Swept into his glamorous world...

Will she fall for the tycoon?

After an unexpected encounter with Ben Gardiner, dashing owner of the fashion company whose offices she cleans, single mom Sarah Fletcher takes a gamble in sharing her ideas... Amazingly, Ben loves them! When she’s whisked away to work with him in Milan, their attraction is increasingly undeniable. This high-class world’s like nothing Sarah’s known—but back home, will Ben let Sarah and her daughter into his life?

NINA MILNE has always dreamed of writing for Mills & Boon—ever since she played libraries with her mother’s stacks of Mills & Boon romances as a child. On her way to this dream Nina acquired an English degree, a hero of her own, three gorgeous children and—somehow!—an accountancy qualification. She lives in Brighton and has filled her house with stacks of books—her very own real library.

Also by Nina Milne

Christmas Kisses with Her Boss

Claiming His Secret Royal Heir

Marooned with the Millionaire

Conveniently Wed to the Prince

Hired Girlfriend, Pregnant Fiancée

The Derwent Family miniseries

Rafael’s Contract Bride

The Earl’s Snow-Kissed Proposal

Claimed by the Wealthy Magnate

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Whisked Away by Her Millionaire Boss

Nina Milne

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-09143-5

WHISKED AWAY BY HER MILLIONAIRE BOSS

© 2019 Nina Milne

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Version: 2020-03-02

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

Note to Readers

This ebook contains the following accessibility features which, if supported by your device, can be accessed via your ereader/accessibility settings:

 Change of font size and line height

 Change of background and font colours

 Change of font

 Change justification

 Text to speech

To my family for putting up with me

whilst I wrote this book!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Note to Readers

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

BEN GARDINER, CEO and founder of Sahara Clothes, a global fashion house with retail outlets worldwide, stared across at his PA in horror. ‘You want to take some time off next month?’ he echoed. ‘During Milan Fashion Week?’

‘Yes.’ Maree looked him directly in the eye. ‘I know it’s short notice but Edward wants to take me away on a romantic break.’

Ben opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘And it didn’t occur to Edward that you have a job?’

‘Of course it did. But he won it—on a radio show. A two-week safari trip—it’s the opportunity of a lifetime.’ Maree took a deep breath. ‘Actually, it’s a bit more than that.’

‘Oh?’ Ben studied his PA. He could tell from her expression that she was working up to breaking bad news.

‘We’re getting married. The safari will be our honeymoon.’ Once the words had spilled out, Maree smiled radiantly. ‘And I know marriage is your idea of personal hell, but I am really, really happy and I want you to be happy for me.’

‘I am happy for you.’ And he was. Though a tiny bit of him was considering the impact on his work schedule. There was also the fact that... ‘Isn’t it a bit sudden? I mean, you haven’t known Edward very long.’

‘I know, but I’m sure this is what I want.’

Maree’s whole face lit up, and obscurely Ben felt a sudden pang of near envy.

‘I can’t explain it, and of course I know there are no guarantees, but right here and now I am one hundred per cent sure that I want to spend my life with him and I know he feels the same.’

Any remaining tinge of green vanished as Ben manfully repressed a shudder and managed, ‘Then I wish you every happiness.’

Which of course he did. He fully grasped that for some people it was possible to risk one’s heart for love. It was just that personally he couldn’t see the point.

Seeing Maree’s sceptical look, he raised his hands. ‘I am. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Because you know what I’m going to say next. My role will need to change a bit. Edward does understand how important my job is to me, and he realises that it is very hands-on, but I won’t be able to work such insane hours any more.’

Ben knew he expected his PA to do way more than convention demanded—to go the extra mile. That was why he made sure he paid an excellent salary and chose the right person for the role.

‘I thought you enjoyed this job.’

‘I love it—and I’ve had a blast. But my circumstances have changed. I won’t be able to travel at the drop of a hat, even if it is to a yacht party in Monaco, and I can’t be on duty twenty-four-seven. Like the time last month when you called me at three in the morning to come to a business meeting.’

