Flavia’s expression changed minutely. She’d been despatched with Anita that afternoon by her father to buy herself ‘something glamorous for a change’ as he’d snapped at her, looking the worse for wear after his late night, his eyes bloodshot and his face puffy.
Flavia had objected, but her father had been adamant.
‘We’re going to a flash charity bash tonight, and just for a damn change I don’t want you dressing like a nun!’
Knowing Anita’s predilection for bling, Flavia had been on her guard, and when the other woman had picked out a clingy scarlet number she’d at least succeeded in swapping it for a pale aqua version at the counter, while Anita had been trying on the ruched and sequinned purple gown she was poured into now. Discovering the colour swap when Flavia had emerged from a bedroom before setting off had so annoyed Anita, however, that she’d managed to unpin Flavia’s tightly knotted chignon and flash her own bright red lipstick over her mouth just as Alistair Lassiter was hurrying them out of the apartment to the waiting limo.
He was visibly on edge, Flavia could tell—but then she was as well. The moment they arrived at the Park Lane hotel where the charity event was being held she would dive into the Ladies’ and wipe Anita’s vivid lipstick off her, and repin her hair.
But her intentions were foiled. As they made their way into the hotel Anita’s hand fastened around her wrist. ‘Don’t even think about it!’ she breathed, and her hand remained clamped where it was.
Stiffly, feeling self-conscious enough as it was in the bias-cut gown, let alone with her hair loose and heaven only knew how much garish lipstick, Flavia had no option but to let herself be swept forward into the banqueting hall. They were, as her father had complained, running late, and everyone except a few other latecomers like themselves had already taken their seats at the appointed tables.
Threading her way towards their table, flanked by her father and Anita, Flavia could only determine a sea of people and hear a wave of chatter and the clink of glasses and rustle of gowns. Her father was greeting people here and there, and Anita was waving conspicuously at people she knew, too, while Flavia looked neither to left or right. When they reached their table, with their three places waiting for them, she slipped into the seat on her father’s right hand side with a sense of relief.
The relief lasted less than a second.
‘Ms Lassiter …’
The deep, accented voice on her right made her head whip round.
Leon Maranz was seated beside her.
Emotion sliced through her. Shock and dismay were uppermost. But beneath both another emotion stabbed. Instantly she fought to subdue it, but the physical impact was too great, and she could feel that treacherous quickening of her blood. Feel, even more powerfully, the urge to get to her feet and bolt.
Why—why was she reacting like this to the man? It was absurd to be so … so …
So … what, exactly? She flailed around in her mind, trying to find the word she needed. Trying to blank out the way she was reacting. Trying to wipe the dismay and shock from her face. Trying to gather her composure and force herself to do what she had to do—which was simply to nod civilly, politely, courteously and nothing more than that. Nothing at all.
‘Mr … Maranz, isn’t it?’ She hesitated over his name, as if she had difficulty recalling it. Then she made a show of flicking open her linen napkin and spreading it over her knees. She was grateful, for once, for her father’s presence, as he leant across her.
‘Ah—Leon. Good to see you!’ he said effusively. ‘I’m so pleased you accepted my invitation to be my guest here tonight.’
At Flavia’s side Leon Maranz’s eyes glittered darkly, and he found himself reconsidering his decision to attend the function as Lassiter’s guest. Despite his attraction to Flavia Lassiter, should he have come this evening? Yes, she had made an immediate impact on him the moment he’d set eyes on her, but was it truly a good idea to pursue his interest in her? The glitter in his eyes intensified. Especially since it meant he would have to spend time in Alistair Lassiter’s over-attentive company this evening.
Even if he did decide to invest in his business, socialising with the man was not necessary—unless, of course, it was a means to an end in respect of his daughter …
On that note, it was clear from her frosty reception of his greeting that she was still very much on her guard with him. Was it truly worth his time and effort to thaw that freezing demeanour? Yet even as he considered it he knew, with a little stab of emotion, that seeing her again had in no way lessened his response to her. Indeed, it had been accentuated …
He had had time only for a moment’s appreciation, but that had been enough to confirm that the sinuous gown she was wearing, baring shoulders over which the shimmering fall of her loosened hair was cascading, not to mention the sensuous, vivid scarlet of her mouth, were a stunning enhancement of the beauty he’d seen last night. Tonight, he thought appreciatively, there was no question of her seeking to subdue her beauty with the severity of her dress or sedate maquillage. The effect was—stunning.
Decision raced through him. Yes, Flavia Lassiter, despite her father, was well worth pursuing.
As for her father—well, he would put up with him as best he could this evening, and for the moment reserve judgement on whether he would supply the bail-out that Lassiter was so desperately in need of.
Leon’s mouth pressed to a thin line. What kind of fool was Alistair Lassiter to have got himself into such an irretrievable mess? The global recession should have made him cautious, but instead Lassiter had taken unwarrantable risks—too many of them—and his spending had been lavish. Now he was teetering on the brink of complete collapse. Now he was going to have to rely on a turnaround specialist like Maranz Finance to rescue him.
Leon’s eyes were veiled. Would he bail out Lassiter? How much real value was there left in the company? And was it worth the trouble to secure it? Lassiter was walking on thin ice. Far too many of his assets, as Leon knew perfectly well from his own investigations, were paper-thin and his debt was punitive. For all the surface gloss he still reflected, Alistair Lassiter had precious little beneath. Even the Regent’s Park apartment was mortgaged up to the hilt, and his other personal properties had already been sold off.
While he decided whether to bail out Lassiter he would further his interest in his daughter. He levelled his veiled gaze on her as she reached for a bottle of sparkling water and poured some into her glass. Waiters were already circling with white wine, but she’d covered her glass with her palm, giving her head a slight shake. Did she eschew all alcohol? Leon wondered.
‘You don’t drink wine?’ he enquired.
She seemed to start at his words, and her head jerked around.
‘Very seldom,’ she answered, her voice clipped. She made to turn her head away again, as if that were all she were going to say on the subject.
‘Empty calories?’ Leon’s voice was bland.
‘Yes.’
She lifted her glass of water, aware of how stiffly she had spoken. But then her spine was as stiff as a poker right now. Why on earth had her father not told her he’d invited Leon Maranz this evening? The answer was obvious, of course. He hadn’t wanted her to know because he hadn’t wanted her to be warned beforehand. And now here she was, trapped between them, wearing a dress she didn’t want to be wearing, with her hair hanging down her back and her mouth covered in vivid lipstick.
She raised her napkin and made a show of dabbing her lips after drinking, covertly attempting to dab off some of the sticky red layer. Beside her she was aware—ultra-aware—of Leon Maranz’s eyes on her.
How on earth am I going to get through the evening?
The