Читать книгу Project: Runaway Heiress - Heidi Betts - Страница 10

At five minutes to eight, Lily was still racing around her apartment, trying to be ready before Nigel arrived.

It didn’t help that she’d just moved in and had brought very little with her from New York. Or that this was supposed to be merely a place to sleep. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive—at least by Los Angeles standards. Simply somewhere to rest and hunker down with her suspicions and evidence while she worked days at Ashdown Abbey.

Never had she imagined that her boss—CEO of the entire company—would decide to “drop by” and pick her up for dinner.

And then there was the fact that she hadn’t planned for after-hours job requirements. Once she’d arrived, she’d filled her closet with Ashdown Abbey business attire, not only to fit in, but to subconsciously give Nigel Statham and everyone else the impression that she absolutely belonged there. But she hadn’t purchased a single item for an evening out.

Granted, she could probably get away with wearing the same skirt and blouse that she’d worn that day. If she was attending this meal as Nigel’s personal assistant, then it couldn’t hurt for her to look like one.

But she suspected Nigel’s choice of restaurant might be of the highly upscale variety, and she didn’t want to stand out. Or worse, blend in with the servers.

So she’d done the best she could with what her limited current wardrobe had to offer.

Another black skirt, shorter this time, with a sexy—but not too sexy—slit up the back. A sheer, nearly diaphanous sapphire-blue blouse that she’d intended to wear as a shell over a more modest chemise top. Now, though, she wore it over only a bra.

She’d checked and double-checked in the mirror to be sure the effect wasn’t trashy. Thankfully, the bra was barely visible, even though in certain light, flashes of skin could be seen beneath the top.

To dazzle it up even more, she added sparkling chandelier earrings, a matching Y necklace, and open-toed four-inch heels that—now that she was wearing them—might be a bit too suggestive for nine-to-five. They were more than appropriate for a night out on the town, though, professional or otherwise.

She threw a few items like her wallet, a lipstick, keys and her cell phone—just in case—in a small, plain-black clutch, and finally thought she was ready enough to jump when Nigel arrived.

She’d just taken a deep, stabilizing breath and was contemplating one last visit to the restroom when the doorbell rang.

Whatever calm she’d managed to find with that long inhalation evaporated at the shrill, mechanical sound, and a lump of dread began to grow in the pit of her stomach.

Fingers curled around her purse, she swallowed hard and moved to the door. Because she didn’t want Nigel peeking inside and seeing that there were no personal touches to the apartment to affirm her claims of having lived in the city for several years, she opened it only a crack, using her body to block his view.

As quickly and smoothly as she could, she slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door closed and locked behind her. Leaning back, she used the doorjamb to prop herself up, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and overly scrutinized.

Nigel’s hazel eyes studied her from head to toe. He was standing so close, she could see the specks of green dotting his irises and smell his spicy-with-a-hint-of-citrus cologne.

She inhaled, drawing the scent deeper into her lungs, then realized what she was doing and stopped, holding her breath in hopes that he wouldn’t notice her small indiscretion.

It was not a good idea to start thinking her boss smelled good. She already found him attractive, simply because he was. Anyone, female or male, would have to agree based on his physical attributes alone. Much the way everyone knew the sky was blue, a handsome man was a handsome man.

That didn’t mean she should be building on that initial assessment by adding “smells really good” to the tally.

He was a good-looking man with exceptional taste in cologne, that’s all. Lily hoped that others might consider her on the pretty side with good taste in perfume, as well. Especially after how much time she’d put into her appearance tonight.

Nigel—her boss, her attractive and well-scented boss— returned his gaze to her face.

“You look lovely,” he commented. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

To her surprise, he offered his arm. There was nothing romantic in the gesture, only politeness. After a short hesitation, she slipped her hand around his elbow and let him lead her down the well-lit, utilitarian hallway of the apartment building.

Would an American man have acted so gentlemanly, or was it just Nigel’s British upbringing? Whatever the case, she liked it. Maybe a little too much.

They walked down the three short flights of stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. Outside, the early evening air was fresh and cool, but not cold. A long, silver Bentley Mulsanne waited at the curb, and Nigel opened the rear door, holding it while she got in.

She’d intended to slide across so he could climb in behind her, but there was a rather large console turned down between the two rear seats, as well as fold-out trays on the back of the front seats. The one on his side was down, with an open laptop resting on it.

While she was still marveling at the awesome interior of the luxury vehicle, Nigel opened the door opposite hers and took his place, quickly closing the computer and tray.

“Sorry about that,” he said, moving the laptop out of the way on the floor beside his briefcase.

When she didn’t respond—she was apparently sitting there frozen, like a raccoon caught rummaging through household garbage—he returned the center console to its upright position, then leaned past her to pluck the seat belt, stretch it across her motionless form and click it into place.

