“You were…extraordinary. As I knew you would be.”

His heartfelt compliment made her blush and filled her with unexpected pleasure. She shouldn’t be happy that he was so impressed with her performance tonight. She should be annoyed. Sorry that she’d helped to bolster his or Ashdown Abbey’s reputation in any way.

But she was pleased. Both that she’d maintained her ruse as a personal assistant, and that she’d done well enough to earn Nigel’s praise.

She was candid enough with herself to admit that the last didn’t have as much to do with his standing as her “boss” as with him as a man.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her throat surprisingly tight and slightly raw.

“No,” he replied, once again brushing the back of his hand along her cheek. “Thank you.”

And then, before she realized what he was about to do, he leaned in…

Dear Reader,

Want to know a secret? I’m a huge fan of television shows like Project Runway, Fashion Star and 24 Hour Catwalk. It’s not the competition itself that interests me nearly as much as the creativity and construction behind the designs that eventually walk the runway.

So when my editor and I began discussing ideas for a new Mills & Boon® Desire™ miniseries, PROJECT: PASSION leaped into my head. I just loved the idea of playing off Project Runway for titles, and creating characters and a world that revolves around high fashion. Plus, it seemed like the perfect excuse to watch Project Runway marathons and call it “research.”

I can only hope you’ll love the Zaccaro sisters as much as I do. Lily Zaccaro—eldest sister and founder of Zaccaro Fashions—kicks off PROJECT: PASSION with Project: Runaway Heiress. She’s as protective of her business as she is of her sisters, so when someone steals her designs, her first instinct is to find out who and why. even if her suspicions lead her straight into the arms of handsome, mouthwatering nigel Statham, the British CEO of a rival label.

Enjoy!

Heidi Betts

HeidiBetts.com

About the Author

An avid romance reader since junior high, USA TODAY bestselling author HEIDI BETTS knew early on that she wanted to write these wonderful stories of love and adventure. It wasn’t until her freshman year of college, however, when she spent the entire night before finals reading a romance novel instead of studying, that she decided to take the road less traveled and follow her dream.

Soon after Heidi joined Romance Writers of America, her writing began to garner attention, including placing in the esteemed Golden Heart competition three years in a row. The recipient of numerous awards and stellar reviews, Heidi’s books combine believable characters with compelling plotlines, and are consistently described as “delightful,” “sizzling” and “wonderfully witty.”

For news, fun and information about upcoming books, be sure to visit Heidi online at HeidiBetts.com.

Project:
Runaway Heiress
Heidi Betts

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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A huge American thank you to UK reader Amanda Jane Ward, who read much of this story and troubleshot details for me all the way to the end to help ensure that my British hero came across as authentic and, well, you know…British.

Any mistakes are my own—due entirely, I’m sure, to the fact that Jason Statham still refuses to accept my phone calls.

Thank you, Manda! If I couldn’t use Jason for my research, you were definitely the next best thing. ;)

One

Impossible. This was impossible.

Lily Zaccaro maximized her browser window, leaning in even more closely to study the photo on her laptop screen. With angry taps at the keyboard, she minimized that window and opened another.

Dammit.

Screen after screen, window after window, her blood pressure continued to climb.

More angry keystrokes set the printer kicking out each and every picture. Or as she was starting to think of them: The Evidence.

Pulling the full-color photos from the paper tray, she carried them to one of the long, wide, currently empty cutting tables and laid them out side by side, row by row.

Inside her chest, her heart was pounding as though she’d just run a seven-minute mile. Right there, before her very eyes, was proof that someone was stealing her designs.

How had this happened?

She tapped her foot in agitation, twisted the oversize dinner ring on her right middle finger, even rubbed her eyes and blinked before studying the pictures again.

The fabric choices were different, of course, as were some of the lines and cuts, making them just distinctive enough not to be carbon copies. But there was no mistaking her original sketches in the competing designs.

To reassure herself she wasn’t imagining things or going completely crazy, Lily moved to one of the hip-high file cabinet drawers where she kept all of her records and design sketches. Old, new, implemented and scratched. Riffling through them, she found the portfolio she was looking for, dragged it out and carried it back to the table.

One after another, she drew out the sketches she’d been working on last spring. The very ones they’d been prepared to work with, manufacture and put out for the following fall’s line.

After a short game of mix-and-match, she had each sketch placed beside its counterpart from her rival. The similarities made her ill, almost literally sick to her stomach.

She leaned against the edge of the table while the images swam in front of her eyes, sending a dizzying array of colors and charcoal lines into the mix of emotions that were already leaving her light-headed and nauseated.

How could this happen? she wondered again. How could this possibly have happened?

Wracking her brain, she tried to think of who else might have seen her sketches while she was working. How many people had been in and out of this studio? There couldn’t have been that many.

Zoe and Juliet, of course, but she trusted them with her life. She and her sisters shared this work space. The three of them rented the entire New York apartment building, using one of the lofts as a shared living space and the other as a work space for their company, Zaccaro Fashions.

Although there were times when they got on each other’s nerves or their work schedules overlapped, their partnership was actually working out surprisingly well. And Lily showed her sisters all of her design ideas, sometimes even soliciting their opinions, the same as they shared their thoughts and sketches with her.

But neither of them—not even slightly flighty party girl, Zoe—would ever steal or sell her designs or betray her in any way. Of that, she was absolutely, one hundred percent certain.

So who else could it have been? They occasionally had others over to the studio, but not very often. Most times when they had business to conduct, they did it at Zaccaro Fashions, their official, public location in Manhattan’s Fashion District, where they had more sewing machines set up, with employees to produce items on a larger, faster scale; offices for each of the sisters; and a small boutique set up out front. Something they hoped to expand upon very soon.

Of course, that particular dream would be nearly impossible to realize if their creations continued to get stolen and put on the market before they could release them.

She collected all of the papers from the cutting table, being sure to keep each of the printed pictures with its corresponding sketch. Then she began to pace, worrying a thumbnail between her teeth and wearing out the soles of her one-of-a-kind Zoe-designed pumps while she wondered what to do next.

What could she do?

If she had any idea who was responsible for this, then she might know what to do. Bludgeoning them with a sharp object or having them drawn and quartered in the middle of Times Square sounded infinitely satisfying. But even going to the police would work for her, as long as the theft and replication of her clothes stopped, and the culprit was punished or fired or chased out of town by a mob of angry fashion designers wielding very sharp scissors.

