But the giddy beating of her heart and the heat coiling in her belly told her she was already far too late to seal in the ridiculous dream.
CHAPTER NINE
IF THE days prior to the arrival of Connor’s package had gone by in a flurry, the ones afterwards went by in a blur. Once Daisy had faced the fact that she’d have to go to New York—or spend the rest of her life wondering what she might have missed—she became determined to make the absolute most of the opportunity, and avoid all the pitfalls at the same time.
Daisy being Daisy, the practicalities had to be handled first. So she lined up Jacie to help Juno on the stall, finished as much merchandise as she could, rearranged all her community and charity activities and then spent every other spare minute she had working on her wardrobe for the trip. Whether this turned out to be the grandest adventure of her life—or the biggest disaster—she intended to look fabulous. She had her own distinctive style, and whether Connor approved of it or not, she planned to look the part. That would be her part—not his.
As she drew patterns and cut fabrics and stitched and pleated and hemmed and appliquéd late into the night she worked out a basic survival strategy to go with her amazing trousseau.
Whatever happened in New York she would not lose sight of what really mattered. Her life, her career—such as it was—her hopes and dreams for the future did not depend on two thrill-seeking weeks spent in the City That Never Sleeps with a man who had twice as much sex appeal as Casanova and half the depth. As long as she kept her hormones under strict supervision—and didn’t succumb to any delusions about true love—she would be absolutely fine.
But despite all Daisy’s preparations and pep talks, when Sunday morning arrived, and a black Mercedes with a liveried driver parked in front of the bedsit, the nerves kicked in.
While the chauffeur loaded her suitcase into the boot, she clung onto Mrs V and Juno in a goodbye hug. But as she climbed into the plush leather interior the smell of money and privilege overwhelmed her and the nerves got worse. She wound down the window and gave her friends a shaky wave as the powerful car purred to life and swept away from the kerb.
Once the only home she had ever known was out of sight, she wound the window back up, pressed the button for the air-conditioner and listened to the deafening thumps of her heartbeat over the quiet hum. What on earth had she let herself in for?
She dropped her head back and sighed.
She would be walking into a world she knew nothing about. And throwing herself on the mercy of a guy she knew even less about—not to mention her own surprisingly volatile libido.
She forced herself to take a series of steady breaths as she smoothed the bias-cut sheath dress she’d finished the night before over her knees and felt the pearly silk whisper under her fingertips.
She watched the terraced houses of west London whisk past.
Fine, maybe this would turn out to be the stupidest thing she’d ever done—but at least she’d be doing it in style.
Daisy Dean had never coveted the lifestyles of the rich and famous. She’d never worried about how much money she had, only that she had enough—and she’d been more than happy to work as hard as she had to have the stability she’d always craved.
But as she stepped out of the royal blue limo onto Park Avenue and gazed up at the art deco frontage of The Waldorf Astoria, its gilded-gold filigree glinting in the mid-afternoon sunshine, Daisy had to concede that being rich beyond your wildest dreams might have its uses.
For a girl who’d only ever been on the cheapest of short-haul flights, the journey across the Atlantic—in a leather seat that folded down into a bed bigger than the one she had at home—had been like a dream. She’d cruised above the clouds at thirty thousand feet, sipping champagne and snacking on cordon bleu cuisine—or as much as her nervous tummy would allow—and made herself savour the experience and enjoy it for what it was—a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
‘Ma’am.’ The Waldorf’s doorman interrupted Daisy’s thoughts to hand her a blue ticket. ‘Give this to the desk clerk when you check in and we’ll have your luggage sent right up to your room.’
‘Thank you.’ Daisy pulled a ten-dollar bill out of her purse, glad she’d changed some of her own money. But as she offered the tip to the doorman he simply shook his head.
‘No need for a gratuity, ma’am. You’re Mr Brody’s guest. He’s already taken care of it.’
‘Oh.’ Daisy slipped the money back into her purse, her cheeks colouring.
In the last few days she’d been careful not to dwell on her position as ‘Mr Brody’s guest’. But somehow not even being able to tip the doorman made her feel a bit cheap.
She pushed her uneasiness aside as she made her way up the carpeted stairs to the lobby area. Brody needed her here for his business thingy. She was doing him a favour, so why shouldn’t he foot the bill? And she hardly needed to create more problems—she had quite enough on her plate already.
Her breath caught as she took in the huge chandelier hanging over The Waldorf’s marbled forecourt and heard the tinkling strains of a Cole Porter song being played on a grand piano in the cocktail bar.
Portobello Road and the Bedsit Co-op suddenly felt a lot more than half a world away.
All leather sofas, vaulted ceilings and dark wood panelling with an ornate carriage clock as its centrepiece, the reception area was no less intimidating. Feeling hopelessly out of place, Daisy approached the desk.
A woman with perfect make-up and an even more perfect smile greeted her. ‘What can we do for you today?’
‘My name’s Daisy Dean. Mr Connor Brody has booked me a room.’ The minute the words were out of her mouth, the blush coloured her cheeks again. At least she’d assumed he’d booked her a room. In all the hurried preparations of the last few days and the glamour of the flight, it hadn’t even occurred to Daisy to wonder about it. The thought of the kiss they’d shared in Gino’s came blasting back to her and the crack he’d made about this not being a ‘fake date’ and she realised she should have contacted him and clarified their sleeping arrangements. She tried to ignore her pummelling heartbeat. Don’t be silly, Daze, he couldn’t possibly be arrogant enough to assume you’ll be sleeping together.
The receptionist tapped a few buttons on her console and smiled. ‘You’re booked into The Towers Suite with Mr Brody.’
The bottom dropped out of Daisy’s stomach. ‘Are you sure?’ she stuttered.