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