Читать книгу The Billionaire Boss's Innocent Bride - Lindsay Armstrong - Страница 7
ОглавлениеCHAPTER TWO
AT FIVE minutes to six that evening, Alex barrelled into the foyer of Goodwin House with her hair and scarf flying and a variety of shopping bags hanging from her arms.
She looked around breathlessly for the penthouse buzzer and was intercepted by the commissionaire. She gave him her name and told him who she needed to see. He looked doubtful for a moment but led her to the penthouse lift—he had the grace to look apologetic when her name was received in the affirmative and the lift doors opened on cue.
‘Thirty-fifth floor is what you need, ma’am. Have a good evening!’
Alex pressed thirty-five and prepared to part company with her stomach—she didn’t like lifts, but this one turned out to be painless. And on the thirty-fifth floor it opened directly into Max Goodwin’s penthouse.
It wasn’t Max who greeted her, however, it was a man of about forty who said pleasantly, ‘Miss Hill, I believe? I’m Max’s domestic co-ordinator, Jake Frost. I’m afraid he’s running a few minutes late. Would you care to come through to the lounge and may I get you a drink? Oh—I’ll take the shopping bags.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ She also divested herself of her jacket and scarf. ‘And just a soft drink would be nice—shopping can be exhausting and thirst-making.’
‘It would appear you’ve done quite a bit of it,’ Jake remarked as he relieved her of the carrier bags.
‘It’s not for me,’ Alex assured him. ‘I mean, it is, but I’ll be giving it all back. It’s not as if I’m ruinously spendthrift or anything like that.’ Her eyes twinkled suddenly behind her glasses. ‘Oh, dear. Does it really matter what people think of me?’
Jake Frost took a moment to take a more personal, less professional look at the new interpreter. He’d been told about her and not thought much one way or the other about it. Now he decided she was charming even if she was not at all the kind of woman Max Goodwin usually…
But what am I thinking? he wondered. This is business.
All the same it was with a genuine smile that he said, ‘I think it would be a shame not to enjoy it just a little bit, even if you are giving them all back.’
A few minutes later, Alex had a tall, frosted glass in her hand as she admired the view from Max Goodwin’s penthouse. It was a beautiful view over the river and the city in the last of the daylight as lights started to twinkle on and she identified some of the landmarks.
The lounge behind her was spacious and absolutely eye-catching. The carpet was sea green, the couches were covered in apricot cut velvet with poppy-red cushions and the occasional tables were enamelled black.
A magnificent Chinese cabinet in black-and-gold lacquer dominated one wall and on another a marvellous, almost full-length abstract painting took pride of place and brought a bouquet of beautiful, swirling colours to the room.
‘Hello, Alex,’ a voice said behind her, and she turned to see Max Goodwin stroll into the lounge.
He’d obviously just showered, his hair was still damp, and he was now wearing jeans and a sweater. He walked over to the bar and poured himself a drink.
‘Do sit down,’ he invited.
Jake came in as she took a seat. ‘I’ve rung ahead to say you might be a little late, Max. I’ve put the wine in a cooler bag for you—’ he indicated the bag on the bar ‘—and here are the flowers.’ He picked up a bunch and laid them back again. ‘So I’ll get going, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure. Cheers!’ Max Goodwin saluted his domestic co-ordinator and sat down opposite Alex. ‘Well, how did you get on this afternoon?’
‘Fine,’ Alex said. ‘I think. But look, Mr Goodwin, if you’re running late again maybe we could find some other time for this?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter if I’m a bit late, there is no other time, and I’m determined to enjoy this drink.’
Alex shrugged. ‘I just wouldn’t like to make you late for your date.’
He looked amused. ‘My date, as you put it with a certain amount of disapproval, Miss Hill, is with my grandmother. She’s in a nursing home at the moment so the wine and the flowers are to cheer her up.’
‘Oh.’ Alex took her glasses off and polished them. Had she sounded disapproving and if so why? Had the subconscious impression been growing in her that Max Goodwin was something of a playboy? Helped along no doubt by the wine and the flowers, those good looks and that impressive physique and the fact that he wasn’t married. Along with, of course, that unexplained little trill of wariness she’d experienced at the interview this morning.
But assuming she’d misread that, wasn’t all the rest of it akin to judging a book by its cover?
