Then he spoke.
‘It’s you. The you that you really are. The you that was hiding all this time.’
His voice was steady, level—merely stating a fact. A fact he would no longer let her deny. Conceal.
Her eyes were wide, huge.
‘It can’t be me. It can’t.’
Her voice was faint.
He came and stood behind her.
‘Oh, it’s you, all right.’
Lightly, oh so lightly, he rested his hands on her shoulders. Her skin was like satin. He felt her tremble at his touch, but she did not move. She went on staring.
‘How did they do it?’ she asked faintly.
He gave a smile. ‘They had good material to work with.’
She lifted her hand to her hair, then dropped it wonderingly.
‘But my hair—all that frizz—’
‘They fixed it. There must be chemicals they use that change the hair somehow. After that, all they had to do was…do you up.’ His voice softened. ‘It was always there, Lizzy. Always. And now it always will be.’
He dropped his hands away.
He didn’t want to. He wanted to glide them down her arms, turn her around, lower his mouth to hers and…
But he knew he must not. Not now, not here.
Not yet.
Instead, he stepped back.
‘Do you think they’d have put wraps in a drawer?’ he asked. ‘Let’s have a look.’
Rico reached out his arm and closed his hand around the neck of the champagne bottle, drawing it up out of its bucket of ice and refilling their glasses.
They were sitting at the table on the terrace, but it had been transformed from its daytime appearance, when it was usually covered with Ben’s toys and books. The parasol had disappeared, and a pristine white tablecloth had been draped crisply, laden down with silver and crystal. A beautiful floral arrangement graced the centre, and the flames of long candles in silver candlesticks flickered in the night air. Above, the stars glittered in the black velvet sky
. Out to sea, the lights from fisher boats glimmered in the dark. All around, cicadas kept their soft chorus, and the scent of flowers wafted softly.
The meal had done justice to the setting. Exquisitely prepared and presented, each delicacy had been too tempting to resist. And Lizzy had not resisted—nor did she resist a second glass of the light, foaming liquid that glinted in the candlelight in its tall, elegant flute.
‘To you,’ said Rico, and raised his glass. ‘To the new you. The real you.’
The staff had gone, leaving them to coffee, tiny crisp biscotti, and the rest of the champagne. It was a rare vintage, and Rico savoured it.
It was not all that he was savouring.
He took a mouthful, appreciating the dry biscuit of the champagne, and leant back. His eyes rested on the woman opposite.
She had found a wrap, a soft swathe in a subtle mix of hues that blended and complemented the cinnamon of her dress. She had draped it around her shoulders, one end scooped across her throat. It did not quite conceal the rich swell of her breasts in the beautifully cut bodice.
No, he must not let his eyes drift there. He wanted to—he badly wanted to—but he knew he must not. She could not cope with that. Not yet. He must take it slowly.