Ben gave a quick grin. ‘OK. That was a bit much. But you have to admit it worked. That was an incredible deal we got signed—profitable and ethical. He even agreed to raise the rates he pays his workers to Fairtrade standards.’

‘It was a fabulous deal, but I won’t always be able to be part of that now.’ Anxiety touched her grey eyes. ‘You’re not angry, are you? I’ll understand if you want a new PA.’

‘I’m not angry. At all. I’m happy for you and I would never do anything to jeopardise that happiness. If I start to expect too much or behave selfishly, make sure you tell me.’

He meant it; he would not be responsible for the destruction of another marriage. After all, he’d been responsible for the breakdown of his mother’s—had been the catalyst and the unwitting cause of the rupture of a family.

His mother had had an affair and he was the result: a universally unwanted result. Unwanted by his unknown actual father, rejected by the man he had believed to be his father for the first five years of his life and loathed by his siblings, who blamed him.

In the bitterness of the divorce his half-brothers had elected to live with their dad and his mother had been stuck with him. She had also stuck by him, shown him care and love, and he would be grateful for ever for that. Even if in the deepest, darkest times of his childhood he’d wondered whether, if she could turn back the hands of time, she’d wish him away. And how could he blame her if she did?

Enough. He’d come to terms with all that. He had decided to live his life to the fullest and show them all—his birth father, his fake father, his siblings, the whole goddamn world. And he had. He had achieved a success attained by very few, and his mother would never want for anything—he’d made damn sure of that.

But right now he said, ‘So what are we going to do about a replacement for you next month?’

‘I’ll advertise internally and see if there’s anyone who wants to step in.’

It didn’t take a genius to hear the doubt in her voice.

‘I take it you don’t think there will be many volunteers.’

‘Nope.’

‘Why not?’ For Pete’s sake... He was an excellent boss.

‘It’s difficult. I did talk to a couple of people I thought would suit, but... Well, one of them is recently married and doesn’t want to go away. I asked Tom Oliver as well, but his wife has just had a baby and he doesn’t want to travel to Milan.’

‘There must be someone else.’

Maree shrugged. ‘You’re quite a hard taskmaster.’ Before he could protest, she raised a hand. ‘OK. A more diplomatic response might be to say you have high expectations.’

Ben sighed. ‘I get the picture. You don’t have a queue of qualified people who want to go to Milan with me. Fine. If need be I’ll survive without a PA.’

He’d find someone else to go to Milan with him. Just in a different capacity.

Three weeks later

Sarah Fletcher stood in the ladies’ restroom of Sahara Fashions’ London headquarters, her trusty trolley of cleaning materials next to her, and ran through her mental checklist.

Floor mopped and polished: tick.

Toilets cleaned: try not to think about it, but tick.

Mirrors polished: tick.

Her gaze caught a glimpse of her reflection and she flinched. She still wasn’t used to her natural hair colour—she’d dyed her hair for so long that the red now looked all wrong—and it jolted her memory neurons with grief.

Imogen. Her identical twin. If Imo was alive this was what she would look like too. But Imo wasn’t alive. She’d lost her twin sister twelve years before. Diagnosed with leukaemia aged thirteen, she’d died after a two-year struggle against the illness. Snuffed out before she could experience very much of life. The unfairness of it all still burned.

Focus on something else. Before the still razor-sharp edge of grief and guilt cuts too deep.

A large notice hung up by the mirrors caught her eye.

Urgent Internal Vacancy

Wanted: Temporary PA to Ben Gardiner

Duration: Two weeks

Pay Grade: Excellent

For details contact Maree Whitaker

Sarah frowned, sure she’d seen other notices like it littered round the offices over the past three weeks—clearly there wasn’t a queue of applicants. Which meant Ben Gardiner must be a difficult boss, despite being gorgeous, loaded and successful, as well as London’s most wanted bachelor—at least according to the last article her mother had showed her.

