Whisked Away By Her Millionaire Boss. Nina Milne
the vacuum cleaner on and started to push it around the floor.
Perhaps he should try to rustle up a replacement date for the evening? But the idea didn’t appeal.
Leila’s agent had contacted him to ask him if he wanted to take the supermodel out for dinner and he’d agreed. He’d believed that Leila was exactly his type of woman: a woman with the same expectations from a relationship as he had. Short-term and fun. As a bonus she already had fame and wealth, so he’d figured she wouldn’t be after his.
Turned out he’d been wrong.
Yet, despite his annoyance, he could still smile. Who would have thought twenty years ago, when he’d lived in near poverty on a council estate, branded a failure, that one day a supermodel would seek him out?
The answer to that was no one. Look at me now, he thought. Literally. Sat here. For a moment he stared out of the immense glass windows of his office. Once his vista had been a run-down London tower block—now he overlooked some of London’s most iconic attractions.
He returned his gaze to the computer screen, to the photos of the latest range of clothes about to hit the shops. His shops. His line. His brand.
A sound from behind him distracted him from his thoughts. There was a small intake of breath, the stalled whir of the vacuum, and he turned his head to see the red-haired woman hastily averting her gaze from the screen, a flush on her cheeks.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to look.’
‘That’s OK. Be my guest. It’s our new range.’
‘I...um...’
Stopping, she looked up at the ceiling in clear exasperation, though he wasn’t sure why.
He pushed his chair backwards to afford her a better view of the screen and flicked through the pictures, talking as he went. ‘The line is über ethical—Fairtrade plus—and the idea behind it is that the ordinary is extraordinary. That fashion should be aimed at everyone, and these are clothes and designs for everyone, because everyone can look good every day. Yes, people will have to pay a little more, but I want these to be clothes that people keep—not dispose of when another trend comes along.’
He looked up at her, struck anew by her exquisite bone structure, the high cheekbones, the set of those enormous eyes.
‘What do you think?’
‘I love it. The catwalk inspirational styles are still a bit out there, but they echo the idea of the ordinary being extraordinary. So that fringed dress is mad, but I guess a model could carry it off, and then you have that amazing fringed dress for the high street. And that asymmetric floral dress is fabulous. And those shoes...’
Her enthusiasm was palpable. It lit her face and a sudden frisson jolted through him. She was close enough that he could catch a whiff of berry shampoo and see the silken gloss of that glorious hair.
Get a grip, Ben.
This woman was an employee. Quickly, he moved his chair further away from her, to ensure she had space, and nodded. ‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
‘Not really. I used to work in a shop on the high street—just as a sales assistant...just part-time.’
‘That’s a lot of justs. It’s an important job. I always say that our sales assistants are vital. They are the ones who interface with the customers—the ones who can feed back what the customer wants. They represent us—and they need to genuinely understand and love the merchandise.’
‘Or at least be able to fake it if they don’t.’ As he frowned, she gave an audible gulp. ‘I only meant sometimes people need the job because they need to pay the bills. In the real world a sales assistant may have to pretend.’
‘Would you do that?’
Brown eyes met his directly. ‘Yes. If it put food on my table, I would.’
Ben blinked and felt a sudden prod of discomfort. This woman was spot-on and how the hell had he forgotten that? A sudden memory flashed before him of his own mother, desperate for work, near-destitute because she’d been given short shrift in her divorce proceedings. She had applied for job after job, come home time and again after an unsuccessful interview. Too many years out of the workplace. Not qualified enough. She would have faked pretty much anything for a job.
That was the real world—exactly as this woman had said. The woman who was now looking at him with anxiety in her eyes.
‘But, for the record, I genuinely love what you’ve shown me. That wasn’t faked. I hope I didn’t overstep in any way?’
‘No, you didn’t.’
Ben realised that he must be glowering and that the woman must think it was because she had upset him. How was she to know that memories of his childhood still had the power to sear old wounds?
With an effort he forced a smile to his lips. ‘Honestly. I’m pleased you like the new range.’
She ducked her head in a nod. ‘I’d better get on, then.’
As the vacuum cleaner whirred back into life he returned his eyes to the screen and studied the outfit on display and the slogan above it. The ordinary is extraordinary. Had he forgotten what that really meant? Was he so out of touch with the ordinary that he’d completely missed the mark with this new range of clothes?
Ben wasn’t sure he liked the answer to either question.
Her voice distracted him. ‘Well, goodnight. Thank you for showing me the new range.’
‘Goodnight.’
He looked at her departing figure: straight back, long legs, medium height, slim but not skinny. Her words echoed in his head: in the real world.
‘Actually. Hang on a second...’
SARAH HALTED MID-STRIDE. She’d clearly blown it. First she’d witnessed the whole Leila incident, then she’d been caught spying on his confidential designs, and after that she’d pretty much told him he didn’t live in the real world.
Great! Clearly for some reason she’d forgotten that he was a multimillionaire CEO and her big boss. Idiot.
Slowly she turned. ‘Did I miss something?’
‘No.’ His cobalt blue eyes held a thoughtful expression. ‘Not at all. But I think I might have. I was wondering if we could continue our conversation over dinner.’
‘Dinner?’
‘Yup. I’ve got a table booked at Tatiana’s. Seems a shame to waste it.’
‘You want to take me to Tatiana’s instead of Leila Durante?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
Despite her best intentions, her hormones had registered that Ben Gardiner had ditched his jacket and was now sitting in rolled-up shirtsleeves that exposed his tanned forearms. Sarah wasn’t sure what was so fascinating about the contrast between his pristine white shirt and the honey tone of his skin, but her gaze had snagged and stuck.
Perhaps she should just go along with this, but instead she said, ‘It doesn’t make sense. I am not exactly your usual type of dinner...associate. I’m not a model, or an actress, nor famous in any way whatsoever. Plus, you don’t even know my name.’
To give him his due he had the grace to look a touch abashed, but not for long. ‘You’re right. What is your name?’
‘Sarah Fletcher.’
Rising,