and white theme—that gives a nod to the festive season—and a strictly curated guest list? Guests would have to dress in silver or white. Or both. Make it very exclusive, an invitation to be sought after. The phones of Sydney’s social set would be set humming to see who got one or not.’ Her eyes half shut as her mind bombarded her with images. ‘Maybe a masked party. Yes. Amazing silver and white masks. Bejewelled and befeathered. Fabulous masks that could be auctioned off at some stage for your chosen charity.’
‘Auctioned?’
Her eyes flew open and she had to orientate herself back into the reality of the empty room that she had just been envisioning filled with elegant partygoers. Sometimes when her creativity was firing she felt almost in a trance. Then it was her turn to frown. How could a Sydney billionaire be such a party innocent?
Even she, who didn’t move in the circles of society that attended lavish fund-raising functions, knew about the auctions. The competitive bidding could probably be seen as the same kind of one-upmanship as the spending of thousands on a toddler’s party. ‘I believe it’s usual to have a fund-raising auction at these occasions. Not just the masks, of course. Other donated items. Something really big to up the amount of dollars for your charity.’ She paused. ‘You’re a property developer, aren’t you?’
He nodded. ‘Among other interests.’
‘Maybe you could donate an apartment? There’d be some frenzied bidding for that from people hoping for a bargain. And you would look generous.’
His mouth turned down in an expression of distaste. ‘I’m not sure that’s in keeping with the image I want to...to reinvent.’
Privately she agreed with him—why couldn’t people just donate without expecting a lavish party in return? But she kept her views to herself. Creating those lavish parties was her job now.
‘That’s up to you and your people. The guest list and the auction, I mean. But the party? That’s my domain. Do you like the idea of the twenties theme to suit the house?’ In her heart she still longed for the choristers on the staircase. Maybe it would have to be a jazz band on the steps. That could work. Not quite the same romanticism and spirit as Christmas, but it would be a spectacular way to greet guests.
‘I like it,’ he said slowly.
She forced herself not to panic, not to bombard him with a multitude of alternatives. ‘If not that idea, I have lots of others. I would welcome the opportunity to present them to you.’
He glanced at his watch and she realised she had been there for much longer than the ten-minute pitch he’d allowed. Surely that was a good sign.
‘I’ll schedule in another meeting with you tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.
‘You mean a second interview?’ she asked, fingers crossed behind her back.
‘No. A brainstorming session. You’ve got the job, Ms Newman.’
It was only as, jubilant, she made her way to the door—conscious of his eyes on her back—that she wondered at the presence of a note of regret in Dominic Hunt’s voice.
TRY AS SHE MIGHT, Andie couldn’t get excited about the nineteen-twenties theme she had envisaged for Dominic Hunt’s party. It would be lavish and glamorous and she would enjoy every moment of planning such a visually splendid event. Such a party would be a spangled feather in Party Queens’ cap. But it seemed somehow wrong.
The feeling niggled at her. How could something so extravagant, so limited to those who could afford the substantial donation that would be the cost of entrance make Dominic Hunt look less miserly? Even if he offered an apartment for auction—and there was no such thing as a cheap apartment in Sydney—and raised a lot of money, wouldn’t it be a wealthy person who benefited? Might he appear to be a Scrooge hanging out with other rich people who might or might not also be Scrooges? Somehow, it reeked of...well, there was no other word but hypocrisy.
It wasn’t her place to be critical—the media-attention-grabbing party was his marketing people’s idea. Her job was to plan the party and make it as memorable and spectacular as possible. But she resolved to bring up her reservations in the brainstorming meeting with him. If she dared.
She knew it would be a fine line to tread—she did not want to risk losing the job for Party Queens—but she felt she had to give her opinion. After that she would just keep her mouth shut and concentrate on making his event the most memorable on the December social calendar.
She dressed with care for the meeting, which was again at his Vaucluse mansion. An outfit that posed no danger of showing off her underwear. Slim white trousers, a white top, a string of outsize turquoise beads, silver sandals that strapped around her ankles. At the magazine she’d made friends with the fashion editor and still had access to sample sales and special deals. She felt her wardrobe could hold its own in whatever company she found herself in—even on millionaire row.
‘I didn’t risk wearing that skirt,’ she blurted out to Dominic Hunt as he let her into the house. ‘Even though there doesn’t appear to be any wind about.’
Mentally she slammed her hand against her forehead. What a dumb top-of-mind remark to make to a client. But he still made her nervous. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake that ever-present awareness of how attractive he was.
His eyes flickered momentarily to her legs. ‘Shame,’ he said in that deep, testosterone-edged voice that thrilled through her.
Was he flirting with her?
‘It...it was a lovely skirt,’ she said. ‘Just...just rather badly behaved.’ How much had he seen when her skirt had flown up over her thighs?
‘I liked it very much,’ he said.
‘The prettiness of its fabric or my skirt’s bad behaviour?’
She held his cool grey gaze for a second longer than she should.
‘Both,’ he said.
She took a deep breath and tilted her chin upward. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ she said with a smile she hoped radiated aplomb. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt.’
‘Dominic,’ he said.
‘Dominic,’ she repeated, liking the sound of his name on her lips. ‘And thank you again for this opportunity to plan your party.’ Bring it back to business.
In truth, she would have liked to tell him how good he looked in his superbly tailored dark suit and dark shirt but she knew her voice would come out all choked up. Because it wasn’t the Italian elegance of his suit that she found herself admiring. It was the powerful, perfectly proportioned male body that inhabited it. And she didn’t want to reveal even a hint of that. He was a client.
He nodded in acknowledgement of her words. ‘Come through to the back,’ he said. ‘You can see how the rooms might work for the party.’
She followed him through where the grand staircase split—a choir really would be amazing ranged on the steps—over pristine marble floors to a high-ceilinged room so large their footsteps echoed
