dress.
As he straightened she saw him, and stopped dead. Colour flared in her cheeks and her eyes flashed. Satisfaction knifed through Leon. She could play the chilly ice-maiden all she liked, but she could not hide that physical, visceral response to him. The one she revealed every time he broke through her guard—every time she stopped holding him at bay the way she was so rigidly trying to do.
‘There you are,’ he said smoothly, reaching for her arm and tucking it into his with a proprietorial air.
Flavia clenched her teeth. How had he done it? How had he gone and helped himself to her like that? Yet again, just as before, she had the choice of either going along with him or tugging away and making a fool of herself in doing so in front of other people. Stiffly, she let him lead her back into the ballroom, back towards their table. Her hopes that her fatherand Anita—anyone at all!—might be there, were dashed. The table was deserted.
Courteously, Leon Maranz relinquished her in order to pull out her chair, and stiffly Flavia lowered herself onto it. Dear God, would this evening never end? Surely her father and Anita would get off the damn dance floor and come back? Even the sight of her father fawning over Leon Maranz and Anita flirting with him would be preferable to having to sit here like a sour lemon beside him, while he beckoned to one of the passing waiters to serve fresh coffee and refill his brandy glass.
Then he relaxed back in his chair, hooking one arm over the back and crossing one long leg over the other, and turned his face towards her. Long lashes dipped down over his glinting eyes.
‘Your father’s girlfriend was wrong,’ he informed her. ‘You look as beautiful with your hair up as down. But then—’ his eyes washed over her consideringly, as if he were scrutinising an Old Master ‘—you are, of course, quite exceptional. As you must know.’ He reached for his brandy glass and swirled the contents slowly. Even more slowly, almost contemplatively, he said, his tone inviting, ‘But I am sure there is a great deal more to you than your exceptional beauty. Tell me about yourself. What do you do when you are not gracing events like this evening’s? Do you have a career?’ he enquired.
His gaze levelled on her and she looked away. She did not want to talk about her grandmother, or her life in Dorset. It was completely separate from these unwelcome sojourns in London with her father. Besides, caring for a grandmother with dementia and single-handedly looking after an eight-bedroom house and its gardens was hardly a career.
‘No,’ she said baldly.
Leon frowned slightly. For all her chilly reserve, Flavia Lassiter had not struck him as unintelligent, and it was unusual these days for a woman like her to have no life of her own. Most society women made a pretence, at least, of havingan occupation of sorts—even if it were little more than a stab at something they considered light and easy, such as interior design. Many, of course, were high-powered businesswomen and career professionals in their own right.
‘No?’ he echoed.
‘No,’ Flavia repeated, looking back at him coolly. Let him think what he would of her. She hardly cared, after all. After this evening she would have nothing more to do with him.
Leon’s frown deepened. ‘You are content, then, merely to be your father’s pampered daughter?’ he posed.
Flavia could feel her face freezing at the implication.
‘Evidently,’ she clipped out.
Leon studied her expression. She hadn’t liked the imputation, but then, he mused, perhaps few men had actually put it to her that living off her indulgent father’s wealth at her age was not something that could be admired. A thought flickered across his mind. If Flavia Lassiter was indeed entirely reliant on her father’s wealth for her comfortable lifestyle—her gown, however lacking in ‘bling’, was clearly a designer number, for instance, and those were definitely
As he straightened she saw him, and stopped dead. Colour flared in her cheeks and her eyes flashed. Satisfaction knifed through Leon. She could play the chilly ice-maiden all she liked, but she could not hide that physical, visceral response to him. The one she revealed every time he broke through her guard—every time she stopped holding him at bay the way she was so rigidly trying to do.
‘There you are,’ he said smoothly, reaching for her arm and tucking it into his with a proprietorial air.
Flavia clenched her teeth. How had he done it? How had he gone and helped himself to her like that? Yet again, just as before, she had the choice of either going along with him or tugging away and making a fool of herself in doing so in front of other people. Stiffly, she let him lead her back into the ballroom, back towards their table. Her hopes that her fatherand Anita—anyone at all!—might be there, were dashed. The table was deserted.
Courteously, Leon Maranz relinquished her in order to pull out her chair, and stiffly Flavia lowered herself onto it. Dear God, would this evening never end? Surely her father and Anita would get off the damn dance floor and come back? Even the sight of her father fawning over Leon Maranz and Anita flirting with him would be preferable to having to sit here like a sour lemon beside him, while he beckoned to one of the passing waiters to serve fresh coffee and refill his brandy glass.
Then he relaxed back in his chair, hooking one arm over the back and crossing one long leg over the other, and turned his face towards her. Long lashes dipped down over his glinting eyes.
‘Your father’s girlfriend was wrong,’ he informed her. ‘You look as beautiful with your hair up as down. But then—’ his eyes washed over her consideringly, as if he were scrutinising an Old Master ‘—you are, of course, quite exceptional. As you must know.’ He reached for his brandy glass and swirled the contents slowly. Even more slowly, almost contemplatively, he said, his tone inviting, ‘But I am sure there is a great deal more to you than your exceptional beauty. Tell me about yourself. What do you do when you are not gracing events like this evening’s? Do you have a career?’ he enquired.
His gaze levelled on her and she looked away. She did not want to talk about her grandmother, or her life in Dorset. It was completely separate from these unwelcome sojourns in London with her father. Besides, caring for a grandmother with dementia and single-handedly looking after an eight-bedroom house and its gardens was hardly a career.
‘No,’ she said baldly.
Leon frowned slightly. For all her chilly reserve, Flavia Lassiter had not struck him as unintelligent, and it was unusual these days for a woman like her to have no life of her own. Most society women made a pretence, at least, of havingan occupation of sorts—even if it were little more than a stab at something they considered light and easy, such as interior design. Many, of course, were high-powered businesswomen and career professionals in their own right.
‘No?’ he echoed.
‘No,’ Flavia repeated, looking back at him coolly. Let him think what he would of her. She hardly cared, after all. After this evening she would have nothing more to do with him.
Leon’s frown deepened. ‘You are content, then, merely to be your father’s pampered daughter?’ he posed.
Flavia could feel her face freezing at the implication.
‘Evidently,’ she clipped out.
Leon studied her expression. She hadn’t liked the imputation, but then, he mused, perhaps few men had actually put it to her that living off her indulgent father’s wealth at her age was not something that could be admired. A thought flickered across his mind. If Flavia Lassiter was indeed entirely reliant on her father’s wealth for her comfortable lifestyle—her gown, however lacking in ‘bling’, was clearly a designer number, for instance, and those were definitely
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