Whisked Away by Her Millionaire Boss

‘OK. Be myself. And I’ll do my best not to make an absolute muppet of myself.’

Yet she didn’t exhibit any undue signs of nerves as they made their way to the venue, a bar and restaurant in one of Milan’s top places to be seen—a converted sawmill that was the talk of the town.

Once there, he could see why. The brick and raw cement structure was imposing, yet still industrial, and inside the impression of cavernous space almost overwhelmed the viewer. Antique chandeliers lit up the bare walls and exposed beams, shining on the art deco tableware and chairs. Two long tables formed a cross in the middle of the stone floor, their surfaces littered with a medley of teapots, silverware and pitchers. The overall result combined minimalist functionality with glamour.

‘It’s like something out of a kids’ book. I’m almost expecting talking rabbits and giant chess pieces to appear,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s surreal and I cannot believe I am here.’

‘I sometimes still feel the same way.’

Even now it did feel unbelievable to him that he’d clawed his way up, proved the worth of his existence. Now he fitted right in with these guests, who came from all echelons of immense wealth and fame. He talked and walked and chatted and charmed and... And she matched him.

She didn’t put herself forward, but neither did she seem overawed, and he couldn’t help but be impressed by her poise, and by her ability to manoeuvre her way through the canapés, careful only to choose those that could be eaten with dignity.

Belatedly it dawned on him that he was focusing most of his attention on Sarah, but it was hard not to be aware of her when she was so close that he could smell the tang of her shampoo, sense the warmth of her body.

It was time to focus on someone else—anyone else. So when he was approached by a woman he recognised as a top fashion buyer he did his best to enter into the type of business conversation he excelled at: a networking opportunity to ensure that should she ever look to move jobs she’d approach Sahara first.

Yet even as they spoke he was still aware of Sarah, who had discreetly gravitated away from him. Now she was in animated conversation with a famous Hollywood actor and heartthrob—tall, blond-haired with twinkling brown eyes—who had charmed many a woman.

On autopilot, Ben drew his conversation to a polished close and headed straight to Sarah’s side, uncomfortably aware of the unfamiliar emotions in his gut. Jealousy? Protectiveness? He wasn’t sure.

Sarah looked up at him, her smile illuminating her face. ‘I was just telling Sam here that Jodie will not believe I’ve met him. So now I have a selfie and an autographed napkin!’

Holding out his hand to shake the actor’s, Ben managed a smile, reminding himself that he liked Sam, that he was nice man. Maybe he had a bit of a reputation as a ladies’ man but, hell...glass houses, pots and kettles and so on.

‘You two going to Marina’s party after this?’ Sam asked. He nodded towards the fashion buyer. ‘Joanna’s gonna be there.’

‘Not for me,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s a big day tomorrow and I want to be able to focus on all those catwalk designs. Plus, nothing could top this.’ She waved the napkin in the air before looking up at Ben. ‘But you should go.’

‘Nope. I’m good—ready to call it a day. Catch you later, Sam.’

He saw Sarah’s small frown, but she remained silent as they exited the party, found a taxi, arrived at the hotel, entered the lift, and then their suite.

Then she turned towards him, her expression a combination of hesitation and determination, as if she’d spent the journey back steeling herself. ‘Can we talk?’

‘Of course. Shall we sit? May as well be comfortable.’

She hesitated, and then walked over to one of the cushioned wicker chairs and perched at the end, whilst he headed to the minibar.

‘Drink?’ he offered. ‘Neither of us partook at the party.’

She nodded. ‘A glass of red would be nice.’

Once he’d handed her a glass, he sank down onto the seat opposite her.

‘What would you like to talk about?’ he asked.

CHAPTER SEVEN

SARAH WASN’T SURE she wanted to talk about anything, and already regretted starting this conversation. Worse, she had a nasty suspicion that her reason for starting it was less than stellar.

Throughout the entire party she’d been so madly, horribly aware of Ben—the accidental brush of their hands, the solid warmth of his body, the deep timbre of his voice. And then, when she had seen him with Joanna, she’d been...angry. Because for one terrible, bunny-boiling moment she’d watched the fashion buyer smile at Ben and the word mine had flashed into her brain.

Which was ridiculous. One kiss—which she was desperately trying to regret and forget—and she had morphed into an idiot.

Which was why she’d decided they needed to talk—have a proper conversation that would hopefully cure her of this stupid attraction.

So she took a sip of wine, savouring the spicy, full-bodied taste, glanced out at the panorama of night-time Milan and then looked at him. His body language was relaxed, his large hand cradling his glass of wine as he waited.