of this wretched evening and she’d be done. Done with Leon Maranz for good!
She reached for her coffee cup and deliberately let her gaze wander out over the ballroom with an expression of boredom on her face.
Beside her, Leon felt his anger snap its jaws.
‘Tell me,’ he drawled, his voice like a blade, ‘what makes you think you have a right to be rude to me?’
Flavia’s head swivelled. Words jumbled fiercely in her brain—hot, angry words that she wanted to hurl at him! But she couldn’t—couldn’t say the words she was burning to throw at him.
What makes you think you can come on to me the way you are? What makes you think you can drag me out on to the dance floor and make me dance with you, invading my body space, making me react to you the way I did? What makes you think you can look at me the way you do—making it obvious … blindingly, searingly obvious … what you want?
But she couldn’t hurl those words at him. Instead, all shecould do was glare at him stonily, her face tightening, and retreat behind her rigid, icy guard to keep him at bay. Resort again to the unforgivable rudeness that she knew, with a small, shaming part of her brain, that she was handing out to him.
‘I don’t think anything about you at all, Mr Maranz,’ she said, forcing her voice to be cold. ‘You’re my father’s guest, not mine, and I would far rather he did a host’s duty by you instead of leaving the task to me.’
Involuntarily her eyes went past him to the dance floor, urgently trying to seek out her wretched father and Anita. Would they get off the floor and come back to their table?
Leon saw her searching gaze. Was that, maybe, what this was all about? Was Alistair Lassiter’s idle, pampered daughter sulking because her father paid more attention to his mistress than to her?
He took a mouthful of brandy, studying Flavia’s rigid face. ‘Are you jealous of Anita?’ he ventured.
Again Flavia’s gaze snapped to him.
‘What?’
He gave a slight shrug. ‘It would not be surprising. Daughters—especially those who are used to being Daddy’s darling—are very often extremely possessive of their fathers, and resent them paying attention to any other female. Let alone one as young and glamorous as Anita.’
Flavia could only stare. ‘You think I’m jealous of
Anita
?’ She could not hide the disbelief in her voice.
‘Why not?’ Leon replied. ‘Your father seems quite … smitten by her.’
Flavia could feel her face icing. ‘Anita,’ she bit out, ‘is a gold-digging piece of work who wouldn’t look twice at him if he weren’t rich! Every bit of jewellery she’s dripping with, every designer number in her vast collection, was paid for by
him
!’
There was scorn in her voice, and she didn’t bother to hide it.
Leon’s reply was hard. ‘You are fortunate, then, that
you
only had to be born your father’s daughter to enjoy his wealth.’
At least she had the grace to look discomfited, he saw. His gaze studied her face. Just what
was
Flavia Lassiter’s character? On the plus side she seemed unimpressed by his wealth, disdaining to fawn on him, yet she enjoyed the fruits of Alistair Lassiter’s largesse and admitted she made no attempt to earn any money for herself, or even busy herself with charity work, which so many women of her type did. And she was perfectly willing to be shamelessly rude to him—was that truly only because she was trying to deny what was so obviously flaring between them?
A dark thought shadowed his mind yet again. Or was it because she saw no necessity to be polite to him because he did not come from the well-bred world she moved in so effortlessly. Because he had started life half a world away in a South American shanty town and come penniless to this country, nothing more than yet another indigent immigrant—someone to look down on and resent, to look through as if he simply did not exist …?
Again he felt the familiar sting of anger inside him, fuelled
She reached for her coffee cup and deliberately let her gaze wander out over the ballroom with an expression of boredom on her face.
Beside her, Leon felt his anger snap its jaws.
‘Tell me,’ he drawled, his voice like a blade, ‘what makes you think you have a right to be rude to me?’
Flavia’s head swivelled. Words jumbled fiercely in her brain—hot, angry words that she wanted to hurl at him! But she couldn’t—couldn’t say the words she was burning to throw at him.
What makes you think you can come on to me the way you are? What makes you think you can drag me out on to the dance floor and make me dance with you, invading my body space, making me react to you the way I did? What makes you think you can look at me the way you do—making it obvious … blindingly, searingly obvious … what you want?
But she couldn’t hurl those words at him. Instead, all shecould do was glare at him stonily, her face tightening, and retreat behind her rigid, icy guard to keep him at bay. Resort again to the unforgivable rudeness that she knew, with a small, shaming part of her brain, that she was handing out to him.
‘I don’t think anything about you at all, Mr Maranz,’ she said, forcing her voice to be cold. ‘You’re my father’s guest, not mine, and I would far rather he did a host’s duty by you instead of leaving the task to me.’
Involuntarily her eyes went past him to the dance floor, urgently trying to seek out her wretched father and Anita. Would they get off the floor and come back to their table?
Leon saw her searching gaze. Was that, maybe, what this was all about? Was Alistair Lassiter’s idle, pampered daughter sulking because her father paid more attention to his mistress than to her?
He took a mouthful of brandy, studying Flavia’s rigid face. ‘Are you jealous of Anita?’ he ventured.
Again Flavia’s gaze snapped to him.
‘What?’
He gave a slight shrug. ‘It would not be surprising. Daughters—especially those who are used to being Daddy’s darling—are very often extremely possessive of their fathers, and resent them paying attention to any other female. Let alone one as young and glamorous as Anita.’
Flavia could only stare. ‘You think I’m jealous of
Anita
?’ She could not hide the disbelief in her voice.
‘Why not?’ Leon replied. ‘Your father seems quite … smitten by her.’
Flavia could feel her face icing. ‘Anita,’ she bit out, ‘is a gold-digging piece of work who wouldn’t look twice at him if he weren’t rich! Every bit of jewellery she’s dripping with, every designer number in her vast collection, was paid for by
him
!’
There was scorn in her voice, and she didn’t bother to hide it.
Leon’s reply was hard. ‘You are fortunate, then, that
you
only had to be born your father’s daughter to enjoy his wealth.’
At least she had the grace to look discomfited, he saw. His gaze studied her face. Just what
was
Flavia Lassiter’s character? On the plus side she seemed unimpressed by his wealth, disdaining to fawn on him, yet she enjoyed the fruits of Alistair Lassiter’s largesse and admitted she made no attempt to earn any money for herself, or even busy herself with charity work, which so many women of her type did. And she was perfectly willing to be shamelessly rude to him—was that truly only because she was trying to deny what was so obviously flaring between them?
A dark thought shadowed his mind yet again. Or was it because she saw no necessity to be polite to him because he did not come from the well-bred world she moved in so effortlessly. Because he had started life half a world away in a South American shanty town and come penniless to this country, nothing more than yet another indigent immigrant—someone to look down on and resent, to look through as if he simply did not exist …?
Again he felt the familiar sting of anger inside him, fuelled
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