As he stretched to reach, his arm brushed her waist, terribly close to the underside of her breasts. A shiver of something very un-employee-like skated through her, warming places that had no business growing warm. She swallowed and tried to remain very still until the sensation passed.

Nigel, of course, had no idea of the response he’d caused by such an innocent action. And with luck, he never would.

Licking her lips, she tamped down on whatever was rolling around under her skin and made sure her lips were turned up in at least an imitation of a smile.

“Thank you,” she said, tugging at the safety belt to show that she was, indeed, alive and well and capable of simple human functions. “It looks like you’re working overtime,” she added, relieved that her voice continued to sound steady and normal.

He leaned back in the seat, running his hands along his thighs and letting out a breath as he relaxed a fraction. “There doesn’t seem to be overtime with this position. It’s round-the-clock.”

Lily certainly knew what he meant by that. She’d worked twenty-four/seven to establish the Zaccaro label. Then when her sisters had joined in, the three of them had given all they had to get the company truly up and running.

Even now that they had their boutique open and were producing items on more than a one-off basis, life was no less stressful or busy. They’d simply exchanged one set of problems for another. And having an office-slash-studio at home only kept the work closer at hand.

“For tonight’s dinner,” Nigel began in that accent that would be charming even if the looks and personality didn’t match—at least to her unaccustomed American ears, “we’re meeting with a designer who’s looking to move from Vincenze to a higher position at Ashdown Abbey.”

Lily’s eyes widened a second before she schooled her expression. Vincenze was a huge, multimillion-dollar design enterprise. A household name and very big deal. If she wasn’t busy running her own fashion-design business, she would have been ecstatic over the possibility of going to work for them.

Yet tonight they were meeting with someone who wanted to leave Vincenze for Ashdown Abbey.

Which wasn’t to say Ashdown Abbey was a lesser label. Far from it. If anything, Ashdown Abbey and Vincenze were similar when it came to levels of success. But their design aesthetics were entirely different, and it would definitely take some doing—at least in her experience—for a designer to go from one to the other without traversing a sharp learning curve.

Fighting to keep her mind on the job she was supposed to be doing rather than the one that came more naturally to her, Lily said, “I’m not sure exactly what my role is this evening.”

“Just listen,” he replied casually. “It will be a good way for you to learn the ropes, so to speak.”

He turned a little more in her direction and offered a warm smile. “Frankly, I asked you to join me so I wouldn’t have to be alone with this fellow. These so-called business dinners can sometimes drone on, especially if the potential employee attempts to regale me with a long list of his or her talents and abilities.”

Lily returned his grin. She knew what he meant; the fashion industry was filled with big mouths and bigger egos. She liked to think she wasn’t one of them, but there was a certain amount of self-aggrandizing required to promote oneself and one’s line.

“Maybe we should work out a signal and some prearranged topics of discussion,” she offered. “That way if things get out of hand and your eyes begin to glaze over, you can give me a sign and I’ll launch into a speech about global warming or some such.”

Nigel’s smile widened, showing a row of straight, sparkling-white teeth. “Global warming?” he asked, the amusement evident in his tone.

“It’s a very important issue,” she said, adopting a prim-and-proper expression. “I’m sure I could fill a good hour or two on the subject, if necessary.”

He nodded a few times, very slowly and thoughtfully, his lips twitching with suppressed humor. “That could certainly prove useful.”

“I thought so,” she agreed.

“What would you suggest we use as a signal?”

She thought about it for a minute. “You could tug at your earlobe,” she said. “Or kick me under the table. Or perhaps we could have a code word.”

“A code word,” he repeated, one brow lifting with interest. “This is all starting to sound very…double-oh-seven-ish.”

Appropriate, she supposed, since he reminded her a little of James Bond. It was the accent, she was sure. Her stomach tightened briefly.

Feigning a nonchalant attitude she didn’t entirely feel, she shrugged. “Spies are good at what they do for a reason. But if you’d prefer to be trapped for hours by a potential employee you can’t get away from, be my guest.”

Silence filled the rear of the car, only the sound of the tires rotating beneath them audible as the seconds ticked by and Lily’s anxiety grew.

She might have overstepped her bounds. After all, she’d only been in this man’s employ for twelve hours. That might have been a bit too early to start voicing her opinions and telling him what to do.

Worse, she probably shouldn’t have jumped on his mention of James Bond movies and followed the spy thread. Because technically, she was a spy within his organization, and she didn’t want him spending too much time wondering how she knew so much about the business of espionage.

“I definitely agree that an escape plan is in order,” Nigel said, finally breaking the nerve-inducing quiet. “How would it be if I inquired about your headache from earlier? You can say that it’s come back and you’d really like to get home so you can rest.”

