and...’
For heaven’s sake. This was ridiculous. Yes, the man was extremely gorgeous, hotter than hot coals, but that shouldn’t render her incoherent.
He was a man, just like any other man—except somehow his genetics had conspired to give him the looks of a sex god. And genetics, as Sarah knew oh, so well, could hand out disaster—hence Imo had ended up with leukaemia and Sarah hadn’t. Outwardly they had been identical, but inside Imogen had been doomed from birth. So she of all people should not judge anyone based on their genetic inheritance.
‘Are you OK?’ The deep voice held concern.
Pull yourself together.
She needed this job.
‘I’m fine. Um...’ If she said um... one more time, so help her, she’d kick herself around the building. ‘I’ll come back later to do your office.’
Ben frowned. ‘Have you actually got any other offices to clean?’
‘U—Not as such, but really it’s not a problem.’
Now his expression held more than a slight hint of bemusement. Please, please don’t let him notice that her legs seemed to have turned to mush. Along with her brain, clearly.
‘I’ll come back later,’ she said firmly.
‘Really—no need. I’m just finishing up; come in now. It’s not a problem.’
Only it was. The wretched man seemed to have utterly messed with her hormonal balance. It was ridiculous, and she needed to get over it right now. He was the ultimate boss—a millionaire with a glittering lifestyle—and she was a cleaner on probation, a single mother who desperately needed to keep her job. So, time to lock down her hormones, get in, clean, then get out.
‘OK. Thanks.’
Clutching the trolley, she followed him into the office.
* * *
Ben sighed. So much for his dinner date with Leila; perhaps he should care more, but in truth he didn’t. Leila had completely overstepped the boundaries he’d clearly drawn out and thought she could get away with it. She’d had the temerity to arrange an interview with a celebrity gossip magazine for the two of them as a couple. Well, she’d misjudged her man and he’d had a lucky escape.
He glanced at the witness to the tail-end of their showdown; he hadn’t really been able to see her in the dim light of the outer offices. Interest sparked as his fashion eye assessed her automatically. Medium height, long-legged, hair an arresting shade of red, scraped up into a ponytail, large brown eyes flecked with green.
Aware that his glance was on the verge of being overlong, he swiftly focused on his computer screen as she switched the vacuum cleaner on and started to push it around the floor.
Perhaps he should try to rustle up a replacement date for the evening? But the idea didn’t appeal.
Leila’s agent had contacted him to ask him if he wanted to take the supermodel out for dinner and he’d agreed. He’d believed that Leila was exactly his type of woman: a woman with the same expectations from a relationship as he had. Short-term and fun. As a bonus she already had fame and wealth, so he’d figured she wouldn’t be after his.
Turned out he’d been wrong.
Yet, despite his annoyance, he could still smile. Who would have thought twenty years ago, when he’d lived in near poverty on a council estate, branded a failure, that one day a supermodel would seek him out?
The answer to that was no one. Look at me now, he thought. Literally. Sat here. For a moment he stared out of the immense glass windows of his office. Once his vista had been a run-down London tower block—now he overlooked some of London’s most iconic attractions.
He returned his gaze to the computer screen, to the photos of the latest range of clothes about to hit the shops. His shops. His line. His brand.
A sound from behind him distracted him from his thoughts. There was a small intake of breath, the stalled whir of the vacuum, and he turned his head to see the red-haired woman hastily averting her gaze from the screen, a flush on her cheeks.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to look.’
‘That’s OK. Be my guest. It’s our new range.’
‘I...um...’
Stopping, she looked up at the ceiling in clear exasperation, though he wasn’t sure why.
He pushed his chair backwards to afford her a better view of the screen and flicked through the pictures, talking as he went. ‘The line is über ethical—Fairtrade plus—and the idea behind it is that the ordinary is extraordinary. That fashion should be aimed at everyone, and these are clothes and designs for everyone, because everyone can look good every day. Yes, people will have to pay a little more, but I want these to be clothes that people keep—not dispose of when another trend comes along.’
He looked up at her, struck anew by her exquisite bone structure, the high cheekbones, the set of those enormous eyes.
‘What do you think?’
‘I love it. The catwalk inspirational styles are still a bit out there, but they echo the idea of the ordinary being extraordinary. So that fringed dress is mad, but I guess a model could carry it off, and then you have that amazing fringed dress for the high street. And that asymmetric floral dress is fabulous. And those shoes...’
Her enthusiasm was palpable. It lit her face and a sudden frisson jolted through him. She was close enough that he could catch a whiff of berry shampoo and see the silken gloss of that glorious hair.
Get a grip, Ben.
This woman was an employee. Quickly, he moved his chair further away from her, to ensure she had space, and nodded. ‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about.’
‘Not really. I used to work in a shop on the high street—just as a sales assistant...just part-time.’
‘That’s a lot of justs. It’s an important job. I always say that our sales assistants are vital. They are the ones who interface with the customers—the ones who can feed back what the customer wants. They represent us—and they need to genuinely understand and love the merchandise.’
‘Or at least be able to fake it if they don’t.’ As he frowned, she gave an audible gulp. ‘I only meant sometimes people need the job because they need to pay the bills. In the real world a sales assistant may have to pretend.’
‘Would you do that?’
Brown eyes met his directly. ‘Yes. If it put food on my table, I would.’
Ben blinked and felt a sudden prod of discomfort. This woman was spot-on and how the hell had he forgotten that? A sudden memory flashed before him of his own mother, desperate for work, near-destitute because she’d been given short shrift in her divorce proceedings. She had applied for job after job, come home time and again after