For a moment Sarah allowed herself a daydream. She was a high-flying executive PA, rather than a mop-to-the-ground part-time cleaner-cum-sales-assistant in a clothing store... Though actually she wasn’t even that. Worry twisted her tummy. The shop she worked for had closed down, so right now she was fully reliant on this job.

Keep calm. Somehow she would find another job. She had to—for Jodie’s sake.

An image of her six-year-old daughter filled her mind—Jodie, with her vivid red hair and her gap-toothed smile.

The most important thing in the world was Jodie and she would give her daughter the best possible start in life. Guilt tugged at her again. She certainly hadn’t given Jodie a good father. And her own stupidity in her teen years meant she was in no place to get herself a good job. Not with a criminal conviction, however unjustified, and no qualifications.

Steely determination filled her. She’d turn it around. She would. For Jodie.

But right now she’d better get on. She was on probation and she could not afford to lose this job as well. So it was time to go and empty Ben Gardiner’s bins; it might not be high-flying but it would pay the bills.

Two minutes later Sarah raised her hand to push the office door open and halted as she heard voices from inside.

Ah...

In the past four weeks Ben Gardiner had never been in his office in the evening—most days Sarah was pretty sure he hadn’t even been there. But someone was definitely in there now. A female, by the sound of it, and an angry one at that. Her higher-pitched tones were interspersed with the low, deeper rumble of a male voice.

Clearly not a good moment to empty the bins, then.

As Sarah stepped back the door burst open and a woman exited. Though ‘exited’ was an understatement. This woman swept out and anger radiated from each long-legged stride. Her dramatic swirl round to face the interior of the office was followed by, ‘You will never know what you missed, Ben!’

Sarah blinked and realised the identity of the woman: short dark hair, endless legs, a classically beautiful face seen on billboards and fashion magazines. This was Leila Durante—supermodel and diva, who had the reputation of only dating the hottest, most famous bachelors in town.

Sarah stepped back into the shadows.

‘When you change your mind let me know. But know this: I will not wait long.’

Ben Gardiner appeared in the doorway. ‘I won’t change my mind. So don’t wait at all.’

The supermodel practically hissed and then marched off.

What now? In an ideal world Sarah would don a cloak of invisibility, but that wasn’t going to happen. Perhaps she’d get lucky and Ben Gardiner would retreat into his office without spotting her. Ha! Since when did luck single her out?

Instead he turned to her. ‘As first dates go, that wasn’t great,’ he observed. ‘We didn’t even make it to the restaurant.’

Sarah gulped. The man looked even better in the flesh than he did in his publicity photos and in magazines... He was tall and lithely muscular, clad in a dark grey suit that added to his aura of lazy power. His dark hair was rumpled, with a hint of curl, and he was tall and lithely muscular, with an aquiline nose, a six o’ clock shadow—or perhaps better to say seven o’clock shadow—and dark blue eyes that added to his air of sheer sexiness.

‘Um... No. But, just so you know, I wasn’t eavesdropping. It’s...’ She gestured to the cleaning trolley. ‘I was...um...about to...um...do your office and...’

For heaven’s sake. This was ridiculous. Yes, the man was extremely gorgeous, hotter than hot coals, but that shouldn’t render her incoherent.

He was a man, just like any other man—except somehow his genetics had conspired to give him the looks of a sex god. And genetics, as Sarah knew oh, so well, could hand out disaster—hence Imo had ended up with leukaemia and Sarah hadn’t. Outwardly they had been identical, but inside Imogen had been doomed from birth. So she of all people should not judge anyone based on their genetic inheritance.

‘Are you OK?’ The deep voice held concern.

Pull yourself together.

She needed this job.

‘I’m fine. Um...’ If she said um... one more time, so help her, she’d kick herself around the building. ‘I’ll come back later to do your office.’

Ben frowned. ‘Have you actually got any other offices to clean?’

‘U—Not as such, but really it’s not a problem.’

