Alex had saved the best bit for last. ‘And she would like to see a touch of your own style in your plans for the Bali hotel, so I guess I was wrong when I said to watch the whimsy.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘Really? You were wrong? Can I have that in writing?’
‘Watch it.’ He dipped a hand in the bath and scooped up a little bit of water.
‘Don’t you dare...this is a serious bath. I already told you.’
‘Don’t I dare what? Do this?’ He trickled the water slowly onto the exposed part of her chest, his heartbeat quickening as he watched the silvery drops trace a trail down her skin until they disappeared into the deep vee between her breasts.
‘Or this?’ she countered sweetly and before he could move away she grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him into the bath, laughing as he landed on top of her. ‘Mind my hair. I don’t want to get it wet!’
Alex raised himself onto his hands and knees. ‘Now look what you’ve done. My clothes are all soaking.’ He rocked back onto his heels, ignoring the splash of the water as it sloshed over the side of the bath. ‘I’m going to have to take them off. You wanted a serious bath, Flora Buckingham? You’ve got one.’
Her eyes didn’t leave his as he pulled the sopping-wet shirt over his head, or as he began to unbutton his trousers. ‘Bring it on,’ she said, her voice breaking huskily, belying the tough words. ‘If you think you’re man enough.’
‘Oh, Flora,’ he promised her as his trousers and boxers followed his shirt over the side of the bath. ‘I’m more than man enough. Just wait and see.’
* * *
‘Come on, what’s taking so long?’ Alex sounded impatient as he rapped on the bathroom door. Again.
Flora rolled her eyes at her reflection. ‘It’s not my fault I had to redo my hair,’ she called back. ‘I told you not to get it wet.’
He didn’t answer for a moment, then: ‘Regrets, Flora?’
‘That my hair got wet? It might have been worth it.’ That didn’t mean she was entirely regret free but she wasn’t going to admit that to him. Or to herself. Not tonight. It was their last night, they were going to a Christmas ball and she looked, even if she said so herself, pretty darn smoking.
The dress she had bought from the vintage shop in Innsbruck was deceptively demure. The chiffon cap sleeves revealed just a hint of her shoulder and the neckline hugged the tops of her breasts, the bodice narrowing at her waist before flaring out again, the full skirt finishing at her calves. She saw more revealing outfits every day in the offices she temped in.
Deceptively demure. It covered everything and yet...was it the bright red, a shocking contrast to the paleness of her skin? Was it the fit, the way it clung like a second skin? Or was it the way it defined and enhanced every curve so that, despite the modest neckline, Flora felt more exposed than if she was venturing out in just her bra?
Maybe it was because she was so obviously and evidently dolled up? Her hair tumbled free in carefully arranged curls, her lips were red and her eyes outlined in dark, dark kohl and, for once, she had slipped her feet into heels, which would make her taller than most of the men in the room.
But Alex would still top her.
‘Flora...’
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ She took one last look. Yes, she was definitely smoking—either that or she looked like a pin-up version of Mrs Claus but either way she had no choice. She had nothing else even remotely suitable for a Christmas ball. Inhaling deeply, Flora opened the bathroom door.
And stared. It was so unfair. Here she was. Two hours later. Hair washed, curled, sprayed and teased. Body plucked free of each and every stray hair, moisturised and buffed, face artfully painted, nails filed and polished, dress squeezed into, shoes forced on. And what had Alex done? Showered, shaved and shrugged himself into his tux.
She swallowed, her mouth dry. The stark black, relieved only by the crisp white of his shirt, suited him, brought out the auburn glints in his hair, made his eyes greener than grey. He looked like a stranger; a powerful, imposing and hot stranger.
A powerful, imposing and hot stranger who was staring straight back at her, mouth slightly open and a dazed expression on his face.
‘Will I do?’
He didn’t answer straight away, just nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘You look incredible.’
