He thought fast. What was popular at the moment? What did they need? A germ of an idea seeded itself. “Pop-up stalls for the local merchants. A space for everyone to advertise their shops. Guest food stands. Designers. The jewelers’ and the bead shop, the florist...anyone who’s interested.”
She turned to look at him, her frown softening. “That might work. It’d be a start at least.”
She wasn’t going to let him off the hook and hell, it was going to be a nightmare to organize at such short notice...if at all. “Great. I’ll arrange a meeting with the business network first thing Monday.”
“Excellent first step.” For the first time since she’d found out who he was she smiled. But it wasn’t exactly warm, and it didn’t reach her eyes. “After you’ve cleaned your windows.”
5
YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN UP-FRONT.
Victoria put her pencil down, scrunched her hair into a topknot and secured it with a hair tie. She pulled tight, the sharp sting on her scalp mirroring the sharp sting in her gut. It was the sting of confusion. Because she could hardly blame Oliver, really. She’d been pretty vocal about what she’d heard, and therefore thought, about the owner, so he would hardly want to introduce himself on the back of her scathing description, would he?
But there she was, being too nice, again, giving him the benefit of the doubt. And that kind of attitude had got her into enough trouble in the past. She looked out of her studio window and tried to breathe in some calm, but she couldn’t settle, and she knew exactly why...
You should have been up-front.
Words Peter had slung at her when she’d finally plucked up the courage to admit her deficiencies. She, more than anyone, knew how not being up-front could lead into all kinds of dilemmas and problems and, ultimately, a broken heart and lost dreams of a shared shop, a shared future. All Oliver had been doing had been playing her a little.
Now she almost felt guilty about being cross with him. Almost. But he’d allowed her to believe that he worked there, not that he was the billionaire son of a billion-pound retail empire.
God, what she could do with some of that money; she wouldn’t be holding design classes in her flat, that was for sure, she’d be holding them in a proper after-school classroom that she’d set up, she’d be buying decent fabric supplies, she’d be out making contacts with people in the business and getting her students decent internships and proper jobs, with better futures.
She stared down at the designs in front of her. The ones she hadn’t added anything to for days. She’d stewed on Oliver all through Sunday and now here she was, Monday morning, with nothing to show for the precious free hours she’d had.
A ring of the doorbell broke her reverie. As it was too early for anyone to be setting up downstairs in the pub and therefore able to answer the door, she sent a silent thank-you to the caller for the welcome distraction and ran down. As she flung the door open a blast of frigid air hit her. She tugged her robe around her more tightly and looked outside, but there was no one there. Who had knocked?
“Ah. That’s all I need. Designer’s block and now some stupid prankster too.” She was just about to shut the door when a package wrapped in plain brown paper, on the step below, caught her eye. “What’s...?”
She picked it up and unwrapped it only to have meters and meters of the beautiful satin wedding fabric she’d adored on Saturday running through her fingers. There must have been hundreds and hundreds of pounds’ worth. No message. But she knew exactly who it was from: Oliver Russell.
“Typical! You can’t buy me, Russell!” Irritation rushed through her as she leaned out into the fresh air to see if he was there somewhere watching, waiting or hiding. But no one was there. No one, apart from a huddle of schoolkids shuffling past, looking at her and staring, then laughing at the crazy woman in her pj’s shouting at nobody in particular.
An hour later she was outside his office on the fifth floor, a floor she hadn’t even realized was there, her lovely black suede-heeled Mary Janes making footprints in the dust. Luckily, Stan had recognized her, believed her pretense that she had a meeting with his boss and let her in, or she doubted she’d have made it over the security door threshold. But that didn’t mean she was any closer to actually speaking to Oliver.
“I’m sorry...” A pleasant young woman behind a large reception desk smiled, although it didn’t reach her pale eyes. “Mr. Russell is very busy. If you haven’t got an appointment he won’t be able to see you today.”
Victoria put the bolt of satin onto the desk and smiled sweetly at the woman. “Tell him I have a bad concussion and it’s all his fault for knocking me over and if he doesn’t come out here soon, I’m going to sue him.”
“What?” The woman blinked quickly.
“Please tell Mr. Oliver that I will sue Russell & Co. for reckless endangerment. He knocked me over, you see. Outside, as I tried to negotiate the footpath that is littered with Russell & Co.’s rubbish. I have photographs of the debris. It’s everywhere.” OK, it was a bad thing to do, but needs must. In reality, she had no intention at all of suing him, she didn’t have a headache and definitely no concussion, but if he could be economical with the truth so could she. And if shocking this receptionist into action was the only way to get her face-to-face with Oliver then that’s what she would have to do. “Do I get my lawyers to send the papers here or should I just meet him in court? It will be so costly for the business. And for your job too, I imagine. If they go bankrupt.”
The woman went a shade of green. “Well...he said not to bother him. He’s so busy...but—”
“Of course, I’m sure it could all be smoothed over if I could just speak to him. Two minutes of his time, that’s all I need.” Victoria suppressed a smile. Who knew she was so good at acting? “Or I could give you the number of my lawyer?”
