Deceptively demure. It covered everything and yet...was it the bright red, a shocking contrast to the paleness of her skin? Was it the fit, the way it clung like a second skin? Or was it the way it defined and enhanced every curve so that, despite the modest neckline, Flora felt more exposed than if she was venturing out in just her bra?
Maybe it was because she was so obviously and evidently dolled up? Her hair tumbled free in carefully arranged curls, her lips were red and her eyes outlined in dark, dark kohl and, for once, she had slipped her feet into heels, which would make her taller than most of the men in the room.
But Alex would still top her.
‘Flora...’
‘Okay, okay, I’m coming.’ She took one last look. Yes, she was definitely smoking—either that or she looked like a pin-up version of Mrs Claus but either way she had no choice. She had nothing else even remotely suitable for a Christmas ball. Inhaling deeply, Flora opened the bathroom door.
And stared. It was so unfair. Here she was. Two hours later. Hair washed, curled, sprayed and teased. Body plucked free of each and every stray hair, moisturised and buffed, face artfully painted, nails filed and polished, dress squeezed into, shoes forced on. And what had Alex done? Showered, shaved and shrugged himself into his tux.
She swallowed, her mouth dry. The stark black, relieved only by the crisp white of his shirt, suited him, brought out the auburn glints in his hair, made his eyes greener than grey. He looked like a stranger; a powerful, imposing and hot stranger.
A powerful, imposing and hot stranger who was staring straight back at her, mouth slightly open and a dazed expression on his face.
‘Will I do?’
He didn’t answer straight away, just nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘You look incredible.’
Heat flooded her cheeks at the expression in his eyes. ‘Fine feathers,’ she said a little unsteadily. ‘Put anyone into a dress like this and they’ll scrub up okay.’
‘No.’ His eyes were so intent, heat smouldering in their depths, that she felt completely exposed, naked. ‘The dress is...’ His gaze travelled over her, burning a trail onto her, marking her, claiming her. ‘The dress is sensational. But it’s all you, Flora. You’d look just as amazing in a sheet.’
‘Thank you.’ She blinked, unexpected tears filling her eyes at the raw want in his voice. ‘You don’t look too bad yourself.’
They stood, caught in time just staring at each other, the pressure in the room intensifying until it was just the two of them, caught in a spotlight. Flora cleared her throat. ‘Shall we go?’ She didn’t want to prolong the moment. Not tonight. Not when tomorrow meant moments such as this would be finished for ever.
Flora waited for him to open the door but he just stood there. ‘I...er... I got you this. I know Christmas isn’t for another couple of days but, well...’ He held out a black velvet jewellery box.
Flora froze. He had never bought her jewellery before. Alex was usually a generous and perceptive gift buyer but jewellery buying was too intimate, a line he had never crossed before. Still, they were crossing all sorts of lines this week. Why not this one?
‘For me?’ She was aware how stupid the words were as she uttered them and he nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips as he did so.
‘For you. Don’t you want to open it?’
She reached out cautiously. ‘I’m not sure,’ she confessed. ‘There’s not a trick snake in there, is there?’
‘One time, Flora, one time. And I was ten!’
‘Okay, then.’ The box was solid, heavier than she expected and she turned it around in her hands, the velvet soft against her skin. It wasn’t new, she knew that at once; the hinges were tarnished and the velvet rubbed in places. She smiled over at Alex, her heart lifting with the discovery; she wasn’t much of one for new, she preferred her possessions to have a history, a story.
She found the clasp and sprung it before carefully opening the lid and let out a little anticipatory breath she hadn’t even been aware that she was holding. A necklace sparkled on the yellowing white satin cushion. Flora stole a quick look up at Alex. His face was impassive, as if he were waiting for her to comment on the weather or ask the time, but the strained set of his shoulders showed that he was waiting for her reaction. Slowly she hooked the necklace onto one newly manicured finger and drew it out of the box.
It was a two-tiered circlet of large, crystal beads designed to fall just below the neck, nestling on the collarbone. ‘It’s...’ She shook her head, searching for the right words. ‘It’s perfect. How?’ She couldn’t complete the question.
‘I knew where you bought the dress from so I popped in and said I wanted something to go with it. They remembered you quite clearly.’ He took the necklace from her unresisting hand and moved behind her. She felt the cool heaviness of the beads settle around her neck, his fingers brush against the nape of her neck as he swept her hair aside, his breath on her skin as he leaned forward and clasped the necklace.
‘It’s nineteen fifties, like your dress, and made of the local Austrian crystal.’ He let her hair fall back and stepped away. She instantly felt colder.
‘It’s absolutely gorgeous.’ Flora put her hand up to her neck and fingered the chunky beads. ‘Thank you, Alex. It’s very thoughtful of you.’ She turned around and rose on her tiptoes, pressing a kiss onto his cheek, inhaling his freshly washed scent as she did so. It was thoughtful—and it finished her dress off perfectly—but part of her wished that he hadn’t bought it. That he’d stuck to books, or tickets or any of the usual gifts. Because each time she saw it she would be reminded of this night, of this trip. Each time she saw it she would be reminded of him. Not of Alex Fitzgerald, best mate and partner in crime, but of this Alex. The one who made her stomach turn over, her legs tremble and who made all good sense go flying out of the window.
The one she would say goodbye to in the morning. She put a hand up to her necklace and touched the central bead, the truth hitting her with brutal force. It wasn’t going to be easy because she didn’t want it to end. She wanted him to look at her with that mingling of desire and need and appreciation and humour for ever. But she’d made him a promise and she was going to keep it. No fuss, no repercussions, nothing was going to change. But, oh, how she wished it would.
‘Come on.’ She stepped back and turned to the door, her voice as artificially bright as her lipstick. ‘We don’t want to be late. Camilla has invited some local dignitaries and that means that you, my friend architect, have some schmoozing to do.’
* * *
‘Oh, my goodness.’ Flora stopped dead at the entrance to the dining room and stared, open-mouthed, at the décor within. ‘This is...’
‘Like the ghost of Christmas kitsch just threw up in here?’ Alex murmured in her ear.
‘No!’ She gave him a little shove. ‘Well, only a little. It’s very pretty though.’
Lights hung in the windows encircling the rooftop room; lit, dazzling, heavily bedecked Christmas trees stood to attention between each window like an army of greenery guarding the room. More lights were draped from a centre point in the ceiling, creating a marquee-like effect.
The lighting was all blues and whites, giving the illusion that they were standing in a particularly gaudy ice cave. The same colours were repeated on the tree decorations, on the tables that were dotted around the room, on the huge snowflakes and baubles that hung from the ceiling. A small band in the corner played a waltz, the music soaring over the glamorous guests as they stood chatting in small groups throughout the room.
‘I hope the colour scheme isn’t reflected in the drinks,’ Flora whispered. ‘I haven’t drunk blue curaçao since university