“All right.” It sounded as good as anything else they might come up with, and she certainly knew more about headaches than she did about global warming.

“And if you grow bored,” he continued, “you can ask me if I’d like another martini. I’ll decline and say that we should get going, as I have an early appointment in the morning, anyway.”

“Will you be drinking martinis?” she asked.

“Tonight, I will,” he said, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “It will bolster our story, if we make an excuse to leave the restaurant early.”

“We haven’t even arrived at dinner yet, and already we’re thinking of ways to get away as soon as we’ve finished eating,” she remarked.

“That’s because it’s a boring, uptight business dinner. If this were a dinner date, I would already be considering options for drawing things out. Excuses to keep you there well past dessert.”

Lily’s heart skipped a beat, her palms growing damp even as a wave of unexpected heat washed over her. That was not the sort of thing she expected to hear from her boss. It didn’t feel like a benign, employer-to-employee comment, either. It felt much too…suggestive.

And on top of that, she was suddenly picturing it: a dinner date with Nigel rather than a business dinner. Sitting across from him at a candlelit table for two. Leaning into each other as they spoke in soft tones. Flirting, teasing, building toward something much more serious and intimate.

The warmth grew, spreading through her body like a fever. And when she imagined him reaching out, touching her hand where it rested on the pristine white linen of the tablecloth, she nearly jumped, it seemed so real.

Thankfully, Nigel didn’t notice because the car was slowing, and he was busy readjusting his tie and cuff links.

Lily licked her lips and smoothed her hands over her own blouse and skirt, making sure she was as well put together as he was.

When the car came to a complete stop, he looked at her again and offered an encouraging half smile. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded just as Nigel’s door was opened from the outside. He stepped out, then turned and reached back for her.

Purse in hand, she slid across the wide seat and let Nigel take her arm as she stepped out. His driver nodded politely before closing the door and moving back around the hood of the car to the driver’s seat.

Looking around, Lily realized they were standing outside of Trattoria. She wasn’t from Los Angeles, but even she recognized the name of the elegant five-star restaurant. To her knowledge, the waiting list for reservations was three to four months long.

Unless, she supposed, you were someone like Nigel. The Statham name—and bank account—carried a lot of weight. Not only in L.A. or England, either, but likely anywhere in the world.

She was no stranger to fine dining, of course. She’d grown up at country clubs and taken international vacations with her parents. She even knew a few world-renowned master chefs and restaurateurs personally.

But she wasn’t with her family now, and hadn’t lived that way for several years; she’d been too busy working her fingers to the bone and building her own company the old-fashioned way.

She was also supposed to be from more of a blue-collar upbringing, not a secret, runaway heiress. Which meant she shouldn’t be familiar with seven-course meals, real silverware or places like this, where appetizers started at fifty dollars a plate.

The good news was that she wouldn’t embarrass herself by not knowing which fork to use. The bad news was that she needed to act awed and out of her element enough not to draw suspicion. From anyone, but especially Nigel.

Passing beneath the dark green awning lined with sparkling lights, he led her past potted topiaries and through the wide French doors at the restaurant’s entrance.

A tuxedoed maître d’ met them immediately, and as soon as Nigel gave his name, they were led across the main dining area, weaving around tables filled with other well-dressed customers who were talking and laughing and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their expensive meals.

At the rear of the restaurant, the maître d’ paused, waving to a medium-size table set for four where another man was already seated.

Rounding the table, Nigel held a chair out for her while the other man rose. He was young—mid to late twenties, Lily would guess—with dark hair and an expensive suit. Most likely a Vincenze, even one of his own designs, since that’s where he was currently working.

“Mr. Statham,” the designer greeted Nigel, holding out his hand.

Nigel waited until she was seated to reach across the table and shake.

“Thank you for meeting with me.”

Nigel inclined his head and introduced them. “Lillian, this is Harrison Klein. Mr. Klein, this is my assistant, Lillian George.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Harrison said, taking her hand next.

When they were all seated, a waiter brought leather-bound menus and took their drink orders. True to his word, Nigel ordered a dry martini. He even made a point of asking for it “shaken, not stirred,” then turned to her with a humorous and entirely too distracting wink.

Soon after they placed the rest of their orders, their salads and entrées arrived, and they made general small talk while they ate. Nigel asked questions about Klein’s schooling and experience and his time at Vincenze.

It was odd to be sitting at a table with another designer and the CEO of one of the biggest labels in the United Kingdom—and soon possibly the United States—without adding to the discussion. So many times, she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking questions of her own or inserting her two cents here and there into the conversation.

