‘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