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