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and smiled suddenly at him, ‘if I sounded disapproving. I, well, it seems one of my impressions of you is that you could be a bit of a playboy but I don’t really have any concrete evidence so I shall discard it.’
For a long moment he was speechless.
Alex glanced at her watch. ‘Should we begin the briefing?’ she suggested, her eyes a serious hazel behind her repositioned glasses, but with her lips still quirking.
Max Goodwin recovered himself. ‘Thank you,’ he said gravely, ‘for being prepared to revise your opinions. Naturally, I don’t see myself as a playboy, although our definitions could vary—’ he grimaced ‘—but perhaps it’s not a good idea to go into that. And—’ a lightning look of wicked amusement flew Alex’s way ‘—to be honest, disapproval of any kind doesn’t often come my way so I’ll look upon it as a salutary experience. OK, on to the briefing.’
When he stopped talking Alex had a fair idea of the gist of the negotiations he was undertaking as well as a familiarity with the territories they covered. It would be a huge coup for Goodwin Minerals if they scored this breakthrough into the Chinese market, she realized.
Then he glanced at his watch and drained his beer. ‘I should get going. Thank you for your time, though.’ He stood up and retrieved the cooler bag from the bar and a colourful bunch of gerberas, white daisies and asparagus fern wrapped in cellophane.
It was when they got to the foyer and she collected her bags and jacket that he said humorously, ‘I hope you haven’t parked too far away, Alex?’ He ushered her into the lift.
‘I don’t have a car.’
He frowned and hesitated before pushing a button. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t drive.’
He looked at her for a moment as if she might have escaped a lunar landscape, and Alex had a secret desire to laugh.
‘So how do you get about?’
‘Buses,’ she said gravely. ‘I also have a bicycle. And, very occasionally, taxis.’
‘Where do you live?’
She told him.
‘That’s on my way.’ He pushed the basement button and the doors closed. ‘I’ll give you a lift.’
‘You really don’t need to do that, Mr Goodwin,’ she protested. ‘I’m quite used—’
‘Alex,’ he said with his eyes glinting, ‘a piece of advice, don’t argue with me. Especially not when I’m being at my best because it may not last that long.’
The lift came to rest at the basement floor and the doors slid open.
‘Well—’ She temporized.
‘Besides which,’ he added, eyeing her carrier bags, ‘you’ve got an awful lot of loot on you by the look of it, all paid for with my money—you could get robbed, mobbed, anything, and I wouldn’t appreciate that.’
‘Are you saying so long as the “loot” was OK, you wouldn’t mind what happened to me?’ she demanded.
‘Now that is putting words into my mouth,’ he drawled. ‘But enough of this chit-chat, let’s go!’
Alex had no choice but to follow him as he strode across the garage towards a gleaming navy-blue Bentley that looked brand-spanking new.
‘Wow!’ She pulled up and couldn’t help gazing at the car admiringly, her ire dissolving somewhat. ‘I don’t know much about cars but this is something else!’
‘Yes, a beauty, isn’t she? So damn classy—if she were a girl I could marry her.’
Alex had to laugh as he unlocked the boot and they deposited her bags, the flowers and the wine in it, then he unlocked the doors and she climbed into the cream leather and walnut interior. It even smelt beautiful inside.
‘Is it a conscious decision not to drive?’ he queried as he nosed the car up the garage ramp and onto the street. ‘A “greenie” decision?’
Alex wrinkled her nose. ‘I would love to say so, and I do think too many of them are wrong, but it’s a practical decision. I don’t have a garage and I’m so used to taking buses and so on.’ She waved a hand.
‘What is your economic situation?’ he asked with a sudden frown.
Alex watched the city street slide beneath the bonnet of the Bentley. It had rained while she’d been upstairs and the slick surface was reflecting myriad lights as the tyres hissed over them.
‘My parents did have a nest egg that came to me,’ she told him. ‘After—’ she stopped for a moment and swallowed ‘—after the accident they died in, my Mother Superior was appointed my trustee. My school fees were paid out of it, and my university expenses et cetera, and there was enough left for me to buy a terrace house, so I’m actually a woman of some substance even if I don’t have a car!’ She turned to him with a cheery grin.
But Max Goodwin noticed the added sparkle to her eyes behind her glasses, tears, he suspected, and felt a spark of pity for this orphan.
He said only, though, ‘Good on you! Is this it?’ He pulled the Bentley up outside a row of terrace houses in the inner suburb of Spring Hill.
