Page 130 of Winterveil

“Chane gave that to you?”

Klaudia nodded. “He has as much charm as you would expect from someone with thirteen children and not a single publicly acknowledged relationship.”

Julian laughed, just as much out of amusement as relief. Not that he really believed Klaudia could ever be taken in by someone like Chane, but still—his stomach settled.

And then it soured again. If Chane had given her the necklace, had he given her the dress, too? The dress that made her look like that? Panic and jealousy at the thought overwhelmed him. He had never been the jealous type before, and that overwhelmed him, too. Klaudia always seemed able to make him question things about himself he thought he knew.

He cast about for more words, but Klaudia was looking over his shoulder, gaze fixed on someone behind him. “Who is that? He’s staring at you.”

Julian turned. A familiar man with slicked-back silver hair and a jowly face was indeed staring at him, his eyes like daggers. Immediately, Julian’s stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What?”

“That’s Holden Granston,” he said. “He’s a lobbyist. He works for tech firms and oil companies, and sometimes foreign dictators. Cafferty had me meet with him a couple times, to make it look like I was friendly to big business, even though I was running a progressive campaign. But, uh . . .” Julian paused, heat rushing to his face. “I might have slept with his wife.”

Klaudia’s eyes grew wide. Julian felt like shrinking into the floor.

A moment passed and Klaudia was silent, regarding Granston. Then, frowning, she asked, “How old is she? His wife.”

“In her forties. I don’t know exactly.” Julian’s cheeks burned like a fever. “But for the record . . . she came onto me.”

“I’m sure she did,” Klaudia replied.

There was no hint of sarcasm in her voice. Klaudia was almost never sarcastic. Her expression was inscrutable, almost worried. Julian winced, but before he could speak, Klaudia added, “Normal women don’t want to sleep with teenage boys.”

It was not at all what he had expected her to say. Julian didn’t often think of himself as a teenage boy. Still flushing, he shrugged and said, “It was idiotic. Embarrassing. Cafferty wanted to strangle me.”

Klaudia’s gaze shifted briefly from him to Granston, then back again. “At least we won’t have any trouble causing a scene.”

All Julian had to do was stare back at Granston, and there would certainly be a scene. But his thoughts were no longer on Granston, or even on Chane. He looked at Klaudia and, almost by instinct, Julian did something he had not anticipated, something that was not part of the plan. He reached out and took Klaudia’s hand.

“Dance with me,” he said.

Klaudia stared at him in shock, but she didn’t slip out of his grasp. “What?”

“Dance with me,” he repeated. “Come on.”

Her brow knitted. “But we have to—”

“It will cause a scene,” Julian said. “Trust me.”

Klaudia opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. An expression of abandon—maybe even pleasure?—crossed her face. And then she allowed Julian to lead her out onto the dance floor.

He was hesitant about putting his hands on her further, knowing how Klaudia felt about physical contact. But she was the one who slid her arm around his shoulder first, an act that made Julian’s skin prickle with electric warmth. He fitted his hand on the curve of her waist, feeling the shape of her body through the silk, half in a haze of disbelief. He had hoped and dreamed but never truly believed he would get to touch her like this.

Julian was surprised to hear the music change then, from the discordant orchestral-electronic mash-up to a song he recognized: “Oh! Darling” by the Beatles. He drew Klaudia against him, moving more slowly than the rhythm of the song demanded. Her mouth was near to his ear so he could hear her whisper nervously, “I’m not very good at this.”

“You’re doing perfectly,” he said.

If his only goal had truly been to cause a scene, they had succeeded. The crowd had parted and the other guests were staring at them unabashedly, mouths hanging open. T. J. Byrne was red in the face. Granston looked appalled. And Chane was glancing back and forth between them and his previous audience, who had lost all focus on him in favor of gaping at Julian and Klaudia. His expression of pure indignation, almost outrage, filled Julian with a perverse sort of pleasure.

Enlivened by the reactions and by the thrill of having her so close at last, Julian guided Klaudia to the center of the dance floor. A subtle flush colored her cheeks; her skin was supple and pale as marble. A strand of dark hair had come loose from her updo and curled gently to her nape. Her gray eyes were gleaming, hopeful. She didn’t look like the ice queen the world thought her to be. Right here, right now, and just for him, she looked innocent. Delicate. Beautiful.

Was it the right time to tell her? To let her know how much he thought of her, how she kept him up at night, the painful tension of longing in his chest? Maybe he shouldn’t say anything. Klaudia wasn’t one for flowery speeches. Maybe he should just kiss her.

That would certainly cause a scene.