MAX GAVE HIS bow tie a final twitch. Thank heavens Edwardian male evening dress was not a million miles from modern formal wear. It was very different for women. An anticipatory gleam lit his eye. Oh, he was looking forward to this. He was really, really looking forward to it. It would cost him fifteen thousand pounds, but it would be money well spent, he was sure—and not just for the sake of the charity!
Checking his cuffs, he strolled to the drinks cabinet, extracting a chilled bottle of vintage champagne and setting it down by two flutes. The noise at the bedroom door made him turn. It was not the stylists—they’d already gone in a flurry of chatter and on their phones already. Ellen was emerging.
His eyes narrowed. And then—
Yes! He wanted to punch the air in triumph. Yes, yes, yes!
He watched her walk into the room in a trail of long skirts. She halted abruptly when she saw him. He saw her face tighten.
‘OK,’ she said, ‘where’s this cheque you promised me?’
She spoke brusquely, because Max’s eyes were like a hawk’s on her, and it made her feel acutely, agonisingly uncomfortable. Even though she hadn’t looked at her own reflection yet—she couldn’t bear to!—she knew exactly what he was seeing. A big, hulking woman in a ridiculously tightly laced preposterous costume dress, with a tottering hairstyle and a face full of make-up that did absolutely nothing for her—because she had a face for which absolutely nothing could be done and that was all there was to it.
Yet again in her head she heard the peal of Chloe’s derisive laughter mocking her...mocking the pathetic attempt to make Elephant Ellen look glamorous.
Well, she didn’t care—wouldn’t care. She only wanted the cheque that Max Vasilikos had promised her, then she was getting out of this ridiculous get-up—zillion hooks or not—and hightailing it to the station and home.
Max smiled his urbane, social smile and reached inside his breast pocket. ‘Here you go,’ he said, and held the cheque he’d promised out to her.
Awkwardly, Ellen walked over and took it. Then her expression altered and her gaze snapped back to him. ‘This is for fifteen thousand,’ she objected.
‘Of course it is,’ he agreed affably. ‘Because of course you’re coming to the ball with me. We’re both kitted up—let’s have a look at ourselves. See if we look the part.’
He helped himself to her arm with a white-gloved hand—he was wearing evening dress of the same Edwardian era, she realised, but on a man it was a lot less immediately obvious—and turned her towards a huge framed mirror hung above a sideboard.
‘Take a look, Ellen,’ he instructed softly.
Ellen looked.
And made no response. Could have made no response even if someone had shouted Fire! Could only do what she was doing—which was staring. Staring, frozen, at the couple reflected in the mirror. At the tall, superbly elegant and dashing figure of Max Vasilikos—and the tall, superbly elegant and stunning woman at his side.
The dark ruby-red silk gown was wasp-waisted and moulded over her hips to flow in a waterfall of colour the full length of her legs and out into a sweeping train, the body-hugging boned bodice revealed a generous décolletage, and the spray of feathers at each sculpted shoulder matched the similar spray in the aigrette curving around the huge swirled pompadour of her hair.
Curling tendrils played around her face—a face whose eyes were huge beneath winged, arched brows...rich tawny eyes that were thickly lashed and fathoms deep—a face whose cheeks were sculpted as if from marble, whose mouth was as lush and richly hued as damsons.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Max said softly to her, because he could see from the expression on her face that something profoundly important and significant was happening to her. She was seeing, for the first time in her life, someone she had never seen before—the strikingly, dramatically beautiful woman that was looking back at her from the glass. ‘A goddess,’ he murmured. ‘Didn’t I tell you? In figure and in face...like Artemis the huntress goddess...strong and lithe and so, so beautiful.’
He let his gaze work over her reflection, drinking in face and figure, her beauty fully and finally revealed to him. A frown flickered in his eyes. ‘Have you put in contact lenses?’ he heard himself ask. What had happened to those wretched unflattering spectacles of hers?
She gave a slight shake of her head, feeling the soft tendrils curling down from her extravagant hairdo wafting softly and sensuously at her jaw.
‘I only really need glasses for driving,’ she answered. ‘But I wear them because—’ She stopped, swallowed.
Max said nothing—but he knew. Oh, he knew now why she wore them.
