There were four couples, including themselves. Not Chinese, but British. British expats who had made their homes in Hong Kong. And all of them were of Rafe’s ilk, which placed a whole generation between herself and the quick-witted, sophisticated conversation that flashed from one to the other, leaving her feeling like a bemused spectator standing on the very perimeter of it all.
The men were slick, smooth operators, with an air of power and success about them that was clearly stamped into their female counterparts too. They were beautiful women, expensive women, with unimpeachable class and style, sleek smiles, and a sharp eye for what was going on around them.
It was no wonder Rafe had wanted her to look good. Next to these women she must appear very young and very gauche—not that they went out of their way to make her feel like that, she had to acknowledge. If anything, they tried their best to make her feel one of them, their smiles warm and genuine—like the questions they put to her in an effort to draw her into their sophisticated circle.
But she felt too awkward, too self-conscious and shy to respond with any ease. And it didn’t help that she found no consolation in Rafe’s solid presence, because he was as much a stranger to ber as the rest of them were.
Yet the way he kept her clamped to his side, with an arm at a supportive angle across her back and his fingers resting in the trim curve of her waist, as they stood in a group sipping pre-dinner drinks, made a statement to the contrary.
As did the warm smiles he kept sending her—and what he did when their first drink arrived and everyone lifted their glasses to them in a congratulatory toast He brought her to stand right in front of him, held her shy gaze with a dark intimacy that set her senses flurrying, touched his glass to hers, watched while she sipped selfconsciously at her simple dry vermouth—then bent his head and kissed her.
The feel of his mouth, warm and smooth against her vermouth-moistened lips, made her quiver in surprise. It was just an act; she knew that as she struggled not to show how unfamiliar those lips were to her. Rafe was simply acting out his role as loving bridegroom while she—she was left feeling troubled and confused by the brief burst of pleasure she experienced.
Jet lag; she blamed the unexpected response on it as she stood, eyes lowered, so no one could read what was going on inside her. It was simply jet lag that was making her legs feel unsteady and her insides curl up with some unfamiliar tension.
But, no, she had experienced this odd feeling before, she recalled. On the day when she’d been presented to him as his brother’s future wife. It had felt then as though she’d received a high-voltage electric shock, a feeling overlaid with a sudden burst of dread that had held her white-faced and still and sent her shifting closer to the protection of Piers’ comforting presence.
Yet Piers had not been the protector she’d believed him to be, she reminded herself dully. And the flash of angry contempt she had seen in Rafe’s eyes then had not been aimed at her personally, but at the disastrous situation he must have seen looming up on the horizon because of what his brother was doing.
And Piers. Piers had been so triumphant, so—smug in the way he had introduced her to Rafe. And it was only now, as she allowed herself to replay that scene knowing what she now knew, that she realised he had not been like that because he was proud to present her, but because of some secret little battle he’d been having with his brother which had revolved around Madeleine and what Rafe knew about Piers and the other woman.
‘Shaan.’
She glanced up, pain and contempt for Piers showing in her dark, dark eyes. Rafe saw it, and his fingers flexed against her waist, his eyes flashing silver murder at her just before the fingers dug in painfully to pull her angrily against him and his mouth swooped in another brief but punishing kiss that totally silenced their small group of onlookers.
‘Forget him,’ he muttered as he slid his mouth to the sensitive hollow of her ear. ‘Piers is no longer yours to dream about!’
Blushing fiercely, and totally disconcerted by his sudden attack, she gasped. ‘But I wasn’t—’
‘I think we should feed these two quickly and let them go,’ one of their guests murmured teasingly.
Rafe managed a laugh, his moment’s anger smoothly hidden by a cloak of rueful humour Shaan wished she possessed too. ‘It is, after all, technically still our wedding day,’ he drawled. ‘Though goodness knows,’ he added on a sigh, ‘it has to be the longest one on record!’
Still? Shaan repeated to herself as everyone’s amused laughter wafted around her. It couldn’t really be this morning that they’d married in that little civil ceremony which was such a hazy memory to her that she could barely recall it?
It was a relief that the waiter came to show them to their table then; she was beginning to feel so stressed out that she needed to sit down or she had a feeling her legs would give up on her.
But the meal was interminable, course after course of exquisitely presented Chinese dishes appearing in front of her for her to pick at, while the conversation seemed to eddy to and fro with her barely registering most of it.
She felt lost and marooned, so totally out of her depth that it took all she had in her to smile, to concentrate on the questions put directly to her and answer them with at least some hint of intelligence.
No one was cruel or uncaring, yet she felt battered and bruised by the easy camaraderie she just could not join in with. If Rafe noticed—and she was sure he must have—he said nothing. But each time she happened to glance at him his eyes were on her, utterly inscrutable but on her, and she felt even more uncomfortable because she knew he must be seeing how totally inadequate she was for this.
‘Come and dance.’
The light clasp of his hand on her arm as he propelled her to her feet was a sheer relief. Dance, he’d said, and she was ready to do anything just to get away from the ordeal she was wallowing in.
The music was slow and easy, the dance floor a small circle of polished wood set in the centre of the cluster of dining tables.
Rafe drew her into his arms, pulling her close so her chin brushed against the lapel of his jacket, and urged her into a slow, swaying movement, one hand resting lightly on her waist, the other lightly clasping one of hers close to his heart. She could feel his breath disturbing the fine hairs at her temple, warm and faintly scented with the dark red wine they had been drinking. Her other hand rested on his shoulder, low down where the muscle curved towards a bulging breastplate.
‘Now you can relax,’ he suggested, making her heavily aware that the tension she was suffering must have been very noticeable.
‘I’m sorry,’ she felt constrained to say. ‘I know I’m not making a very good impression for you wit
h your friends.’
‘You’re not here to impress my friends,’ he responded. ‘You’re here because it’s where I want you to be. And, anyway,’ he added softly, ‘they are utterly enchanted with you, so stop fishing for compliments.’