‘Is it really that obvious?’ Cara whispered, the exhaustion threatening to envelop her. ‘I can’t... I can’t afford to lose any shifts.’
‘Isn’t there anyone who can help you out, luv?’
Cara shook her head, grateful Dora hadn’t asked the obvious question—where is the father?
‘I’ll pick up all your drinks then. And you can take my canapés, okay, they’re lighter.’
‘Thank you.’ Cara blinked, feeling stupidly emotional at the other woman’s kindness.
‘You never know, you might find a sugar daddy tonight.’ Dora grinned as they made their way up the back stairs of the Regency hotel towards the huge ballroom where the Valentine’s Day event they had been hired to work on was taking place. ‘There’s certainly enough mega-rich men at this thing.’
‘I wish,’ Cara said, forcing a smile to her lips at the renewed blip of panic, knowing there was one rich man she really did not want to see.
She entered the kitchen from the staff entrance. Surely even she couldn’t be that unlucky. And anyway, serving staff like her were all but invisible at these events.
After the kitchen staff loaded up her first tray, she walked into the ballroom.
Chandeliers sparkled, hanging from the room’s vaulted ceiling. Towering sprays of roses and lilies were arranged in crystal vases and added a heady aroma to the cloying scent of expensive colognes and fragrances. Conversation hummed over the delicate strains of classical music. Shelves full of leather-bound books lined the walls, a nod to the cavernous room’s former life as a historic library. Mullioned windows looked out over the Embankment, framing the spotlit majesty of Big Ben and the purple glow of the Millennium Wheel on the opposite bank. The room was packed with people—men in dinner suits and tuxedos and women in elaborate designer gowns of every conceivable hue, their precious jewels glittering in the low lighting.
Cara’s heart fluttered as she absorbed the splendour of the scene and she edged into the crowd to serve the delicate lamb skewers with a tamarind dipping sauce.
She pasted a bright smile on her face. Every one of these people belonged to a world in which Cara would never belong. This was Maxim’s world, she thought. Rich, beautiful, arrogant and entitled.
She shifted the weight to her other arm, mindful of the baby bump she had hidden beneath the tray. And willed away the ache in her chest that thoughts of Maxim and their one night together always caused.
She had struggled with the question of whether or not to tell Maxim about the pregnancy when the doctor had confirmed it. She’d tortured herself with all the obvious questions, racked by a guilt she still hadn’t quite been able to shake.
Didn’t every man deserve to know he was going to be a father?
And didn’t every child deserve to know its dad?
Despite his actions later, Maxim had been tender towards her that night, after he’d discovered her virginity. And she knew he could feel deeply from the way he’d reacted to Pierre’s will.
But then she thought of her own father, and how easily he had discarded her. And the cruel way Maxim had discarded her too. She knew she’d made the right choice.
These weren’t normal circumstances. And Maxim wasn’t any normal man. Not only was he rich and powerful, and overwhelming, he had proven how ruthless he could be. He’d also made it very clear he had no desire to become a father.
She kept her head down as she weaved through the opulent crowd, grateful for the cloak of invisibility she wore as one of the waitstaff, and forced her mind back to the job at hand—keeping her elbow braced and her arm steady so she didn’t end up spraying tamarind dipping sauce over anyone’s designer ballgown before her shift was over...
In six never-ending hours’ time.
‘Maxim, darling, what are you doing out here? The party’s inside!’
Maxim turned from the view of the Thames to find his so-called date, Kristin Delinski, strutting towards him as if she were still on the catwalk, carrying two champagne flutes. Her legs had to be freezing in that short leather skirt, he thought dispassionately, as he took a deep breath of the chilly night air. Air he’d needed as soon as they’d walked into this mayhem twenty minutes ago. Not for the first time, he wondered what had possessed him to attend tonight’s event and invite her along. When had he ever celebrated Valentine’s Day?
His gaze flickered over his date’s expertly made-up face as she handed him one of the glasses. He’d probably had some vague notion of taking her to bed, but the minute she’d climbed into his car he’d known that wasn’t going to happen. The sexual spark which had once been there for her, and all the other women he’d dated casually over the years, was gone—blown away by the tornado that had hit his sex life five months ago and still wasn’t finished wreaking havoc on his libido.
When was he going to be able to stop obsessing about that one night? A night that had meant nothing.
Cara Evans had vanished. He’d searched for her for months, but every avenue he—and the different investigators he’d hired—ha
d tried had hit a dead end. The woman was a ghost, without a family, any known acquaintances and, most infuriating of all, not even a social media footprint.
‘It’s Valentine’s Night and you never know...’ Kristin paused to flutter her heavily painted eyelashes. ‘You might get extremely lucky if you make more of an effort.’
‘Duly noted,’ Maxim murmured as he sipped the champagne—and assessed the vintage. Not as good as Durand’s best champagne, but not bad.
The problem was he didn’t want to make the effort, because he had no desire whatsoever to get lucky with Kristin, despite her mile-long legs and that provocative self-confidence, which had once made her such an appealing distraction whenever he was in London on a business trip. He could barely even remember those encounters now, because his memory was still full of another woman’s sighs, and sobs. Luminous bright blue eyes filled with shame and confusion, soft dewy skin that smelled of wild flowers and arousal, ripe nipples begging for his...