‘Yes. Thank you very much for this. I suppose I’ll see you again at…’ Alex glanced at him enquiringly ‘…well, the cocktail party tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Yes.’ He paused. ‘What have you got on tomorrow morning? I just thought you might be interested in the state-of-the-art conference room and meeting the other interpreters.’
‘I would, normally, but it seems I have all sorts of other appointments tomorrow morning. Hair, nails, facials.’ She grimaced.
Max Goodwin frowned and turned to study her. He’d opened his door to retrieve her stuff from the boot so the overhead light was on.
‘You don’t—you don’t,’ he said ashis dark blue gaze roamed over the very au naturel girl he’d hired as an interpreter—actually rather refreshingly natural, he found himself thinking suddenly, ‘need to go overboard.’
Alex hid a smile. ‘Mr Goodwin, since I have it on good authority I would feel like Cinderella otherwise, I intend to do what is necessary not to feel that way. But I don’t intend to go overboard. If anything, I was a restraining influence.’
It dawned on Max that this girl had turned the tables on him, that, far from being crushed by his makeover request, she was even laughing at him. ‘How so?’ he queried with a tinge of foreboding.
‘I kept reminding your Mrs Winston, who is a dear actually, and the wardrobe co-ordinator, that, while I didn’t need to look like Cinderella, I didn’t need to outshine the guests either. And it’s only the clothes you’re paying for.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s not necessary, Alex.’
She shrugged. ‘It is to me. That side of it is rather personal and it’s not a question of it would probably be like a drop in the ocean for you—it’s my pride. So please don’t you argue with me, Mr Goodwin.’
Max found himself laughing involuntarily as Alex put up her chin and stared haughtily at him. ‘Very well, ma’am,’ he replied with his lips twitching. ‘Let’s get your things.’
He not only got them out of the boot for her, he carried some of them up the short path from the pavement to her front door.
‘Give me your key. I’ll open the door for you.’
‘I—it’s probably under that flowerpot,’ she said unthinkingly and pointed to a pot bearing lavender.
‘I don’t believe you,’ he said as he deposited the bags he was carrying onto the garden bench and lifted the pot. ‘This is the first place a would-be thief would look! Not that,’ he added, ‘it would do him much good tonight because it’s not there.’
He straightened, dusted his hands and eyed the eleven other pots grouped around her front door ominously then somewhat bemusedly. ‘What is this? They’re all herbs if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Yes. I like to use them in cooking.’
He turned his attention back to her. ‘That’s fine, but it’s insanity to hide your door key like that. So where should I look next? The basil, I recognize that one and the mint of course, also the parsley—’
‘I do make a random choice every day,’ she broke in nervously, ‘and I only do it in the first place because I have a horrible habit of losing keys. Hang on!’ She banged her forehead with the heel of her hand. ‘I’ve been away, haven’t I? So it must be in my bag. Let’s see.’
She started to rummage through her bag, then clicked her tongue exasperatedly and upended the tote onto the bench seat.
‘How many times a day do you have to do this?’ he enquired.
‘Not that often,’ she told him. ‘What’s more, it’s all your fault. Ah! Here it is.’
His eyebrows shot up. ‘My fault? I don’t see—’
So she interrupted him to tell him how her day had panned out thanks to his urgent need of a Mandarin speaker.
‘Is it any wonder I’m not quite as organized as I should be?’ she finished severely, only to realize he was shaking with silent laughter.
‘It’s not funny,’ she said as he opened the door for her.
‘It is funny,’ he disagreed. ‘Where’s the light?’
‘Just round the corner but you don’t need to—’
‘I have no intention of coming in, Alex,’ he said somewhat dryly, ‘just in case your Mother Superior is issuing all kinds of red alerts or clear-and-present-danger signals from up above—I’m sorry,’ he said abruptly as her expression changed. ‘Strike that. All right—’ he looked down at her ‘—I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Thank you for putting up with—all the difficulties of the day.’
But for a moment, before he left, his eyes roamed over her in a rather narrowed, probing way that puzzled her.
Then, with a light, quick flick of his fingers on her cheek, he was gone.
She was not to know that as he drove off Max Goodwin was surprised to find himself thinking that, were he free, he would enjoy taking his new interpreter out for a meal. He had a favourite little seafood restaurant that something told him she would enjoy; it was unpretentious but comfortable and the food was the work of a chef who really understood his sauces and combined them with whatever was the fresh catch of the day.