Now his expression held more than a slight hint of bemusement. Please, please don’t let him notice that her legs seemed to have turned to mush. Along with her brain, clearly.

‘I’ll come back later,’ she said firmly.

‘Really—no need. I’m just finishing up; come in now. It’s not a problem.’

Only it was. The wretched man seemed to have utterly messed with her hormonal balance. It was ridiculous, and she needed to get over it right now. He was the ultimate boss—a millionaire with a glittering lifestyle—and she was a cleaner on probation, a single mother who desperately needed to keep her job. So, time to lock down her hormones, get in, clean, then get out.

‘OK. Thanks.’

Clutching the trolley, she followed him into the office.

* * *

Ben sighed. So much for his dinner date with Leila; perhaps he should care more, but in truth he didn’t. Leila had completely overstepped the boundaries he’d clearly drawn out and thought she could get away with it. She’d had the temerity to arrange an interview with a celebrity gossip magazine for the two of them as a couple. Well, she’d misjudged her man and he’d had a lucky escape.

He glanced at the witness to the tail-end of their showdown; he hadn’t really been able to see her in the dim light of the outer offices. Interest sparked as his fashion eye assessed her automatically. Medium height, long-legged, hair an arresting shade of red, scraped up into a ponytail, large brown eyes flecked with green.

Aware that his glance was on the verge of being overlong, he swiftly focused on his computer screen as she switched 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...’

CHAPTER TWO

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, he walked round the jut of his light wooden desk and headed towards her. ‘Pleased to meet you, Sarah Fletcher.’

He held out a hand and for a few seconds she looked at it, reluctant to actually make contact. What was the matter with her? It wasn’t as if they’d combust if they touched.

And of course they didn’t. Yet as she placed her hand in his she registered strength and warmth. A tingle shivered over her skin and she stared down at their clasped hands.

She looked up as he smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry. I should have explained this better, but now we’re properly introduced would you come and have dinner with me? I’d really like to continue our conversation and get more of an insight into how sales assistants think and work. Maybe I’ve lost touch with what’s going on at ground level, in the real world, and maybe you’re the right person to set me straight.’

‘So you want to go out for dinner with me to get my take, as a sales assistant, on the viewpoint of the ordinary woman on the street?’

‘Exactly. No strings attached.’

Their gazes caught for a heartbeat and her brain scrambled. ‘Strings? Um...yes. I mean, no. I’m good, thanks.’

Thanks? What was she thanking him for? And why was she still holding his hand?

Amusement glinted in his sapphire eyes now, but there was something else too—an awareness. And who could blame him? The signals she’d just sent out weren’t hard to read; she’d practically drooled and this man was no doubt an expert in the art of body language. This was nuts. She had barely noticed a man in the past six years.

If she had any sense at all she’d refuse his offer, go home and have a nice cup of tea with her mum. Mind you, her mum would think she’d lost the plot; her hormones certainly knew she had. What possible harm could there be in having dinner with him? One meal. In a restaurant for the stars. With the man who headed up Sahara Fashions.

Whoa. Hang on.

The man headed up an entire retail corporation. It was time to get over her hormones and start using her brain. This was an opportunity. A chance to get herself a job. If Ben Gardiner recommended her to one of the Sahara stores, perhaps she could wangle an interview. But first she had to let go of his damn hand.

Doing exactly that, she stepped backwards. ‘Um... Dinner sounds great. Though I do have a request.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘I told you I used to work in a clothes store. Unfortunately it closed and I lost my job. I would love to work in a Sahara outlet and I wonder if you could interview me over dinner to see if you think I’m a good fit. And if you do maybe you could recommend me for a sales assistant job.’

Sarah paused for breath, aware that she had dug her nails so deeply into the palms of her hand that it hurt. She forced herself to relax as he studied her expression.

‘I leave recruitment to my managers—I don’t tend to interfere. If you’re interested in a vacancy, why haven’t you applied online? With your experience you would have a good chance of an interview anyway.’

