It seemed so strange to her now, to think of how defiant she’d always been with Pauline and her daughter—and yet they had controlled her at this most basic, potent level. But no longer—never again! A sense of power, of newborn confidence swept through her. Unconsciously she lifted her fingers to the necklace, touching the jewels around her throat. Beautiful jewels to adorn a beautiful woman. A woman worthy of a man like Max Vasilikos.
She looked up at him now, easily a head taller than her, and smiled. He caught her expression and answered it with his own. Long lashes swept down over his eyes and he patted the hand hooked into his.
‘Enjoy,’ said Max, smiling down at her.
And enjoy she did. That was the amazement of it all.
Time and again her fingers brushed at her necklace, or grazed the gold band around her finger beneath its ruby setting—and every time she did she gave a little smile, half haunting, half joyous.
As Max had promised her, sitting to her left she found one of the host charity’s directors, who listened attentively as she told him about the camps she ran, then nodded approvingly and told Ellen he’d be happy to help with her funding.
Glowing, she turned to Max. ‘Thank you!’ she exclaimed, and it was heartfelt.
And she was not just thanking him for setting her up with this funding, or his cheque for fifteen thousand pounds. It was for lifting Chloe’s curse from her shoulders—setting her free from it.
His eyes met hers and, half closed, half veiled, they flickered very slightly. As if he were thinking about something but not telling her. He raised his glass of wine to her.
‘Here’s to a better future for you,’ he murmured.
The corner of his mouth pulled into a quizzical smile, and she answered with one of her own in return, lifting her glass too.
‘A better future,’ she echoed softly.
At the edge of her consciousness Haughton loomed, still haunted by Pauline and Chloe, the dilemma insoluble. But the house she loved so much, the home that she longed only to be safe, seemed far, far away right now. Real—much more real—was this moment...this extraordinary present she was experiencing. All thanks to Max, the man who had made it possible for her.
For an instant her gaze held his, and she felt bathed and warmed by the deep, dark brown of eyes fringed by thick lashes, flecked with gold. And then for an even briefer instant, so brief she could only wonder whether it had been real, there was a sudden change in them, a sudden, scorching intimacy.
She sheared her gaze away, feeling her heart jolt within her as if an electric shock had just kicked it. As if it were suddenly hard to breathe.
All through the rest of the meal, and the speeches and the fundraising auction afterwards, she could feel the echo of that extraordinary jolt to her heartbeat, flickering in her consciousness as port and liqueurs, coffee and petit fours circulated. Then, on the far side of the grand ballroom an orchestra started up.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed as the music went into the lilting strains of a slow waltz, ideal for an Edwardian-themed ball.
‘It’s Lehár!’ exclaimed one of the women at their table, delighted.
‘So it is!’ agreed Ellen, starting to hum the composer’s familiar melody—the waltz from The Merry Widow operetta.
‘Well, I think this calls for audience participation,’ said the charity director at her side, as all around them at the other tables guests were getting to their feet to take to the dance floor. ‘Will you do me the honour?’ he asked Ellen with a smile.
But he was forestalled. Max was standing up.
‘I claim the first waltz,’ he said, catching Ellen’s elbow and guiding her to her feet. His rival conceded gracefully. Max bore Ellen off.
She was in a state of consternation, aware that her heart was racing and that she felt breathless. Taken over.
But then Max has taken me over all day, hasn’t he? I’ve done everything he wanted, all the time!
Well, now she was going to dance with him, and she wasn’t getting a choice about it. Except—
‘I have no idea how to waltz!’ she exclaimed. ‘And I think the Viennese waltz is different from the English waltz anyway. And I—’
He cut her short. ‘Follow my lead,’ he instructed, and simply took her into his arms and swept her off.
Into the dance.
Into the irresistible, lilting music that wafted them around the ballroom floor.
She felt her long, heavy silk skirts become as light as a feather, swirling around her legs as Max whirled her around until she was dizzy with it, until all she could do was clutch helplessly at his shoulder, hang on to his hand for dear life as he turned her and guided her and never, never let her go.