Heat flooded her cheeks at the expression in his eyes. ‘Fine feathers,’ she said a little unsteadily. ‘Put anyone into a dress like this and they’ll scrub up okay.’
‘No.’ His eyes were so intent, heat smouldering in their depths, that she felt completely exposed, naked. ‘The dress is...’ His gaze travelled over her, burning a trail onto her, marking her, claiming her. ‘The dress is sensational. But it’s all you, Flora. You’d look just as amazing in a sheet.’
‘Thank you.’ She blinked, unexpected tears filling her eyes at the raw want in his voice. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’
They stood, caught in time just staring at each other, the pressure in the room intensifying until it was just the two of them, caught in a spotlight. Flora cleared her throat. ‘Shall we go?’ She didn’t want to prolong the moment. Not tonight. Not when tomorrow meant moments such as this would be finished for ever.
Flora waited for him to open the door but he just stood there. ‘I...er... I got you this. I know Christmas isn’t for another couple of days but, well...’ He held out a black velvet jewellery box.
Flora froze. He had never bought her jewellery before. Alex was usually a generous and perceptive gift buyer but jewellery buying was too intimate, a line he had never crossed before. Still, they were crossing all sorts of lines this week. Why not this one?
‘For me?’ She was aware how stupid the words were as she uttered them and he nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips as he did so.
‘For you. Don’t you want to open it?’
She reached out cautiously. ‘I’m not sure,’ she confessed. ‘There’s not a trick snake in there, is there?’
‘One time, Flora, one time. And I was ten!’
‘Okay, then.’ The box was solid, heavier than she expected and she turned it around in her hands, the velvet soft against her skin. It wasn’t new, she knew that at once; the hinges were tarnished and the velvet rubbed in places. She smiled over at Alex, her heart lifting with the discovery; she wasn’t much of one for new, she preferred her possessions to have a history, a story.
She found the clasp and sprung it before carefully opening the lid and let out a little anticipatory breath she hadn’t even been aware that she was holding. A necklace sparkled on the yellowing white satin cushion. Flora stole a quick look up at Alex. His face was impassive, as if he were waiting for her to comment on the weather or ask the time, but the strained set of his shoulders showed that he was waiting for her reaction. Slowly she hooked the necklace onto one newly manicured finger and drew it out of the box.
It was a two-tiered circlet of large, crystal beads designed to fall just below the neck, nestling on the collarbone. ‘It’s...’ She shook her head, searching for the right words. ‘It’s perfect. How?’ She couldn’t complete the question.
‘I knew where you bought the dress from so I popped in and said I wanted something to go with it. They remembered you quite clearly.’ He took the necklace from her unresisting hand and moved behind her. She felt the cool heaviness of the beads settle around her neck, his fingers brush against the nape of her neck as he swept her hair aside, his breath on her skin as he leaned forward and clasped the necklace.
‘It’s nineteen fifties, like your dress, and made of the local Austrian crystal.’ He let her hair fall back and stepped away. She instantly felt colder.
‘It’s absolutely gorgeous.’ Flora put her hand up to her neck and fingered the chunky beads. ‘Thank you, Alex. It’s very thoughtful of yo
u.’ She turned around and rose on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss onto his cheek, inhaling his freshly washed scent as she did so. It was thoughtful—and it finished her dress off perfectly—but part of her wished that he hadn’t bought it. That he’d stuck to books, or tickets or any of the usual gifts. Because each time she saw it she would be reminded of this night, of this trip. Each time she saw it she would be reminded of him. Not of Alex Fitzgerald, best mate and partner in crime, but of this Alex. The one who made her stomach turn over, her legs tremble and who made all good sense go flying out of the window.
The one she would say goodbye to in the morning. She put a hand up to her necklace and touched the central bead, the truth hitting her with brutal force. It wasn’t going to be easy because she didn’t want it to end. She wanted him to look at her with that mingling of desire and need and appreciation and humour for ever. But she’d made him a promise and she was going to keep it. No fuss, no repercussions, nothing was going to change. But, oh, how she wished it would.