Ellen’s eyes slid away. Her voice was heavy, and halting. ‘I wear them to tell the world that I know perfectly well how awful I look, and that I accept it and I’m not going to make a pathetic fool of myself trying to look better, not going to try to—’
She broke off. Max finished the painful, self-condemning sentence for her.
‘Not going to try to compete with your stepsister,’ he said, his voice low.
Ellen nodded. ‘Pathetic, I know. But—’
He caught her other arm, turning her to face him. ‘No! Don’t think like that!’ His expression was vehement, even fierce, as she stared at him. ‘Ellen, whatever you’ve come to think in your head about yourself it’s wrong!’ He took a breath. ‘Don’t you realise you don’t have to compete with Chloe? Leave her to enjoy her fashionable thinness! You...’ His voice changed. ‘Ah, you have a quite, quite different beauty.’ He lifted a hand to gesture to her reflection. ‘How can you possibly deny that now?’
Ellen gazed, her mind still trying to keep on denying what Max was saying to her—what the reflection in the mirror was telling her. That a stunningly beautiful woman was gazing back at her. A woman who was...her...
But that was impossible! It had to be impossible. It was Chloe who was lovely—Chloe who possessed the looks that defined beauty.
And if it was Chloe who was lovely, then she, Ellen, who was everything that Chloe was not—not petite, not blonde, not thin, not with a heart-shaped face, not blue-eyed, not Chloe—could only be the opposite. If it were Chloe who was lovely—then she, Ellen, could only be unlovely.
That was the logic that had been forced on her—forced on her with every sneering barb from Chloe, every derisive glance, every mocking jibe from her stepsister—for years... Those vulnerable teenage years when Chloe had arrived to poison her life, poison her mind against herself, destroying all her confidence so that she’d never even tried to make something of herself, instead condemning herself as harshly as her stepsister condemned her. Believing in Chloe’s contempt of her. Seeing herself only through Chloe’s cruel eyes.
But how could the woman gazing out at her from the mirror with such dramatic beauty possibly be described as unlovely? How could a woman like that be sneered at by Chloe, mocked by her, treated with contempt by her?
Impossible—just impossible. Impossible for Chloe to sneer at a woman such as the one who was gazing back at her now.
Emotion swept through Ellen. She couldn’t give a name to it—didn’t need to. Needed only to feel it rush through her like a tide, sweeping away everything that had been inside her head for so many years. And now Max was speaking again, adding to the tide sweeping through her.
‘You can’t deny it, can you?’ Max repeated. His eyes were fixed on her reflection still. ‘You can’t deny your beauty—your own beauty, Ellen. Yours. As different from Chloe’s as the sun is from the moon.’
He gave a laugh suddenly, of triumph and deep satisfaction.
‘We shall drink a toast,’ he announced. ‘A toast to the goddess revealed.’ He drew her away, towards the tray of champagne, opening the bottle with skilled long practice and filling the flutes to hand one to her.
Ellen took it numbly, her eyes wide, as if she was in a dream. A dream she still could not quite believe was reality after all.
Her eyes flickered back to her reflection in the mirror.
Is it really, truly me? Can it be—?
Then Max’s gloved hand was touching her wrist, lifting his own foaming glass, and she looked back at him, still with that bemused expression in her eyes, as if she dared not believe the truth of her own reflection. He held her gaze, not letting go for an instant.
‘To you,’ he said. ‘To beautiful Ellen. Beautiful, stunning Ellen!’
He took a mouthful of champagne and she did too, feeling the bubbles burst on her tongue, feeling a glow go through her that had nothing to do with champagne at all...
He smiled down at her. ‘Tonight,’ he told her, his mouth curving into an intimate smile, his lashes dipping over dark eyes lambent with expression, ‘every man will envy me—you’ll be a sensation.’
The word echoed in her head. A sudden memory stung like a wasp in her mind. She lowered her champagne glass, her fingers gripping it hard suddenly.
‘Those girls—the stylists—they said you brought Tyla Brentley here last year—that she was a sensation.’
Max heard the sudden panic in her voice, that demon of self-doubt stabbing at her again. He wanted to kick it into touch without delay. He gave a deliberately dismissive shrug. ‘Of course she was,’ he said indifferently. ‘Her fame guaranteed that. And Tyla adores men gazing at her. It flatters her insatiable vanity.’