In theory he was spot-on. But there was the small matter of her criminal conviction. She almost never made it to interview stage. These days she didn’t even bother applying.

For a stupid moment she was tempted to tell him the truth, explain the facts, but what was the point? Yes, she’d been completely innocent, but why should he believe that? No one else had, and she could still taste the hopelessness, the fear, as she’d told the truth only to have it rejected. She would never forget the moment she had realised that she’d been set up and that her boyfriend was leaving her to take the fall.

But she could not explain that to this man in the here and now.

‘I understand that, but your recommendation would give me an edge.’

He hesitated, and then shrugged. ‘If after dinner I think you’re suitable, I’ll recommend you for an interview. Not for a job. Because that is the store manager’s call—he or she knows the existing team and requirements better than I do.’

‘That’s fabulous. Thank you. Really.’ She couldn’t help the smile that lifted her lips; this could be the break she’d been hoping for.

‘Then let’s go.’

‘Yes. But...’ She looked down. ‘I can’t go to Tatiana’s in this. I’ll need to meet you there after...’ After she’d magicked up a suitable outfit from thin air.

‘We’ll stop at a Sahara store on the way and you can pick something out.’

Sarah hesitated. Logic dictated that for Ben Gardiner the gift of an outfit was the equivalent of a chocolate bar. Yet her scruples protested. ‘That seems wrong.’

‘We’re going to a Michelin-starred restaurant; it’s good publicity for Sahara if you’re seen wearing the label. Look at it as an interview test. We expect our sales assistants to be able to help customers pick the right clothing—this will show me if you can do that.’

Panic fluttered inside her, but no way would she show it. This was her chance to land an interview, secure a job, pay her bills and afford ballet lessons for Jodie. The idea galvanised her.

‘Sounds good,’ she said, her mind already playing with ideas so she’d know what to look for. ‘I just need to put my cleaning stuff away and sign out.’

‘Go ahead. I’ll close down in here.’

Pushing the trolley ahead of her, Sarah exited the office and headed to the room that housed the cleaning supplies. She put everything away and then dialled her mum’s number. ‘Hi, Mum. It’s a long story but I’ve been asked out to dinner.’

‘A date?’ Her mum sounded thrilled—she was always telling Sarah she needed to get out more. But Sarah had no intention of doing that. Jodie came first, and she didn’t want the complication of introducing a man into her daughter’s life. It was hard enough to explain Jodie’s actual father—or rather the conspicuous absence of said father.

Telling her, Well, darling, last I heard Daddy was in prison, and long may he stay there, wasn’t ideal.

‘No. Not a date. It’s complicated.’

No need to tell her mum about the possibility of a job interview recommendation; she didn’t want to get her hopes up. So maybe it would be best not to even mention Ben Gardiner until she got home.

‘It’s still a chance for you to go out for dinner. Take it. Jodie is fast asleep, and even if she does wake up I’m here.’

‘I know you are, Mum. Thank you. I owe you.’ More than she could say.

Again guilt piled onto her. After Imogen’s death twelve years previously Sarah had behaved appallingly—gone so far off the rails she hadn’t even been able to see the tracks. She’d messed up her education, and had sprinted, danced, whirled and run with the wrong crowd. All in a desperate attempt to feel something, to block out the horror of her guilt and grief over her sister’s death.

God knew her parents had tried to help, but they had had their own grief to deal with. In the end, trying to cope with that as well as Sarah had driven her father to the bottle and led to the disintegration of their marriage.

Enough.

Her mother had forgiven her, taken her and Jodie in, and now the three of them were a happy family unit. As for her father... It was best not to go there; he was lost to her. His descent into alcoholism had changed him beyond all recognition and he wanted nothing to do with her.

‘You don’t owe me anything, sweetheart. Enjoy yourself. Really. I’ll ask Georgia over and we’ll have a good old catch-up.’