Without a clue of who was behind this, though, she didn’t even know where to begin. Wasn’t sure she had any options at all.

Her sisters might have some suggestions, but she so didn’t want to involve them in this.

She’d been the one to go to design school, then ask their parents for a loan to start her own business. Because—even though they were quite wealthy and had offered to simply give her the money, since she was already in line for a substantial inheritance—she’d wanted to do this herself, to build something rather than having it handed to her.

She’d been the one to come to New York and struggle to make a name for herself, Zoe and Juliet following along later. Zoe had been interested in the New York party scene more than anything else, and Juliet had quit her job as a moderately successful, fledgling real-estate agent back in Connecticut to join Lily’s company.

Without a doubt, they had both added exponentially to Zaccaro Fashions. Lily’s clothing designs were fabulous, of course, but Zoe’s shoes and Juliet’s handbags and accessories were what truly made the Zaccaro label a well-rounded and successful collection.

Accessories like that tended to be where the most money was made, too. Women loved to find not only a new outfit, but all the bells and whistles to go with it. The fact that they could walk into Zaccaro Fashions and walk back out with everything necessary to dress themselves up from head to toe in a single shopping bag was what had customers coming back time and time again. And recommending the store to their friends. Thank God.

But it wasn’t her sisters’ designs being ripped off, her sisters’ stakes in the business being threatened, and she didn’t want them to worry—about her or the security of their own futures.

No, she needed to handle this on her own. At least until she had a better idea of what was going on.

Returning to the laptop, she hopped up on the nearest stool and straightened her skirt, tucking her feet beneath her on one of the lower rungs. Her fingers hesitated over the keys, then she just started tapping, not sure she was doing the right thing, but deciding to follow her gut.

Two minutes later, she had the phone number of a corporate-investigation firm uptown, and five minutes after that, she had an appointment for the following week with their top investigator. She wasn’t certain yet exactly what she would ask him to do, but once he heard her dilemma, maybe he would have some ideas.

Then she continued searching online, deciding to dig up everything she could on her newest, scheming rival, Ash-down Abbey.

The London-based clothing company had been founded more than a hundred years ago by Arthur Statham. Their fashions ranged from sportswear to business attire and had been featured in any number of magazines, from Seventeen to Vogue. They owned fifty stores worldwide, earning over ten million dollars in revenue annually.

So why in heaven’s name would they need to steal ideas from her?

Zaccaro Fashions was still in its infancy, earning barely enough to cover the overhead, make monthly payments to Lily’s parents toward the loan and allow Juliet, Zoe and herself to continue living comfortably in the loft and working in the adjoining studio. Ashdown Abbey might as well have been the Hope Diamond sitting beside a chunk of cubic zirconium in comparison.

The hijacked fashions in question had originated from Ashdown Abbey’s Los Angeles branch, so she dug a little deeper into that particular division. According to the company’s website, it was run by Nigel Statham, CEO and direct descendant of Arthur Statham himself.

But the Los Angeles offices had only been open for a year and a half and were apparently working somewhat independently of the rest of the British company, putting out a couple of exclusive lines and holding their own runway shows geared more toward an American—and specifically Hollywood—customer base.

Which meant it wasn’t all of Ashdown Abbey out to ruin Lily’s life, just the Los Angeles faction.

Lily narrowed her eyes, leaning closer to the laptop screen and focusing on a photo of Nigel Statham. Public Enemy Number One.

He was a good-looking man, she’d give him that much. Grudgingly. Short, light brown hair with a bit of curl at the ends. High cheekbones and a strong jaw. Lips that were full, but not too full. And eyes that looked to be a deep shade of green, though that was difficult to tell from a picture on the internet.

She wanted to despise him on sight, but in one photo, he was smiling. A sexy, charming smile that went all the way to his eyes and threatened to turn her knees to jelly.

Of course, she was sitting and she was made of sterner stuff than that, so that wasn’t going to happen. But at first glance, she certainly wouldn’t have pegged him as a thief.

She continued to scroll through pictures and articles and company information, but much of it was for the U.K. division and the other European stores. The Los Angeles branch still seemed to be finding its footing and working to establish itself as a British clothing company on American soil.

Deciding there wasn’t much more she could do until she met with the investigator except seethe in silence, Lily began to close up shop. She checked her watch. She was supposed to meet her sisters for dinner in twenty minutes, anyway.

But as she was shutting down browser windows, something caught her eye. A page filled with “job opportunities at Ashdown Abbey—U.S.A.” She’d been perusing the list just to get a better idea of how the company operated.

Now, though, she expanded the window, clicked on the link for “more information” and hit Print.

It was crazy, what she was suddenly thinking. Worse yet that she was contemplating actually going through with it.

Her sisters would try to talk her out of it for sure, if she even mentioned the possibility. The investigator would undoubtedly warn her against it, then likely try to convince her to let him handle it at—what?—one hundred…two hundred and fifty…five hundred dollars an hour.

It would be so much easier for her to slip in and poke around herself. She knew the design world inside and out, so she would certainly fit in. And if she made herself sound smart and qualified enough, surely she would be a shoo-in.

A tiny shiver of anxiety rolled down her spine. Okay, so it was dangerous. A lot could go wrong, and she probably stood to get herself into a heap of trouble if anyone—or the wrong someone, at any rate—found out.

But it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Almost as though she was meant to go through with this, fate bending its bony finger to point the way. Otherwise, what were the chances this particular position would open up just when she most needed the inside scoop on Ashdown Abbey?

No, she had to do this. She had to find out what was going on, how it had happened and get it to stop. And going to work for Ashdown Abbey seemed like a good way to do exactly that.

Not just good—perfect.

Because Nigel Statham needed a personal assistant, and she was just the right woman for the job.

Two

Nigel Statham muttered an unflattering curse, slapping the company’s quarterly financial report down on top of his father’s latest missive. The one that made him feel like a child in short trousers being scolded for some minor transgression or another.

Handwritten on personal stationery and posted all the way from England—because that’s how his parents had always done it, and email was too commonplace for their refined breeding—the letter outlined the U.S. division’s disappointing returns and Nigel’s failure to make it yet another jewel in the Ashdown Abbey crown since he’d been appointed CEO eighteen months ago.