Even as he spoke he knew his words were true. He, too, had once fed that vanity—until he’d realised that Tyla’s self-absorption meant it was impossible for her to think of anyone but herself. His wealth had been useful to her, coming as it did with the person of a male whose looks could complement her own, and she had known with her innate instinct for self-publicity that she and he together made a couple that would always draw both eyes and attention, gaining precious press coverage to help her build her career. Tyla’s belief in herself, in her own charm and beauty, had been total.
The very opposite of Ellen.
She was looking at him doubtfully still, as if she could not believe his indifference to having once squired a Hollywood film star. He wanted that doubt gone—completely—and so raised his champagne glass to his lips, deliberately letting his gaze wash over her.
‘Tyla’s got a good body—no doubt about that—but...’ And now he let something else into his gaze that he knew from long experience had an effect on all females. ‘But I can promise you that she had absolutely nothing on you. If Chloe,’ he said ‘is a tiny little Chihuahua...’ he made his voice amused, deliberately exaggerating her stepsister’s petiteness ‘...then Tyla is a...a gazelle, I guess. But you...’ Once more his gaze rested on her, sending her the message he wanted...needed...her to get. ‘You, Ellen, are a lioness!’
He grinned at her, and tilted his champagne glass to her in tribute.
‘And lionesses gobble up little dogs and antelopes for breakfast!’
He toasted her again, his eyes becoming serious now, holding hers, sending home his essential message to her, the reassurance she needed—the reassurance that he would give her whatever it took. He would make sure of that. His eyes rested on her, their expression intent. Suddenly it seemed crucially important that Ellen believed him, and believed in her own newly revealed beauty. And it was for a reason that had nothing to do with his plans for Haughton. For a reason he was only dimly aware of—and yet it seemed to be forcing itself into his consciousness with an insistence he could not ignore.
I want it for her sake—not for mine. I want it so that she can be happy—happy in her own body, finally. I want that for her.
‘Be proud of what you are,’ he told her. ‘Be happy in your body. Your fantastic body! Strong and lean and lithe—’
She felt gloved fingertips glide down the bare length of her upper arm.
‘And with great muscle tone!’ he finished approvingly.
Ellen’s eyes flickered uncertainly. ‘Maybe I need a shawl over my arms,’ she ventured. ‘I’m too muscular—’
Max rolled his eyes, shaking his head. ‘Uh-uh! Remember—think lioness!’ He let his gaze liquefy again, knowing the effect it would have, the effect he wanted right now. ‘Think Artemis. Think goddess. Think beautiful...’ There was a sudden husk in his voice that he had not put there deliberately at all, but which came of its own powerful accord. ‘Very, very beautiful.’
The wash of his warm gaze over her was instinctive, and he felt it resonate with a warming of his blood, too, that surged in his body powerfully, unstoppably.
His eyes were holding hers, not letting her go. Ellen felt her breath catch in her breast, felt her heartbeat give a sudden surge, felt the surface of her skin tighten as if an electric charge were spreading out through its whole expanse, radiating out from her quickened heart rate. She could feel her pupils flare, her lips part—felt faint, almost, heard drumming in her ears...
The world seemed to slow down all around her.
And then the sound of the suite’s doorbell ringing broke the moment. For a second Max just went on staring, unable to relinquish his gaze on the woman whose beauty he had revealed to her—and to himself. Then, with an exclamation in Greek, he dropped his hands, strode to the door and yanked it open.
As he saw who it was he relaxed immediately. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Come in!’
Ellen turned, dazed, her pulse hectic, still blinking, breathless from that strange, powerful moment that had hummed like charged plasma between them. She saw a neatly suited man walk in, a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. She blinked again. What on earth...?
‘So,’ she heard Max saying as the man set his briefcase on the table, unlocking it, ‘what have you brought us?’
The man opened the lid and Ellen gasped audibly. It was jewellery, carefully nestled in black velvet liners, glittering in every hue—diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and rubies.
Rubies...
Ellen’s eyes went to them immediately—it was impossible for them not to. She felt her breath draw in sharply as her gaze fixed on the ruby set, deep and glowing, a necklace, bracelet, earrings and a ring.
Max saw her focus on the set. Her expression was fixed, and for a second—just a second—he thought he saw something fleeting cross it, like a sudden convulsion. Then it was gone, and he was speaking.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Rubies, definitely. Ideal for your gown.’
