'No, I have the day off, and I'm going to pamper myself shamelessly because Justin's taking me to the ball.'
'I see. . .' His watery blue eyes crinkled at the corners.
'Good. He's a fine young man. You couldn't do better.'
'I know,' she agreed, with a cheeky grin.
A dozen hours later Zoe heard Justin arrive as she blotted her lipstick
for the final time. She seldom bothered much with make-up, having a fine clear skin, but tonight she had gone to town and she was delighted with the result.
Her eyes were huge, her brows and lashes subtly darkened, and a faint touch of colour on her eyelids served to enhance the sparkling blue of her eyes. She had used a light foundation that seemed to make her skin gleam almost translucently. And, daringly, she had coloured her wide, full-lipped mouth in a bright cerise lip-gloss that exactly matched her gown.
The dress was a romantic dream, she thought happily, floating out of her room and down the grand staircase to where Justin and her uncle waited. Designed in cerise satin, demure cap sleeves set off the plunging, heart- shaped, fitted bodice that nipped her waist and ended in black embroidered points over her hips, then flared out into a wide skirt with an underskirt of frothy layers of black net.
The assistant in Harvey Nichols had assured her that the nineteenth-century romantic look was all the rage and, when she stopped halfway down the stairs to glance down at Justin, and saw the flare of admiration in his eyes, she knew she had made the right choice.
Justin—tall, dark and incredibly impressive in a conservative black dinner-suit—moved to the stairs and held out his hand to her. She felt like a princess as he led her down the last few steps.
'You have grown into an amazingly beautiful woman, Zoe. You look absolutely stunning.' His dark eyes gleamed with admiration and some other emotion that Zoe hoped was love.
'Thank you, kind sir,' she said prettily.
A wry smile curved Justin's firm mouth. 'But I knew I should have asked. I'm no good at all at this romance thing.' And, handing her a clear cellophane box, with a shrug of his broad shoulders he added, 'For you. And before you say anything even I know a corsage of red roses will clash with your dress. Sorry. . .'
'I love them, but you shouldn't have; your valentine card has always been enough for me,' she declared openly, her eyes sparkling with happiness. 'Wait till I get my cape; the corsage will look great on it.'
Dashing back upstairs, she didn't see Justin's dark scowl or hear his muttered, 'What card?'
'Right, I'm ready.' She returned, holding out her velvet cloak for Justin to place around her shoulders. She shivered with delicious anticipation when his strong fingers caressed her flesh as he fastened the cap and solemnly pinned the red roses on the velvet above her breast.
With Uncle Bertie's good wishes, and his admonition to stay in town for the night ringing in her ears, Justin led her out to the car—a sleek black BMW—and slid in beside her.
Justin was the perfect partner; he insisted on dancing every dance with her, and the evening took on a magic all of its own. She could not help but observe the respect and esteem he attracted from his fellow professionals. She overheard in the powder-room that it was rumoured that he was definitely going to be on the next list of judges, and, on returning to the ballroom, she could not resist teasing him unmercifully.
'Such exalted company. Why, milord, I fear you give me the vapours.' She fluttered her thick lashes unashamedly.
'I'd like to give you a lot more,' he drawled mockingly, his brown eyes smiling down into hers. 'You little tease.'
'Who—moi! Your honour! No, your honour!' She camped it up, pressing a hand to her heart.
'You're asking for trouble, little one,' Justin opined, and swept her into his arms and on to the dance-floor.
'If. . . or. . . when. . .' he spaced the words out as they moved slowly and lazily around the floor to the haunting strains of 'Unchained Melody' '. . . I. . . am. . . made. . . a. . .judge. . .' he curled her small hand in his and held it against his chest while his other hand stroked up her back to bury beneath the silken fall of her pale blonde hair and curve around her nape '. . . it won't be "Unchained Melody" we dance to, my love.'
He tilted her face up to his and murmured against her ear, 'I'll sentence you to be chained to me for life.' And then his mouth moved over hers in a kiss as light as the brush of a butterfly's wing.
She clung to him, her eyes shining like stars; her breasts, hard against his chest, throbbed with burgeoning arousal while her heart drummed to an erratic beat. 'If only,' she breathed, licking her suddenly too dry lips.
His dark eyes followed the movement of her tongue. 'Not if—when,' he rasped, his arms tightening around her until even through the many layers of her gown Zoe could feel his hardening need, and she finally admitted to herself that nothing had changed—her schoolgirl crush had turned into a woman's love for a man.
'Let's get out of here,' he said urgently.
'But it's only eleven.'
'The way I feel right now, I won't live to midnight.' Their eyes met and clung—no more teasing, no amusement, just a basic primeval need.
'Yes,' she agreed softly.