Just an address, a surname and two initials.’
What? All that he could find?
Great. Well, that answered that question: he was from the hotel.
She was looking at her gorgeous but grumpy new hotel manager or conference organizer.
Who she had just sideswiped.
Splendid. This was getting better and better.
The only good news was that he seemed to think that his client was a man, so she could find out the reason for his obvious grumpiness without getting her legs swiped from under her. With a bit of luck.
As far as he knew, she was just a girl in a cake shop. Maybe she could keep up the pretence a little longer and find out more before revealing her true credentials.
‘You don’t seem very pleased with this Mr Flynn person.’ She smiled, suddenly desperate to appear as though she was just an outside party making conversation. ‘They must have done something seriously outrageous to make you come out on a wet night in February to track them down.’
Ouch. That was such a horrible expression. The idea that he had made it as far as the tea rooms and was actually hunting her was enough to give her an icy cold feeling in the pit of her stomach which was going to take a serious amount of hot tea to thaw out.
From the determined expression on his face, right down to the very official business suit and smart haircut, this man spelt ‘serious’.
As serious as all of the finance people who had tried their hardest to crush her confidence and convince her that her dream was a foolish illusion. She had been turned down over and over again, despite the brilliant business plan she had worked on for weeks, and all the connections in the tea trade that she could ever need.
The message was always the same: they could not see the feasibility of a new tea import business in the current economy. All of the statistics about the British obsession with tea and everything connected with it had seemed to fly over their heads. Not enough profit. Too risky. Not viable.
Was it any wonder that she had gone out on a limb and offered to organize the tea festival so that she could launch her import business at the same time?
Lottie had been her saviour in the end and had pulled in a few favours so that the private bank her parents used was aware that it was a joint business with the lovely, seriously wealthy and connected Miss Rosemount as well as the equally lovely but seriously broke Miss Flynn.
Come to think of it, the banker had been a girl in a suit. But a suit all the same.
‘On the contrary, Mr Flynn has not done anything. But I do need to speak to him as soon as possible.’
‘May I take a message?’ she asked in her best ‘innocent bystander’ voice, and smiled.
He paused for a second and she thought that he was going to slide over to her counter but he was simply straightening his back. Oh lord. Another two inches taller.
‘I am sorry but this is a confidential business matter for my client. If you know where I can find him, it is important that we talk on a very urgent matter about his booking.’
A cold, icy pit started to form in the base of Dee’s stomach and something close to panic flitted up like a bucket of cold water splashed over her face.
She blinked, lifted her chin and stuck out her hand. ‘That’s me. Dervla Skylark Flynn. Otherwise known as Dee. Dee S Flynn. Tea supplier to the stars. I’m the person you are looking for, Mr...?’
He took two long steps to cross the room and shake her hand. A real handshake. His long, slender fingers wrapped around her hand which Dee suddenly realized must be quite sticky from dispensing cake and biscuits and clearing away bowls covered in cake batter.
His gaze was locked on her face as he spoke, and she could almost see the clever cogs interconnecting behind those blue eyes as he processed her little announcement, took her word that she was who she said she was and went for it without pause.
Clever. She liked clever.
‘Sean Beresford. I am the acting manager of the Beresford Hotel, Richmond Square. Pleased to meet you, Miss Flynn.’
‘Richmond Square?’ She replied, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. ‘That’s the hotel where I booked a conference room for February. And...’
Then her brain caught up with the name he had given her and she inhaled through her nose as his fingers slid away from hers and rested lightly on the counter.
‘Did you just say Beresford? As in the Beresford family of hotel owners?’
A smile flickered across his lips which instantly drew her gaze, and her stupid little heart just skipped a beat at the transformation in this man’s face that one simple smile made.
Lord, he was gorgeous. Riveting.
Oh, smile at me again and make my blood soar. Please?
And now she was ogling. How pathetic. Just because she was within touching distance of a real, live Beresford did not mean that she had to go to pieces in front of him.
So what if this man came from one of the most famous hotel-owning families in the world? A Beresford hotel was a name splashed across the broadsheet newspapers and celebrity magazines, not Cake Shop and Tea Room Weekly.
This made it even more gut-clenching that he had just been in close and personal contact with her floorboards.
‘Guilty as charged,’ he replied and touched his forehead with two closed fingers in salute. ‘I am in London for a few months and the Richmond Square hotel is one of my special projects.’
‘You’re feeling guilty?’ she retorted with a cough. ‘What about me? You almost had an accident here tonight. And I could have dropped you. Oh, that is so not good. Especially when you have come all the way from the centre of London late in the evening to see me.’
Then she shook her head, sucked in a long breath and carried on before he had a chance to say anything. ‘Speaking of which, now we have the introductions sorted out, I think you had best tell me what the problem is. Because I am starting to get scared about this special project you need to see me about so very urgently.’
He gestured towards the nearest table and chairs.
‘You may need to sit down, Miss Flynn.’
A lump the size of Scotland formed in her throat, making speech impossible, so she replied with a brief shake of the head and a half-smile and gestured to one of the bar stools next to the tea bar.
She watched in silence as he unbuttoned his coat, scowled at the missing buttons then sat down on the stool and turned to face her, one elbow resting on the bar.
Nightmare visions flitted through her brain of having to tell the tea trade officials that the London Festival of Tea was going to going to be cancelled because she had messed up booking the venue, but she fought them back.
Not going to happen. That tea festival was going ahead even if she had to rent the damp and dusty local community centre and cancel the bingo night.
She
