Billionaire Romance Boxed Set 2(85)
“Yes,” Syria said. “Tonight.
She dashed to her closet. Erik’s girls had dressed awfully well even in the middle of the day, and he’d been in a three-piece suit. A night out sounded even more formal.
She shifted through her meager choices. It looked like shopping might be in order.
*
The sleek Mercedes arrived promptly at eight. The driver knocked on her door, and Syria, who had been watching from a window, counted to five before opening.
The older gentleman bowed, tucking his hat under his arm. “I’m here to take you to Mr. Andrada.”
Syria turned to the side table. “Let me grab my coat.” She picked up the faux sable wrap and a small black purse, all purchases from that day. The driver took the fur piece and helped her in it, covering her bare arms in the glimmering charcoal sheath dress. She’d selected it because it was knee-length and simple, so she could almost pass for an ordinary night out, but the shimmer gave it enough glamour to not be out of place if they ended up some place where everyone was decked in actual gowns.
The outfit had taken a small chunk of that five thousand dollar check from yesterday, but splurging a little had felt nice, just like buying the backdrop. She still had plenty for traveling to India, and enough to go to Seattle, if seeing Tyson was still an option. He’d texted her twice that day, random things about the weather and some funny link he’d found. She didn’t know if he wasn’t aware of the video chat from the party, or if he was trying to gloss over it.
She’d talk to him later.
The driver held the door to the car. She peered in, but the back seat was empty.
“Mr. Andrada will be waiting for you at La Fontaine,” he said.
Syria grinned up at him as she took the seat. “Do you always read people’s minds?”
He smiled back, toothy and genuine beneath the crinkle of hazel eyes. “I’ll never give away my trade secrets.”
Syria tried to relax as they sped across town. She’d been to La Fontaine once before, not as a patron, but to photograph a bride in an elaborate lace nightgown in the exact spot where she would be getting married a month later. She wanted the image as a wedding gift for her groom, a lovely idea that Syria had suggested to other brides ever since.
La Fontaine was both a five-star restaurant and a venue for signature events. Syria did not photograph weddings, but the photographers who got on the elite list of preferred vendors generally were set, as those jobs could easily command twenty grand a piece.
Syria watched the gray winter streets roll by. She’d never planned to become that sort of photographer, although if she had the opportunity, it would make sense. Maybe whatever Erik would offer could fast track her on that path.
The Mercedes pulled up beneath the silver canopy of the restaurant entrance. Syria leaned forward. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
A valet opened her door, but still, the driver came around the car and gave her a flourished bow.
Syria laughed. “Do you always bow like that?”
“Only for pretty girls.”
“Will you be taking me home?”
He set his hat back on his head. “That will be up to Mr. Andrada.”
Syria held out her hand. “It was nice to meet you, Mr — I didn’t get your name.”
He grasped her fingers gently. “Bill. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
The valet led Syria to the door and opened it for her. A rush of warm air made the loose tendrils on her forehead dance. Her hair was twisted up and pinned with an oversized comb. With every step she feared it would tumble down. She was just one head bump away from a comic explosion of curls.
A perfectly groomed concierge stood behind a podium. “Ms. McMillan, I presume?” At her nod, he said, “Mr. Andrada is expecting you.”
Syria had no idea how he kept up with everyone, but perhaps at a place like this, the regulars took up most of the tables, so the newcomers were easy to sort. He helped her out of her wrap and passed it to a girl in a black dress.
Syria stared wide-eyed as he led her through the expansive dining room, white linens stretched across the round tables. Curved booths lined the walls. She’d only gotten a cursory glimpse of the dining area last time as she was led through French doors to the ballroom where weddings were held. This time, she tried to take in more of the soft blue walls trimmed with gilt, the crystal chandeliers hanging at intervals from the elaborate pressed-tin ceiling.
They crossed all the way through the tables and to a back wall where gold curtains hung every few feet. The concierge pulled one aside, revealing a private alcove with a table, two chairs, and Erik, smiling over a glass of red wine. He stood to take her hand and help her to her seat.