Come to think of it—he steered the Bentley round a roundabout—he hadn’t taken a female companion there for ages, although it had not been so much the lack of females to escort around. No, there had been a plethora of upmarket social events on his calendar, and several perfectly groomed, expensively dressed, perfumed women on his arm, one at a time naturally, to share them with him, but looking back had it all seemed curiously—empty?
Which raised the question—was the way that Alexandra Hill seemed to be beckoning him an indication he was tired of the high life or perhaps specifically ‘glamorous, sophisticated women of the world’—to quote Miss Hill herself.
He frowned suddenly because that, of course, led him straight back to the thorny question of one particular sophisticated, glamorous woman of the world…
But although Alex was not privy to Max Goodwin’s rather surprising train of thought, she was still puzzled as she closed her front door on the wet night.
What had she sensed in the moment when he’d studied her so carefully? Some sort of a frisson between them?
She touched her cheek with her fingertips where he had touched it, and found herself breathing deeply as she recalled the tall, exciting essence of her new employer; the deep blue of his eyes, how they crinkled when he laughed, his broad shoulders, his hands…
She stared into space, then shook her head as she warned herself not to get fanciful.
She’d redecorated the house herself gradually, using white for the walls to show off the interesting artefacts and pictures gathered from all over the world in her earlier life.
There was a lovely kelim rug hanging on one wall of the lounge and she’d made the covers of her scatter cushions for her ruby settee from songket, hand-woven Malay fabric threaded with silver and gold, that she’d bought in a market in Kuantan.
It had been a wonderful life, her earlier life. Not only had her father achieved consul status in the diplomatic service, but she’d grown up sharing both her parents’ interest in scholarly pursuits. She’d also inherited their talent for languages.
Then it had all come crashing down.
Her parents had been killed in a train crash a long way from home. She probably would have been on the train herself if it hadn’t been decided she should complete her last couple of years of schooling in Australia. It had been a life-saving decision, although it had been hard to handle at the time; it had also been a wise one. She’d made some long-term friends close to home who had been denied to her in her globe-trotting childhood.
So she hadn’t been entirely alone and, of course, there’d been her father’s cousin, the Mother Superior of her convent.
But as the only child of only-child parents, whose own parents had all passed away, it had been a crushing blow. And although out of the tragedy a habit of fortitude and independence had grown, she still, in her innermost moments, suffered from it. She told herself it was foolish to fear getting too close to anyone in case they too were wrenched from her, but that cold little fear persisted.
And she knew it was why she was fancy-free at twenty-one, and wondered if she’d always be the same.
But she had been fortunate to inherit that fairly substantial nest egg and to be able to put herself through university and, later, acquire her house and finally put her convent days behind her. Not that she’d found them a trial.
When she’d finished school and gone straight on to university, she’d been taken on as a lay member of the staff and in return had helped out with the younger boarders. She was handy with kids, especially tearful, a-long-way-from-home ones, probably because she’d been through a lot of school changes and scene changes herself.
And it had been quite a change, moving into her flat after convent life even as a lay member of the community where one could never be lonely or idle. But after the first sense of disorientation, she’d grown to value her very own space and the things she could do with it.
She was also fortunate to have a congenial neighbour. Patti Smith was an energetic widow in her late fifties and she was fun to be with. They looked after each other’s gardens, mail and so on when either of them were away. Patti, a former nurse, was now retired.
Alex put her keys down on the dining-room table, her bags on the settee and moved around, switching on a couple of lamps.
In the warm soft light the room looked peaceful and inviting, and it brought her a special pleasure to know that she’d bought some of the furniture second-hand and restored it herself.
She slipped her boots and several layers of clothing off, although she’d reduced some of what she’d been wearing while shopping, and took a shower. Then she padded through to the kitchen, which was possibly her greatest triumph.
She’d transformed it from a dark and dingy nightmare to light and white with open-fronted shelves to show off her colourful crockery and basket containers.
She made herself a cup of tea and a sandwich, and carried it all through to the bedroom where she emptied her carrier bags onto her bed.
She looked down at the pile and thought with a tinge of irony that she might have been a restraining influence but the clothes were lovely all the same. Margaret Winston might have accepted her suggestion that she shouldn’t outshine the guests, that perhaps dark colours and simple lines would be the most suitable, but she’d insisted on the best quality available.
