thought about it for a minute. “You could tug at your earlobe,” she said. “Or kick me under the table. Or perhaps we could have a code word.”
“A code word,” he repeated, one brow lifting with interest. “This is all starting to sound very…double-oh-seven-ish.”
Appropriate, she supposed, since he reminded her a little of James Bond. It was the accent, she was sure. Her stomach tightened briefly.
Feigning a nonchalant attitude she didn’t entirely feel, she shrugged. “Spies are good at what they do for a reason. But if you’d prefer to be trapped for hours by a potential employee you can’t get away from, be my guest.”
Silence filled the rear of the car, only the sound of the tires rotating beneath them audible as the seconds ticked by and Lily’s anxiety grew.
She might have overstepped her bounds. After all, she’d only been in this man’s employ for twelve hours. That might have been a bit too early to start voicing her opinions and telling him what to do.
Worse, she probably shouldn’t have jumped on his mention of James Bond movies and followed the spy thread. Because technically, she was a spy within his organization, and she didn’t want him spending too much time wondering how she knew so much about the business of espionage.
“I definitely agree that an escape plan is in order,” Nigel said, finally breaking the nerve-inducing quiet. “How would it be if I inquired about your headache from earlier? You can say that it’s come back and you’d really like to get home so you can rest.”
“All right.” It sounded as good as anything else they might come up with, and she certainly knew more about headaches than she did about global warming.
“And if you grow bored,” he continued, “you can ask me if I’d like another martini. I’ll decline and say that we should get going, as I have an early appointment in the morning, anyway.”
“Will you be drinking martinis?” she asked.
“Tonight, I will,” he said, a spark of mischief lighting his eyes. “It will bolster our story, if we make an excuse to leave the restaurant early.”
“We haven’t even arrived at dinner yet, and already we’re thinking of ways to get away as soon as we’ve finished eating,” she remarked.
“That’s because it’s a boring, uptight business dinner. If this were a dinner date, I would already be considering options for drawing things out. Excuses to keep you there well past dessert.”
Lily’s heart skipped a beat, her palms growing damp even as a wave of unexpected heat washed over her. That was not the sort of thing she expected to hear from her boss. It didn’t feel like a benign, employer-to-employee comment, either. It felt much too…suggestive.
And on top of that, she was suddenly picturing it: a dinner date with Nigel rather than a business dinner. Sitting across from him at a candlelit table for two. Leaning into each other as they spoke in soft tones. Flirting, teasing, building toward something much more serious and intimate.
The warmth grew, spreading through her body like a fever. And when she imagined him reaching out, touching her hand where it rested on the pristine white linen of the tablecloth, she nearly jumped, it seemed so real.
Thankfully, Nigel didn’t notice because the car was slowing, and he was busy readjusting his tie and cuff links.
Lily licked her lips and smoothed her hands over her own blouse and skirt, making sure she was as well put together as he was.
When the car came to a complete stop, he looked at her again and offered an encouraging half smile. “Ready?” he asked.
She nodded just as Nigel’s door was opened from the outside. He stepped out, then turned and reached back for her.
Purse in hand, she slid across the wide seat and let Nigel take her arm as she stepped out. His driver nodded politely before closing the door and moving back around the hood of the car to the driver’s seat.
Looking around, Lily realized they were standing outside of Trattoria. She wasn’t from Los Angeles, but even she recognized the name of the elegant five-star restaurant. To her knowledge, the waiting list for reservations was three to four months long.
Unless, she supposed, you were someone like Nigel. The Statham name—and bank account—carried a lot of weight. Not only in L.A. or England, either, but likely anywhere in the world.
She was no stranger to fine dining, of course. She’d grown up at country clubs and taken international vacations with her parents. She even knew a few world-renowned master chefs and restaurateurs personally.
But she wasn’t with her family now, and hadn’t lived that way for several years; she’d been too busy working her fingers to the bone and building her own company the old-fashioned way.
She was also supposed to be from more of a blue-collar upbringing, not a secret, runaway heiress. Which meant she shouldn’t be familiar with seven-course meals, real silverware or places like this, where appetizers started at fifty dollars a plate.
The good news was that she wouldn’t embarrass herself by not knowing which fork to use. The bad news was that she needed to act awed and out of her element enough not to draw suspicion. From anyone, but especially Nigel.
Passing beneath the dark green awning lined with sparkling lights, he led her past potted topiaries and through the wide French doors at the restaurant’s entrance.
A tuxedoed maître d’ met them immediately, and as soon as Nigel gave his name, they were led across the main dining area, weaving around tables filled with other well-dressed customers who were talking and laughing and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their expensive meals.
At the rear of the restaurant, the maître d’ paused, waving to a medium-size table set for four where another man was already seated.
Rounding the table, Nigel held a chair out for her while the other man rose. He was young—mid to late twenties, Lily would guess—with dark hair and an expensive suit. Most likely a Vincenze, even one of his own designs, since that’s where he was currently working.
“Mr. Statham,” the designer greeted Nigel, holding out his hand.
Nigel waited until she was seated to reach across the table and shake.
“Thank you for meeting with me.”
Nigel inclined his head and introduced them. “Lillian, this is Harrison Klein. Mr. Klein, this is my assistant, Lillian George.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Harrison said, taking her hand next.
When they were all seated, a waiter brought leather-bound menus and took their drink orders. True to his word, Nigel ordered a dry martini. He even made a point of asking for it “shaken, not stirred,” then turned to her with a humorous and entirely too distracting wink.
Soon after they placed the rest of their orders, their salads and entrées arrived, and they made general small talk while they ate. Nigel asked questions about Klein’s schooling and experience and his time at Vincenze.
It was odd