‘Come on.’ She stepped back and turned to the door, her voice as artificially bright as her lipstick. ‘We don’t want to be late. Camilla has invited some local dignitaries and that means that you, my friend architect, have some schmoozing to do.’
* * *
‘Oh, my goodness.’ Flora stopped dead at the entrance to the dining room and stared, open-mouthed, at the décor within. ‘This is...’
‘Like the ghost of Christmas kitsch just threw up in here?’ Alex murmured in her ear.
‘No!’ She gave him a little shove. ‘Well, only a little. It’s very pretty though.’
Lights hung in the windows encircling the rooftop room; lit, dazzling, heavily bedecked Christmas trees stood to attention between each window like an army of greenery guarding the room. More lights were draped from a centre point in the ceiling, creating a marquee-like effect.
The lighting was all blues and whites, giving the illusion that they were standing in a particularly gaudy ice cave. The same colours were repeated on the tree decorations, on the tables that were dotted around the room, on the huge snowflakes and baubles that hung from the ceiling. A small band in the corner played a waltz, the music soaring over the glamorous guests as they stood chatting in small groups throughout the room.
‘I hope the colour scheme isn’t reflected in the drinks,’ Flora whispered. ‘I haven’t drunk blue curaçao since university but I don’t think it agrees with me.’
‘It could be white drinks. What about advocaat?’
She shuddered. ‘Now you’re being mean. I thought we’d promised never to mention that New Year ever again.’
Luckily, before too many more embarrassing memories could be dredged up, a waitress stopped before them with a tray of kir royales, topped with raspberries. Flora took the glass Alex handed to her, thankful it was nothing more dangerous. ‘Happy Christmas,’ she said and raised her glass to him.
‘Happy Christmas, Flora.’ He toasted her back but the expression in his eyes was completely unreadable; his face wore the shuttered look she hated. It made him seem so far away. They only had tonight; she couldn’t say goodbye early. She wasn’t ready...
‘Dance with me?’
He looked up at that, surprised. ‘What? No one’s dancing. It’s still early.’
‘So? If I can ski a red run on my second day you can be the first person onto the dance floor.’
‘First couple,’ he corrected her. ‘There is no way on earth I would face that alone.’ But he didn’t demur any longer, holding his hand out to her and leading her to the centre of the room. There was a sudden hush as the other guests saw them step out but it was brief; the chatter starting up again as quickly as it had stopped.
* * *
Alex pulled her closer, one arm settling around her waist, the other clasping her hand. ‘If we must do an exhibition dance then I am, for the first time, thankful that Minerva insisted that the whole wedding party needed to learn to dance properly.’ It was a few years since the mandatory dance lessons but as he adjusted to the beat of the music it all began to come back. He could hear the teacher marking out the time as he had attempted to steer a mutinous Flora around the floor.
It was all so different now. She was pliant in his arms, letting him lead, her feet following his, her body at one with his—even if she did keep looking down at their feet.
‘I don’t remember you saying thank goodness at the time,’ she pointed out, pausing to count under her breath. ‘One two three, one two three. It’s a good job Minerva didn’t want us all to salsa though.’ She raised her eyes to his. They were luminous in the low light. ‘Can you imagine how we’d look trying to salsa to this? We’d have to just do that slightly awkward shuffle instead.’
He tightened his arm, enjoying the feel of her so close to him, knowing that she was completely compliant, allowing him to take control. ‘Did you know that the waltz was once considered scandalous?’
‘Was it? Why?’
He lowered his voice. ‘Just two people, a man, a woman, moving so closely together there’s barely any space between them. His arm holding her to him, her hand clasped in his. He can feel her breasts pressing against his chest, smell the shampoo in her hair. If he wanted to...’ He paused and looked directly into her upturned face, her mouth parted. ‘If he wanted to kiss her then all he has to do is bend his head.’
