‘Miller doesn’t appreciate fuss and attention.’
I try to detect a double meaning to Tony’s abrupt declaration. ‘I know,’ I answer, because I suspect he’s implying that I don’t.
‘He’s happy in his own little organised world.’
‘I know,’ I repeat, turning to leave the discomfort of the conversation. He’s not being particularly unfriendly, but I don’t like where this chat is heading.
‘He’s emotionally unavailable.’
I stop and turn, watching the thoughtful look on his face for a few moments before I speak. ‘Is there a purpose to this?’ I ask outright, finding my annoyance advancing my poise. Miller has told me the very same thing, but I’m finding emotions in him. Maybe not the regular way, but they’re there.
He smiles, and it’s a sincere smile, but it’s also a smile that suggests I’m blind, naive and way out of my depth. ‘A sweet thing like you shouldn’t be getting caught up in this world.’
‘What gives you the impression that I’m sweet?’ I ask, my annoyance growing. And what does he mean by ‘this world’? Clubs? Drinking? He shakes his head and returns to his paperwork, not giving me an answer to my question. ‘Tony, what do you mean?’
‘I mean . . .’ He pauses and sighs, looking up. ‘You’re a distraction that he could do without.’
‘A distraction?’
‘Yes. He needs to focus.’
‘On what?’ I ask.
Tony lifts his stocky body from the barstool and gathers his papers, slipping his pen behind his ear and taking his bottle of beer. ‘This world,’ he says simply, turning and wandering across the club.
I stand motionless as I watch the distance between us grow, feeling completely perplexed. Maybe distraction is exactly what Miller needs. He works hard, he’s stressed and he needs me to de-stress at the end of the day. I want to do that. I want to help him.
Looking down into the two glasses I’m holding, I notice the heat of my palm around the martini glass has melted the ice somewhat, but I don’t replace it. Diana Low can have a martini on melted rocks. I head back to Miller’s office.
His eyes are on the door as I enter, and Diana is pacing his office, doing an amazing job of swaying her arse, while the photographer just looks plain bored, slumped in his chair.
I take Miller his Scotch, placing it in his hand, rather than on the desk, because I have no clue where on his desk I should put it. ‘Thank you,’ he almost sighs, patting his lap for me to take a seat. I’m a little stunned by his casual demand in a business meeting, but I don’t protest.
I follow his cue and lower my bum to his knee and watch in silent amusement as Diana Low takes in the situation. I can’t help a little power play of my own, holding her martini out so she has to come to me to get it.
As soon as the glass leaves my hand, Miller has his arm around my waist and tugs me back against his chest.
Diana Low makes a terrible job of smiling warmly at me as she composes herself. ‘I guess I’ll need to change the title of my article.’
‘What was the title of your article, Miss Low?’ Miller asks coolly.
‘Well, it was “London’s most eligible bachelor opens London’s most prestigious club”.’
Miller stiffens beneath me. ‘Yes.’ He downs the rest of his drink and positions the glass on his desk with utter accuracy. ‘Change it.’
She gets all flustered and sits back down in the chair opposite Miller’s desk. London’s most eligible bachelor? Miller has confirmed, but it’s still nice to hear someone else acknowledge that he’s single. Or was.
She frowns as she places her glass on Miller’s desk, making him stiffen and me stiffen as a result of Miller’s stiffness.
‘Would you mind?’ I move forward and reclaim the glass, pushing it back in her hand. ‘No coaster and the desk is very expensive.’
She flicks her confusion to Miller’s empty tumbler that is on the desk without a coaster . . . but it’s in the right place. ‘Sorry,’ she replies, taking the glass.
‘No problem.’ I smile, making it as insincere as hers, feeling Miller squeeze his thanks.
‘So let’s finish up,’ she says, struggling to hold her glass while attempting to make notes on her pad. ‘On what basis do you approve membership to your club?’
‘Payment,’ Miller answers, short and tiredly, making me smile.
‘And how do potential members apply?’
‘They don’t.’
She looks up again, confused. ‘So how do you obtain membership?’
‘You have to be nominated by an existing member.’
‘Doesn’t that limit your clientele?’ she asks.
‘Not at all. I already have over two thousand members and we opened less than a week ago. Now we have a waiting list.’
‘Oh.’ She looks disappointed, but then smiles suggestively and crosses her legs slowly. ‘And what would one need to do to skip the waiting list?’
I screw my face up in disgust at her brashness, the shameless hussy. ‘Yes, what would one need to do, Miller?’ I ask, turning to look at him and pouting my lips.
His eyes sparkle, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly as he directs his gaze back to Diana Low. ‘Do you know any members, Miss Low?’
She smiles brighter. ‘I know you.’
I have to force the cough of shock back down my throat. Can she see me?
‘You don’t know me, Miss Low,’ Miller states, low and harsh. ‘Not many people do.’