Page 62 of Bride Under Contract

‘You can contact me any time.’

Grace felt her lips stretch into an incredulous smile. ‘What about in an emergency?’

‘If I deem it an emergency, I’ll be certain to pass it on.’

Oh, my gosh!

Grace wanted to be Ms Hill, she truly did—even if she was cross.

So cross that the moment the call ended she called Carter directly—just because she could.

Or, she thought she could—‘How can I help you, Grace?’ Ms Hill answered.

Grace gritted her teeth. ‘Is it very formal tonight?’

‘I’ve given Mr Bennett’s schedule to the stylist. She’ll be able to direct you.’

‘Thank you.’

It was unexpected, and it jolted. She’d thought she had his number, had slept with him last night, and now she had to go through his PA in England to find out what to wear for dinner...

Her perfect dream makeover day was—oddly—not quite so.

‘Wow!’ Grace said, because her hair had been straightened and looked like silk.

Then she was shown it from the back, and if she hadn’t known, then she’d never have guessed it was her own reflection.

She glanced at her toenails which were no longer painted a faded coral—in fact they were back to their natural colour, only buffed and polished, as were her fingernails.

It really was like a theatrical production, with a break for light snacks before wardrobe was called.

Grace felt an odd pang of disappointment at the underwear selection. It was gorgeous, she was told. Sheer and so barely there...

She felt barely there.

She felt as if she’d been dipped in ink stain remover as she tried on endless clothes.

There were pale dresses, cool linen suits and beautiful shoes. But for someone who had lived the last two years in yoga pants or cargo pants, it was a little less thrilling than she’d imagined.

‘Beige?’ She flicked through the dresses. ‘Grey?’

They were ‘wheaten’ and ‘pewter’, apparently, but there was just no colour anywhere, save for a very pale blue trouser suit—so pale it was almost off the spectrum.

‘We’re just building a basic wardrobe,’ the stylist informed her. ‘You can then add your own signature.’

So she chose suitable outfits for day—cool linen trousers and light jackets—and then her hand hovered over an oatmeal linen smock with spaghetti straps that would be gorgeous to throw on after the pool.

‘That’s stunning,’ the assistant said, but then Grace looked at the layering, the beauty of the garment and the designer tag, and hastily put it back. No, that was not a dress to throw on when she was damp from the pool. Instead she turned her attention to the evening wear.

Ms Hill had indeed given the stylist Carter’s schedule—business dinners, performing arts, restaurants... She even had to choose outfits to wear should she have to join him in the Middle East...

And as she tried on clothes she felt as if she were dressing for a man she didn’t know—certainly not a man who didn’t seem bothered by shorts and tatty tops or bright red sarongs...a man who stood so quiet and still watching the dawn break...nor one who handed her a lilac flower.

Finally, it was time for make-up.

Or rather for her foundation to be matched and lessons on application to be had.

She rather failed with eyeliner and looked at the gorgeous eyes of the beautician, wanting them!

---