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Inexplicably she shivered.
'Zoe, you're cold. It's that damned dress.'
'No, no. A ghost walking over my grave.' She tried to smile. Or was it an omen? she wondered.
'Bob invited Janet as his partner. Do you mind?' Justin bit out, his dark gaze intent on her upturned face.
'No, of course not, silly.' She shrugged off her fanciful thoughts. 'Come on, let's dance.' And, curving her slender arms around his waist, she swayed in towards him.
Justin needed no second bidding, and she hid a secret smile as she noted his muffled sigh of relief when he urged her on to the dance-floor. Poor man! He was obviously afraid that she would take offence and sulk as she had three years ago.
They danced, Justin stroking one hand up her bare back while the other rested lightly on her hip. She flattened her palms on his shirt-front and gave herself up to the dreamy music, swaying to the rhythm of the golden oldie 'As Time Goes By'.
His hand moved from her hip to her buttock as he pulled her closer, one long leg edging between hers. She felt him stir against her, his hold tighten, and the familiar heat flowed through her. His dark head bent; his lips brushed lightly over her brow. She tilted her head back; their eyes met and desire lanced between them, as sharp and piercing as a laser-beam.
'How long will this damn party last?' he muttered as his hand moved up her back, his fingers spreading to clasp her nape while his other hand dropped to stroke her thigh.
She made no response; instead she simply gazed dazedly up at him, her pulse racing. Her husband's control was slipping, she thought bemusedly. They were lost in a world of their own; the crowd, the laughter faded away, and there was only passion and need. Then Justin kissed her. . .
It was the cheers of the guests and the heavy beat of a rock and roll number that brought them back to their senses.
Justin's head jerked back, his dark face flushed with passion and a good deal of embarrassment as he shot a frustrated glance at the assembled throng. 'I need a drink. We need a drink,' he muttered, his arms falling to his sides. 'I knew that dress was a disaster area. I should never have allowed you to wear it,' he growled angrily.
She regained her composure—for once, before her dynamic husband—and her lips twitched in the beginningsof a smile. 'Why, I do believe, Mr Gifford ' she held his gaze, fluttering her long eyelashes like some Southern belle '—your behaviour is most unbecoming for a barrister and soon-to-be judge,' she drawled in mock-horror, and then spoilt it by giggling.
'Witch!' Justin chuckled. 'I'll get you later; meanwhile I think we should circulate. It will be much easier on my libido.'
She glanced around the dance-floor, rubbing one foot against her ankle: four-inch heels gave her height, but they played havoc with her feet. She had danced with dozens of men, including the Lord Chief Justice. She had done her duty, and with a cheerful smile to everyone in general she escaped out into the hall, and went on through the garden-room, where a few close couples were in conversation, and into the old-fashioned Victorian conservatory.
Good! She was alone. She sank down on to a bamboo chair—part of a group placed around a centre table. She slipped off her shoes, put her feet inelegantly on the glass table in front of her and let her head fall back against the soft cushion. Five minutes' rest and then back to the fray, she promised herself.
It was a beautiful summer night and through the glass roof a million stars glittered in the midnight-blue sky. She sighed deeply, contentedly. Twenty-one on the twenty-first of June—there must be a lucky omen in there somewhere, she mused, not that she needed luck; she had it all. . .
'Hiding, Zoe.' A feminine voice interrupted her reverie. She glanced up and muffled a groan as Janet swayed unsteadily before her.
'No. Simply resting for a minute or two.'
'I don't blame you.' The redhead collapsed in the opposite chair, a glass in one hand and a half-full bottle of champagne in the other.
Zoe thought, So much for my five minutes' peace. 'I hope you're enjoying the party,' she prompted with a tinge of sarcasm. The woman was obviously three sheets to the wind.
'Great party.' Janet giggled and took a swig of the champagne, ignoring the glass and drinking from the bottle. 'But, parties aside, I can understand your needing a rest. Just—Justin is one dynamic lover—a tiger in bed.' She took another swig of the champagne.
Zoe didn't want to hear any more. It was one thing to accept that your husband had had lovers in the past, but quite another to have one of the same describe his powers in bed. 'Yes, well. . .' she mumbled, praying that the other woman would leave or pass out. But her wish wasn't granted.
'Def-f-f. . . Definit-t-t. . .' Janet slurred the words. 'A three-times-a-night man, and day, and anywhere.' Her high-pitched laughter grated across Zoe's nerves like a dentist's high-powered drill.
'"A three-times-a-night man". . .' Zoe whispered, shocked to the core. She knew what it meant, and could not believe they were talking about the same person. They made love most nights but Justin was always in control, and they never did it more than once. Well, except for the night of the funeral, she qualified in her mind.
Suddenly her confidence in her husband's love took a nosedive. She remembered the conversation she had overheard—Sara Blacket's opinion that Justin preferred large, luscious women.
She looked across at Janet. Had she been the redhead at the dinner Mrs Blacket had mentioned? It was possible. Janet was a very attractive, very well-endowed sexy woman of about Justin's age; add to that the fact that they had once worked in the same chambers and three years ago they had arrived as a couple at her eighteenth birthday and it made sense. Justin and this woman had been lovers not for a few weeks, as Zoe had mistakenly imagined, but for years. . .
'He's not the sort to go without, not our Justin.'
Zoe raised huge blue eyes to the other woman's face; she was still talking, but Zoe felt as if she had been hit by a truck. 'No?' she queried numbly.
'Even the night before he got married I had to throw him out of my place at two in the morning—couldn't have him exhausted for his wedding. . . No, sir. . . So keep your strength up, girl; you'll need it.' And, leaning across the table, she held out the bottle of champagne. 'Have a drink. . .'
