Читать книгу Girl in a Vintage Dress - Nicola Marsh - Страница 7

LOLA didn’t take kindly to being bossed around. She’d had enough of it growing up from her Miss Australia finalist mother and catwalk model sister.

Wear the boot cut jeans, not the slim fit.

Don’t wear the A-line skirt; it makes your bum look big.

Use the coral lipstick, not the pink, you look washed out.

Bossiness never failed to put her back up and the moment Mr Tall, Dark and Domineering had strutted into her domain, ignoring house rules, she’d been primed for battle.

Mobile phones didn’t belong in Go Retro for a reason. Trying to recreate a vintage ambience was imperative to her business and considering those infernal devices weren’t invented back then, she’d made it a house rule to not have them used in the shop that was her pride and joy.

She also hated their constant buzzing and ringing and clattering as people tapped at those miniature keypads as if their lives depended on it.

How anyone could be glued to a phone when surrounded by all this beauty… She trailed a hand over a velvet nineteen-forties vermillion ball gown, savouring the plush-ness, the timeless elegance, let her fingers skim a floral silk scarf she bet could tell a few stories about the necks it had been knotted around over the years.

She glanced at the diamanté shoe clips, the crimson lipsticks in different brands, the fascinators at jaunty angles on the classically dressed mannequins.

Every item had been lovingly chosen in the hope it would bring joy to its next owner in the same way it had brought her joy to discover it. Surrounded by all these wonderful treasures of the past, how could anyone not be tempted?

‘I need an answer.’

Just like that she snapped out of her reverie and glared at the philistine who wouldn’t appreciate vintage at its finest if it slithered off a mannequin and onto his rather impressive frame.

The same impressive frame that made her want to run and hide out in the back room and let Immy deal with him. His type scared the beejeebies out of her: slick, smooth, successful. Guys who had it all and knew how to wield their many God-given talents. Guys who could use their looks and success to bedazzle a girl like her. Guys like Bodey.

Annoyed she’d let her past creep into the present, and doubly annoyed that she’d showed a glimmer of her fear when this guy had strutted in here as if he owned the place, she squared her shoulders.

So he thought he could boss her into accepting his deal by throwing money around and sweetening it with a personal recommendation?

He had that look about him, the look of a man used to getting his own way: designer, from the top of his perfectly cut chocolate-brown hair to the bottom of his Italian loafers and his five-figure charcoal suit cost more than the entire front display.

As for Dazzle, of course she’d heard of them. Anyone who lived in Melbourne knew of the entertainment company’s formidable reputation. You wanted something to make your event special? Dazzle did it, from jugglers to fire-eaters to international rock bands.

So he was the CEO? Figured. A guy like him would be used to throwing his weight around and never accepting a knock-back. Well, there was a first time for everything.

He wanted an answer? She had one for him, as soon as she phrased it in more ladylike terms than the ones running through her head, something along the lines of stick it.

Her disdain for his high-handedness must’ve shown for he rubbed a hand over his face and when it dropped, his haughty expression had been replaced by a rueful smile.

‘Look, I’m sorry for barging in here and blustering. It’s a sign of a desperate man.’

With those devastatingly blue eyes, charismatic smile and smoother-than-honey voice, she seriously doubted this guy had ever been desperate in his life.

Taking her silence as encouragement to continue, he held his hands out to her in supplication.

‘My sister’s getting married. She’s this incredible, infuriating, adorable bundle of contradiction and I owe her a lot. She deserves the best and she loves this old stuff so I thought I’d organise this as a surprise.’

Great. If those baby-blues twinkling with sincerity weren’t bad enough, the hint of a sweet guy beneath his steely tone as he sang his sister’s praises undid her resolve to tell him where he could shove his crazy offer.

‘When’s she getting married?’

‘Six weeks. A no frills private affair, which is why I want to spoil her with this.’

‘No bridesmaids to organise it?’

He shook his head. ‘She hasn’t got the time for all that faff apparently. Too busy.’

His guilty look-away glance implied he knew all too well what that was like and the fact he was taking time out to organise a hen’s night for his sister when it was probably the last thing on his all important phone’s calendar made a big impression.