‘OK, Mum. I shouldn’t be too late. Give my love to Georgia.’ Georgia was her mother’s best friend and like a second grandmother to Jodie.

Right. Deep breath. The die was cast and she was going out to dinner with the head honcho.

As if on cue, the office door opened and Ben came out, jacket back on. Sarah gulped.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘Sure.’

‘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.

CHAPTER THREE

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’ glanced at Sarah and to his credit didn’t give even the slightest indication that he had expected a supermodel. ‘And your guest, of course. Please come this way.’

He led them through the opulent room and up a couple of stairs to a central table, and handed them two leather-bound menus.

‘Mario will be over shortly to take your order.’

‘Thank you.’

Sarah smiled up at the maître d’ before he glided away and Ben was struck afresh at the classical slant of her face: a face that would age with beauty and class.

‘This is incredible.’ Her smile was tentative. ‘Though if I’d known I’d be sitting on a mustard-yellow armchair, I might have picked a slightly different outfit.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’

‘I do! Those chandeliers alone are awe-inspiring. I mean, where did they get them from? And how can something so immense also be so delicate? Each one is so pretty and yet magnificent.’

‘They redecorated a year ago; it was pretty luxurious before, but now it’s...’ He glanced round at the powder-blue walls, lined with Greek-style moulding and objets d’art.

‘Imposingly rich, yet somehow it feels a bit like a private dining room rather than a restaurant. Maybe it’s because they’ve spaced the tables really well.’ She looked down at the menu and exuded a sigh. ‘I may need a little time.’

She wasn’t kidding, and yet he didn’t mind the wait as she read the menu carefully, clearly weighing her choices. In truth he welcomed the opportunity to study her. Light from the chandeliers tinted her hair with auburn, and her face was creased into an endearing frown of concentration.

An elusive idea niggled at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. The latest Sahara slogan rang in his mind. The ordinary is extraordinary. His new range was for people who lived in the real world, and yet he himself no longer did. So—dammit—had he got it wrong?

He stole another glance at Sarah as she looked up from the menu. ‘Right. I think I’ve decided. Though it wasn’t easy. I’m not sure I even know what some of these things are, but I think I’ll go for the stone bass—unless you think that’s a mistake? It comes with rock oyster sauce and pickled mushrooms.’

‘If you don’t like it we’ll swap,’ he said. ‘I’m going for the duck, with mandarin butternut puree. Does that sound OK?’

‘That sounds wonderful—in fact maybe I should have that—but...’

It was impossible not to smile at her frown of indecision. ‘We can go halves.’

‘Thank you. This certainly makes a difference from pizza!’

She gave a sudden smile when she looked at his expression and he blinked.

‘I’m guessing it’s been a while since you had pizza?’

‘Yes.’ Her smile seemed to have rendered him tongue-tied. All suave sophistication had exited the restaurant and the appearance of the waiter was a relief.

‘Champagne and a selection of canapés,’ Mario announced. ‘And then if you are ready to order?’

Once he’d taken their choices and left, Ben lifted his glass. ‘To the real world,’ he said.

‘Yours or mine?’ she asked.

‘Both. Because they are both real.’

‘Even if never the twain shall meet?’

‘They are meeting now. You’re here.’

‘Sure. But...’ She pressed her lips together, studied the canapés, chose a tiny blini topped with smoked salmon.

Ben shook his head, realising that whatever she had been about to say she’d deemed it inadvisable. ‘If this is going to work we need to agree something upfront. I want your honest opinion. No faking. Agreed?’

A hesitation. Another canapé—this time a thin wafer disc, topped with a delicately flavoured cheese concoction. Then, ‘You’re sure? You want my unvarnished opinion on everything? No faking at all?’

‘Precisely. I promise you there will be no adverse effects on your job interview. I will tell you here and now that I’ll arrange an interview with the manager at my Mayfair store. No matter what.’