Disappointment clung to the words as though his father was standing in the room, delivering them face-to-face: hands behind his back, bushy white brows drawn down in a frown of displeasure. Just like when he’d been a boy.

His parents had always expected perfection—an aim he had fallen short of time and time again. But he hardly thought a year and a half was long enough to ascertain the success or failure of a new branch of the business in an entirely new country when it had taken nearly a century for Ashdown Abbey to reach its current level of success in the U.K. alone.

He thought perhaps his father’s expectations for this new venture had been set a bit too high. But try telling the senior Statham that.

With a sigh, Nigel leaned back and wondered how long he could put off responding to the letter before his father sent a second. Or worse yet, decided to fly all the way to Los Angeles to check in on his son in person.

Another day, certainly. Especially since he was currently dreading the job of training a brand-new personal assistant.

He’d been through three so far. Three attractive but very young ladies who had been competent enough but hardly dedicated.

The problem with hiring personal assistants in the heart of Los Angeles, he decided, was that they tended to be either aspiring actresses who grew bored easily or quit as soon as they landed a part in a hand-lotion commercial; or they were aspiring fashion designers who grew bored when they didn’t make it to the top with their own line in under six months.

And each time one of them moved on, he had to start all over training a new girl. It was enough to make him consider hiring an assistant to be on hand to train his next assistant.

Human resources had hired the latest in his stead, then sent him a memo with her name and a bit of background information, both personal and professional. It probably wasn’t even worth remembering the woman’s name, but then he’d never been that kind of boss.

Before he had the chance to review her résumé once more, there was a tap on his office door. Less than half a second later, it swung open and his new assistant—he deduced she was his new assistant, at any rate—strode across the carpeted floor.

She was prettier than her photo depicted. Her hair teetered somewhere between light brown and dark blond, pulled back in a loose but smoothly twisted bun at the back of her head. Her face was lightly made up, the lines classic and delicate, almost Romanesque.

A pair of dark-rimmed, oval-lensed glasses sat perched high on her nose. Small gold hoops graced her earlobes. She wore a simple white blouse tucked into the waistband of a black pencil skirt that hit midcalf, concealing three-quarters of what he suspected could prove to be extraordinary legs. And on her feet, a pair of patent-leather pumps, color-blocked in black and white with three-inch heels.

Being in fashion, he took note more than he might have otherwise. But as a man, there were certain aspects of her appearance he would have noticed regardless.

Like her alabaster skin or the way her breasts pressed against the front of her shirt. The bronze-kiss shade of her lips and rose-red tips of her perfectly manicured nails.

“Mr. Statham,” she said in a voice that matched the rest of the package. “I’m Lillian, your new personal assistant. Here’s your coffee and this morning’s mail.”

She set the steaming mug stamped with the Ashdown Abbey logo on the leather coaster on his desk. It looked as though she’d added a touch of cream, just the way he liked it.

She placed the pile of envelopes directly in front of him, and he flipped through, noticing that it seemed to be all business correspondence, no fluff to waste his time sorting out.

As first impressions went, she was making a rather positive one.

“Is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, thank you,” he replied slowly.

With a nod, she turned on her heel and started back toward the door.

“Lillian.” He stopped her just before she reached the doorway.

Spine straight, she returned her attention to him. “Yes, sir?”

“Are those Ashdown Abbey designs you’re wearing?” he asked. “The blouse and skirt?”

She offered him a small smile. “Of course.”

He considered that for a moment, almost afraid to believe that his luck in the personal-assistant department might actually be changing for the better.

Clearing his throat, he said carefully, “You wouldn’t happen to be an actress, would you?” He resisted the urge to use the term aspiring, but only barely.

A slight frown drew her light brows together. “No, sir.”

“What about modeling? Any interest in that?”

That question brought out a short chuckle. “Definitely not.”

He thought back to some of the bullet points from her résumé. She hadn’t simply wandered in from the street, that was for certain. Her background was in both business and design, with a degree in the former and a few very strong courses in the latter.

On paper she was rather ideal, but he knew as well as anyone that everybody became a bit of a fiction writer when it came to cooking up a résumé.

“And your interest in the fashion industry is…” He trailed off, leaving her to fill in the blank on her own.

For the blink of an eye, she seemed to consider what response he might be looking for. Then she replied in a firm tone, “Strictly business. And the opportunity to get my hands on fresh designs sooner than the rest of the world. I’m a bit of a clotheshorse, I’m afraid.” She ended with a guileless half grin that brought out the tiniest hint of dimple in the center of her right cheek.

Almost in spite of himself, he caught his own lips turning upward. “Well, then, you’ve certainly come to the right place. Employees get a discount at our company store, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” she said slowly, and he could have sworn he saw a sparkle of devilment in her eye.

“Excellent,” he murmured, feeling better about her employment already.

He hadn’t exactly seen her in action, but she had, as they say, passed the first hurdle. At the very least, she hadn’t walked in with a wide smile and an IQ equal to her age.

“If you haven’t already, please familiarize yourself with my daily schedule and appointments for the week. There may be a few meetings and events to which I’ll need you to accompany me, so watch for those notations. And be sure to review the schedule frequently, as I tend to change or update it regularly and without warning.”

Picking up his coffee, he took a sip, surprised to find it quite tasty. Almost the exact ratio of cream to coffee that he preferred.

“Yes, sir. Not a problem.”

“Thank you. That will be all for now,” he told her.

Once again, she turned for the door. And once again, he stopped her just before she stepped out of his office.

“Oh, and, Lillian?”

“Yes, sir?” she intoned, tipping her head in his direction.

“Excellent coffee. I hope you can make an equally satisfying cup of tea.”

“I’ll certainly try.”

With that, she closed the door behind her, leaving Nigel with a strangely unexpected smile on his face.

As soon as the door to Nigel Statham’s stately, expansive office clicked shut and she was alone—blessedly, blissfully alone—Lily rushed on weak legs to the plush office chair behind her large, executive secretary’s desk and dropped into it like a sack of lead.

She was shaking from head to toe, her heart both racing and pounding at the same time. It felt as though an angry gorilla was trapped inside her chest, rattling her rib cage to get out.

