CHAPTER TWELVE
Much to my relief, the dress was unstained. Despite a flushed face, my make-up was still where it should’ve been too. Electricity from Aidan still buzzed through me as I patted my bun gently. There was so much hairspray that my normally untamable mane was going nowhere.
When I entered the ballroom, the band was tuning up, and the staff was racing about putting finishing touches to the tables. Drifting through the air was an appetite-inducing aroma coming from the kitchen, which reminded me that I hadn’t eaten all day.
Having discovered the virtues of expensive champagne, I helped myself to another glass and headed for the kitchen where I found Melanie sharing a laugh with a waiter.
She turned, and her face brightened. “You look so amazing in that blue dress,” she gushed, touching the fabric of my gown.
“Thanks, Melanie. That’s kind of you to say. Can I help with anything?”
“No, babes, just enjoy yourself. And keep looking beautiful. I take it you’ve met Aidan?” she asked, her gray eyes flickering with curiosity.
Why was she giving me that look? Was I giving something away? Were my flushed cheeks that obvious, or was desire oozing out of me?
“I have,” I said, keeping it brief, a technique I’d adopted when talking to Melanie. It was easy to stoke the fire with her. A slight hint and she would be ablaze with all kinds of speculation, just like Tabitha.
“Well, then, don’t keep me in suspense. What do you think of him?”
I bit my bottom lip. What was I to say—that a mere whiff of him had sent my juices flowing with wild abandon? That his blue eyes undressed my soul, and his six foot two of sheer masculine perfection had unleashed an agonizing and addictive ache throughout my body?
“He’s nice,” I said weakly. “A good person, I believe.” Oh damn. I stuttered.
Alarmingly perceptive, Melanie sang, “Why, Miss Moone, I think you’re blushing.” She elbowed me with a cheeky smirk.
“I’m not,” I said, drawing away from her. “Better go and check on things.”
She remained with her arms on her hips, her head tilted. Stamped on her face was I-can-tell-you’re-smitten. Or was I just imagining that?
I’d booked a jazz band with two singers. Having been brought up on jazz standards, I went with that. Greta had intimated in her own subtle way that the last ball was a disaster. One of my predecessors—the purported drunken floozy who had hit on Aidan—had arranged a DJ. The music was rap and hip-hop. Evidently all the guests, apart from the younger cohort, had left in haste after dinner.
I’d checked out the jazz band on YouTube before booking them. I loved that they had a male and female singer. I also chose them because the chanteuse wore a vintage slinky gown, therefore fitted into the 1920’s theme.
Dressed in white suits, the male members of the band looked the part. They certainly stood out against the rich red-velvet drapes. And the lighting made the brass instruments shine.
The African-American singer meandered towards me. I held out my hand. “Devina Velvet?”
The statuesque woman, of a slinky sensuality most befitting a cabaret singer, cast me a wide smile. “Nice to finally put a face to the voice, Miss Moone.” Her large, dark eyes swept the room. “The stage looks heavenly.” She stretched her vowels with a seductive southern twang. “This is Marcus.”
He shook my hand. “Thank you for having us. It’s wonderful to be part of such a classy affair.”
“We’re so pleased to have you,” I said. “Come, I’ll show you your dressing rooms. There are refreshments in there, and if you need anything just call out. We’ve set a table for you and the band for dinner during your break.”
“That sounds super,” purred Devina.
****
Relaxed jazz filled the ballroom as the guests entered. It was splendid, just as I’d imagined. I was profoundly fulfilled, my delight made sweeter by the sighs of approval that hummed through the air as guests entered. Pitched against a wall, I indulged myself in the animated expressions of delight emanating from the guests. I had to keep pinching myself. If someone had told me a month earlier that I would become an event organizer for a big-hearted boss, who happened to be hot and unaffected, I would have thought them mad.
Greta approached me. “It looks fabulous, Clarissa. You have exceeded all expectations.” This was a different Greta to the daily one. She’d been drinking and was more open and cheerier than usual. Not that I minded the more serious Greta. I’d grown fond of her. She was like a kind aunt who economized on smiles. I imagined this trait ran in the family, because I had yet to see Aidan flash his teeth. The most I’d garnered was a slight curve of that shapely mouth, which was enough to weaken my knees.
The single women huddled together. Their high-pitched cackles pierced the air. Standing within earshot, I heard, “They’re no longer together. He called it off, and she’s left town to get over him.”
It was safe to assume they meant Aidan given that their attention was directed at him.
Aidan, meanwhile, ignoring the glamorous set, seemed more interested in the older guests, giving them his undivided attention. Not much had left his lips.
From the little I’d observed, he struck me as the quiet type. My thighs grew stickier at that thought. What was it about brooding men that drove me to distraction? I suppose I could blame it on Tabitha’s penchant for dramatic romances.
She was not a good influence, that best friend of mine. And this predilection was not practical, given that quiet men were less likely to initiate intimacy. For someone as timid as I, that could only end in a solitary life with vibrator in hand. I expelled a long, frustrated breath.
Waiters had started directing everybody to their seats. Dinner was being served. Not sure where I belonged, I was just about to make a quick dash to the kitchen when Bryce tapped me on the shoulder. Hell.