Yet her eyes were still flecked with doubt, so in response he pulled his phone out and wrote an email, then turned the screen so she could see the words—a request for an interview to be set up. As she watched he hit ‘send’.

‘Done. So now we are agreed? No faking.’

Her smile illuminated her whole face. ‘Agreed.’

‘OK. So what were you about to say?’

‘That, yes, we are both here, but this is just a blip. I’m not meant to be here. You can afford to come back next week, or tomorrow, or whenever you like and you’ll most likely bring a celebrity or actor with you. Someone from your world.’

‘I...’ He opened his mouth and then closed it again. There had been no censure in her voice, her tone had been observational, and yet he sensed defensiveness creeping into his stance and he shook his head to repudiate it.

Yes, he liked to eat in the best restaurants, and enjoyed the knowledge that he could afford it. Tangible proof that he’d made it. A way to show the world and his family that he was worth something. And, yes, he loved being successful, revelled in the power that wealth and status gave him. The power to lavish money on his mother, to show her that her choice to keep him had been the right one, to make up for all those years she’d struggled.

Who said money couldn’t buy happiness?

‘Ben?’

Sarah’s concerned voice penetrated his sudden lapse into a trip down the tarnished road of memory lane.

‘I didn’t mean it as a criticism. You’re entitled to your world—I only meant it’s very different to most people’s. Most people have to worry about bills and rising food prices and whether they can afford ballet lessons for their kids. Ninety-nine per cent of the population can’t afford to eat here because the cost of a meal is probably more than their monthly food budget.’

She was right.

‘Which is why I want to hear your take on things,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping that our new range of clothes isn’t out of touch with what the customer on the high street wants. The idea is for these clothes to be everyday, normal clothes that you feel good in all the time.’

‘The type of clothes I’d wear to have a pizza?’

‘Yes.’

As she considered her response Mario returned with their starters and Sarah beamed up at him. ‘This looks amazing. They both do,’ she added as she looked across at his plate.

Once the waiter had disappeared as unobtrusively as he’d appeared, she gestured to his. ‘But what is it?’

‘Cauliflower,’ he explained. ‘Infused with lemon curry oil and topped with parmesan. You want to try some?’

‘Sure. And you can have a bit of mine. Scallops with artichoke puree and some sort of sauce—a truffle jus, I think.’

As she tasted a sample of his she closed her eyes, and he was tempted to do the same, to block the effect she was having on him. Instead he asked, ‘Well?’

‘It’s delicious. I had no idea cauliflower could taste like this—it’s like magic.’

He grinned. ‘I’m not sure the chef has an actual wand, but perhaps that’s his secret.’

‘Anyway—sorry. I’m here to give you my opinion on clothes, not vegetables. Right... Well, I’d have to see the clothes in more detail, but going for a pizza could be different, depending on the occasion. A family dinner might get messy—globs of tomato sauce, drips of ice cream. So you’d want clothes that are easy to wash and that also won’t show up grubby stains too much. Or you may go out and eat pizza on a date—and you may travel there by bus. In that case you’d want a more layered look—something pretty under something practical. Or you may be going after work—in which case you’d need something light and sparkly that you can put in your bag and use to transform your work clothes. Anyway, you get the picture.’

He did, and what he liked—alongside her spot-on observations—was the animation that lit her face, the way she waved her hands around to emphasise a point.

‘So that’s what you’d want to wear and what you would want to sell?’

‘That goes back to the point I made earlier. I don’t necessarily have to buy in to the whole range of clothes to be able to sell it. What’s right for me isn’t what’s right for everyone. I don’t have to love it to promote it.’

‘So I should be looking for a good sales technique over genuine love for the product?’

‘In an ideal world you’d need both. But sometimes loving a product isn’t enough; there’s a whole lot more to it than that.’

‘I get that. My business model is based on giving customers what they want, and for that I rely on feedback from the sales floor. I expect my sales force to listen to what the customer wants rather than push them into buying the wrong clothes just to get a sale. Happy customers come back.’