And her stomach…her stomach was pitching and rolling so badly, she thought she must surely know how it felt to be on a ship that was going down in a storm-tossed sea. If she didn’t lose her quickly scarfed-down breakfast in the next ten seconds, it would be a miracle.

To keep that from happening, she leaned forward, tucking her head over her knees. Over them, because it was nearly impossible to get between them in the slim, tailored skirt she’d chosen for her first day of working undercover and with a false identity.

Lillian. Blech. It was the best name she’d been able to come up with that she thought she would answer to naturally, the blending of her first and middle names—Lily and Ann.

And as a last name, she’d gone with something simple and also easily identifiable, at least to her. George—what she and her sisters had called their first pet. A lazy, good-natured basset hound their father had found wandering around the parking lot where he worked.

Her mother had been furious right up until the moment she’d realized George woofed at the top of his lungs the minute anyone stepped foot on their property. From that point on, he’d been her “very best guard dog” and had gotten his own place setting of people food on the floor beside the dining-room table whenever they sat down to eat.

So Lillian George it was. Even though being referred to as Lillian made her feel like a matronly, middle-aged librarian.

Then again, she sort of looked like a librarian.

Her usual style, and definitely her own designs, leaned very strongly toward the bright, bold and carefree. She loved color and prints, anything vibrant and flirty and fun.

But for her position at Ashdown Abbey, she’d needed to be much more prim and proper. Not to mention doing as much as she could to disguise her identity and avoid being recognized or linked in any way to Zaccaro Fashions.

She could only hope that the change of name and switch to a wardrobe drawn entirely from Ashdown Abbey’s own line of business attire, coupled with the glasses and darkening of her normally light blond hair would be enough to keep anyone at the company from figuring out who she really was.

It helped, too, that Zaccaro Fashions was only moderately successful. She and her sisters weren’t exactly media darlings. They’d been photographed here or there, appeared in magazines or society pages upon occasion, but mostly in relation to their father and their family’s monetary worth. But she would be surprised if most people—even those familiar with the industry—would recognize any one of them if they passed on the street. Although Zoe was doing her level best to change that by going out on the town and getting caught behaving badly on a more and more regular basis.

After a couple of minutes, Lily’s pulse, the spinning of her head and the lurching in her stomach all began to slow. She’d made it this far. She’d made it past human resources with her creatively worded but fairly accurate résumé and her apparently not-so-rusty-after-all interview skills. Then she’d stood in front of corporate CEO Nigel Statham himself without being found out or dragged away in handcuffs.

He also hadn’t followed her out of his office, shaking a finger at her deceit, or instructed security to meet her at her desk. Everything was quiet, calm, completely normal, as far as she could tell.

Ashdown Abbey certainly didn’t have the hum of voices and sewing machines in the background the way the Zaccaro Fashions offices did. But, then, Zaccaro Fashions wasn’t a major, multimillion-dollar operation the way Ashdown Abbey was, either. They hadn’t yet reached the point where their corporate offices and manufacturing area were two separate entities.

Frankly, Lily thought she could use the mechanical buzz of a sewing machine or her sisters’ laughter as she worked with her cell phone pressed to her ear right about now. Sometimes silence was entirely overrated. Times like these, when all she could hear was her own rapid breathing and the panicked voices in her head telling her she was crazy and sure to get caught.

To keep those voices from getting any louder and leading her in the wrong direction, she started to recite one of the simple, meaningless poems she’d been forced to memorize in grade school, then slowly sat up.

Tiny stars flashed in front of her eyes, but only for a second. She blinked and they were gone, leaving her with clear vision and a clear—or clearer, anyway—head.

Nigel Statham believed she was his new personal assistant, so maybe she should go back to acting like one.

Rolling her chair up to the desk, she pulled out her computer’s keyboard and mouse, and started clicking away. She’d familiarized herself with the computer’s operating system just a bit before going into Nigel’s office, but was sure there was much more to learn.

His daily schedule, for instance. Something she was apparently going to have to stay on top of or risk not knowing what she was supposed to be doing from one hour to the next.

She felt a small stab of guilt as she bypassed the email program, wondering if her sisters had found her note yet and honored her wishes by not telling anyone about her sudden disappearance or trying to track her down themselves.

She’d told them she had some personal business to attend to. Something she couldn’t discuss just yet, but needed some time away to deal with. She assured them she would be fine and wasn’t in any danger, and asked them to trust her to get in touch as soon as she could.

She didn’t want them to worry about her, but she wasn’t ready to tell them what was really going on, either. One day…one day she would fill them in on everything. She would tell them the entire story over a bottle of wine, and chances were they would have a good laugh about it.

But not until it was resolved and there was a happily-ever-after to report. When the threat to their company was gone and there were no fears or rumors left to spread like wildfire if anyone else got wind of it.

Before she left, she’d also met with Reid McCormack of McCormack Investigations about running comprehensive background checks on everyone under Zaccaro Fashions’ employ. Lily honestly didn’t believe he would find anything incriminating, but better safe than sorry.

And she’d informed him that she would be out of town for a while, so she would call in weekly for updates. It seemed easier than having him leave messages at the apartment, where her sisters might overhear or access them, or having him call her on her cell phone at an inconvenient moment while she was still in Los Angeles.

Frankly, she hoped he never had anything negative to report, or that if he did, it would turn out to be completely unrelated to Zaccaro Fashions—an employee with an unpaid speeding ticket or college-age drunk-and-disorderly charges that had eventually been dropped.

But until her first scheduled check-in, she needed all of her energy and brain power focused on her new job and attempts at stealth investigations.

Studying Nigel’s schedule for the day, she was somewhat relieved to see that it didn’t seem to be a—quote, unquote—heavy day for him. It looked as though he would be in his office most of the time. He had a lunch appointment and a conference call in the afternoon, but nothing so far that would require her to go out with him—and hope not to be recognized or to do something she wasn’t ready or properly trained for.

She glanced at the schedule for the rest of the week, making a mental note to check again in a couple of hours. Just to be safe until it all became second nature to her for as long as she was here.

She took a few minutes to investigate some of the other programs and files on the system, but hoped she wouldn’t be expected to do too much with them too soon. Either that, or that the company provided tutorials for the seriously lost and computer illiterate.