“Oh.” The receptionist jumped from her chair and scurried down a corridor. There was the sound of raised voices, a moment of silence and then Oliver appeared. Dressed in a dark navy suit with a pale-blue linen shirt, he looked every inch the heir apparent. Also...drop-dead cologne-ad gorgeous. In a surly kind of way. He wasn’t smiling but he wasn’t frowning either. In fact, it was hard to interpret the look on his face. Then it came to her...hassled, busy, tired. His features were strained. But still gorgeous. Still compelling her to look.
“Victoria? Oh, you got the fabric. Excellent.”
She bundled it into her arms and handed it to him as her heart squeezed to see it go. “No. Just no.”
But Oliver handed it back to her. “Keep it. It’s a peace offering.”
“Oh, it’s so beautiful, I’d keep it if I were you,” the receptionist said, as she took her seat again, obviously waiting for a showdown about a concussion and not about double-weight satin, given the surprised look on her face as her eyes went from the fabric, to Victoria, to Oliver and back to the fabric.
“It is exquisite.” Victoria sighed. “But I can’t accept it. I just can’t.” If he’d given her jewelry or even money it would have been far easier to return, but he’d hit her right in the feels, where he knew he’d have the most effect. Oh, he was a canny businessman. Astute indeed. He clearly wasn’t going to take it from her, so she put the bundle back on the counter and, as she did so, felt the satin stroke across her skin. Divine. Yes. Beautiful. Yes. But she was giving it back. Oh, how stupidly selfless of her. “Please, take it back.” Before I change my mind.
He shook his head sharply. “It’s an apology and a thank-you gift. First rule of gift-taking. You can’t return it.”
He was right about that. She’d been brought up to accept things in the manner they were given but this was different, she felt as if she was being bought. His economy with the truth wasn’t worth this amount of fabric. “A gift for what?”
“Let me explain. In my office.” His voice was all efficiency and big bad boss as he turned to the side and put
his hand out for her to walk ahead of him down the corridor. When they reached a door with his name on it, he held his hand out again. She followed him into a vast corner office that was light and airy with views across the city. Almost filling one window was a huge mahogany desk and in another corner two expensive-looking leather couches were separated by a small glass coffee table. So far, so traditionally corporate.
The floor-to-ceiling windows shone and as she looked out she could see two men on a suspended platform one storey down, rubbing away at the grime on the glass. She hid a smile and said nothing.
Oliver offered her a very comfortable-looking plush leather seat to sit on as he said, “I spoke to the chair of the business network first thing this morning and he’s canvassed a few of your friends already. Looks like we will be hosting them on opening day by way of a huge pop-up market stall in the center of the ground floor.”
She nodded, the smile spreading through her body as she sat. “You’re going to make it happen?”
A curt nod. “We’re going to make it happen. I see it as the beginning of an exciting new partnership.”
“What? Between you and me?” Her heart hammered a little and she had to put a palm over her chest to stop it.
He smiled then and with that one little adjustment the strain in his face seemed to smooth away. He was back to the gorgeous man who’d shown her around the store, looking completely delighted by the birds on the iron railing and who had watched her face so intently as she’d walked into his haberdashery department.
His haberdashery department, his iron rail. King of everything here, she reminded herself. He raised his palm. “Don’t look so horrified. I mean a partnership between the business network and Russell & Co. I think it will benefit everyone. In fact, it’s going to be excellent PR for us all and it’s thanks to you. So please, take the material. It’s yours now. Unlike this store I have a zero returns policy.”
“OK. Well, I suppose no one else would want it after it’s been cut.” Although there was far more yardage than she needed for one dress. But she could use it as a feature fabric in some of the other clothes in her collection. A skirt for one, a bodice for another. Ideas began to crystallize for the first time since Saturday. She needed to go start drawing them. Excited at creativity returning she stood and turned to go. “Thank you.”
But his hand was still in the air. “Actually, there is something else.”
“Oh? What?” For some odd reason an image of him nursing that whiskey the other night flitted through her head. The heat of his gaze and that deep unspoken connection they’d had just for a moment washed through her again. And she realized there was a part of her that was hoping for the something else to be more personal.
His fingers steepled. “The runway show for your students...have you arranged anything yet?”
“How do you know about that?” Still clutching the satin, she sat back down.
“You were talking about it in the bar. How everyone was already booked up and you didn’t want to let your students down.”
“You heard all that?” He’d been listening?
He shrugged. “The awful music had stopped and the place was empty. Your voices carried.”
“I see.” When had she become so mistrusting? But she knew the answer to that...it was when she found her ex with someone else. Having her dreams fall apart just when she’d started dreaming again.
Oliver’s eyes widened. “Have you arranged anything yet?”
“No. I’ve made more calls, but no one’s interested.”
“Then you can hold it here. I can invite some of my friends. Fashion friends,” he explained. “I know people.”
“Which people?” Despite herself excitement rippled through her. This could be an awesome opportunity. “Really? Here?”
“We host runway shows all the time in our stores. We have a big commitment to up-and-coming designers. It’s good to be at the forefront of the industry and it brings a different demographic in. Russell & Co. would like to extend an invitation to your students to bring their designs here.”
