He glared at the phone. Why didn’t Millie ever call him? If she did, in his present mood, he’d drop everything and go home. In his present mood, he’d scoop her up and take her upstairs to his room. And there he would takehis time—
His phone rang again.
He picked it up, his mouth suddenly dry.
But it was Belgium.
“Yes!” He barkedthe word.
Probably a good thing Millie didn’t call, all things considered.
He listened to his associate in Brussels outline a longproposal.
“Can’t someone else handle it?”
“No, they want the best, and you are the best. Look, George, EU regulations is your bag. It’s a huge contract, and they asked for you by name. It is what you do, after all.”
Yes, it was what he did.
Three weeks in Brussels. Problem was, after Brussels, there was plenty of work in London waiting to swallow him up. If he flew out tomorrow, he wouldn’t be back to La Canette for six months.
It would be easy to slip back into the old routine, pick up with Beatrice again.
Or.
He could stay here a little longer. Dare himself to see Millie, talk to her, watch her face break into her beautiful grin, her eyes sparkle. Watch the way her clothes clung to her figure.
His hands itched, and he curled them into hard fists.
Millie wasn’t a love-her-today-drop-her-tomorrow girl. She deserved a goodmarriage.
Which he couldn’t offer.
The only woman he could possibly marry had to be his equal. In every way. Otherwise he’d suspect she was after his fortune, his position or his aristocratic title.
What he wanted was to be a lover, a friend,an equal.
Then there was Millie.
This lovely girl with Audrey Hepburn eyes and lips he wanted to savour. A girl who laughed at him and kept him onhis toes.
But Millie was poor, divorced, with a painful past and no prospects. A girl ripe for rescuing; he would have to become her knight in shining armour.
How long before he resented her for it? Before he started to mistrust her motives? How long before he turned into cold-cruel-George, never-answers-the-phone-George?
Into his father?
He rubbed his face, scratching at his unshaven jaw. He didn’t want to become that George in Millie’s eyes.
No. It washopeless.
He fired off a long text to his office.
Fifteen minutes later, Vicky emailed. There was a flight from Guernsey at 6:30 tonight and a car at Heathrow airport to take him home. Dinner was booked for eight Friday night at Restaurant Gordon Ramsey in Chelsea. A card and a bouquet of flowers had been sent to Beatrice’s home.
He checked his watch. 2 pm. He had enough time, just.
Du Montfort Hall, 4:15pm