What she did understand, though, was design. She knew the vocabulary, the process and what was needed to go from point A to point B. So she did recognize and know how to use some of the items already installed on the PA’s computer.

The question was: Could she use them to access the information she needed to track down the design thief?

Maybe yes, maybe no. It depended on whether or not Nigel knew about the thefts.

Was he involved? she wondered.

Had he sent a mole from Ashdown Abbey into her company? Or maybe on a less despicable level, had he recognized her designs within his company’s latest collection and ignored them? Looked the other way because it was easier and could advance Ashdown Abbey’s sales and brand recognition?

A part of her hoped not. She didn’t want to think that there were business executives out there who would stoop to such levels just to get ahead. Not when they had a bevy of talented designers on staff already and didn’t need to stoop to those levels. Or that someone so handsome, with that deep, toe-curling British accent, could be capable of something so heinous. Although more attractive people had been guilty of much worse, she was sure.

It happened every day, and she wasn’t naive enough to believe that just because a man was sinfully attractive and already a millionaire he wouldn’t steal from someone else to make another million or two.

Not that any of her designs had earned a million dollars yet, Lily thought wryly, but the potential was there. If she could keep other companies and designers from scooping her.

Tapping a few keys, she brought up what she could find on the California Collection—the Ashdown Abbey collection that included so many of her own works, only with minor detail alterations and in entirely different textiles. Just the thought sent her blood pressure climbing all over again.

A few clicks of the mouse and the entire portfolio was on the screen in front of her, scrolling in a slow left-to-right slideshow. The flowy, lightweight summer looks were lovely. Not as beautiful as Lily’s designs would have been, if she’d had the chance to release them, of course, but they were quite impressive.

She studied each one for as long as she could, taking in the cuts and lines. The collection mostly consisted of dresses, perfect for California’s year-round sunny and warm weather. Short one-pieces, a couple of maxi dresses, and even some two-piece garments consisting of a top and skirt or a top and linen slacks.

Not all of them were drawn directly from Lily’s proposed sketches. Small comfort. And it might actually work against her if she ever tried to prove larceny in a court of law.

A good defense attorney could argue that there might be similarities between the Ashdown Abbey and Zaccaro Fashions designs, but since the Ashdown Abbey line also included designs without similarities, it was obviously a mere case of creative serendipity.

Hmph.

Closing down the slideshow, Lily dug around in the other documents within the file folder. She found another graphics slideshow, this time the sketches for the final pieces that made up the California Collection.

They were full color and digital, done on one of the many art and design computer programs that were becoming more and more popular. Even Lily had one of them on her tablet, but she still preferred pencil and paper, charcoal and a sketch pad, and actual fabric swatches pinned to her hand-drawn designs over filling in small squares of space with predetermined colors or material samples on a digitized screen.

But what caught her attention with these designs wasn’t how they were done, it was the fact that they were signed. Ashdown Abbey apparently had design teams on the payroll rather than one designer in charge of his or her own collection.

Moving from the graphics files to the text files, she found a list of the California Collection’s entire design team, complete with job titles and past projects they’d worked on for Ashdown Abbey. A jolt of adrenaline zipped through her, and she hurried to send the list to the printer.

The zip-zip of the machine filled the quiet of the cavernous outer office. It rang all the louder in her ears for the fact that she didn’t want to get caught.

When a buzz interrupted the sound of the printer, Lily jumped. Then she looked around, searching for the source of the noise. Finally, she realized it was coming from the phone, one of the lights on the multiline panel blinking in time with the call of the intercom.

Chest tight, she took a deep breath and pressed the button for Nigel Statham’s direct line.

“Yes, sir?” she answered.

“Could I see you for a moment?”

The abrupt request was followed by total silence, and she realized he’d hung up without waiting for a reply.

Grabbing the list of designers from the printer tray, she folded it over and over into a small square and stuffed it into the front pocket of her skirt. Patting the spot to make sure it was well concealed, she strode to the door of Nigel’s office, unsure of what she would encounter on the other side. She didn’t even know if she should bring a pad and pencil with her to take notes.

What did personal assistants automatically pick up when summoned by the boss? Paper and pen? A more modern electronic tablet? She hadn’t even had a chance to poke around and find out what was provided for Nigel Statham’s executive secretary.

So she walked in empty-handed after giving one quick tap on the door to announce her arrival.

Nigel turned from typing something into his own computer to jot a note on the papers in front of him before lifting his attention to Lily. She stood just behind one of the guest chairs, awaiting his every request.

“What are you doing for dinner this evening?” he asked.

The question was so far from anything she might have expected him to say, her mind went blank. She was quite sure her face did, too.

“I’ll take that to mean you don’t have plans,” he remarked.

When she still didn’t respond, he continued, “I’m having dinner with a potential designer and thought you might like to join us. Having you there will help to keep things on a business track, as well as better familiarize you with your position.”

For lack of anything more inspired to say, she replied with a simple, “All right.”

Nigel gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I’ll be leaving from the office, but you’re welcome to go home and change, or take a bit of a rest, if you like. I’ll come round for you at eight. Be sure to leave your address before you finish for the day.”

He returned his attention to his work, giving Lily the impression that plans for the evening had been decided and she’d been dismissed.

“Yes, sir,” she said, because she thought it was respectful and some sort of acquiescence was needed. Then she tacked on a short “Thank you” for good measure before hurrying back out to the reception area.

Taking a seat behind her desk, she tried to decide how she felt about this latest turn of events.

On the one hand, she already had a list of designers for the Ashdown Abbey collection based on her work. She considered that quite a coup for her first day in the enemy’s camp.

On the other, her most fervent prayer had been merely to get through the day without being found out. She’d never imagined she would be asked to put in extra time outside the office. Especially not alone with the boss.

Of course, she wouldn’t really be alone with him. It was a business dinner, so at least one other person would be there. But it was still an after-hours situation in much-too-close proximity to the man who held her future in his hands.

Her professional future and possibly her very freedom.

Because if he ever learned who she really was and why she was working incognito within his company, she’d likely find herself behind bars. No amount of crying “he was mean to me first” would save her then.

Three

At five minutes to eight, Lily was still racing around her apartment, trying to be ready before Nigel arrived.

