Cinderella's Secret Royal Fling

by Jessica Gilmore

  Enough. He’d come to terms with all that. He had decided to live his life to the fullest and show them all—his birth father, his fake father, his siblings, the whole goddamn world. And he had. He had achieved a success attained by very few, and his mother would never want for anything—he’d made damn sure of that.

  But right now he said, ‘So what are we going to do about a replacement for you next month?’

  ‘I’ll advertise internally and see if there’s anyone who wants to step in.’

  It didn’t take a genius to hear the doubt in her voice.

  ‘I take it you don’t think there will be many volunteers.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Why not?’ For Pete’s sake... He was an excellent boss.

  ‘It’s difficult. I did talk to a couple of people I thought would suit, but... Well, one of them is recently married and doesn’t want to go away. I asked Tom Oliver as well, but his wife has just had a baby and he doesn’t want to travel to Milan.’

  ‘There must be someone else.’

  Maree shrugged. ‘You’re quite a hard taskmaster.’ Before he could protest, she raised a hand. ‘OK. A more diplomatic response might be to say you have high expectations.’

  Ben sighed. ‘I get the picture. You don’t have a queue of qualified people who want to go to Milan with me. Fine. If need be I’ll survive without a PA.’

  He’d find someone else to go to Milan with him. Just in a different capacity.

  Three weeks later

  Sarah Fletcher stood in the ladies’ restroom of Sahara Fashions’ London headquarters, her trusty trolley of cleaning materials next to her, and ran through her mental checklist.

  Floor mopped and polished: tick.

  Toilets cleaned: try not to think about it, but tick.

  Mirrors polished: tick.

  Her gaze caught a glimpse of her reflection and she flinched. She still wasn’t used to her natural hair colour—she’d dyed her hair for so long that the red now looked all wrong—and it jolted her memory neurons with grief.

  Imogen. Her identical twin. If Imo was alive this was what she would look like too. But Imo wasn’t alive. She’d lost her twin sister twelve years before. Diagnosed with leukaemia aged thirteen, she’d died after a two-year struggle against the illness. Snuffed out before she could experience very much of life. The unfairness of it all still burned.

  Focus on something else. Before the still razor-sharp edge of grief and guilt cuts too deep.

  A large notice hung up by the mirrors caught her eye.

  Urgent Internal Vacancy

  Wanted: Temporary PA to Ben Gardiner

  Duration: Two weeks

  Pay Grade: Excellent

  For details contact Maree Whitaker

  Sarah frowned, sure she’d seen other notices like it littered round the offices over the past three weeks—clearly there wasn’t a queue of applicants. Which meant Ben Gardiner must be a difficult boss, despite being gorgeous, loaded and successful, as well as London’s most wanted bachelor—at least according to the last article her mother had showed her.

  For a moment Sarah allowed herself a daydream. She was a high-flying executive PA, rather than a mop-to-the-ground part-time cleaner-cum-sales-assistant in a clothing store... Though actually she wasn’t even that. Worry twisted her tummy. The shop she worked for had closed down, so right now she was fully reliant on this job.

  Keep calm. Somehow she would find another job. She had to—for Jodie’s sake.

  An image of her six-year-old daughter filled her mind—Jodie, with her vivid red hair and her gap-toothed smile.

  The most important thing in the world was Jodie and she would give her daughter the best possible start in life. Guilt tugged at her again. She certainly hadn’t given Jodie a good father. And her own stupidity in her teen years meant she was in no place to get herself a good job. Not with a criminal conviction, however unjustified, and no qualifications.

  Steely determination filled her. She’d turn it around. She would. For Jodie.

  But right now she’d better get on. She was on probation and she could not afford to lose this job as well. So it was time to go and empty Ben Gardiner’s bins; it might not be high-flying but it would pay the bills.

  Two minutes later Sarah raised her hand to push the office door open and halted as she heard voices from inside.

  Ah...

  In the past four weeks Ben Gardiner had never been in his office in the evening—most days Sarah was pretty sure he hadn’t even been there. But someone was definitely in there now. A female, by the sound of it, and an angry one at that. Her higher-pitched tones were interspersed with the low, deeper rumble of a male voice.

  Clearly not a good moment to empty the bins, then.