The jeweller started to lift the pieces. ‘As you can see,’ he told them, ‘their setting is of the period, and original. If I may...?’
He carefully lifted the necklace—a complex design of several loops of different lengths, with pendent rubies from each—and as he placed it around Ellen’s throat the necklace occupied a considerable amount of the bare expanse of flesh between her throat and the swell of her breasts. He fastened the necklace, then held up a large hand mirror so she could see herself.
She gazed, her expression strange, and that fleeting look passed across her face again as she lifted her hand to touch the gems.
‘Perfect,’ said Max, well pleased. ‘Let’s get the rest of it on so we can see the final effect.’
Ellen still had that strange expression on her face. Max found himself wondering at it. He watched her hold out her wrist as the jeweller fastened the glittering bracelet around it and handed her the earrings. As he lifted the ring he paused, glancing doubtfully at Ellen’s large hands.
‘It will fit—just,’ Ellen said.
She sounded sure of it and took the ring, pausing to glance at the inscription inside, which Max could see but not read, before carefully working the ring over her knuckle. It did, indeed, just fit—as she had forecast. She looked at it on her finger for a moment, the same strange, fixed expression on her face.
Then it was gone. She got to her feet. There was something different about her, Max fancied—some subtle change had come over her. There was an air of resolve about her—confidence, even. But then he was taking in the impact of her appearance, finished to perfection now with the glittering ruby parure that went so superbly with her Edwardian gown and hairstyle.
Beautiful!
That was the woman standing there, with her upswept hair, gems glittering, her toned, honed body sumptuously adorned with the lustrous ruby silk of her gown. He reached for his champagne glass and drained what was left, prompting Ellen to do likewise. They set their flutes down and Max turned to Ellen, holding out his arm to her.
‘Time,’ he said, and he gave her a little bow, his eyes glinting with pleasure and anticipation and appreciation, ‘to take you to the ball.’
* * *
Walking into the hotel’s ballroom, its rich red and gold decor a perfect complement to her black and ruby styling, Ellen tightened her hand on Max’s sleeve. Being at his side, she thought, her own generous figure seemed completely in proportion. His height easily topped hers by several inches—his wide shoulders and broad chest saw to that. Unconsciously, she seemed to straighten her shoulders further, and her hips moved with regal ease, her chin held high, as she walked beside Max with her athletic gait.
She should have felt nervous—but she didn’t. Oh, the glass of champagne had helped, but it was not the bubbles in the champagne alone that were gliding her forward, filling her with wonder and elation.
She could see eyes going to her as they made their entrance, and for the first time in her life she experienced the oh-so-pleasurable thrill of knowing she was turning heads—for every reason a woman could dream of. Because she looked—stunning.
They both did.
As they walked past a mirror she caught their joint reflection and could see exactly why people were pausing to look at them. They were both tall, both sleekly groomed, with stunning looks, male and female, between them. Surely even Max and the glamorous Tyla Brentley could not have turned more heads?
We make a fantastic couple!
The thought was in her head before she could stop it. Urgently she sought to suppress it, then gave in. Yes, she and Max did make a fantastic couple—but it was for tonight only, for the purposes of this glittering charity bash. That was what she had to remember. And one other vital thing.
He’s only doing all this to soften me up—to try and persuade me to give up Haughton to him.
But even though she knew it was true she didn’t seem to mind right now. How could she when what he’d given her this evening was something she had never thought she would ever possess in all her life? Freedom from the malign hex that Chloe had put on her so many years ago.
Self-knowledge flooded through her, washing away so much of the blindness that had clouded her image of herself for so long. The blindness that she had allowed her stepsister to inflict on her.
I let Chloe have that power over me. I let her control my mind, my image of myself, my sense of worth.
It seemed so strange to her now, to think of how defiant she’d always been with Pauline and her daughter—and yet they had controlled her at this most basic, potent level. But no longer—never again! A sense of power, of newborn confidence swept through her. Unconsciously she lifted her fingers to the necklace, touching the jewels around her throat. Beautiful jewels to adorn a beautiful woman. A woman worthy of a man like Max Vasilikos.
She looked up at him now, easily a head taller than her, and smiled. He caught her expression and answered it with his own. Long lashes swept down over his eyes and he patted the hand hooked into his.