It didn’t help that she’d just moved in and had brought very little with her from New York. Or that this was supposed to be merely a place to sleep. Nothing fancy. Nothing expensive—at least by Los Angeles standards. Simply somewhere to rest and hunker down with her suspicions and evidence while she worked days at Ashdown Abbey.

Never had she imagined that her boss—CEO of the entire company—would decide to “drop by” and pick her up for dinner.

And then there was the fact that she hadn’t planned for after-hours job requirements. Once she’d arrived, she’d filled her closet with Ashdown Abbey business attire, not only to fit in, but to subconsciously give Nigel Statham and everyone else the impression that she absolutely belonged there. But she hadn’t purchased a single item for an evening out.

Granted, she could probably get away with wearing the same skirt and blouse that she’d worn that day. If she was attending this meal as Nigel’s personal assistant, then it couldn’t hurt for her to look like one.

But she suspected Nigel’s choice of restaurant might be of the highly upscale variety, and she didn’t want to stand out. Or worse, blend in with the servers.

So she’d done the best she could with what her limited current wardrobe had to offer.

Another black skirt, shorter this time, with a sexy—but not too sexy—slit up the back. A sheer, nearly diaphanous sapphire-blue blouse that she’d intended to wear as a shell over a more modest chemise top. Now, though, she wore it over only a bra.

She’d checked and double-checked in the mirror to be sure the effect wasn’t trashy. Thankfully, the bra was barely visible, even though in certain light, flashes of skin could be seen beneath the top.

To dazzle it up even more, she added sparkling chandelier earrings, a matching Y necklace, and open-toed four-inch heels that—now that she was wearing them—might be a bit too suggestive for nine-to-five. They were more than appropriate for a night out on the town, though, professional or otherwise.

She threw a few items like her wallet, a lipstick, keys and her cell phone—just in case—in a small, plain-black clutch, and finally thought she was ready enough to jump when Nigel arrived.

She’d just taken a deep, stabilizing breath and was contemplating one last visit to the restroom when the doorbell rang.

Whatever calm she’d managed to find with that long inhalation evaporated at the shrill, mechanical sound, and a lump of dread began to grow in the pit of her stomach.

Fingers curled around her purse, she swallowed hard and moved to the door. Because she didn’t want Nigel peeking inside and seeing that there were no personal touches to the apartment to affirm her claims of having lived in the city for several years, she opened it only a crack, using her body to block his view.

As quickly and smoothly as she could, she slipped out into the hallway, pulling the door closed and locked behind her. Leaning back, she used the doorjamb to prop herself up, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and overly scrutinized.

Nigel’s hazel eyes studied her from head to toe. He was standing so close, she could see the specks of green dotting his irises and smell his spicy-with-a-hint-of-citrus cologne.

She inhaled, drawing the scent deeper into her lungs, then realized what she was doing and stopped, holding her breath in hopes that he wouldn’t notice her small indiscretion.

It was not a good idea to start thinking her boss smelled good. She already found him attractive, simply because he was. Anyone, female or male, would have to agree based on his physical attributes alone. Much the way everyone knew the sky was blue, a handsome man was a handsome man.

That didn’t mean she should be building on that initial assessment by adding “smells really good” to the tally.

He was a good-looking man with exceptional taste in cologne, that’s all. Lily hoped that others might consider her on the pretty side with good taste in perfume, as well. Especially after how much time she’d put into her appearance tonight.

Nigel—her boss, her attractive and well-scented boss— returned his gaze to her face.

“You look lovely,” he commented. “Ready to go?”

“Yes.”

To her surprise, he offered his arm. There was nothing romantic in the gesture, only politeness. After a short hesitation, she slipped her hand around his elbow and let him lead her down the well-lit, utilitarian hallway of the apartment building.

Would an American man have acted so gentlemanly, or was it just Nigel’s British upbringing? Whatever the case, she liked it. Maybe a little too much.

They walked down the three short flights of stairs rather than waiting for the elevator. Outside, the early evening air was fresh and cool, but not cold. A long, silver Bentley Mulsanne waited at the curb, and Nigel opened the rear door, holding it while she got in.

She’d intended to slide across so he could climb in behind her, but there was a rather large console turned down between the two rear seats, as well as fold-out trays on the back of the front seats. The one on his side was down, with an open laptop resting on it.

While she was still marveling at the awesome interior of the luxury vehicle, Nigel opened the door opposite hers and took his place, quickly closing the computer and tray.

“Sorry about that,” he said, moving the laptop out of the way on the floor beside his briefcase.

When she didn’t respond—she was apparently sitting there frozen, like a raccoon caught rummaging through household garbage—he returned the center console to its upright position, then leaned past her to pluck the seat belt, stretch it across her motionless form and click it into place.

As he stretched to reach, his arm brushed her waist, terribly close to the underside of her breasts. A shiver of something very un-employee-like skated through her, warming places that had no business growing warm. She swallowed and tried to remain very still until the sensation passed.

Nigel, of course, had no idea of the response he’d caused by such an innocent action. And with luck, he never would.

Licking her lips, she tamped down on whatever was rolling around under her skin and made sure her lips were turned up in at least an imitation of a smile.

“Thank you,” she said, tugging at the safety belt to show that she was, indeed, alive and well and capable of simple human functions. “It looks like you’re working overtime,” she added, relieved that her voice continued to sound steady and normal.

He leaned back in the seat, running his hands along his thighs and letting out a breath as he relaxed a fraction. “There doesn’t seem to be overtime with this position. It’s round-the-clock.”

Lily certainly knew what he meant by that. She’d worked twenty-four/seven to establish the Zaccaro label. Then when her sisters had joined in, the three of them had given all they had to get the company truly up and running.

Even now that they had their boutique open and were producing items on more than a one-off basis, life was no less stressful or busy. They’d simply exchanged one set of problems for another. And having an office-slash-studio at home only kept the work closer at hand.

“For tonight’s dinner,” Nigel began in that accent that would be charming even if the looks and personality didn’t match—at least to her unaccustomed American ears, “we’re meeting with a designer who’s looking to move from Vincenze to a higher position at Ashdown Abbey.”