In order to avoid saying something she shouldn’t, she stayed busy sipping her wine, toying with the stem of her glass, studying the lines of each of their outfits. Mentally she deconstructed them, laying out patterns, cutting material and sewing them back up.

Finally, they were finished with their meals and the table was cleared. Nigel declined the dessert menu for all of them, but asked for coffee.

And then he held out a hand to the other man. “Your portfolio?”

Harrison’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, but he leaned over and retrieved his portfolio from the floor beside his chair. He passed it to Nigel, then sat back and waited quietly.

Lily found her pulse kicking up just a fraction. This was such an important, nerve-racking moment for any designer. She still wondered why someone who already had a job at a successful design corporation would be interested in moving.

She had gone an entirely different route, striking out on her own to establish a personal label and company instead of taking a job elsewhere and working her way up the ladder.

In a lot of ways, that would have been easier. It might have taken her longer to form her own label and have her own storefront, but she certainly would have learned from the best and maybe avoided some of the pitfalls she’d encountered while barreling ahead with her one-woman—and then three-woman, thank goodness—show.

The tension at the table thickened as Nigel studied the portfolio carefully, page by page. Sitting beside him, Lily could see each design clearly, and couldn’t resist drinking them in.

After several long minutes, Nigel closed the portfolio and passed it back. “Very nice, Harrison, thank you.”

From the other man’s expression, Lily could tell he’d been hoping for a far more exuberant response. She almost felt sorry for him.

“We’d best call it an evening,” Nigel continued, “but we have your résumé and contact information, and will be in touch.”

Klein’s face fell, but he recovered quickly. “I appreciate that. Thank you very much,” he said, holding out his hand.

The two men shook, putting a clear end to the dinner meeting. But Lily couldn’t resist tossing in a quick, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like another martini?”

Nigel raised a brow in her direction, one corner of his mouth twitching in mirth.

“No, thank you. I’ve had quite enough to drink. I think it would be best if we call it a night, especially considering our early morning meetings.”

Biting back her personal amusement, she nodded. The three of them rose, said their goodbyes and headed out of the restaurant. It took a few minutes for Nigel’s car to arrive, but they were silent until they were closed inside and the vehicle was slowly moving again.

“So,” Nigel began, shifting on the wide leather seat to face her more fully. “What did you think?”

Somewhat startled by the question, Lily swallowed. “About what?”

“Klein,” he intoned. “The interview. His designs.”

What a loaded set of questions, she thought. She had opinions, to be sure. But as his personal assistant, should she be spouting them off? And what if she said too much, revealed herself as being too knowledgeable for such a low-level position?

“It’s all right. You can speak freely,” he said, almost as though he’d read her mind. “I want your honest opinion. It doesn’t mean I’ll listen, but I’m curious all the same. And it won’t have an impact on your position at Ashdown Abbey one way or the other, I promise.”

Hoping he was as good as his word, she gave a gentle shrug. “He’s talented, that’s for certain.”

“But…”

“No buts,” she corrected quickly. “He’s clearly very talented.”

Nigel kept his gaze locked on her, laser eyes drilling into her like those of a practiced interrogator.

“Fine,” she breathed on a soft sigh. “He’s very talented, but…I don’t think his designs are at all suitable for Ashdown Abbey.”

“Why not?” he asked in a low voice.

“Ashdown Abbey is known for its high-end business attire, even though you’ve recently branched out into casual and sportswear. But Klein’s aesthetic leans more toward urban hip. I can see why he’s done well at Vincenze—they’ve got a strong market in New York and Los Angeles with urban street and activewear. But Ashdown Abbey is a British company, known for clothes that are a bit more professional and clean-cut.”

She paused for a moment, wondering if she’d said too much or maybe overstepped her bounds.

“Unless you’re planning to move in that direction,” she added, just to be safe.

Long seconds ticked by while Nigel simply stared at her, not a single thought readable on his face. Then one side of his mouth lifted, the hazel-green of his eyes growing brighter.

“No, we have no plans to move in that direction for the time being,” he agreed. “Your assessment is spot-on, you know. Exactly what I was thinking while I flipped through his designs.”

For a moment, Lily sat in stunned silence, both surprised and delighted by his reaction. She so easily could have screwed up.

With a long mental sigh of relief, she reminded herself that she was supposed to be poised and self-assured. She’d lobbied for the job as his PA by making it clear she knew her stuff. As long as she didn’t let anything slip about her true identity or reason for being there, why shouldn’t she let a little of her background show?

“Maybe you’ll be glad you hired me, after all,” she quipped.

He gave her a look. A sharp, penetrating look that nearly made her shrink back inside her shell of insecurity.

And then he spoke, his deep voice and spine-tingling accent almost making her melt into the seams of the supple leather seat.

“I think I already am.”