Alex had quailed inwardly at the prices, but Margaret had confided that they’d be but a drop in the ocean for Max Goodwin.
The result was beautiful materials, linen, silks, fine wools and crêpes. There were three pairs of new shoes and sets of exquisite underwear.
But a frown grew in her eyes as she stared down at it all. Very lovely, but quite different from her normal attire. Would the flair to wear them come from them? she wondered.
Then a strange little thought struck her. How would Max Goodwin view her in these elegant clothes?
To her amazement she felt her pulse beat a little heavily at the thought, and she had to take several deep breaths. She had also to remind herself that she needed to be very, very professional in her dealings with him…
The next day seemed to fly past.
The cocktail party was to be held in the penthouse, starting at six p.m. but Margaret Winston had asked her to be there by five-thirty. In the meantime, she did have a bevy of appointments and there’d been a message from Simon on her answering machine requesting her to pop in and see him.
But before she went anywhere, her neighbour Patti popped in for a few minutes.
‘Knock, knock! I peeked, I cannot deny it, although I wasn’t going to admit it,’ she said dramatically, ‘but I’m dying of curiosity! Who was the gorgeous man who brought you home in a Bentley, no less, last night?’
Alex had to laugh. ‘My new boss,’ she explained. ‘My very temporary boss, so don’t get your hopes up.
Patti sighed regretfully, then she brightened. ‘You never know!’
At midday, Alex stared at herself in something like disbelief.
The foils had come out of her hair, it had been trimmed, washed and blow-dried and the result was rather incredible. Not only that, her eyebrows had been neatened, her lashes had been tinted and her nails manicured.
But most of all it was her hair that amazed her. No longer mousey and unmanageable, wheat-fair highlights had lifted the colour, it now had body, bounce and shape as its slight tendency to curl had been taken advantage of.
‘Like it?’ Mr Roger, the hairdresser, enquired.
Alex swung her head and watched her hair sway elegantly. ‘It’s—I can’t believe it. But—’ she turned to him urgently ‘—I won’t be able to keep it looking like this!’
‘Of course you will!’ he replied, looking a little hurt. ‘It’s all in the cut and what I cut stays cut until the next cut, believe me. And you can still tie it back, put it in bunches, whatever! Mary,’ he called to the make-up girl over his shoulder, ‘let’s do her face. Really go for the eyes, talk about amazing, they are!’ He turned back to Alex. ‘And please don’t tell me you’re going to wear those glasses, lovey, because I couldn’t bear it!’
‘I won’t,’ Alex promised with a laugh. ‘I wouldn’t dare—I’ve brought my contacts.’
He patted her shoulder. ‘Anyway, come in and get it combed before any of your big “do’s” if you’d like to.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ Simon Wellford said and dropped his pen as Alex slid into a chair across his desk. ‘I mean—’
‘It’s OK!’ Alex smiled at him sympathetically and explained rather humorously about the makeover she’d undergone. ‘I got a bit of a shock myself,’ she added. ‘To think, I’ve been battling with my hair for as long as I can remember and all it needed was one man to cut it, style it, and colour it. Mind you,’ she confided, ‘it cost an arm and a leg.’
‘It’s not only your hair.’ Simon’s gaze took in her carefully made-up face. ‘It’s your face and—no glasses now. It’s amazing. Although—’ his gaze dropped lower ‘—same kind of clothes.’
‘Ah. Not this afternoon, though. So what did you want to see me about?’
Simon reached for a folder. ‘Goodwin Minerals faxed through a confidentiality clause. I’ve had our lawyer have a look at it and he sees no problems, but it means that anything you learn during these negotiations has to stay confidential.’ He handed her a pen.
Alex signed the document with a flourish. ‘Of course.’
‘And they faxed through the programme of engagements you’ll be required to attend.’ He pushed another piece of paper across the desk to her.
‘Cocktail party tonight, lunch tomorrow at the Sovereign Islands, then a three-day break until a golf day at Sanctuary Cove, a day out on a boat on the river, a day at the races and finally a dinner dance—Sovereign Island again,’ Alex read and ticked off her fingers.
Simon looked a question at her.
‘I have seen this—Mrs Winston went through it with me. I was just going through the outfits we got for each occasion,’ she explained and added, ‘I think I’m going to enjoy the three-day break after tomorrow’s lunch. But what’s at Sovereign Island?’ she asked.
