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Calling him to task yesterday for his domineering behaviour had been a very good start. But she needed to follow through—opening the top drawer on the dresser, she swept the notes inside and slammed it shut—which meant she wasn’t going to let him treat her like his kept woman.
Gripping the sheet in her fists, she headed for the bathroom.
She’d accepted his hospitality but she didn’t intend to sit idly in his apartment all day while he went off to work either. The Christmas season was approaching and there were lots of posh shops and cafés round the corner in Kensington High Street that might be looking for casual staff. Why not go exploring and check out her employment prospects while she was at it?
She doubted he’d be too pleased with the idea. But she was not going to be intimidated by Rye’s money, or his lavish lifestyle, or the force of his will either—however indomitable. Because she’d recently discovered she had a will of her own. Plus she had something to fight for now that would be worth winning.
Not only Rye’s love, but also his respect.
Not being intimidated by Rye and his lifestyle turned out to be a lot easier said than done, Maddy realised, as the maître d’ led her through the bijou Notting Hill restaurant he’d booked for dinner. She brushed her palms down the chic midnight-blue cashmere dress she’d splurged on in the hope of finding a job quickly and tried not to worry too much about her fruitless search for employment so far.
It didn’t matter; she would try again tomorrow. And the dress had been worth it. She’d rather live on yoghurt for a month than have to walk through a place like this in her old black wraparound or, worse, a T-shirt and jeans.
Glasses and cutlery clinked, conversation dimmed to discreet murmurs, the air redolent with the seductive scent of freshly cut holly, expensive perfume and delicate spices. The cellar restaurant had an exclusive air reinforced by the plush velvet-curtained booths and the number of beautiful people they seemed to number among their clientele. Maddy struggled not to gawp as she was escorted past a table where a supermodel was sharing a candlelit dinner for two with a young rock star who had recently topped the charts.
Yup, the dress had definitely been worth every penny.
‘Mr King and Ms Chelmsford are waiting for you in the private annexe,’ the Maître d’ announced as he whisked open a glass door at the end of the restaurant.
Ms Who?
Maddy blinked as she stepped into what looked like a tropical rainforest, the lush plants in stark contrast to the winter flora that had decorated the rest of the place. She spotted Rye, sitting at the only table, deep in conversation with an impossibly chic middle-aged woman in a tailored trouser suit. He tilted his head back and laughed at something the woman said, the strong column of his throat drawing Maddy’s eye. But then his companion bent forward and touched his wrist. Maddy’s stomach dipped at the intimacy of the gesture.
The maître d’ announced her presence and the woman’s fingers drew back as Rye braced his hands on the table to stand up.
‘At last, you’re here.’ His blue eyes lit with appreciation as he crossed towards her and the little dart of jealousy vanished. Grasping her around the waist, he gave her a long, lingering kiss that had heat rising up her neck.
‘This is Ruth Chelmsford,’ he said, keeping his arm round her waist as he introduced her. ‘She’s an old friend of mine.’
The woman rose and offered her hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’ Her handshake was firm and friendly and her smile unguarded, making Maddy feel foolish for her suspicions. ‘Rye has been talking my ear off about you for twenty minutes.’
‘He has?’
The woman laughed easily at Maddy’s gauche comment as Rye pulled out a chair for her.
‘You look incredible,’ he whispered, his breath brushing her nape. ‘Relax.’
She settled in the chair and tried to do just that.
‘Yes, he has,’ Ruth said indulgently. ‘Rye thinks you may have something I want,’ she continued.
‘Here’s one of them,’ Rye remarked. Then, before Maddy could stop him, he plucked off the silk scarf she had tied round her waist to accent her dress and handed it to Ruth. ‘What do you think?’
Ruth held the scarf up by its corners as if it were spun gold. ‘It’s exquisite.’ Her eyes locked on Maddy’s as she lowered the scarf to her lap. ‘You created this yourself?’
‘Yes, I … It’s sort of a hobby,’ she replied, a little embarrassed by the praise.
‘How many of them do you have?’
‘I’m not sure.’ She glanced at Rye, confused. But all he did was wink at her, confusing her even more. ‘Why do you want to know?’
The woman laughed. ‘Because I’m the chief buyer for DeMontfort’s of Piccadilly. We’ve been looking for a new silk designer for our spring collection. And I think I may have found her.’
‘You mean …?’ It was Maddy’s turn to gasp. Had this woman called her a designer? ‘DeMontfort’s? Seriously?’
The exclusive London department store had been a fixture in the West End for over a century. But in the last thirty years it had become a world leader in the fashion world as well, famous for showcasing bold new British design talent. She’d window-shopped there herself the few times she’d visited London, adoring the store’s grace and beauty and the innovation of its displays. But she’d never been able to afford any of the merchandise.
‘Unfortunately, time is of the essence,’ Ruth said, apparently oblivious to Maddy’s shocked expression. ‘We’re launching the spring range with a charity gala at The Savoy on the fifteenth, so I’ll need to see whatever you have, select the pieces we can use.’
