Gift-Wrapped In Her Wedding Dress. Kandy Shepherd
like it,’ he said slowly.
She forced herself not to panic, not to bombard him with a multitude of alternatives. ‘If not that idea, I have lots of others. I would welcome the opportunity to present them to you.’
He glanced at his watch and she realised she had been there for much longer than the ten-minute pitch he’d allowed. Surely that was a good sign.
‘I’ll schedule in another meeting with you tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.
‘You mean a second interview?’ she asked, fingers crossed behind her back.
‘No. A brainstorming session. You’ve got the job, Ms Newman.’
It was only as, jubilant, she made her way to the door—conscious of his eyes on her back—that she wondered at the presence of a note of regret in Dominic Hunt’s voice.
TRY AS SHE MIGHT, Andie couldn’t get excited about the nineteen-twenties theme she had envisaged for Dominic Hunt’s party. It would be lavish and glamorous and she would enjoy every moment of planning such a visually splendid event. Such a party would be a spangled feather in Party Queens’ cap. But it seemed somehow wrong.
The feeling niggled at her. How could something so extravagant, so limited to those who could afford the substantial donation that would be the cost of entrance make Dominic Hunt look less miserly? Even if he offered an apartment for auction—and there was no such thing as a cheap apartment in Sydney—and raised a lot of money, wouldn’t it be a wealthy person who benefited? Might he appear to be a Scrooge hanging out with other rich people who might or might not also be Scrooges? Somehow, it reeked of...well, there was no other word but hypocrisy.
It wasn’t her place to be critical—the media-attention-grabbing party was his marketing people’s idea. Her job was to plan the party and make it as memorable and spectacular as possible. But she resolved to bring up her reservations in the brainstorming meeting with him. If she dared.
She knew it would be a fine line to tread—she did not want to risk losing the job for Party Queens—but she felt she had to give her opinion. After that she would just keep her mouth shut and concentrate on making his event the most memorable on the December social calendar.
She dressed with care for the meeting, which was again at his Vaucluse mansion. An outfit that posed no danger of showing off her underwear. Slim white trousers, a white top, a string of outsize turquoise beads, silver sandals that strapped around her ankles. At the magazine she’d made friends with the fashion editor and still had access to sample sales and special deals. She felt her wardrobe could hold its own in whatever company she found herself in—even on millionaire row.
‘I didn’t risk wearing that skirt,’ she blurted out to Dominic Hunt as he let her into the house. ‘Even though there doesn’t appear to be any wind about.’
Mentally she slammed her hand against her forehead. What a dumb top-of-mind remark to make to a client. But he still made her nervous. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake that ever-present awareness of how attractive he was.
His eyes flickered momentarily to her legs. ‘Shame,’ he said in that deep, testosterone-edged voice that thrilled through her.
Was he flirting with her?
‘It...it was a lovely skirt,’ she said. ‘Just...just rather badly behaved.’ How much had he seen when her skirt had flown up over her thighs?
‘I liked it very much,’ he said.
‘The prettiness of its fabric or my skirt’s bad behaviour?’
She held his cool grey gaze for a second longer than she should.
‘Both,’ he said.
She took a deep breath and tilted her chin upward. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said with a smile she hoped radiated aplomb. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’
‘Dominic,’ he said.
‘Dominic,’ she repeated, liking the sound of his name on her lips. ‘And thank you again for this opportunity to plan your party.’ Bring it back to business.
In truth, she would have liked to tell him how good he looked in his superbly tailored dark suit and dark shirt but she knew her voice would come out all choked up. Because it wasn’t the Italian elegance of his suit that she found herself admiring. It was the powerful, perfectly proportioned male body that inhabited it. And she didn’t want to reveal even a hint of that. He was a client.
He nodded in acknowledgement of her words. ‘Come through to the back,’ he said. ‘You can see how the rooms might work for the party.’
She followed him through where the grand staircase split—a choir really would be amazing ranged on the steps—over pristine marble floors to a high-ceilinged room so large their footsteps echoed as they walked into the centre of it. Furnished minimally in shades of white, it looked ready for a high-end photo shoot. Arched windows and a wall of folding doors opened through to an elegant art deco style swimming pool and then to a formal garden planted with palm trees and rows of budding blue agapanthus.
For a long moment Andie simply absorbed the splendour of the room. ‘What a magnificent space,’ she said finally. ‘Was it originally a ballroom?’
‘Yes. Apparently the wool merchant liked to entertain in grand style. But it wasn’t suited for modern living, which is why I opened it up through to the terrace when I remodelled the house.’
‘You did an awesome job,’ she said. In her mind’s eye she could see flappers in glittering dresses trimmed with feathers and fringing, and men in dapper suits doing the Charleston. Then had to blink, not sure if she was imagining what the room had once been or how she’d like it to be for Dominic’s party.
‘The people who work for me did an excellent job,’ he said.
‘As an interior designer I give them full marks,’ she said. She had gone to university with Dominic’s designer. She just might get in touch with him, seeking inside gossip into what made Dominic Hunt tick.
She looked around her. ‘Where’s the kitchen? Gemma will shoot me if I go back without reporting to her on the cooking facilities.’
‘Through here.’
Andie followed him through to an adjoining vast state-of-the-art kitchen, gleaming in white marble and stainless steel. The style was sleek and modern but paid homage to the vintage of the house. She breathed out a sigh of relief and pleasure. A kitchen like this would make catering for hundreds of guests so much easier. Not that the food was her department. Gemma kept that under her control. ‘It’s a superb kitchen. Do you cook?’
Was Dominic the kind of guy who ate out every night and whose refrigerator contained only cartons of beer? Or the kind who excelled at cooking and liked to show off his skills to a breathlessly admiring female audience?
‘I can look after myself,’ he said shortly. ‘That includes cooking.’
That figured. After yesterday’s meeting she had done some research into Dominic Hunt—though there wasn’t much information dating back further than a few years. Along with his comments about celebrating Christmas being a waste of space, he’d also been quoted as saying he would never marry again. From the media accounts, his marriage in his mid-twenties had been short, tumultuous and public, thanks to his ex-wife’s penchant for spilling the details to the gossip columns.
‘The kitchen and its position will be perfect for the caterers,’ she said. ‘Gemma will be delighted.’
‘Good,’ he said.
‘You must love this house.’ She could not help a wistful note from edging her voice. As an interior designer she knew only too well how much the remodelling would have