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“Olivier Rappeneau,” he says, holding out his hand. “And you need no introduction, though I’m slightly surprised.” He turns back to look at me. “You said your last name was Brighton, not Jennings.”
Walt’s gaze slices to me, and I nearly cower.
“Yes. Sorry, I should have clarified,” I say with a grimace. “My maiden name is Brighton, and I’m still getting used to the change.”
Olivier smiles. Walt does not.
The ensemble orchestra starts up again, and this time, I immediately know the song: Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers”.
Walt steps forward and holds out his hand for me to accept so he can drag me off the dance floor.
Olivier steps back and nods at me. “I’ll find you later.”
“No, I’m afraid you won’t,” Walt says. “I think you’ve spent enough time with my wife, Mr. Rappeneau. Good night.”
And then, to my utter shock, instead of dragging me away, Walt tugs me toward him and captures my hands in the same hold Olivier did only moments ago. Then, deftly, he begins to lead me in the waltz.
The ease I felt in Olivier’s arms is gone in an instant. I’m shaking like a leaf as Walt continues to guide me, his firm grip capturing my hand so there’s no chance of me slipping away even if I wanted to. Sadly, I don’t. I love this even if Walt seems to hate it. We’re nearly chest to chest as he stews, making no attempt at conversation. In fact, he looks over my left shoulder as if wanting to avoid me at all costs.
“I’m sorry I’m not a better dancer,” I say, trying to lure him into conversation.
He doesn’t meet me halfway like I’d hoped he would.
“Are you angry with me?”
“Furious,” he bites out.
“Why? I was only dancing with him.”
He inhales deeply but doesn’t reply.
“Is it because of how other people will perceive it? That I was flirting with another man in front of my husband? Surely you don’t care about the opinions of others that much.”
“No.”
“Then what is it?”
“Elizabeth,” he warns, as if imploring me to drop it.
“No. Tell me. I don’t understand you, Walt. Truly. You’re the most enigmatic man I’ve ever met. You ignore me more often than not. One minute you kiss me, the next you act as though you can barely stand my presence.”
His gaze cuts to me, and I again fight the urge to cower. As the music quickens, the string instruments building one on top of the other in a frenzied crescendo, I lift my chin and implore him to tell me. My hand tightens on his. My gaze holds steady.
“Please,” I whisper.
Then, just as quickly as the last time, he bends down and presses his lips to mine—only this kiss isn’t a peck. It’s a spell that lifts us out of that museum, away from the music and the glittering crowd. We’re alone, he and I, his lips slanting over mine, his hands moving to cradle my face.
I step toward him and rise up onto my tiptoes, trying to meet him, to show him how eager I am for him to continue.
Though his lips are soft, his kiss isn’t gentle. It’s ownership and power personified, a branding.
“Elizabeth,” he whispers against my mouth as he pulls away, as if in pain.
My name is a confession, and I squeeze my eyes closed and let my head fall into the crook of his neck.
Then he peels back, looking down at me.
“Do you see now?” he asks.
I nod, beginning to.
He looks away, and I’m reminded of the fact that we’re standing on the side of the dance floor, paused as dancers continue to move around us.
I highly doubt Walt is someone who loves PDA. He’s as deeply private as anyone I’ve ever met, so a moment later, when he clears his throat and says it’s time to go, I don’t argue.
“I just need to go back to our table and grab my purse,” I say as I step back, expecting him to drop my hand and let me go. Instead of leaving me, he keeps hold of my hand as he directs me back in that direction. “I would have come right back,” I tell him in earnest.
He scowls as if in disbelief. “Yes, just like you did when you went to the bathroom earlier.”
“Well yes, I planned on it, but then I got distracted.”
“By Olivier.”
“By the silent auction,” I stress. “They have a Magritte in there.”
“Yes, I know. My art adviser mentioned it would be here, and I already planned to bid on it.”
“Did you?”
“No. We’ll do it on our way out.”
As promised, he leads me to the auction room after I get my purse, and I swear he takes delight in one-upping Olivier’s bid. I’m surprised he doesn’t scratch Olivier’s name out with the pen. I look away after I catch the first few zeroes he jots down, overwhelmed by the amount of money these people throw around as if it’s nothing.