Lily’s eyes widened a second before she schooled her expression. Vincenze was a huge, multimillion-dollar design enterprise. A household name and very big deal. If she wasn’t busy running her own fashion-design business, she would have been ecstatic over the possibility of going to work for them.

Yet tonight they were meeting with someone who wanted to leave Vincenze for Ashdown Abbey.

Which wasn’t to say Ashdown Abbey was a lesser label. Far from it. If anything, Ashdown Abbey and Vincenze were similar when it came to levels of success. But their design aesthetics were entirely different, and it would definitely take some doing—at least in her experience—for a designer to go from one to the other without traversing a sharp learning curve.

Fighting to keep her mind on the job she was supposed to be doing rather than the one that came more naturally to her, Lily said, “I’m not sure exactly what my role is this evening.”

“Just listen,” he replied casually. “It will be a good way for you to learn the ropes, so to speak.”

He turned a little more in her direction and offered a warm smile. “Frankly, I asked you to join me so I wouldn’t have to be alone with this fellow. These so-called business dinners can sometimes drone on, especially if the potential employee attempts to regale me with a long list of his or her talents and abilities.”

Lily returned his grin. She knew what he meant; the fashion industry was filled with big mouths and bigger egos. She liked to think she wasn’t one of them, but there was a certain amount of self-aggrandizing required to promote oneself and one’s line.

“Maybe we should work out a signal and some prearranged topics of discussion,” she offered. “That way if things get out of hand and your eyes begin to glaze over, you can give me a sign and I’ll launch into a speech about global warming or some such.”

Nigel’s smile widened, showing a row of straight, sparkling-white teeth. “Global warming?” he asked, the amusement evident in his tone.

“It’s a very important issue,” she said, adopting a prim-and-proper expression. “I’m sure I could fill a good hour or two on the subject, if necessary.”

He nodded a few times, very slowly and thoughtfully, his lips twitching with suppressed humor. “That could certainly prove useful.”

“I thought so,” she agreed.

“What would you suggest we use as a signal?”

She thought about it for a minute. “You could tug at your earlobe,” she said. “Or kick me under the table. Or perhaps we could have a code word.”

“A code word,” he repeated, one brow lifting with interest. “This is all starting to sound very…double-oh-seven-ish.”

Appropriate, she supposed, since he reminded her a little of James Bond. It was the accent, she was sure. Her stomach tightened briefly.

Feigning a nonchalant attitude she didn’t entirely feel, she shrugged. “Spies are good at what they do for a reason. But if you’d prefer to be trapped for hours by a potential employee you can’t get away from, be my guest.”

Silence filled the rear of the car, only the sound of the tires rotating beneath them audible as the seconds ticked by and Lily’s anxiety grew.

She might have overstepped her bounds. After all, she’d only been in this man’s employ for twelve hours. That might have been a bit too early to start voicing her opinions and telling him what to do.

Worse, she probably shouldn’t have jumped on his mention of James Bond movies and followed the spy thread. Because technically, she was a spy within his organization, and she didn’t want him spending too much time wondering how she knew so much about the business of espionage.

“I definitely agree that an escape plan is in order,” Nigel said, finally breaking the nerve-inducing quiet. “How would it be if I inquired about your headache from earlier? You can say that it’s come back and you’d really like to get home so you can rest.”

“All right.” It sounded as good as anything else they might come up with, and she certainly knew more about headaches than she did about global warming.

“And if you grow bored,” he continued, “you can ask me if I’d like another martini. I’ll decline and say that we should get going, as I have an early appointment in the morning, anyway.”

“Will you be drinking martinis?” she asked.

“Tonight, I will,” he said, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “It will bolster our story, if we make an excuse to leave the restaurant early.”

“We haven’t even arrived at dinner yet, and already we’re thinking of ways to get away as soon as we’ve finished eating,” she remarked.

“That’s because it’s a boring, uptight business dinner. If this were a dinner date, I would already be considering options for drawing things out. Excuses to keep you there well past dessert.”

Lily’s heart skipped a beat, her palms growing damp even as a wave of unexpected heat washed over her. That was not the sort of thing she expected to hear from her boss. It didn’t feel like a benign, employer-to-employee comment, either. It felt much too…suggestive.

And on top of that, she was suddenly picturing it: a dinner date with Nigel rather than a business dinner. Sitting across from him at a candlelit table for two. Leaning into each other as they spoke in soft tones. Flirting, teasing, building toward something much more serious and intimate.

The warmth grew, spreading through her body like a fever. And when she imagined him reaching out, touching her hand where it rested on the pristine white linen of the tablecloth, she nearly jumped, it seemed so real.

Thankfully, Nigel didn’t notice because the car was slowing, and he was busy readjusting his tie and cuff links.

Lily licked her lips and smoothed her hands over her own blouse and skirt, making sure she was as well put together as he was.

When the car came to a complete stop, he looked at her again and offered an encouraging half smile. “Ready?” he asked.

She nodded just as Nigel’s door was opened from the outside. He stepped out, then turned and reached back for her.

Purse in hand, she slid across the wide seat and let Nigel take her arm as she stepped out. His driver nodded politely before closing the door and moving back around the hood of the car to the driver’s seat.

Looking around, Lily realized they were standing outside of Trattoria. She wasn’t from Los Angeles, but even she recognized the name of the elegant five-star restaurant. To her knowledge, the waiting list for reservations was three to four months long.

Unless, she supposed, you were someone like Nigel. The Statham name—and bank account—carried a lot of weight. Not only in L.A. or England, either, but likely anywhere in the world.

She was no stranger to fine dining, of course. She’d grown up at country clubs and taken international vacations with her parents. She even knew a few world-renowned master chefs and restaurateurs personally.

But she wasn’t with her family now, and hadn’t lived that way for several years; she’d been too busy working her fingers to the bone and building her own company the old-fashioned way.

She was also supposed to be from more of a blue-collar upbringing, not a secret, runaway heiress. Which meant she shouldn’t be familiar with seven-course meals, real silverware or places like this, where appetizers started at fifty dollars a plate.

The good news was that she wouldn’t embarrass herself by not knowing which fork to use. The bad news was that she needed to act awed and out of her element enough not to draw suspicion. From anyone, but especially Nigel.

Passing beneath the dark green awning lined with sparkling lights, he led her past potted topiaries and through the wide French doors at the restaurant’s entrance.