I was sure my eyes gave that “stay away” vibe. But being seriously insensitive, he was only interested in getting his own way. Tight-lipped, I tried to put him off by remaining mute. I intuited that he enjoyed the sport of seduction. The harder the prey, the more persistent he became.
“So, Clarissa, may I escort you to your seat?” he asked, with that slippery smile travelling up to his twinkling brown eyes.
I wondered if I should say that I had leprosy or an incurable disease communicable by breathing. As my brain worked on a more plausible excuse, I sensed someone standing close by. I turned and met Aidan’s hypnotic blue gaze. Had he come to my rescue?
“Miss Moone, may I request that you join us?” My mouth opened, but words got stuck at the back of my throat. My face was on fire.
“I thought I might grab something in the kitchen,” I said, my voice pathetic and weak. Please let me crawl under a rock.
Alone on a beach with an affectionate dog, I could talk to him. But with a whole audience of salivating supermodels watching on, that was beyond me. Oh no. My nipples hardened, and before I could cross my arms to hide them, that slippery snake Bryce gaped salaciously at me. Err!
Aidan pointed to the table. “There’s a place for you next to Greta.” His lips drew a tight, reassuring smile.
I assented, of course, and wobbled in front of him as Aidan rather unfairly— although unintentionally I’m sure—got me to lead the way. High heels and dizzying attraction were a dangerous mix. A graceful glide was out of the question. I would have needed a month of walking with a book on my head for that.
Greta sat by Aidan’s side. I saw by the way they interacted that they were close. She was maternal and protective towards him. On the other side of Aidan was a young woman, giggling and flirting with him. I didn’t see his lips curve ever. He did nod on occasion, but I could tell that he wasn’t that interested. Or was I just hoping? She was blond, blue-eyed, and leggy. I supposed she was a model or an actress like all the girls who were there that evening.
He did, however, throw a glance my way more than once. Each time, his expression was deep and raw, turning me upside down. I shifted about, the swelling between my thighs intensifying with each gaze.
When the attractive blonde bent in towards him, I wondered how her breasts stayed in place with that slit down to her tummy. If I wore that outfit, my D cups would spill into the soup in no time. It was, nevertheless, a popular look that evening. By comparison, my elegant sky-blue silk dress was almost nun-like. Having always been self-conscious of my larger-than-usual chest, I didn’t mind.
Aidan Thornhill was doing things to me that I’d never experienced before. How could one glance from those blue eyes bring me to the brink of an orgasm? Even the creamy mushroom soup seemed erotic as it slithered down my throat.
“I’m enjoying the music, Clarissa,” said Greta.
“It sits well in this room, doesn’t it?” I smiled. “I’m looking forward to hearing Devina Velvet. She’s got such a wonderful voice.”
Aidan shifted his attention back towards me. His dazzling eyes held me again, like blinding light. My lips drew a tight, awkward smile. I had to look down back to my soup, which I took care not to slurp.
One of the older guests, a distinguished man in his fifties who reminded me a little of my father, said, “I love that you’ve lit up the paintings. It suggests an art gallery, Aidan.”
Aidan tilted his head in my direction. “That is Miss Moone’s doing. She designed this event.”
Saved by deft application of napkin, I avoided a dribble of soup. I acknowledged the compliment with a modest, tight smile.
“It’s a triumph, dear girl,” the gentleman said, holding up his glass in my honor.
“The pictures are pretty in an old-fashioned kind of way,” said Miss Pumped-Up-Lips.
“I like them,” replied Aidan, curt and clipped.
Her mouth opened to respond, but she said nothing.
“All Alma-Tadema’s, no less,” said the gentleman’s wife.
“Is he famous?” Miss Pouty asked, in her high-pitched drawl.
Aidan turned and regarded me again. Oh no, please don’t ask me to talk about art. I cringed.
“Miss Moone’s the authority amongst us,” he said.
The older gentleman regarded me. “A Victorian artist, I believe?”
His wife nodded with ebullience. She focused on me. “They’re so beautiful.”
I wiped my lips. “Yes, he was a superb exemplar of the style from that period.”
“Was he a Pre-Raphaelite?” the gentleman asked.
“No. Alma-Tadema came later. He was part of the neo-classical movement, despite being recognized as a symbolist in the vein of Gustav Klimt, who he greatly admired. Who wouldn’t?” I chuckled. I waited for someone to jump in, but instead, I had everyone’s undivided attention. Shit. They wanted more? “Inspired by the Pre-Raphaelites,” I said, acknowledging the gentleman’s earlier comment. “He picked up where they left off.”
“The other paintings are by him, I see,” the wife said, pointing.
“No, they’re not entirely,” interjected Aidan, “as I’m sure Miss Moone will be aware of.” His eyes softened as he regarded me. We were alone suddenly. If only.
I took a deep breath. “They’re by John William Godward, a contemporary of Alma-Tadema. Their styles are so alike that it’s hard to tell them apart, especially their compositions featuring languid women by the sea.” Pausing for a sip of wine, I hoped that no more questions would come my way.
“She’s not just a pretty face,” said Bryce.
Aidan cast a sideway, censuring glance at him.
Course number two came around, and all were now focused on eating except for Aidan, who kept visiting me with that intense gaze. I looked down at my seafood cocktail to hide my swirling emotions. I concentrated on the appetizingly fresh food. I’d never had anything like it before.