Whisked Away By Her Millionaire Boss. Nina Milne
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‘Then let’s go.’
She followed him to the lift, suddenly stupidly aware of his sheer presence. From the tips of his gelled hair to the handmade shoes on his feet, he exuded an aura of leashed, lazy power. Unfortunately he also exuded a gorgeous whiff of something her hormones identified as sheer yum—fresh, woodsy, with a hint of citrus.
Oh, God, was she actually leaning in for a smell?
The lift pinged to a stop and she practically leapt out through the doors and had to force herself to slow down as they crossed the marble lobby. The idea was to impress him with her poise and professionalism.
They exited the building as a sleek black car drove up to the entrance. A car with a driver—this was a true glimpse into a different world.
Ben opened the back door and she climbed in, slid all the way across the cream luxury leather and fervently hoped she hadn’t left a smudge of dirt. She tried not to look across at the solid muscular bulk of his thigh, relieved at the space between them.
‘The flagship store, please, Leo,’ Ben said, and the car accelerated smoothly forward.
Sarah focused on the London streets—the hustle and bustle, the red splash of the double-decker buses, the throngs of people, the lit-up shopfronts that glittered and lured, the restaurants... The atmosphere of the city seemed more vibrant, brighter than usual. And all the while her thoughts raced, considering a suitable outfit.
Professional, as this was like an interview. Stylish. Fashionable, but to suit her body shape. Not sexy, but she did need to look good. Because that would give her confidence, and Lord knew she needed that. Not too expensive, but not too cheap.
‘Here we are.’
They got out of the car and walked to the front of the store and Sarah scanned the carefully arranged mannequins in their autumnal garb. After all, if someone had already put together the perfect outfit in the window that would be helpful. But no such luck.
He entered a security code and within minutes they were inside the store.
‘Take your pick,’ he said. ‘I’ll be over there.’ He pointed to an alcove that had been cleverly furnished as a waiting area, with plush seats and magazines and a water machine. ‘You’ve got half an hour.’
‘Right. See you in thirty.’
Already scanning the racks, Sarah turned and headed down the main aisle. Panic fluttered. The store was huge and she was unfamiliar with the layout and this was important. If she wanted Ben Gardiner to recommend her for an interview then she needed to show him that she appreciated clothes, loved the Sahara range and was able to choose the right outfit for the occasion.
Fifteen minutes later she’d made her selection, opting for something bolder than a little black dress, but not too over the top. The black and white dress was perfect. It had a bold black pattern on a white background, not too long, not too short, and it skimmed her tummy and accentuated her long legs. Scoop-necked, it avoided a showy plunge, and the short sleeves showed off her slender arms.
Black high heels had been easy to grab from the rows of shoes on offer, and a splash of colour from a small red clutch bag that matched a lipstick she happened to have in her own bag.
Sarah studied her reflection and knew her hair would look better loose. But she couldn’t do it. Not yet.
Jodie’s voice rang in her ears. ‘Mummy, do you dye your hair because you don’t like being ginger? Gemma told me that ginger people smell. Does that mean I smell because my hair is red? Cos my hair is really red. Do you not smell because you dye your hair? Can I dye my hair?’
After that conversation, there had only been one way forward. Sarah had stopped dyeing her hair—but she hadn’t been prepared for the effect it would have on her, the avoidance of mirrors, the sudden sharp bursts of grief and guilt.
Not now, Sarah. This dinner was too important.
Quickly she released her hair and then tied it back into a softer twist. It looked better now, but wouldn’t distract her.
A glance at her watch and she exited the changing room and made her way back to the alcove, heels clicking lightly on the floor, heart thudding against her ribcage. Sudden realisation slowed her steps. This wasn’t just the pinch of nerves because she wanted to pass an interview test—this was a desire to spark admiration in Ben Gardiner’s eyes. She wanted him to be bowled over, wanted to see the spark of reciprocal attraction.
What the hell?
Reciprocal attraction would get them nowhere; it certainly wouldn’t get her a job. Plus, why would he reciprocate? This was Ben Gardiner—he’d been splashed across the gossip mags with supermodels and actresses on a regular basis.
So it was imperative she kept this professional. Yet still her heartbeat continued to accelerate as she headed through the racks of Sahara merchandise, the billboards and empty tills towards him.
BEN LOOKED UP from his phone, where pieces of fruit whizzed across the screen, alerted by the faint sound of heels on the store floor. Curiosity and a sense of intrigue touched him as he watched her walk towards him—emotions that sparked into appreciation.
She’d got it spot-on. The outfit was perfect for dinner—a judicious mix of professional and fashionable. More than that, though, was the way she wore the clothes—as if they were made for her.
His only quibble would be that she should have left her glorious red hair loose; instead it was up, though she’d softened the style a little by looping it into a twist.
‘Excellent choice.’ He cleared his throat to try and excuse the strangled tones.
She did a quick twirl and, dammit, he nearly swallowed his tongue.
‘So do I pass the first test?’
‘Yes.’
Get with it. This woman was a prospective as well as a current employee. Not—repeat for emphasis, not—a date.
‘Thank you.’ There was a heartbeat of silence. ‘Mind you, I do realise I was spoilt for choice. Perhaps a harder test would have been to take me to a random charity shop and see what I could pull together there.’
The words were breathless, wide brown eyes were still locked with his, and now awareness glittered in her gaze as she stepped close. He caught a tantalising hint of her grapefruit-tinged scent, and just like that he completely lost the thread of the conversation.
Silence lengthened, stretched and echoed round the dim interior of the store, until his brain finally kicked in with a staccato burst.
‘Yes,’ he said in the hope that that would encompass a correct response. ‘Now we’d better go.’
‘Yes,’ she echoed.
It still took them a moment to actually move, but once they’d started both of them accelerated towards the door.
Back in the car he relaxed slightly. He had to douse this whole attraction thing and remember what was important here: to get a feel for how his workforce thought, to make sure he was still grounded; to assess whether Sarah Fletcher had what it took to be a Sahara Sales assistant. That was what this dinner was about.
Fifteen minutes later they pulled up in front of Tatiana’s, located in one of London’s most renowned hotels.
A doorman opened the door and they climbed out, and he sensed Sarah step a little closer to him, though she didn’t falter as they made their way through the glass revolving door and towards the restaurant.
‘Mr Gardiner. Welcome.’ The maître d’