‘It’s on the Gold Coast. He has a house down there—make that a mansion.’ Simon looked wry, then opened a drawer and produced a gold badge with her name in navy enamel letters and the company logo artfully inscribed on it. ‘What do you think? Quite classy.’
Alex ran her fingers across the surface. ‘Yes.’ She put it in her bag.
‘So—’ Simon sat back and looked at her narrowly ‘—you reckon you can handle this, Alex?’
‘Have I ever let you down, Simon?’
‘No, but telephone interpreting and document translation is not the pressure thing on-site interpreting is.’
‘I know,’ she agreed. ‘But I spent a couple of hours last night immersing myself in a Mandarin DVD—I feel quite ready.’
He gazed at her. ‘Well, it’ll be mostly small talk, I imagine, but—good luck! You do realize this could bring us a lot of work?’
Alex rose. ‘Simon, that must be the sixth time you’ve told me that—I do. And if you don’t mind I’m off to smell the roses, metaphorically speaking, so—’
‘What’s he like? Max Goodwin?’
Alex turned back to him and searched her mind. ‘Very—clever, I would say. Very used to getting his own way. Very rich.’ She turned towards the door.
‘That I never doubted,’ Simon said dryly. ‘It’s an old family and there’s been a lot of wealth in it for a long time. His grandmother was the daughter of an Italian count and his sister is married to an English baronet. Still, there’s a rumour going round town that a son he never knew existed has made an unexpected appearance in his life.’
Alex turned back again and blinked at her boss. Simon Wellford had a sister, Cilla, who had married rather spectacularly and he often shared titbits of celebrity gossip with his staff.
‘Never knew existed?’ she repeated. ‘How on earth can that happen?’
Simon shrugged. ‘Who knows? There’ve been a few women in Max Goodwin’s life. But word has it, he was, to put it mildly, not amused.’
Alex sat down again. ‘How could you be “not amused” about your own child?’
Simon drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Don’t ask me, Alex. Cilla is a bit piqued because she hasn’t, to date, got any further details.’ He pulled a face as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘And if I were you I wouldn’t put the question to him either.’
Alex sat back. ‘As if I would,’ she said tartly.
‘Well, I don’t know about that. I’ve got the feeling you’re something of a—’ Simon Wellford hesitated ‘—a “do-gooder”.’
‘I’m not. I am,’ Alex corrected herself, ‘but in a strictly non-meddling way. And this has nothing to do with me, although I still can’t understand it.’ She frowned.
Simon sat up and pushed his fingers through his gingery hair. ‘I’m sorry I ever told you! Look, don’t let it affect your dealings with Goodwin,’ he requested urgently.
‘Of course I won’t. I intend to be entirely professional about this, Simon,’ she told her boss, ‘believe me.’
‘Good.’
At five-thirty, as the autumn dusk was gathering, Alex arrived at the penthouse and her jaw dropped at what she saw.
The last time she’d visited the curtains had been closed on the side of the lounge that led to a pool deck. Now they were open and the pool sparkled with underwater lighting. Not only that, the deck had been screened from the cool night air and bore a startling resemblance to what could be a set of the musical South Pacific.
There was a dugout canoe bobbing on the pool, there was a small sandy beach, tropical foliage—real palm trees and hibiscus bushes. There were waiters and waitresses wearing leis, sarongs and grass skirts, there was the lovely music playing softly in the background. The tables that bore the canapés and drinks were covered in palm thatch and strewn with frangipani blooms.
It was all so professionally done, so real, you could imagine yourself on an island in the South Pacific.
Alex closed her mouth and turned to find Margaret Winston at her elbow. ‘This is just brilliant,’ she breathed.
Margaret smiled. ‘We do our best. Now, let me look at you.’
Alex looked down at herself. She wore a filmy black blouse dotted with coin spots of pale grey over a black camisole and a fitted black skirt that came to just above her knees. Her legs gleamed smooth and long beneath sheer stockings and she wore black suede pumps.
It was a restrainedly elegant outfit, she felt, and, although she’d been amazed at her hair, she had no real idea of the remarkable transformation she’d undergone.
But before Margaret got a chance to comment, Max Goodwin came up to them.
He made a fleeting but comprehensive study of Alex, stifled an expletive and said instead with obvious dissatisfaction as he turned to his secretary, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Margaret! What’s this?’
