‘She’s fine.’
Alistair smiled. ‘Damned with faint praise.’
‘Something like that. You can’t fault what she does when she’s in the office, but she arrives at the last possible moment and leaves as soon as she can. Doesn’t talk. Doesn’t socialise with the girls.’ Miles picked up his wineglass. ‘She dresses like her mother and obviously thinks my florist bill is too high.’
‘Can’t blame her for that. Rachel thinks your florist bill is too high.’
The voices from the hall became louder.
Miles watched as Alistair carefully decanted his sauce into a jug. ‘That doesn’t say much for Rachel’s judgement. Are you sure about marrying her?’
Alistair laughed. ‘One of the most attractive things about Rachel is that she prefers me to you. Go easy on the futility of marriage stories tonight. Jemima’s been through a traumatic divorce. Russell left her with a house to renovate and two boys to bring up on her own. She’s a bit brittle.’
‘So I’m not even allowed to flirt with the bridesmaid—’ He broke off as soon as the door opened, but he could see from Alistair’s face that he thought they may have been overheard. He felt a vague sense of sympathy. If he knew anything about women—and he did—Rachel would have her fiancé’s kneecaps for that fauxpas.
‘Miles—’ Rachel’s voice sounded ominously clipped ‘—this is Jemima. My bridesmaid.’
He turned round, ready to pour oil on troubled waters…and felt his smile falter. It was as if he’d stepped through a portal to an alternative universe. Rachel was standing with her arm tucked through Jemima Chadwick’s.
And, stranger than that, Jemima Chadwick as he’d never seen her before.
Her red hair was a riot of curls and she was dressed in a simple linen sundress. She looked crumpled, curvy and surprisingly sexy. He felt that familiar kick in the pit of his abdomen that was pure reflex. It was all a bit surreal.
‘This is Miles Kingsley. Alistair and Miles were at school together and, scarily, have known each other for something like thirty years.’
Somehow he couldn’t get his mouth to work. Thoughts were whizzing through his head, but they didn’t stay still long enough to know whether they were worth putting words on. Even a simple hello seemed to elude him.
Alistair leapt into action, clearly motivated to bonhomie by the ‘brittle’ mistake. ‘Absolutely right. Miss Henderson’s class. Aged five. Abbey Preparatory School, Windsor. What can I get you to drink, Jemima?’
She moved further into the room. ‘White wine would be lovely. Thank you.’
Jemima Chadwick.
Here.
And looking so different. Smelling of…roses. Her red curls still damp…
Miles found that his mind was thinking in expletives. It was almost unbelievable that Jemima Chadwick could have transformed herself so entirely. The woman who’d left the office on Friday evening bore very little resemblance to the one who’d arrived for dinner tonight.
At work she looked…bland. Completely invisible, as though she didn’t expect to be looked at. In fact, very married. His eyes flicked to her ring finger. Nothing. He’d not noticed that. He hadn’t noticed she had legs like that either…
Miles took a sip of wine and tried to recall exactly what he’d said about his temporary secretary to Alistair…and then he winced. Thank God he could trust Alistair not to land him in it when he realised they’d been speaking about the same Jemima.
Damn. This couldn’t be happening to him.
What was the probability of Jemima Chadwick being Rachel’s bridesmaid? It had to be zillions to one. Except, of course, she was Rachel’s friend and Amanda was Rachel’s elder sister. Damn it! It wasn’t so much improbable as extremely likely.
Alistair poured out a glass of wine. ‘Miles was just saying he’s got a temporary secretary working for him at the moment who’s also called Jemima.’
Miles felt his stomach drop. It was the same feeling as when your dinghy was about to capsize and there was absolutely nothing you could do to stop it. He was going over. It was inevitable.
‘That’s quite a coincidence. It’s not a particularly common name, is it?’ Alistair continued, sublimely oblivious to the missile he was hurling in their midst.
‘I heard.’ Jemima looked directly at Miles. Her green eyes were steady, like lasers. ‘She dresses like her mother.’
Miles’s head jerked up.
It was like receiving a swift left to his chin. So quick he hadn’t seen it coming. It hadn’t occurred to him that Jemima could have heard what he’d said about her. In his adult life there’d probably only been a handful of occasions when he’d wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. This was one of those occasions. It was up there in number one slot along with the time his mother had given a television interview explaining that he’d been conceived in a moment of ‘peace and meditation’.
Rachel reached out for her own wine. ‘Jemima’s just started temping. Perhaps she ought to work for you, Miles.’
This was getting worse. Miles’s eyes searched out Jemima’s, a desperate apology in his own.
He watched the indecision as it passed across her green eyes. Then she gave a half smile and held out her hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you.’
His sense of relief was overwhelming. ‘And you,’ he said, stretching out his own hand. ‘Jemima…?’
‘Chadwick.’
It was fascinating to see the sudden spark of laughter light her eyes. What was it they said about still waters running deep?
‘Jemima Chadwick.’
His hand closed round hers. On the whole he thought she’d made the right choice. It was far easier to pretend they didn’t know each other. He was more than happy to go along with that. And, at the first opportunity, he’d apologise.
‘The man she’s working for sounds worse than you, Miles,’ Rachel said. ‘Apparently he sent some woman a dandelion. Or rather he got Jemima to do it.’
Miles watched a red stain appear on Jemima’s neck and gradually spread to her cheeks. It seemed that fate had struck a blow for equality. ‘Sounds fun,’ he said, releasing her hand.
The flush became a little darker. ‘I’m told it works every time,’ she shot back quickly.
‘He sounds a jerk,’ was Alistair’s observation. ‘Shall we go out to the garden? We’ve set everything out there as it’s a nice evening.’
Miles led the way outside, not sure how he was feeling any more. Honesty compelled him to admit that Jemima carried the advantage in the cringe stakes. The things he’d said about her to Alistair were completely out of order—regardless of whether she’d overheard them. His mother would have him flayed alive for comments like that. As long as Jemima did her job properly there was no reason why she should socialise or dress differently. No reason at all.
Nevertheless it was a mystery to him why someone who could look as…downright sexy as Jemima, would go to work looking like everyone’s image of the worst kind of librarian. Why do it?
Her work clothes were too safely conventional, but the difference was mainly due to her hair. How had a nondescript pony-tail become a riot of curls? She looked as if she’d stepped out of a pre-Raphaelite painting. All curves, cleavage and abandonment. Perhaps better not to allow his mind to go too far down that particular avenue. Single mums were absolutely out of bounds. Too much baggage. Far too many responsibilities.
He took the seat opposite her, the little devil on his shoulder prompting him to ask,