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She was a maid at the Stanmore. That at least explained the dress.
His pulse twitched as he remembered that moment outside the hotel when she had seemed so familiar. He had seen her at work—by the lift. When Tamara had insisted on getting out on the wrong floor. Only she hadn’t been wearing glasses then.
Ten minutes later, he shut the folder. It was a pity her missing her meeting because it was an interesting proposition. And she was clearly passionate about perfume and talented to boot, he thought, breathing in the last lingering traces of her scent.
But then again, he would stake his business reputation on her being refused any loan.
Yes, by his standards, the amount she wanted to borrow was tiny. Unfortunately, however, she had next to no security, and he could see problems with both her cost to revenue ratio and her customer acquisition strategy.
Tipping his head back, he stretched out his neck and shoulders.
None of which mattered to him, of course. He was just procrastinating, avoiding the moment of truth. That after weeks of thinking, deliberating, weighing up the alternatives and generally attempting to resolve the dilemma created by his father’s stipulation, he was still no closer to knowing what to do.
And he was running out of time.
Andreas wouldn’t—couldn’t—wait for ever.
His hand beat out an impatient rhythm against the arm of the sofa. He knew he didn’t want to get married, but he needed a wife. And, whoever she was, he needed her to understand that, while legal, their marriage would be just for show. Yet it would have to appear indisputably real to his father.
Only that was the problem.
All of the women he knew would not be willing to just act the part of his wife. They would want it to be real.
The obvious solution was to pay someone. But he could hardly advertise the position on the Arete Equity website. His shoulders slumped. Surely there had to be an answer. Something he’d missed. But after months of fruitless rumination and circular arguments maybe it was time to face facts. Perhaps she didn’t exist. This woman who needed money and yet would not be fazed by such an outlandish suggestion.
Or maybe she was right under his nose. He sat forward abruptly and picked up Effie’s proposal, a charge of electricity snapping across his skin.
There it was: her address. Praed Gardens. His mind whirred as out of the unsatisfactory and messy randomness of his day so far, an idea slid into diamond-sharp focus inside his head, clean and pure like a drop of rain.
‘Beatrice?’ He got to his feet as the housekeeper appeared.
‘Yes, Mr Kane?’
‘Tell Crawford to bring the car round to the front of the building. I have a meeting with someone.’
His fingers flexed against the folder. He could talk to his lawyer en route...
Yanking open her fridge, Effie peered inside. Not that she needed to look. She already knew what was in there. Half a pint of milk, a bag of ready-washed lettuce, some yoghurts that were well past their sell-by date and a jar of tamarind paste.
Her throat tightened. She had been planning on ordering a takeaway for tonight—to celebrate. Only now there was nothing to eat. Or celebrate.
She probably should go to the supermarket, but honestly, she couldn’t face it right now. She basically wanted today to be over. That was why she was already in her pyjamas. Because the biggest day of her life had turned into the worst.
By the time she got back to the Stanmore, found her phone and called the bank, she was an hour late. All she’d been able to do was apologise. She hadn’t told them what had happened—just that she had forgotten the appointment. She could hardly tell them the truth. Who would believe her?
Oh, I forgot my phone, and when I went back to get it one of the guests at the hotel forced me into his car and drove off with me.
She shut the fridge door. Thank goodness she hadn’t told her mum that today was the day. Knowing how much it would mean to Sam, she had been badly tempted to do so, but maybe she’d had a sixth sense about how everything would work out. What she should have done was book another appointment, but she was too exhausted.
And she couldn’t help thinking that maybe it was fate...that maybe her dreams were just meant to stay dreams.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. She hadn’t cried. She rarely did. In her experience crying rarely changed anything, and there were worse things than missing an appointment with your bank manager.
A lot worse.
She’d seen more than enough of them first-hand. Lived with them and through them.
When she was a child, her father’s gambling had always been there in the background. Sometimes he’d stopped for weeks, even months, but then he would come home, his face flushed with triumph, and it would all start up again. The lying, the stealing, the broken promises...