A tuxedoed maître d’ met them immediately, and as soon as Nigel gave his name, they were led across the main dining area, weaving around tables filled with other well-dressed customers who were talking and laughing and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their expensive meals.

At the rear of the restaurant, the maître d’ paused, waving to a medium-size table set for four where another man was already seated.

Rounding the table, Nigel held a chair out for her while the other man rose. He was young—mid to late twenties, Lily would guess—with dark hair and an expensive suit. Most likely a Vincenze, even one of his own designs, since that’s where he was currently working.

“Mr. Statham,” the designer greeted Nigel, holding out his hand.

Nigel waited until she was seated to reach across the table and shake.

“Thank you for meeting with me.”

Nigel inclined his head and introduced them. “Lillian, this is Harrison Klein. Mr. Klein, this is my assistant, Lillian George.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Harrison said, taking her hand next.

When they were all seated, a waiter brought leather-bound menus and took their drink orders. True to his word, Nigel ordered a dry martini. He even made a point of asking for it “shaken, not stirred,” then turned to her with a humorous and entirely too distracting wink.

Soon after they placed the rest of their orders, their salads and entrées arrived, and they made general small talk while they ate. Nigel asked questions about Klein’s schooling and experience and his time at Vincenze.

It was odd to be sitting at a table with another designer and the CEO of one of the biggest labels in the United Kingdom—and soon possibly the United States—without adding to the discussion. So many times, she had to bite her tongue to keep from asking questions of her own or inserting her two cents here and there into the conversation.

In order to avoid saying something she shouldn’t, she stayed busy sipping her wine, toying with the stem of her glass, studying the lines of each of their outfits. Mentally she deconstructed them, laying out patterns, cutting material and sewing them back up.

Finally, they were finished with their meals and the table was cleared. Nigel declined the dessert menu for all of them, but asked for coffee.

And then he held out a hand to the other man. “Your portfolio?”

Harrison’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously, but he leaned over and retrieved his portfolio from the floor beside his chair. He passed it to Nigel, then sat back and waited quietly.

Lily found her pulse kicking up just a fraction. This was such an important, nerve-racking moment for any designer. She still wondered why someone who already had a job at a successful design corporation would be interested in moving.

She had gone an entirely different route, striking out on her own to establish a personal label and company instead of taking a job elsewhere and working her way up the ladder.

In a lot of ways, that would have been easier. It might have taken her longer to form her own label and have her own storefront, but she certainly would have learned from the best and maybe avoided some of the pitfalls she’d encountered while barreling ahead with her one-woman—and then three-woman, thank goodness—show.

The tension at the table thickened as Nigel studied the portfolio carefully, page by page. Sitting beside him, Lily could see each design clearly, and couldn’t resist drinking them in.

After several long minutes, Nigel closed the portfolio and passed it back. “Very nice, Harrison, thank you.”

From the other man’s expression, Lily could tell he’d been hoping for a far more exuberant response. She almost felt sorry for him.

“We’d best call it an evening,” Nigel continued, “but we have your résumé and contact information, and will be in touch.”

Klein’s face fell, but he recovered quickly. “I appreciate that. Thank you very much,” he said, holding out his hand.

The two men shook, putting a clear end to the dinner meeting. But Lily couldn’t resist tossing in a quick, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like another martini?”

Nigel raised a brow in her direction, one corner of his mouth twitching in mirth.

“No, thank you. I’ve had quite enough to drink. I think it would be best if we call it a night, especially considering our early morning meetings.”

Biting back her personal amusement, she nodded. The three of them rose, said their goodbyes and headed out of the restaurant. It took a few minutes for Nigel’s car to arrive, but they were silent until they were closed inside and the vehicle was slowly moving again.

“So,” Nigel began, shifting on the wide leather seat to face her more fully. “What did you think?”

Somewhat startled by the question, Lily swallowed. “About what?”

“Klein,” he intoned. “The interview. His designs.”

What a loaded set of questions, she thought. She had opinions, to be sure. But as his personal assistant, should she be spouting them off? And what if she said too much, revealed herself as being too knowledgeable for such a low-level position?

“It’s all right. You can speak freely,” he said, almost as though he’d read her mind. “I want your honest opinion. It doesn’t mean I’ll listen, but I’m curious all the same. And it won’t have an impact on your position at Ashdown Abbey one way or the other, I promise.”

Hoping he was as good as his word, she gave a gentle shrug. “He’s talented, that’s for certain.”

“But…”

“No buts,” she corrected quickly. “He’s clearly very talented.”

Nigel kept his gaze locked on her, laser eyes drilling into her like those of a practiced interrogator.

“Fine,” she breathed on a soft sigh. “He’s very talented, but…I don’t think his designs are at all suitable for Ashdown Abbey.”

“Why not?” he asked in a low voice.

“Ashdown Abbey is known for its high-end business attire, even though you’ve recently branched out into casual and sportswear. But Klein’s aesthetic leans more toward urban hip. I can see why he’s done well at Vincenze—they’ve got a strong market in New York and Los Angeles with urban street and activewear. But Ashdown Abbey is a British company, known for clothes that are a bit more professional and clean-cut.”

She paused for a moment, wondering if she’d said too much or maybe overstepped her bounds.

“Unless you’re planning to move in that direction,” she added, just to be safe.

Long seconds ticked by while Nigel simply stared at her, not a single thought readable on his face. Then one side of his mouth lifted, the hazel-green of his eyes growing brighter.

“No, we have no plans to move in that direction for the time being,” he agreed. “Your assessment is spot-on, you know. Exactly what I was thinking while I flipped through his designs.”

For a moment, Lily sat in stunned silence, both surprised and delighted by his reaction. She so easily could have screwed up.

With a long mental sigh of relief, she reminded herself that she was supposed to be poised and self-assured. She’d lobbied for the job as his PA by making it clear she knew her stuff. As long as she didn’t let anything slip about her true identity or reason for being there, why shouldn’t she let a little of her background show?

“Maybe you’ll be glad you hired me, after all,” she quipped.

He gave her a look. A sharp, penetrating look that nearly made her shrink back inside her shell of insecurity.

And then he spoke, his deep voice and spine-tingling accent almost making her melt into the seams of the supple leather seat.

“I think I already am.”

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