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and pathetic. She had finally had the rose-tinted spectacles whipped from her eyes so that she could see Heath for who he was and not the boy she had kissed on her doorstep all of those years ago.
Strange. She should be used to being disappointed with men, but she had always hoped that Heath would be different. That he would be the caring man that Amber adored.
She had dated fashion designers, artists and musicians who all claimed to be creative and experimental—but in the end they all turned out to be bland and conformist, too willing to change their ideas to fit in, and she had walked away from every one of them.
Hoping for something better. Hoping for someone who liked her exactly the way she was and loved what she did and did not want to change her or ‘shape her talent’ as one agent had called it.
No, thanks. She decided what she did. She set the standards and followed her dream and nobody, not even Heath, was going to stop her from keeping her fashion designs alive.
No. She would stay as she was. Amber’s little friend. That way, Heath would never know how much effort it took for her to get back to her feet and look at him crossing the room through the raging sea of confused emotions and regret that were still roiling inside her.
‘Fine,’ she replied, and folded the tissue paper over the dress, closed down the lid on the box and popped it under her arm before staring up into his face with a clear serious expression. ‘I’ll take this dress. But you have to understand something. This might be your father’s third marriage, Mr Sheridan. But this will be my fifteenth. Yes, that’s right; so far fourteen brides have trusted me to be creative with their wedding garments and by the end of the season that will be twenty.’
She took a tight hold of the box, which seemed outrageously large compared to her tiny frame. ‘You know where to find me if you change your mind. Good luck on the big day. You’re going to need it. Because right now your precious girlfriend Olivia doesn’t have a bridesmaid dress—and try explaining that to the bride. End of.’
And with that she turned on her heel and walked straight out of the door, her hips swaying, her high-heeled boots clicking on the hardwood floor and her seriously annoyed nose high in the air.
THREE
Heath Sheridan stepped out from the back seat of the black London cab, tugged down his suit jacket, then turned and thanked the driver. The taxi slid away from the kerb, leaving him standing on the pavement outside Kate’s studio feeling rather like a teenager watching his parents drive away from his boarding school on the first morning of the new term.
He knew that feeling only too well and it nagged at the deep well of disquiet before he rolled his shoulders back and strolled out into the bright July sunshine.
An imposing two-level stone warehouse stretched out the whole length of one side of the cobbled street. It reminded him very much of the Sheridan print works back in an old part of Boston which had not changed over the last one hundred years. Impressive buildings like these were created to intimidate visitors with the power and wealth of the owners in a time before press conferences and the kind of celebrity TV interviews he was accustomed to organizing for his bestselling fiction writers.
Well, he knew all about that. Sheridan Press had built up a reputation through years of hard work and quiet, understated excellence. Not flashy promotions or grand gestures. That was the world that his father had grown up in, which made it even more remarkable that he had swallowed his pride and asked Heath to help him.
In hindsight he should have guessed that there was more to the request than the business problems—but he had never expected it to be personal.
Just one more reason why Alice Jardine was going to have four bridesmaids walking behind her on Saturday, not three.
A passing delivery van snapped Heath awake and he straightened his back and strode towards the warehouse.
There was only one girl who would fit that bridesmaid’s dress and that girl was Kate Lovat. So he had better gird himself to do some serious grovelling.
Attached to the wall was a modern nameplate with the words Katherine Lovat Designs in an elegant font.
It was classy but not stuffy or imposing. And it stopped Heath in his tracks.
Perhaps it’d been a mistake to underestimate Kate Lovat?
Kate had been an astonishing delight until he had opened his big mouth and put his foot in it. Surprising and intriguing and more than just attractive. She had a certain unique quality about her that Heath could not put his finger on and he was kicking himself for overreacting.
The breeze picked up some dry leaves and tossed them up towards Heath, bringing him back down to earth with a thump. He had to work fast. His father was already at Jardine Manor with Alice preparing the house for their wedding, which his son was organising so very brilliantly.
Heath slid his sunglasses into his hair and his smart black designer boots clattered up the well-worn stone stairs that led to the first floor.
He stretched out to press the doorbell just as he noticed that a piece of pink fluorescent paper had been taped onto the metal door. Someone had written in large letters:
Casting today 10 a.m. to 2 p.m. Gents to the left. Ladies to the right. All leotards and tutus must be collected before you leave. Any lingerie left behind will be recycled.
Tutus? Casting? Heath quickly checked his watch. Nine-thirty.
Amber had told him that Kate specialized in tailoring for women, but nothing about running dance shows! Surely designers used agencies for that sort of thing? Perhaps he had come to the wrong address?
The door was slightly ajar and, with a small tap on the frame, Heath opened the door and slipped inside the most remarkable room he had ever been in.
The entire floor of the warehouse was one single space. Large, heavy pillars supported the ceiling and no doubt the floor above. A row of tall sash windows ran the entire length of both sides of the room. Light flooded in and reflected back from the cream-painted brick walls, creating an airy light space with the quality of light he had only ever seen in an art gallery before.
He took a step further inside the room, the sound of his hard heels beating out a tune on the hardwood floorboards and echoing across the space. On each side of the door were changing areas made from what looked like tents hanging from the ceiling, and in front of the window was a very professional photo set-up with camera and lighting stands and lighting umbrellas and plain backdrops.
Someone had paid for the extras with this set-up.
But who? And where were they?
He strolled forward down the length of the room between two long white polymer worktables and a collection of ironing boards, tailors’ models in various sizes, naked and partly dressed, and two draftsman desks covered with stacks of coloured paper.
Everywhere he looked were abandoned rolls of fabric, sewing machines and what looked like cutlery trays stuffed with scissors and all kinds of boxes and packets.
So, all in all—his worst nightmare. Clutter and chaos. No sense of order or control. If he ran his office like this they would be out of business in a month.
Blowing out hard, Heath shook his head and peeked behind an elaborate Japanese lacquered folding screen. And froze for a few seconds, scarcely believing what he was looking at before breaking out into a wide smile. It was the first time that he had smiled that day—but he had good reason.
Kate was sitting at a desk under the window, nodding her head from side to side as she sang along to a pop song in a very sweet voice.
Of course he could have interrupted her—but this was a totally self-indulgent pleasure he wanted to stretch out for as long as he could.
She was wearing a tiny lime-green strappy top, which was almost covered by a necklace which seemed to be made up of bright green and yellow baubles. Her short brown hair was tousled