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TEN
La Canette, 9pm
The Starter
Millie was taking a long time reading the menu while chewing her lower lip. George took advantage of her distraction tostudy her.
The small crystal chandelier, hanging low over their table, lit her hair. What did they call that colour, halfway between brown and blond? Chestnut? Whatever, it was shiny and rather nice. It cast a shadow over her golden cheekbones. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had a strong feeling that he’d met her before.
Where?
Last year, he’d attended two wedding receptions, a New Year’s Eve party, and a few other society functions. Beatrice had dragged him to a lot of parties. Could Millie have been a guest at one of them? Trouble was, he usually took care not to look too closely at other women when he was with a date.
He couldn’t be sure, but he had definitely met her before. It would come to him eventually. For now he had asituation.
Thesituationwas sitting across the table from him, looking nothing like the dull and dumpy PA she was supposed to be. Even worse, there was an undeniable rapport between her and his father.Damn it, she was so attractive, even beautiful; he had half a mind to fire her onthe spot.
Hecouldfire her, except he’d only have to put in more time hiring a replacement. And could he guarantee the next one wouldn’t be the usual Barbie-doll fortune hunter?
“How do you find working here?”
She looked up from the menu. “Fine. I am loving it actually, especially the island.”
“But you are from London?”
“Yes.” She nodded slightly, and the dangly earrings danced and swayed beside her smooth neck.
The waiter returned to see if they’d decided what to order. Millie, looking apologetic, went back to readingthe menu.
George could tell she was having trouble with the French. Either he was going to wait ten minutes while she asked the waiter what each word meant, or… “Do you trust me to order for you?”he asked.
Smiling, she folded the leather-bound menu and handed it to him across the starched white tablecloth.
Their waiter, Hitten—George remembered him as a busboy a few years ago—understood perfectly as George ordered in fast, confident French. He had obviously beenlearning.
“You haven’t ordered internal organs or hooves, have you?” Millie asked, her eyessparkling.
He wanted to laugh but instead decided to exploit the moment. When people struggled to understand a language, they were on the wrong foot and vulnerable. She’d be less able to lie.
“How did you find out aboutthe job?”
She blinked. “Oh. Well. I saw the advert.”
“Where?” he asked, pressing hisadvantage.
“In a newspaper.” Her eyes flicked away from him fora second.
Got you!Not even the most confident liar could avoid all the tells. She was definitely hidingsomething.
So what, she had met him at some party, Googled his family, and decided to make a play for his father? It would take a serious case of conspiracy theorizing to imagine her scanning every newspaper for the vacancy listing, pretending to be plain and applying for the job.
Why was he suspicious? Because she was pretty? Was that enough?
No, he didn’t get where he was by jumping to conclusions on flimsy evidence. Okay, nextquestion.
Just then, thesommelier brought their wine and was about to pour for George to taste, when George deliberately waved him towards Millie.