As if his six-two lean frame and blue eyes and charming smile hadn’t already done that.

‘She’s a corporate lawyer: driven, obstinate, workaholic.’

She hazarded a guess the bride-to-be wasn’t the only one in his family to boast those qualifications.

‘She’s always loved this old stuff and when I caught her flipping through a magazine last week, sighing over some charm school article run by a vintage shop owner in England, I thought it’d be a great wedding gift.’

Okay, she admitted it. His sister sounded like a perfect candidate for a Go Retro party. But that was just it. She’d done birthday parties, a few hours of escapism for ladies who shared her passion. She’d garnered rave reviews but this guy wasn’t talking an afternoon. He wanted to hire her for a week?

‘Cari would really love this a hell of a lot more than any espresso machine or matching iPads, my only other gift ideas.’

He smiled again and this time, something unwelcome fluttered in her chest.

‘So what do you say?’

She’d been set on saying no but his sincerity had got to her. From his description of his sister, she had this image in her head of a corporate businesswoman caught up in her whirlwind career, not having time to have a proper wedding with all the trimmings.

If this was the only luxury she’d get, a week out of her busy schedule to be pampered with a Go Retro hen’s party she’d never forget, how could she say no?

As for his personal recommendation, no matter how hard she tried to ignore the mortgage papers strewn across her desk out the back, she couldn’t. With the economy in a downslide, skyrocketing interest rates and conservative consumer spending were killing her business, despite its funky edge and appealing website and quality merchandise. If Go Retro didn’t start making a bigger profit she’d have to shut up shop and that was one thing she couldn’t even think about.

She’d worked too hard and too long to make her dream come true. No way would she give it up for the sake of pride.

Not wanting to give in too easily she named a price triple her hourly rate multiplied by seven, expecting him to barter.

He didn’t.

‘I can write you a cheque or wire the deposit directly into your business account now.’ His lips quirked. ‘If you’ll give me back my phone, that is.’

His gaze dropped to her hips and she gripped the counter, trying not to squirm.

She may have lost weight since her teenage years and learned to highlight her good assets while minimising the bad but having her body scrutinised, especially by a hot guy, never failed to make her old inadequacies flare.

Were her hips too wide? Her waist too thick? Her butt too big? While the vintage fashion she embraced made the most of her curves, having a guy like him study her made her want to duck behind the counter.

She’d had her fair share of admiring glances from men before: it was what could develop from those glances that had her skittish despite being in the place she felt most comfortable.

‘You do have it hidden away in that skirt of yours? Or have you performed some fancy trick and confiscated it for good?’

Her hand dived into her deep pocket and fumbled around for it, eager to hand it over and stop that potent blue-eyed gaze burning a hole in the metallic threaded eyelet lace of her favourite full-skirted polka dot dress.

‘Here.’

As she handed it over their fingers brushed and a jolt akin to an electrical surge shot up her arm and zapped her in places that hadn’t been zapped in a long, long time.

Not good.

The guys she occasionally dated were as far removed from this guy as her vintage dress from his designer suit. Arty guys, musicians, laid-back guys who liked a Bohemian lifestyle far removed from the pressures of modern life.

Those were the type of guys who attracted her. Not career-driven, wealthy guys who could schmooze anyone into doing anything with their natural charms.

She should know. She’d tried one on for size once and was still wishing she’d got a refund while she could.

‘Thanks.’

If that brief touch of fingertips hadn’t been bad enough, his genuine smile made her knees quake ever so slightly and she hid her nerves behind snappiness.

‘I don’t even know your name,’ she said, fiddling with the baskets of hair clips on the counter, rearranging them in carefully constructed disorder.

‘Chase Etheridge.’

He held out his hand and she swallowed, silently cursing her stupidity. Of course he’d want to do the polite thing and shake hands. Something she could’ve coped with at any other time but hot on the heels of her bizarre reaction a few moments ago? Trouble.

‘Lola Lombard.’

‘Lovely name.’

His gaze locked on hers and held. ‘Beautiful.’

And as she reluctantly placed her hand in his, and his fingers curled over hers, firm and warm and comforting, she almost believed for a fleeting second she was.