I try to hide my smile as I chew my food.
I’d swallow for free.
I sit in the café and stare across the street at the black Bentley parked out front of the Miles Media building. It’s just six-thirty, and from the way that the driver is out of the car and leaning on the side as if on standby, I know he must be leaving soon.
I sip my coffee as my mind runs away with itself.
Does he always have a driver?
“Is this seat taken?” somebody asks as they pat the stool next to me.
“Oh, no.” I smile. “That’s fine, take it.”
My attention goes back to the building—I wonder where he lives? I take out my phone and for the first time ever, I type “Elliot Miles” into Google.
Elliot Miles is the third son of media mogul George Miles and his wife Elizabeth.
Listed along with his three brothers in the USA rich list, he has an estimated wealth of seven hundred million dollars.
“What?” I whisper.
No stranger to publicity, and true to family tradition, Elliot Miles has been linked to some of the most beautiful women in the world.
Affectionately nicknamed Casanova Miles by the press due to his apparent ability to get women to do anything he wants, he’s previously been linked to Emmaline Howser, the renowned pianist, Heather Moretti, the acclaimed art director for US Vogue, and more recently, Clarissa Mulholland, the human rights lawyer for the United Nations.
He likes his women intelligent and interesting, beauty a very close but obvious third.
I click on images, and rows and rows of pictures come up with him and women—black-tie events, yachts, nightclubs, opening nights.
He’s like a fucking rock star.
I bite my lip and raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Ugh, Casanova Miles . . . give me a fucking break.
Who cares. I click out of images and go back to the main page.
I read on.
His art collection is one of the best in the world, estimated to be worth over two hundred million dollars, and is housed in a private gallery in New York. It is understood that his most intimate pieces are kept in his London home.
I screw my face up.
“Private art gallery, you are kidding me?” I mutter under my breath.
I look up at the Bentley, completely rattled.
What the ever-loving fuck?
Elliot’s words come back to me from the other night. He isn’t looking for hot.
He’s looking for extraordinary.
I bite my thumbnail as I think about what that means.
Given all of the beautiful women from around the world that he’s dated.
Extraordinary.
Even that choice of word is strange.
And when I meet her, I will know.
I go back over our conversation.
I believe in love at first sight, when our eyes meet. We will both know.
I bite my lip to stifle my smile.
The doors open and I see Elliot stride out, every step purposeful.
Briefcase in hand. Back ramrod-straight. He doesn’t have to assert power, it comes naturally. Down to his bones, Elliot Miles is a born leader.
He nods and says something to his driver as he gets into the backseat. The door closes.
The car pulls out into the traffic and I watch as it drives away.
When our eyes meet. We’ll both know.