‘What if she didn’t want him to kiss her?’
‘Doesn’t she?’
‘Well...’ Her lips curved into an enticing smile. ‘Not in the middle of the dance floor. That really would cause a scandal. He would have to marry her if that happened.’
Alex blinked and she squeezed his hand reassuringly. ‘In olden times I mean, silly. Don’t worry, that wasn’t a proposal.’
‘Of course not.’ But the words echoed round and round in his head. Then he would have to marry her.
* * *
The evening passed by in a quick blur as if someone had pressed fast forward. Alex lost Flora soon after their dance. Camilla whisked him away to meet, greet and act merry with the local dignitaries and influential industry movers and shakers while Flora was absorbed into a laughing group of revellers. The band switched to covers of popular songs and the dance floor was full.
But he could always find Flora; she stood out. Not just because of her height and her vibrant dress, but because she glowed as she moved across the floor.
He envied her even though he knew she deserved a carefree evening. He, on the other hand, was on his best behaviour, projecting the right image as he chatted to the VIPs Camilla needed him to impress.
Tomorrow it would all be over. This dazzling throng would pack away their finery ready for their trips home. He would return to Kent with Flora ready to resume their old friendship. Would it be enhanced by this week or tarnished? Maybe now they had given way to that old thrill of attraction they could move on—properly. She deserved a good man, someone to worship her, love her properly.
Alex folded his hands into tight fists, jealousy burning through him at the thought. How would he be able to stand there and smile as she held hands with another man, laughed up at another man, kissed another man?
There was only one way to bear it—to start thinking of his own future. A future beyond work and the need for success and recognition that had driven him so far, so fast. Was it so unthinkable that he too could have a long-term relationship? Maybe even marriage? Plenty of people had satisfactory, even successful lives together based on mutual respect and shared goals rather than passion and romance. Why not him?
He took another glass of kir royale from a passing waitress, mechanically nodding and smiling as the conversation around him turned to families and Christmas. His least favourite subject.
It wasn’t that he didn’t love spending the festive season with the Buckinghams. It wasn’t as if they ever treat
ed him as anything but one of the family. They didn’t. He had been expected to muck in with the rest of them long before he’d started living there, peeling potatoes, setting the table, chopping logs for the fire—whatever was needed. Yes, they treated him like one of the family. But he wasn’t family.
His own family had cast him out and one day the Buckinghams would too. Not on purpose but time wouldn’t freeze. They wouldn’t all return to the small Kentish village for the festive season for ever. One day Minerva would want to host Christmas, or Horry, if he ever looked up from his scalpel long enough to have a relationship. Or Flora would. Would there be a place for him in the family then? In ten years? In twenty?
He downed his drink. The solution was simple. It was time he thought about creating his own place. His own traditions and memories. Somewhere he built so he couldn’t be cast out. The problem was he couldn’t imagine anyone beside him but Flora.
And she deserved more...
He took another glass from a passing tray. And he watched her, trying to ignore the unwanted leap his heart gave when she smiled over at him. A secret smile of complicity.
Yes, she deserved more. But would she get it?
The thing was, he decided as he finished one glass and swapped it for another, that good things didn’t always come to those who waited. After all, Flora hadn’t had much luck with her past boyfriends. Just because he was prepared to do the right thing and stand aside didn’t mean she would end up with someone who deserved her. It was all such a lottery. He could offer stability, space, affection. These were all good commodities in the trading place that was marriage. In return he would get a home. A place that was his.
It was a good trade.
Marriage.
Was he seriously thinking about it?
The room had darkened, the music quietening back to the classical waltzes so typical of Austria and the dance floor was now occupied by couples, the English swaying together awkwardly, the Austrians waltzing with the same grace he had admired on the ice rink and on the slopes.
Proposal At The Winter Ball (Harlequin Romance) Page 12