  As Sarah stepped back the door burst open and a woman exited. Though ‘exited’ was an understatement. This woman swept out and anger radiated from each long-legged stride. Her dramatic swirl round to face the interior of the office was followed by, ‘You will never know what you missed, Ben!’

  Sarah blinked and realised the identity of the woman: short dark hair, endless legs, a classically beautiful face seen on billboards and fashion magazines. This was Leila Durante—supermodel and diva, who had the reputation of only dating the hottest, most famous bachelors in town.

  Sarah stepped back into the shadows.

  ‘When you change your mind let me know. But know this: I will not wait long.’

  Ben Gardiner appeared in the doorway. ‘I won’t change my mind. So don’t wait at all.’

  The supermodel practically hissed and then marched off.

  What now? In an ideal world Sarah would don a cloak of invisibility, but that wasn’t going to happen. Perhaps she’d get lucky and Ben Gardiner would retreat into his office without spotting her. Ha! Since when did luck single her out?

  Instead he turned to her. ‘As first dates go, that wasn’t great,’ he observed. ‘We didn’t even make it to the restaurant.’

  Sarah gulped. The man looked even better in the flesh than he did in his publicity photos and in magazines... He was tall and lithely muscular, clad in a dark grey suit that added to his aura of lazy power. His dark hair was rumpled, with a hint of curl, and he was tall and lithely muscular, with an aquiline nose, a six o’ clock shadow—or perhaps better to say seven o’clock shadow—and dark blue eyes that added to his air of sheer sexiness.

  ‘Um... No. But, just so you know, I wasn’t eavesdropping. It’s...’ She gestured to the cleaning trolley. ‘I was...um...about to...um...do your office and...’

  For heaven’s sake. This was ridiculous. Yes, the man was extremely gorgeous, hotter than hot coals, but that shouldn’t render her incoherent.

  He was a man, just like any other man—except somehow his genetics had conspired to give him the looks of a sex god. And genetics, as Sarah knew oh, so well, could hand out disaster—hence Imo had ended up with leukaemia and Sarah hadn’t. Outwardly they had been identical, but inside Imogen had been doomed from birth. So she of all people should not judge anyone based on their genetic inheritance.

  ‘Are you OK?’ The deep voice held concern.

  Pull yourself together.

  She needed this job.

  ‘I’m fine. Um...’ If she said um... one more time, so help her, she’d kick herself around the building. ‘I’ll come back later to do your office.’

  Ben frowned. ‘Have you actually got any other offices to clean?’

  ‘U—Not as such, but really it’s not a problem.’

  Now his expression held more than a slight hint of bemusement. Please, please don’t let him notice that her legs seemed to have turned to mush. Along with her brain, clearly.

  ‘I’ll come back later,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Really—no need. I’m just finishing up; come in now. It’s not a problem.’ />
  Only it was. The wretched man seemed to have utterly messed with her hormonal balance. It was ridiculous, and she needed to get over it right now. He was the ultimate boss—a millionaire with a glittering lifestyle—and she was a cleaner on probation, a single mother who desperately needed to keep her job. So, time to lock down her hormones, get in, clean, then get out.

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  Clutching the trolley, she followed him into the office.

  * * *

  Ben sighed. So much for his dinner date with Leila; perhaps he should care more, but in truth he didn’t. Leila had completely overstepped the boundaries he’d clearly drawn out and thought she could get away with it. She’d had the temerity to arrange an interview with a celebrity gossip magazine for the two of them as a couple. Well, she’d misjudged her man and he’d had a lucky escape.

  He glanced at the witness to the tail-end of their showdown; he hadn’t really been able to see her in the dim light of the outer offices. Interest sparked as his fashion eye assessed her automatically. Medium height, long-legged, hair an arresting shade of red, scraped up into a ponytail, large brown eyes flecked with green.

  Aware that his glance was on the verge of being overlong, he swiftly focused on his computer screen as she switched the vacuum cleaner on and started to push it around the floor.

  Perhaps he should try to rustle up a replacement date for the evening? But the idea didn’t appeal.

  Leila’s agent had contacted him to ask him if he wanted to take the supermodel out for dinner and he’d agreed. He’d believed that Leila was exactly his type of woman: a woman with the same expectations from a relationship as he had. Short-term and fun. As a bonus she already had fame and wealth, so he’d figured she wouldn’t be after his.

  Turned out he’d been wrong.