‘I agree with all that—but again, with respect, all that is manager-speak.’

‘Meaning...?’

‘OK... Imagine that you are a sales assistant, you love the product, and you know company policy is to listen to the customer and deliver “excellent service”, et cetera, et cetera. I am the customer. I’ve come in and I’ve tried on an outfit—a pair of jeans that are clearly a size too small for me and a tie top. The same outfit that is on one of your billboards, only the model happens to have super-skinny legs and a toned, flat stomach.’ She glanced down at her own midriff. ‘Trust me—I have neither attribute. So, are you picturing it?’

Oh, God. It had all been going so well.

Ben reached for his wine glass, changed his mind and opted for water instead. He told himself that the temperature in the room could not have gone up. ‘Um...yes. Um...’

Pull it together Ben. This is a serious conversation.

‘You want to know what I would say—would I give my honest advice or would I tell you that it looks great?’

‘Exactly. Because there are so many questions here. You don’t want to damage someone’s self-esteem. Women have enough issues with their body image as it is. But equally the truth is that different fashions suit different body shapes. So here I am, standing in front of you, an ordinary person in the changing room. I’m wearing a tie top that emphasises assets I don’t have and exposes a midriff that is less toned than it could be. What would you do?’

‘I’d tell you that as long as you’re happy with the outfit that is the most important thing.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘But surely that would imply that you don’t like it?’

He had to get a grip. Unfortunately that was proving hard, because right now he liked it a whole lot—he was sure the outfit would look pretty damn good on her. But that wasn’t the point and he knew it.

Focus. And as he considered her words he realised exactly how difficult the question was. What would he say?

‘OK. The point of Sahara clothes is to make the customer feel good in themselves. So, personally, I believe that it doesn’t matter if your tummy is toned or not. The important thing is that you feel happy and comfortable showing off your shape or size. If you feel good about yourself you can carry off any fashion.’

It was his turn to trail off as he spotted her raised eyebrows.

‘That’s all very well, and I completely agree with you, but...’

‘But it doesn’t answer your question. What should I say to the customer?’

Disbelief touched Ben—why couldn’t he work out an answer? Instead he was sat here spouting manager-talk. Blah-blah-blah.

‘OK. I give in. What’s the answer? What would you say?’

Sarah speared a final scallop as she considered the answer. ‘I’m not sure there is a standard answer, because you have to consider each situation individually. You’d say something different to a teenager than you would to a middle-aged woman. But you could compliment her choice of outfit. So maybe, That’s a great combination—one of our best sellers, in fact. And then I’d ask questions—ask if she has any reservations, or what she wants the outfit for. Create an opportunity to offer a different choice. I might say, If you want, I can get you another of our most popular combinations, and I’d get her something more suited to her body type. Then I’d leave the choice to her.’

Ben studied her for a moment. Sarah Fletcher knew her stuff. She was intelligent, had a good grasp of fashion and customer service and could forge an excellent career in retail. At a guess he’d put her in her mid-twenties. So why on earth was she working as a cleaner when her interests were clearly elsewhere?

Not his business.

‘OK. I like that,’ he said. ‘I think it would be useful if we ran a few seminars for our sales assistants and put them through a few hypothetical scenarios like that.’

‘Another idea would be to have more ordinary-shaped mannequins in store. That way you can actually show that your new designs are really made for ordinary people.’

If they really are...

The words were unspoken, yet they echoed across the table and Ben stared at her. Had he really thought about that? Yes, he did agree in principle that the ordinary was extraordinary, that clothes should be designed for all shapes and sizes, and that had been his vision. But had he made sure that vision had been translated into the real world, where people came in very different shapes and sizes compared to the models he paid to advertise his products?

There were too many questions, and he certainly couldn’t get all the answers here and now.

Pushing his empty plate away, he looked up at the ceiling and then back at Sarah. She was a woman who made him think, and right now he needed that.

The idea that had niggled at the back of his brain suddenly came together. ‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ he said.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.