Millie said, “No, thank you” just as George said, “Yes, thank you.” Their voices overlapped.
Millie quickly told the waiter, “Okay, yes” at the same time George was saying, “Then, no.”
They looked at each other; each waited for the other to speak first. The waiter looked from one to the other. George finally put the poor man out of his misery by ordering another bottle.
“If my father were here, he’d have told me to ‘Stop acting like a big girl’s blouse and order wine like a man.’ Beautiful manners, my dad.” George grinned. “Does he still call Mrs B ‘Mrs Spit-and-polish’?”
She did her best to keep a straight face. “Only once.”
“Once?” He crooked an eyebrow.
She couldn’t laugh. It was one thing for George to poke fun at his father, quite another for an employee to laugh at her boss. But she had to squeeze her lips shut to hold back a giggle. Du Montfort had names for everyone from Evans the driver—Clippety-Clop—to the newspaper boy who always hid behind the door when handing Millie the papers and therefore got the name The Artful Dodger.
But George wasn’t letting her off the hook. “What does he call you? I’d loveto know.”
Where should she begin? She kept her mouth shut.
“Oh, let me guess, Nosey Millie?”
She had to laugh. “Close. ‘Meddling Millie’. And sometimes ‘That Girl’.” In the beginning, it used to be Fat Girl, Pale Girl, but she kept those to herself.
But George was sharp and he must have sensed her keeping something back.“Go on. What else?”
“For a while at the beginning it wasDeaf Girl because I stayed despite the many times he told me to ‘get out.’ But more recently, I seemed to have progressed to Smiley.”
“I’m glad to know I’m not the only victim.” He laughed.
He had the kind of laugh that pulled you along with it. It was a nice, warm feeling to know she made him laugh, made his eyes crinklelike this.
“My father’s famous temper—what did you call it? Pride?”
The serious interrogation over, George was a different person now, relaxed, warm. When he held her gaze, his eyes didn’t bore into her like a laser. No, they invited her to share the conversation. “You know, in my world, pride can be an asset as well as a liability. If not handled the right way, it can be a nightmare.”
She crossed her legs under the table, feeling the silk of her dress caress her thighs and knees. She relaxed into her chair, blissful. The small crystal chandelier, low over their table, refracted light into beautiful tiny rainbow prisms over the pristine white linen.
She listened to him talk to her about himself and his work, as if he really cared what she thought. This gorgeous man wanted to hear her opinion, made her feel interesting, witty and clever, treated her like she was worth talking to.
She felt like a crystal chandelier herself, refracting light into a hundred tinyrainbows.
“You see, I can always spot what it is people are proud of,” George was saying. “And what they aren’t. I plan their workload to take this into account.” His grey eyes had silver threads radiating from the pupils, and the long black lashes shadowed his eyes, black on silver. Women would die for such eyelashes. There really wasno justice in this world.
“That’s very accommodating of you,” she said, gently teasing. The evening, the wine and the attention were making her rather daring.
“Not really. I’d be lying if I said I did it to accommodate them.” He shrugged. “Just practical. It helps me get the best out of people and avoid anypitfalls.”
“So?” A mischievous thought bubbled up her like a giggle. “Were you hoping to discover if there were any hidden pitfalls in the quality ofmy work?”
It was a joke, but he seemed to take it seriously. He paused, his fork halfway tohis mouth.
“Not the quality of your work, precisely.”
She waited. His fork remained suspended mid-air. “What, then?”
“You really wantto know?”
She took a sip of wine. “I’mall ears.”
He put his fork down on the plate. “I was worried you might be”—he looked down, then continued—“interested in my father.”
