Nina Milne - Whisked Away By Her Millionaire Boss

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.’