‘Enjoy,’ said Max, smiling down at her.
And enjoy she did. That was the amazement of it all.
Time and again her fingers brushed at her necklace, or grazed the gold band around her finger beneath its ruby setting—and every time she did she gave a little smile, half haunting, half joyous.
As Max had promised her, sitting to her left she found one of the host charity’s directors, who listened attentively as she told him about the camps she ran, then nodded approvingly and told Ellen he’d be happy to help with her funding.
Glowing, she turned to Max. ‘Thank you!’ she exclaimed, and it was heartfelt.
And she was not just thanking him for setting her up with this funding, or his cheque for fifteen thousand pounds. It was for lifting Chloe’s curse from her shoulders—setting her free from it.
His eyes met hers and, half closed, half veiled, they flickered very slightly. As if he were thinking about something but not telling her. He raised his glass of wine to her.
‘Here’s to a better future for you,’ he murmured.
The corner of his mouth pulled into a quizzical smile, and she answered with one of her own in return, lifting her glass too.
‘A better future,’ she echoed softly.
At the edge of her consciousness Haughton loomed, still haunted by Pauline and Chloe, the dilemma insoluble. But the house she loved so much, the home that she longed only to be safe, seemed far, far away right now. Real—much more real—was this moment...this extraordinary present she was experiencing. All thanks to Max, the man who had made it possible for her.
For an instant her gaze held his, and she felt bathed and warmed by the deep, dark brown of eyes fringed by thick lashes, flecked with gold. And then for an even briefer instant, so brief she could only wonder whether it had been real, there was a sudden change in them, a sudden, scorching intimacy.
She sheared her gaze away, feeling her heart jolt within her as if an electric shock had just kicked it. As if it were suddenly hard to breathe.
All through the rest of the meal, and the speeches and the fundraising auction afterwards, she could feel the echo of that extraordinary jolt to her heartbeat, flickering in her consciousness as port and liqueurs, coffee and petit fours circulated. Then, on the far side of the grand ballroom an orchestra started up.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ she exclaimed as the music went into the lilting strains of a slow waltz, ideal for an Edwardian-themed ball.
‘It’s Lehár!’ exclaimed one of the women at their table, delighted.
‘So it is!’ agreed Ellen, starting to hum the composer’s familiar melody—the waltz from The Merry Widow operetta.
‘Well, I think this calls for audience participation,’ said the charity director at her side, as all around them at the other tables guests were getting to their feet to take to the dance floor. ‘Will you do me the honour?’ he asked Ellen with a smile.
But he was forestalled. Max was standing up.
‘I claim the first waltz,’ he said, catching Ellen’s elbow and guiding her to her feet. His rival conceded gracefully. Max bore Ellen off.
She was in a state of consternation, aware that her heart was racing and that she felt breathless. Taken over.
But then Max has taken me over all day, hasn’t he? I’ve done everything he wanted, all the time!
Well, now she was going to dance with him, and she wasn’t getting a choice about it. Except—
‘I have no idea how to waltz!’ she exclaimed. ‘And I think the Viennese waltz is different from the English waltz anyway. And I—’
He cut her short. ‘Follow my lead,’ he instructed, and simply took her into his arms and swept her off.
Into the dance.
Into the irresistible, lilting music that wafted them around the ballroom floor.
She felt her long, heavy silk skirts become as light as a feather, swirling around her legs as Max whirled her around until she was dizzy with it, until all she could do was clutch helplessly at his shoulder, hang on to his hand for dear life as he turned her and guided her and never, never let her go.
‘You see? It’s easy.’ He smiled at her. ‘Much easier than you feared.’
And she knew, with a little skip of her heart, that it was not just the waltzing he meant.
It’s all been so, so easy. The lifting of the hex. Her transformation tonight. Putting on this gorgeous costume, being swept away in his arms...
Joy filled her—a wonderful sense of carefree elation as if, simply by whirling her around like this, he had whisked away all that oppressed her.
And for tonight he has! I know that I will have to go home tomorrow, back to all the difficulties and the stress and the fear of losing Haughton. But for tonight I will waltz my cares away.
The music ended with a flourish, and the cessation of the swirling made her head spin instead. But then she was joining with the others in applauding the orchestra, its players in historical costume as well, and their leader was turning and bowing, introducing the next dance they were going to play.
