Beside her, Carla stilled, her eyes wide. ‘Oh? But you usually love dancing.’
‘I think I might go over and see if I can’t cheer him up instead.’
There was a moment of stunned silence, and then an incredulous, ‘Seriously?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he does not look like the sort of suave, sophisticated professional you usually go for these days. He looks...untamed.’
‘I know.’ And that was the attraction.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Yup.’ Ish. Her chatting up skills were a bit rusty, and not only might he not be in the mood for company, he might also be spoken for. But what was the worst that could happen? If she crashed and burned, she could always give a nonchalant shrug and leave. If, on the other hand, she didn’t, and the attraction she was experiencing turned out to be mutual...well...the outcome could be explosive.
‘I thought you’d given up doing that sort of thing.’
‘It’s only conversation,’ she said while thinking, Well, maybe. To start with, at least.
‘Sure it is,’ said Carla with a wry grin that Georgie couldn’t help returning as she put down her glass and got to her feet, her stomach churning with nervous excitement.
‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck. Not that you ever needed it. One thing, though...’
‘What?’
‘Just in case it isn’t only conversation and you leave before we’re back from the dance floor, message me his name and a photo, and call me in the morning.’
* * *
Oblivious to the energy and buzz surrounding him, Finn Calvert stared unseeingly into his drink, his usually ordered thoughts a jumble, his legendary focus blitzed.
Twelve months. Eighteen at most. That was how long his father had left.
Details of the phone call he’d received an hour ago, which had ripped him apart and shattered his world, ricocheted around his head.
Four weeks ago, unbeknownst to him, his father had gone to his doctor complaining of a prolonged cough and shortness of breath. Subsequent tests had revealed lung cancer. Metastasised. Incurable.
Devastating.
Ever since his mother’s death when he was young his father had been his only family. He’d been the one who’d brought him up and who’d fished him out of the trouble he’d got into as an angry teenager. When, at eighteen, Finn had announced he wanted to buy the bar where he’d been working and which was up for sale, his father had been his initial investor. Over the years he’d subsequently proved a solid sounding board and his staunchest supporter, and the bond they shared was deep and unassailable.
Now he was dying, and there wasn’t a thing he—Finn—with all his wealth and influence, success and power, could do about it.
His jaw clenched and his fingers tightened around the glass as he fought back a hot surge of emotion, a tangle of helplessness, injustice and rage. Why had his father waited so long before seeing his GP? Why hadn’t ever he said anything about not feeling well?
And how had he not noticed that anything had been wrong? His father could be guarded at times and had practically invented the stiff upper lip, but that was no excuse. Nor was the acquisition of a hugely grand yet derelict Parisian hotel, the renovation of which had become so complex that Finn had barely had a moment’s thought for anything else. He should have made time. He should have visited his father more often. Then he might have seen that something wasn’t right.
But he hadn’t and now it was too late, and the guilt and the regret were crucifying him in a way that, contrary to his hopes, alcohol was doing nothing to dull. All he wanted from the whisky he was drinking was oblivion. Just for tonight. There’d be time for stoicism and practicality in the morning. But the whisky might as well have been water because the pain was as excoriating as it had been an hour ago and his chest still felt as if it were caught in an ever-tightening vice.
By coming here he’d chosen the wrong place, he thought, downing the remainder of his drink and feeling the burn momentarily scythe through the turmoil. It was convenient, certainly, but it was too loud, too damn full of fun and laughter. He ought to leave and go in search of a darker, quieter, harder bar, one where he could sit on his own in the shadows and the alcohol would flow without question.
And he ought to leave now.
‘Hi.’
The soft voice came from his right, puncturing the fog swirling around in his head and freezing him mid-move. The sexy, feminine timbre of it hit him low in the gut and wound through him from there, heating the blood suddenly rushing through his veins and reigniting sensation everywhere.