Imagining their excitement, she couldn’t wait to tell them this news. “That would be awesome. Thank you. Thank you. That’s very kind.”
“It’s business.” He smiled. “I’ve spoken to the floor manager and we’ll get something sorted. Opening day? A gala reception and a runway on the fashion floor.”
But at what cost? “Everything comes at a price. You’ve done enough already.”
“No. Really. It’s PR.”
It was more than that. It was a chance she had to grasp for her students’ sake. “That’s a huge effort...the pop-up stores and the runway.” But something didn’t quite add up. She’d asked him to prove that Russell & Co. cared but this was far beyond her expectations. “Why do you want to do this for me? Us?” she quickly corrected herself.
“Consider it a first step in repairing the damage my cousin Andrew has wreaked here.”
“But it’s too much.”
“So, spread the word about Russell & Co. Please. About the opening day. We need everyone here.”
“Of course. Absolutely. My students will be thrilled.” She imagined a catwalk stretching across a floor, bifurcating concession stands of brands such as Versace and Stella McCartney. And there in the middle of such esteemed designers would be Nisha’s designs, Jasmine’s and Billie’s. “This will be so special for them. There must be something I can do in return?”
He glanced at his feet, rocked back on his heels. Then his eyes met hers. Gray-blue the other day, she noticed they changed a little with his mood. Now they were darker, slate. “Actually, there is something I’d like to ask you, Victoria.”
Ah, now came the crunch. Nothing ever came free and she’d been silly to expect anything different from Mr. Retail Mogul. Laughing, she held up her hand. “For the record, I’m not going to marry you.”
“It’s not that.” His gaze held hers and she couldn’t read him. “Not...exactly.”
What the actual hell? “What do you mean, not exactly?”
“I need a favor. I need someone to be my...girlfriend at the opening day.”
A small part of her heart fluttered. The part that belonged to the eighteen-year-old girl before the accident. The one with dreams and hopes. She stamped it out. Those kind of dreams weren’t for her.
The laughter died on her lips. He was serious? “Let me get this right. You need a girlfriend for an event two weeks away? That’s a very odd thing to ask. Is it just for the one day?”
“Yes.” He seemed certain about that.
“Why? I mean, if you want to take a woman on a date surely the normal thing to do is just invite them out and see how it goes. Not ask them about a thing in the future. What if we don’t like each other? What if we don’t get on? I can’t commit to something weeks away. Other than you proposing to me we don’t know each other at all.”
She tried not to think about those muscles, or the way his eyes softened when he wasn’t trying hard to be a businessman. The buzz of awareness as their fingers had brushed together. She knew enough about him to feel her body reacting.
Which was not a good thing.
“It’s not...” He scrubbed his hand across his hair, leaving little dark tufts sticking up. Her hands itched to smooth them down. To run her fingers through that hair. How was it possible he could be so damned officious and yet so ruggedly handsome at the same time? “Look, Victoria, please don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t want to date you.”
“Sorry? I’m a bit confused here.” Her heart clenched. Of course he wouldn’t want to date her. She wasn’t exactly the billionaire girlfriend type with her penchant for vintage—real vintage that had been worn and used for years, rather than new-vintage that was made to look classic, or the totally out-of-her-budget vintage that designers like Chanel kept locked away in air-monitored rooms for celebritie
s to peruse and borrow.
With her useless reproductive system. With her bijou flat above a pub. He wouldn’t want her. Just the idea of her.
Like Peter. He’d loved the idea of Victoria, he just hadn’t loved the whole of her. Or, more specifically, the lost parts of her. It had started out as just fun, nothing serious, then they talked about going into business and building something good together, but then he’d discovered her infertility and suddenly he hadn’t loved the idea of a sterile future with her.
But Oliver wasn’t Peter.
And besides, she didn’t measure her own worth that way. She had a lot to give—too bad Peter hadn’t seen that in her.
Oliver shook his head. “I don’t have time to date. I don’t... It’s not something I can do at this point in my life. I don’t want to date you, Victoria, but I would like you to consider being my girlfriend for a set period of time. When my parents are here.”
Weird. “Why?”
He stood and walked to the window, hands deep in his suit pockets, and looked out across town. His voice softened. “Because my father is sick. And my mother is stressed by that, and by the fact that I’m not settling down at my age.”
“Which is?”
“The ripe old age of thirty-two.”
“God. Better book your retirement home soon.” She laughed, trying to make it sound encouraging rather than disparaging. Mostly, she laughed at the ridiculousness of having such expectations put upon you by your parents even as an adult. At least her folks had scaled all that back; they were just happy she was alive.
He wasn’t laughing. “The best way to keep them happy is to pretend I’m settling down.”
“But with me? You want me to pretend to be someone I’m not.” She shook her head. “Like you did the other day. Is this a habit of yours?”
“Not at all.” He looked at her and shook his head. “It’s for a definitive period of time. Just be you, that would be perfect. I know it sounds far-fetched. But can you pretend to be my girlfriend for one day?”
Meet Me in London Page 6
