Merde! Stop thinking about her—she’s gone; she didn’t want you...
Kristin ran a fingernail across his jaw, interrupting his frustrating thoughts. ‘Really, Max,’ she said, using the nickname he hated as she pouted. ‘Are you even listening to me?’
Non.
Just as he opened his mouth to tell her the truth, something caught his eye at the far end of the balcony.
A serving girl in the standard waitressing outfit of white shirt and short black skirt had walked out of the ballroom to offer a tray of canapés to the only other couple on the terrace. Her lush figure was barely contained by the fitted uniform. Desire sizzled along his nerve-endings, the heady fizz of recognition a great deal more intoxicating than the vintage champagne. He grasped Kristin’s wrist to pull her hand away from his face so he could get a better look at the waitress.
Was it her? Could it possibly be her? Or was his mind playing tricks on him again?
He’d conjured up this image a dozen times before in the last five months. Fleeting glimpses of Cara’s hair, her figure, that heart-shaped face—on the streets of Paris and Rome and even Johannesburg—had stirred his senses, only to destroy him seconds later when he looked closer and realised the woman wasn’t her.
But as he studied the apparition this time, instead of dissolving into reality, the yearning became stronger.
The waitress’s blonde hair was piled in a haphazard chignon, glowing gold in the flicker of lamplight on the balcony. His fingers tensed on Kristin’s wrist as he recalled the silky feel of Cara’s hair as the pins scattered across the floor of La Maison and the locks tumbled into his hands.
‘Max, what is it?’ Kristin’s tone was annoyed, but he could barely hear her above the thundering of his own heartbeat. ‘Why are you staring at the waitress like that? Do you know her?’
‘Oui,’ he murmured, but he wasn’t talking to his date any more as he watched the girl turn and head towards them with her tray.
‘Lève la tête,’ he whispered, willing her to lift her head so he could get a better look at her face. But he already knew, from the sensations charging through his body, making his sex harden and his breathing accelerate. He’d found her. At last.
Just as she had done all those months ago, she obeyed his command instinctively and their gazes locked. She stopped dead. Stunned surprise crossed her face first, followed by panic and guilt, but then her gaze flicked to Kristin and what he saw in her face—could it be envy, hurt, regret?—had adrenaline firing through his system like a drug.
And he had the answer he had been looking for, for five months, without even realising it. She still wanted him too.
The tray clattered to the floor, making everyone but him—and her—jump as the food splattered across the stones. She stood transfixed, her body trembling as if she were in a trance from which she couldn’t escape.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and shoved some notes into Kristin’s hand. ‘Find your own way home,’ he murmured, tucking his wallet back into his jacket pocket, his movements deliberately slow and cautious, his gaze fixed on his runaway lover.
‘Well, really, Max, I...’
He tuned out Kristin’s indignant response as he walked past her, towards Cara, his gaze devouring every inch of her.
Something about her was different. Her figure? Why did it seem fuller, even more lush than he remembered it? She edged back a step and the lamplight hit her face.
Concern lanced through him.
Where had those dark circles come from, under her eyes? Why did she seem so fragile despite her curves?
The wave of possessiveness and protectiveness, which he’d convinced himself didn’t exist, surged up his chest.
‘Cara,’ he said, her name rough on his tongue as he lifted his hand to beckon her towards him, scared to make any sudden movement in case she vanished and he discovered he had been dreaming all along.
Like a young deer scenting the hunter, she snapped out of her trance and spun round.
He cursed as she shot back into the ballroom.
‘Cara, reviens ici!’ he yelled, demanding she come back, but she’d already disappeared into the throng of guests.
He shoved his way through the crowd after her, not caring about the drinks he spilled, the stern looks and shouted admonishments he received from the people he pushed out of the way. He craned his neck to look over the heads of the other guests. Relief rushed through him as he spotted her golden hair disappearing through a door at the end of the great hall, marked Staff Only.
The crowd parted as he barged past, the relief and adrenaline—and the sharp swell of desire—joined by a rising tide of fury.
This was no dream, it was real. She was real.
She’d run from him once. No way was he going to let her run again.