stories about his love life.
It wasn’t till afterwards—about a month into the job actually—that she discovered how wrong she’d been. Hugh was just what he’d been depicted as: just like that other boss of hers, he hadn’t wanted an assistant. He’d wanted her to do his damned job for him whilst he was off having five-hour lunches and playing golf and who knew what else with the never-ending number of women who bombarded the office with calls running after him!
Well, she hadn’t been having any of that. Not a second time. So she’d informed him, as tactfully as her indignant fury would allow, that the editors of Parkinson’s many magazines— the ones he was supposedly in charge of—didn’t want to deal with his secretary. They wanted him—their boss—to be there to talk to, and run ideas by, and to make the many decisions which had to be made on a daily basis.
When he still hadn’t shown up at work on a regular basis she’d rung him continually, badgering him over the phone till it had probably been easier for him to spend at least a few hours in the office every day.
Which should have made her happy.
But oddly, it hadn’t.
His increased presence gradually began to grate on her nerves, she wasn’t sure why.
So had Daryl’s never-ending jealousy.
‘No boyfriend wants his girlfriend working for a billionaire,’ Daryl had complained soon after she’d started the job. ‘Certainly not one with Hugh Parkinson’s reputation. What if he makes a move towards you? What if he asks you to go away with him to a conference or something?’
She’d placated Daryl at the time, telling him that he was being silly, that she loved him and only him, and that she would never have her head turned by the likes of Hugh Parkinson.
Daryl had asked her to prove it by agreeing to marry him.
Kathryn had still been reluctant. Although she wanted marriage, underneath she was afraid of it. Afraid of trusting her life to any man. Over the years she’d had a history of falling for guys who’d proved to be less than perfect.
But then two things had happened to change her mind. Firstly, Val had finally succumbed to the cancer she’d been battling for several years. Not an unexpected event, but still very upsetting. Then Kathryn had received a letter from a solicitor shortly after Val’s funeral, saying that Val had willed the beach house to her, provided she marry before she turned thirty. If she was still single on that date—which at that time had been a few months away—the house would be sold and the proceeds given to cancer research.
Kathryn had initially been shocked with her old friend for using emotional blackmail to push her into marriage. In the end, however, she’d been grateful to Val for forcing the issue and making her see common sense.
OK, so Daryl wasn’t perfect. But then neither was she. If she kept waiting for Mr Perfect to come along, she would die a lonely old maid.
Initially, Daryl hadn’t been too thrilled when she accepted his proposal. He’d accused her of not really loving him, of just using him to get her hands on a million-dollar property. Which was what the Pearl Beach weekender was currently worth. She’d soothed him by revealing that she had no intention of ever selling the house; that it was a place of great sentiment to her. He’d soothed her in return by taking her to bed and showing her why she’d fallen in love with him in the first place.
Once Kathryn had decided on marriage to Daryl, she’d embraced the idea one hundred and ten per cent, immediately making detailed plans for their future together. Naturally, she’d chosen the ring—Daryl might have picked something ridiculously expensive—and made all the arrangements, insisting that they have an inexpensive ceremony and reception—only ten guests—followed by an even more inexpensive honeymoon.
When Daryl complained about her miserliness, she’d explained that she wasn’t going to waste any of her hard-earned savings on what was really just a party and an excuse for a holiday, both come and gone in a flash. She needed every cent for a decent deposit on a house here in Sydney.
Sydney was, after all, the most expensive city in Australia to live in. Houses came at a premium. So did interest rates. She wasn’t about to fall into the trap of having too large a mortgage which they wouldn’t be able to pay back, once she left work to have a baby.