Sorrel toyed with a hibiscus flower laid among greenery in the centre of the table, a frilled pink trumpet with one proud crimson stamen growing erect from its ruby heart, the end trimmed with tiny fine filaments holding the pollen. A few yellow grains speckled the white linen cloth as she turned the flower in her fingers.
"Are you going to tuck it behind your ear?"
Blaize's voice startled her into looking up. Annoyingly, she felt herself flush. He stood with one hand in the pocket of his perfectly cut trousers, the other holding a glass half filled with red wine. "Which side?" he inquired idly, looking down at her, his eyes under thick black lashes gleaming, speculative.
"I can never remember which side means what."
"Right for 'I'm taken,' and left for 'I'm free and available', I believe."
"I'm not available." She let the flower drop back onto the table. "Anyway, pink isn't my colour." Deciding to carry the battle into the enemy camp, she said, "It would suit Cherie - which side would she wear her flower on?""
"You'd have to ask her...if you're interested."
"Idle curiosity." Letting her gaze wander beyond him, she asked, "Where is Cherie, anyway?"
"Touching up her makeup in the ladies' room." His gaze lingered for a moment or two on Sorrel's mouth, making her conscious that her own lipstick had probably disappeared with the meal and the numerous toasts that had followed.
The orchestra struck up a chord, briefly distracting him. Then he looked back at her and, oddly abrupt, said, "Would you care to dance?"
"With you?" She was startled.
His mouth twitched. "Who else?" He cast a glance around them. There was no sign of her erstwhile partner. "Of course with me." A note of asperity had entered his voice. "In case you hadn't noticed, a number of people have been watching to see how we react to each other. It might help to kill their curiosity if we don't make a big deal of this."
Of their first meeting since the cancelled wedding, he meant. Maybe he was right; if they appeared casually friendly any gossip would quickly languish for lack of fuel.
"Someone's bringing me a drink," she demurred.
"The guy with the fancy footwork?" His tone sounded disparaging. "I'm sure he'll wait." Putting his glass down on the table, he reached for her wrist and pulled her from her chair. "Come on, we might as well get this over with." His grip was strong and he ignored her momentary instinctive resistance to his high-handedness, taking her with him towards the dance floor.
"Charming!" she said. "I've had more irresistible invitations."
Surprisingly, he gave a crack of laughter, that turned to a wolfish grin as he pulled her into his clasp, holding her hand close to his chest, and began moving to the music. "You owe me this much at least." His eyes were diamond-hard, his fingers inflexible on her waist.
Owed him what? The chance to show the world she hadn't broken his heart? That he didn't care how she'd trampled his pride? "What are you trying to prove?" she asked. "Does it matter that much what people say?"
"It might matter to those who care about us. But maybe that isn't a consideration for you."
Everything he said seemed barbed. "You should be thanking me," she said. "Our marriage would have been a mistake."
"I thank heaven daily." His hands tightened on her as he moved them into a turn, and she had to clutch at his shoulder to keep her balance.
She flashed him a look, fierce and defensive.
"Smile," he said. "We're on show."
Sorrel bared her teeth at him. "I can't smile to order. And don't tell me what to do!"
To her annoyance he laughed again. Surely he wasn't enjoying this? He whirled her round a couple of times, making her giddy, his arm hauling her close. This time he didn't slacken his hold. His lips close to her temple, he murmured, "Relax. I can't do to you here what I'd like to do. You're perfectly safe."
"What you'd like to do?" she echoed, a shiver of apprehension mingled with strange excitement travelling down her spine.
He tilted his head back, allowing a few inches of space between their bodies as he looked down at her, shocking her with the animosity glittering in his eyes. "Wring your pretty, damned spoilt little neck," he said, almost matter-of-factly.
Her eyes widened, her lips parting, and she missed a step.
Immediately he pulled her back to him, so that she was acutely conscious of the strength and warmth of his body, the movement of the muscles in his thighs as he picked up the rhythm again and she blindly, automatically followed. Around them other dancers passed by in a blur.
Sorrel forced her vocal cords into speech. "I know things must have been difficult for you at the time, but you've had four years to get over it."
"Oh, I'm over it," he assured her. "You surely don't imagine I've been nursing a broken heart all this time?"
She'd never supposed his heart was broken, but she was aware his pride would have suffered. Four years ago his profile in the business and social world had already been high; after his father was forced into early retirement due to a health scare, Blaize had taken over his half of the partnership in the very successful home appliances manufacturing business. He was young, dynamic, a man to watch according to the business pages of the newspapers. And the fact that he was single and successful in his own right as well as belonging to a wealthy family was fodder for the more gossipy publications.
"I'm sure there was no shortage of willing females to help you mend it," she said, adding, "if your heart suffered so much as a crack."
Blaize's expression changed, his eyes narrowed so that she couldn't read them. "You're right, of course." His tone was clipped, neutral. "In the scheme of things it hardly rates, at this distance."
"Then why are you sniping at me? Why do you want to...wring my neck?"
"A figure of speech. You certainly know me well enough to be sure I wouldn't act on the urge. But no man likes to be made a fool of."
From Claiming His Bride by Daphne Clair.
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