‘Dance with me.’ It wasn’t a request and she obediently took his proffered hand, allowing him to lead her back onto the floor. She sank in close, her hand splayed on his back, and he could feel where every part of her touched him as if they weren’t separated by layers of material but as if they were back in the ski lodge, learning each other anew.
Her head was on his shoulder, nestled in trustingly. They had trust. They had friendship.
They had passion.
It was a lot.
Alex stopped. ‘Flora?’
‘Mmm...why aren’t we dancing?’ She looked up at him, her mouth curved invitingly, and that was all he needed. Alex dipped his head and kissed her, a sweet, gentle caress.
She smiled up at him. ‘That was nice. What was that for?’
‘I wanted to.’ He began to move again, slowing the steps down so that they were out of time with the music, dancing to their own private beat, their lips finding each other again, a deeper, intoxicating kiss. He was dimly aware that they were still moving, that the violins were soaring, the lights were low, but none of it was real. Only they were real. Just the taste of her, the feel of her, the scent of her. He wanted to sink deeper and deeper, to be absorbed by her, into her.
Only she was real. She made him real.
‘Not here.’ Flora’s breath was ragged as she broke away. ‘Not like that.’
He stared at her uncomprehendingly, still lost in the memory of her warmth.
‘I mean...’ She squeezed his hand, running her thumb over his palm, trailing fire with her touch. Fire that threatened to consume him. ‘We’re in the middle of a dance floor. I think we should take this back to our room.’
Of course. How could he have forgotten? How could he have been so swept up in the moment that he had lost track of where they were, forgotten that they weren’t alone?
He swallowed. ‘I warned you that the waltz was a scandalous dance.’
‘You did,’ she agreed. ‘Am I quite compromised?’
‘‘I think so...’ His earlier thoughts came back to haunt him. Peace, stability, a family of his own... ‘Unless we marry. What about it, Flora? Will you marry me?’
THE WALK BACK to the room seemed to take for ever. Every few steps they bumped into a group of Flora’s new friends wanting to drag her off to the bar, to after parties, for midnight walks out in the snow.
She turned each of them down with a laughing non-committal reply but the whole situation didn’t seem real. Her voice was too bright, her smile too wild and there was a buzzing in her ears as if she were in a waking dream.
Alex didn’t say anything at all. His hand clasped hers tight; his eyes burned with that same strange intensity she had seen on the dance floor.
And his words echoed round and round in her head. Will you marry me?
Of course he had been joking. Of course. There was no doubt. Just because his fingers were gripping hers tightly, just because she had daydreamed a similar scenario more times than she had imagined winning the lottery didn’t make it real.
Only...he had sounded serious.
What if he was serious?
No. Of course he wasn’t because dreams didn’t simply just come true. A dance floor, a waltz, beautiful lighting, champagne; that was the stuff of fairy tales, not real life. Not Flora’s life.
But he looked serious.
She had been so desperate to get him back to the room but as they approached the door an unexpected caution hit her. Whatever was done and said when they got inside couldn’t be unsaid, couldn’t be undone. And his face was so very set. The passion and laughter wiped clear as if they had never been.
Flora took a deep breath as they walked into the room. It was her imagination, that was all, working on his words and twisting them into something more serious than intended. She needed to lighten up, enjoy these last few hours before it all changed back and she was back in her rags clutching a pumpkin.
Okay. Lightening up. ‘Alone at last.’ She smiled provocatively at him but there was no answering smile on his face.
‘I meant it, you know. Marry me.’
Flora reached up to unclasp her necklace but at his quiet words her hands dropped helplessly to her side. ‘No bended knee, no flash mob, no ring in my ice cream?’ She tried to tease but the joke was flatter than one of her father’s failed soufflés, and Alex didn’t acknowledge it with as much as a flicker of an eyelid.
She walked over to the window and stared out. Ahead was darkness but if she looked up then the stars shone with an astonishing intensity, unfamiliar to a girl used to London’s never fully darkened skies. Below Innsbruck was lit up like a toy town. Not quite real.
Like this moment.
‘Why?’
She held her breath, hope fluttering wildly in her chest. Would he say it? Because I love you. I have always loved you.
He didn’t answer, not straight away. She heard him pace back and forth, imagined him shrugging off the tuxedo jacket, undoing his bow tie, running his hands through his disordered curls.
‘Does it matter why?’ he asked at last.
She still couldn’t turn to face him but at his words hope’s flutters became feebler and nausea began to swirl in her stomach.
‘I think so, yes.’ Tell me, tell me, she silently begged him. Tell me what I need to hear and I’ll believe you.
Even though she knew it wouldn’t be true.
‘No one knows me like you do. You know everything, all the darkness, and you’re still here.’
‘Of course I am.’
‘We know we’re compatible. I think we could lead very comfortable, happy lives together. The sex is good—more than good. And marriage would tick other boxes too.’
Flora swallowed. Hope finally gave up and withered away. Her stomach still twisted with nausea but most thought and feeling drained away to a much-needed numbness. ‘Great,’ she murmured. Marriage as a box-ticking exercise. Just what she had always dreamed of. Maybe they could make a list and follow it up with a presentation on the computer.
‘It would make things a lot easier for you as you change focus. I know money has been tight. That wouldn’t be an issue any longer, and there’s plenty of space at my house for a studio and storage.’
‘Money, storage...’ she repeated as if in a dream, the practical words not quite sinking in. ‘And what about you? What’s in it for you, apart from good sex?’
He didn’t seem to hear the bitterness in her last words, just continuing as if this were a completely sane conversation. ‘For me? No more dating, trying to be someone I’m not. Freedom to work—you wouldn’t mind when work took me abroad, wouldn’t expect me to check in every five minutes. There wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, any expectations—you wouldn’t want more than I can give.’
‘No, I suppose I wouldn’t.’ Not now anyway. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t warned her, was it? She had chosen not to listen. Not to guard herself against this.
She wasn’t numb now, she was cold. A biting chill working its way up from her toes, bone deep.
He hadn’t noticed, was still listing soulless benefits as if it were next week’s shopping list. ‘And there would be no real adjustment. We know each other’s bad habits, moods, and I get on with