  Yet, despite his annoyance, he could still smile. Who would have thought twenty years ago, when he’d lived in near poverty on a council estate, branded a failure, that one day a supermodel would seek him out?

  The answer to that was no one. Look at me now, he thought. Literally. Sat here. For a moment he stared out of the immense glass windows of his office. Once his vista had been a run-down London tower block—now he overlooked some of London’s most iconic attractions.

  He returned his gaze to the computer screen, to the photos of the latest range of clothes about to hit the shops. His shops. His line. His brand.

  A sound from behind him distracted him from his thoughts. There was a small intake of breath, the stalled whir of the vacuum, and he turned his head to see the red-haired woman hastily averting her gaze from the screen, a flush on her cheeks.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to look.’

  ‘That’s OK. Be my guest. It’s our new range.’

  ‘I...um...’

  Stopping, she looked up at the ceiling in clear exasperation, though he wasn’t sure why.

  He pushed his chair backwards to afford her a better view of the screen and flicked through the pictures, talking as he went. ‘The line is über ethical—Fairtrade plus—and the idea behind it is that the ordinary is extraordinary. That fashion should be aimed at everyone, and these are clothes and designs for everyone, because everyone can look good every day. Yes, people will have to pay a little more, but I want these to be clothes that people keep—not dispose of when another trend comes along.’

  He looked up at her, struck anew by her exquisite bone structure, the high cheekbones, the set of those enormous eyes.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I love it. The catwalk inspirational styles are still a bit out there, but they echo the idea of the ordinary being extraordinary. So that fringed dress is mad, but I guess a model could carry it off, and then you have that amazing fringed dress for the high street. And that asymmetric floral dress is fabulous. And those shoes...’

  Her enthusiasm was palpable. It lit her face and a sudden frisson jolted through him. She was close enough that he could catch a whiff of berry shampoo and see the silken gloss of that glorious hair.

  Get a grip, Ben.

  This woman was an employee. Quickly, he moved his chair further away from her, to ensure she had space, and nodded. ‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Not really. I used to work in a shop on the high street—just as a sales assistant...just part-time.’

  ‘That’s a lot of justs. It’s an important job. I always say that our sales assistants are vital. They are the ones who interface with the customers—the ones who can feed back what the customer wants. They represent us—and they need to genuinely understand and love the merchandise.’

  ‘Or at least be able to fake it if they don’t.’ As he frowned, she gave an audible gulp. ‘I only meant sometimes people need the job because they need to pay the bills. In the real world a sales assistant may have to pretend.’

  ‘Would you do that?’

  Brown eyes met his directly. ‘Yes. If it put food on my table, I would.’

  Ben blinked and felt a sudden prod of discomfort. This woman was spot-on and how the hell had he forgotten that? A sudden memory flashed before him of his own mother, desperate for work, near-destitute because she’d been given short shrift in her divorce proceedings. She had applied for job after job, come home time and again after an unsuccessful interview. Too many years out of the workplace. Not qualified enough. She would have faked pretty much anything for a job.

  That was the real world—exactly as this woman had said. The woman who was now looking at him with anxiety in her eyes.

  ‘But, for the record, I genuinely love what you’ve shown me. That wasn’t faked. I hope I didn’t overstep in any way?’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’

  Ben realised that he must be glowering and that the woman must think it was because she had upset him. How was she to know that memories of his childhood still had the power to sear old wounds?

  With an effort he forced a smile to his lips. ‘Honestly. I’m pleased you like the new range.’

  She ducked her head in a nod. ‘I’d better get on, then.’

  As the vacuum cleaner whirred back into life he returned his eyes to the screen and studied the outfit on display and the slogan above it. The ordinary is extraordinary. Had he forgotten what that really meant? Was he so out of touch with the ordinary that he’d completely missed the mark with this new range of clothes?

  Ben wasn’t sure he liked the answer to either question.

  Her voice distracted him. ‘Well, goodnight. Thank you for showing me the new range.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He looked at her departing figure: straight back, long legs, medium height, slim but not skinny. Her words echoed in his head: in the real world.

  ‘Actually. Hang on a second...’

  Copyright © 2019 by Nina Milne

  ISBN-13: 9781488043826

  Cinderella’s Secret Royal Fling

  First North American publication 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Jessica Gilmore

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