It was a polka, and Ellen’s eyes widened again.
Max didn’t let her speak. ‘Just follow my lead,’ he instructed again.
And once more she did. It was just as well, she thought absently, that she was pretty fit, for the dance was vigorous and not a few couples finished panting. But Max wasn’t the slightest out of breath, and neither was she.
‘Thank goodness for early-morning runs!’ she exclaimed.
‘It’s hot work, this elegant dancing,’ Max agreed, running a finger around his distinctly damp collar.
Ellen smiled. ‘My father used to say that his father, when they went to dances before the war, had to take spare collars with him because they wilted during the night.’
Max laughed. ‘Well, I envy you your bare shoulders and arms, I can tell you. Will it cause a scandal if I shed this very hot evening jacket, I wonder?’
‘You’ll be blackballed instantly!’ she warned him with a laugh.
‘Oh, well, I’m just a foreigner and a parvenu, so I won’t care,’ he riposted, and took her back into his arms as the music started up again.
It was a much slower waltz now, and Ellen was relieved. Or at least she was until she felt Max’s hand tightening at her waist. It was hard to feel much through the whalebone bodice, but there was something in the way he was imprinting his hold on her that made her breath catch despite the slowness of the music. Made it catch again when she saw the expression in his eyes, looking down at her. She felt colour run out into her cheeks. She tried to stop it, tried to hope that he would take it only for heat, no other reason. She tried to pull her gaze away, but it was hopeless...
‘Glad you came to the ball?’ he asked, a faint smile ghosting at his mouth.
His long lashes swept down over his eyes and he smiled at her. Were there gold flecks in those eyes? She could only gaze into their depths, captivated and entranced.
Her lips parted in a wide, joyful smile. ‘Oh, yes! It’s just...wonderful! All of it. Every bit!’
A wicked glint gleamed in Max’s eyes. ‘Even the whalebone in your bodice?’ he asked.
‘OK,’ she allowed. ‘Not that.’
‘Though it does give you the most superb figure,’ he said, and now...oh, most definitely...now there were golden flecks in his eyes.
He pulled a little away from her so his eyes could take in the glory of her narrowed waist, the full roundness of her hips, and then, moving upwards, the generous curvature of her breasts. His gaze lingered...then he dragged them away.
No. The voice inside his head was stern. No, he must not. This evening was about liberating Ellen Mountford from the chains that weighed her down. Freeing her from the mental burdens that blighted her life, made her want to hide herself away in her safe place, her childhood home, where she could moulder away, never emerging into the world.
Well, she was emerging now, all right. Male eyes were all over her. Max had seen that the moment he’d walked into the ballroom. They were on her still, and he didn’t blame them.
Mine are too...
No. The stern voice inside his head came again. No—he must not permit that. This evening was for her, not him! Oh, it was for himself too—of course it was—but only because showing Ellen how wonderful her life could be once she joined the world, instead of hiding herself away at Haughton, would mean that he could acquire what he was set on acquiring. Which was not Ellen Mountford—it was the house she would not willingly sell to him.
But you could have her as well...
The siren thought was in his head, as sinuous and seductive as the slow pulse of the music he was moving to.
Ellen was in his arms, her body so close to his, her weight pressing in on him as they turned, his arm around her waist, her rich ruby mouth smiling up at him. Tempting him...
The music ended and he was glad. He led her back to their table and immediately the charity director was on his feet. Ellen was led away, and Max watched her go. Was there a reluctance in her now? Would she rather have not danced again but sat with him and watched the dancers? He didn’t know—knew only that there was a kind of growl inside him...a growl that made him reach for the cognac bottle and pour himself a glass.
The two other couples at the table were taking a break as well, and were chatting, drawing him into their conversation. He joined in civilly but his gaze, he knew, kept going back out to the dance floor, searching for Ellen.
I want her.
That was the voice in his head now. Stark, blunt and simple. His jaw set. He could want her all he liked, but fulfilling that want would lead to complications.
The question was—did he care?
And right now, watching her in another man’s arms—this woman he’d released from the bondage of her mental chains, freed to revel in the natural beauty that was hers—and feeling that deep, primal growl rising in him again, he knew as the fiery liqueur glazed his throat and fuelled his heated blood that he didn’t care at all...