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‘It’s hard to tell. Her parents divorced when she was nine, her mother relocated to California and retained primary custody. She doesn’t court publicity the way her half-brothers do. If she does have a relationship with Randolph, it’s a very private one.’
So it was unlikely that she’d been a spy—but not impossible! Perhaps Randolph had dispatched her to find out what Damon was up to...what edge he had with Caldwell or any other deal under negotiation.
‘The two of you meeting in Paris could just be a crazy coincidence,’ Isobel voiced, as though reading his thoughts.
‘I’m not sure I believe in a coincidence that big,’ he muttered, with quelling severity.
He couldn’t afford to—not where the Randolphs were concerned.
‘What do you want to do?’ she asked, after a long silence.
Damon thought quickly, calculating all the different scenarios at play. There was only one course of action to ensure his plans continued unthreatened.
‘Nothing. If she was sent to find information, she didn’t get anything. And if it was, as you say, just a coincidence, then showing a reaction could tip my hand to Randolph. So I do nothing. Pretend it never happened. Never think of her again. Never see her again. Just make certain you get a guest list for any events I’m scheduled to be at—ensure she and I don’t end up in the same place.’
‘Of course.’ Isobel nodded, getting to her feet and leaving him alone.
Damon rose from his chair, finally giving in to the nauseating agitation burning through his bloodstream.She was Randolph’s daughter. How could he have been so stupid as not to see it?
His chest see-sawed as he rewound through their encounter—all the ways she had mesmerised him, coaxed him into letting his guard down. But never again. From now on he didn’t want to think about, lay eyes on, or speak to Carrie Miller—or Caroline Randolph...whatever her name was.
Even without her mother telling her so, Carrie knew she couldn’t hold off telling Damon about her pregnancy once it had been confirmed by her doctor. Her calls and emails to his company headquarters, however, had gone unanswered, so when she heard that he was scheduled to attend a children’s charity ball in Los Angeles she decided to drive up to LA, where his West Coast headquarters were located.
She left at the break of dawn, eager to get the encounter out of the way and to minimise the chance of being spotted. It was miraculous that they had gone without being sighted together in Paris, particularly since so many of Damon’s social outings and female companions were noted in some tabloid or other or on a gossip site.
Since returning home Carrie had more than once suffered brief spasms of anxiety as she had belatedly considered exactly what their being seen together might have unleashed, and there was no guarantee she would be so fortunate again—especially not in Los Angeles, where there were more paparazzi in one square foot than anywhere else on the planet.
If she was caught with Damon and presumed to be his new lover—subjected to the gossip and scrutiny his previous lovers had experienced—she knew it wouldn’t take long for her real identity to be uncovered. And the revelation that Jacob Meyer’s son and Sterling Randolph’s daughter were lovers would be salacious enough to guarantee she would find herself at the centre of a new media storm.
The prospect of her life coming under such intrusive scrutiny for a second time, of being watched and followed and whispered about, was too harrowing to bear.
But it was still quiet when she arrived in LA and made the short walk from where she’d parked her car to Damon’s offices. She’d viewed pictures of the building online, but the reality was even more impressive. The space was modern and fresh and bright. The striking glass-fronted building gave way to a contemporary interior with cool white and grey flooring and walls. Low-slung white seats and glass tables were clustered in the corners. An angular reception desk held central position in front of a large pond, and a back wall of windows led onto a lush green courtyard scattered with rattan tables and chairs and benches.
The whole building was a testament to Damon’s design and architectural skill, and Carrie couldn’t help thinking how it was the polar opposite to her father’s more grand and oppressive creations.
But as she made her way to the reception desk she started to feel more jittery than she had expected, and almost wished she hadn’t declined her mother’s offer to accompany her in favour of facing Damon alone. Because the sudden tightness swelling in her chest was enough to make her want to turn around and speed back to the sanctuary of Santa Barbara.
But she reminded herself that Damon had a right to know he was going to be a father—a right to decide his own level of involvement. It was not her place to make that decision for him. And Carrie needed to know where she and her child stood, or she would spend the coming years wondering, always thinking of him and speculating on what might have been.
‘Can I help you?’ the polished receptionist asked as Carrie reached the desk, her voice almost echoing in the early-morning quiet.
‘Yes,’ Carrie said, before her fear of Damon’s reaction overpowered her conviction that she needed and wanted to tell him. ‘I need to speak to Damon Meyer. I don’t have an appointment,’ she added, anticipating the question. ‘But if you could just let him know that Carrie Miller is here? Tell him I need to talk to him about... Paris.’
‘Mr Meyer doesn’t take unscheduled meetings.’
The girl delivered the stock line without a beat of hesitation and an almost pitying smile, and immediately Carrie realised she was probably not the first unsolicited female visitor who had attempted to breach the inner sanctum of Damon Meyer.
It was a timely reminder that she was just one amongst the many, and humiliation burned in her cheeks. But she kept her feet planted in the same spot, rooted there by the vow she had made to her unborn child to do everything she possibly could to reach its father, because it was what her child deserved.
‘Please,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’m sure he has a very busy day, but five minutes is all I need. So if there is anything you can do...’
The plea in her eyes must have been immense, because after a minuscule hesitation the girl picked up the telephone and spoke quietly into it before hanging up, the corners of her mouth tipped down.
‘I’m sorry. His day is fully booked.’
Carrie felt like a balloon that had been popped. It had taken every ounce of courage she possessed to get to LA and prepare herself to face Damon. To think that it had all been for nothing and she would have to manage the ordeal all over again was exhausting.
‘Okay. Thank you for trying.’
