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‘Hey.’
‘Hey. Come on in.’
The words were polite, but she sensed a reluctance that matched her own as he led her to his flat and pushed open the heavy-looking door. Somehow the act of stepping over the threshold felt stupidly personal, an invasion of his privacy.
Shaking off the sensation—this was all Zander’s idea, after all—she looked around with burgeoning curiosity. The hall stretched forward in its immensity, with rooms off to the sides. Yet it wasn’t just the size she noted—it was the utter starkness of the decor, the swathes of beige on the wall not enlivened by a mirror, a picture—anything. The luxurious cream carpet ran clear, with hardly any furniture to impede its length.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, coffee—something stronger?’
‘No. Thank you.’ Suddenly the sheer size of the apartment combined with his presence brought on a desire to escape. ‘It’s probably best if I go straight to get ready. I don’t want to make us late.’
A quick nod of his head and he set off down the hall before pausing outside a door. ‘Here you go.’
An hour later Gabby paced up and down the bedroom—the size at least allowed scope for long strides—and paused in front of the mirror. Again. Stared at her reflection. Again. Wondered whether she’d got this all wrong. Again.
Panic at the idea of all those guests—the rich and famous, the reporters from Glossip, the photographers and Zander’s family—everyone watching her, twisted her insides. They would all see through her. They would know that she was an impostor. Especially in this dress. What had she been thinking?
Chill out. Hopefully the herbal remedy she’d taken to calm her anxiety would soon kick in. The concoction bought from her local health food shop had come highly recommended by a student who suffered from exam nerves, and Gabby had figured she might as well give it a try.
Resisting the urge to recommence the pacing, she studied her image instead and started to talk herself off the ledge of anxiety, exactly as her childhood self had done.
First, she looked at her surroundings, focused on objects and decor—an exercise in grounding. The bedroom continued the beige theme, and the room was furnished as if from a tick list. Double bed, wardrobe, bedside cabinets. The End. The room had an unused feel to it, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was its first ever occupant.
Next she turned her attention back to her reflection. The dress was fine—it suited her and muted her, would hopefully allow her to fade away into the background. For better or worse, she’d decided to go the high-street route. She had visited the most exclusive boutique in Bath and been unable to justify the prices, despite the generous expenses allowance Zander had transferred into her account. She’d donated most of it to the dyslexia charity Zander was supporting.
In truth, it hadn’t all been altruism—the thought of wearing one of those expensive designer dresses had brought the aphorism ‘mutton dressed as lamb’ to mind. Although she knew in theory she would fit in better if she wore the same sort of thing as the other guests, in reality she knew it wouldn’t work like that
—in some way she would still be recognised as an impostor. Better to remain true to herself, play the part of a temporary fling who didn’t want to be dressed by her...lover.
Lover. The word brought the panic back in a waterfall of nerves, and she focused on the dress itself.
Black. Strapless. Long. Bodice boning ensured the top half contoured her curves. The satin skirt fell to the floor in a satisfying sweep and swish of elegance and modesty. Her hair fell in a simple curtain to her bare shoulders, her make-up was a study in the art of discretion.
Somehow she would get through the evening, pull off this nonsensical fantasy and this time tomorrow it will all be over. Plus, she had a new secondary mantra in place now—think of the money.
The reminder steadied her. Because at the end of the day, no matter what personal humiliation or social anxiety she had to endure, she’d get to walk away with enough money to ensure her grandmother would get the care she deserved. So she would hold nerves at bay and go and do the job she had agreed to do.
After all, she’d played a role before when the stakes had been way higher—the part of a well-adjusted child when she’d been an inner wreck. So this would be fine.
Yet the knock at the bedroom door triggered a further burst of butterflies, along with a stupid thrill of anticipation. Ridiculous.
She pulled the door open and stepped outside into the hall. The anticipation was justified—one look at him and all her brain could think was, Yum. Every instinct told her to use her arms to pull him up close and personal. Every instinct except the one of self-preservation. But Zander looked gorgeous—the tuxedo emphasised every lithe muscle, added a devil-may-care twist to his dark good looks, emphasised by the glint of his dark blonde hair.
The silence lengthened and she stepped backwards, reminding herself that they could not let physical attraction overcome common sense. And yet a deep yearning sparked inside her, curiosity as to what it would be like simply to succumb. To grasp the lapels of his tux, drag him towards her, kiss him senseless and pull him into the bedroom.
As if. That would be so far out of character that she would suspect she’d been possessed. So instead she said, with a brightness that rung false, ‘Hey!’
‘Hey...’
It occurred to her that despite the aura of drop-dead gorgeousness he was nervous—acting as awkwardly as it was possible for Zander Grosvenor to be. Oh, God. Had he taken one look at her and realised what she’d been trying to tell him all along? That she couldn’t cut the mustard—or any other condiment for that matter? That no one would believe this ridiculous charade?
‘You look great,’ he said eventually.
Yet she didn’t believe him as he shifted his weight from foot to foot, his stance the epitome of discomfort. Was it her? She needed to know the truth.
‘If I don’t look right you need to tell me. We can’t make this work if I look wrong.’ If she was not a plausible date for Zander Grosvenor.
Zander frowned, gave his head a small shake and then he looked at her—properly looked at her—and her skin rippled with a shiver of desire.
