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'I suppose so,' Zoe reluctantly said.
Her sister spluttered. 'You're very annoying, do you know that? This is a party—not a visit to the dentist! You might try to sound as if you expected to enjoy yourself!'
Meekly, Zoe sighed. 'Sorry. I'm eating my lunch and thinking about work…'
'What else do you ever think about?' Sancha accused.
Wouldn't you love it if you knew? thought Zoe, but said aloud, 'What should I wear?'
'Mark told me to put on something pretty, not just casual clothes. Not jeans, in other words. It isn't a barbecue, although there is a well-lit garden we can explore, apparently. But there's a caterer doing the food. Mark says some important clients will be there, people Connel wants to impress. Mostly rich people, I gather, who'll be dressed up to kill, so take a lot of trouble to look your best, Zoe, for Mark's sake!'
'A dress, then, not jeans?' It sounded rather boring, though. Rich businessmen en masse were not her favourite people. She never knew what to say to them. They led such tedious lives.
'Of course—I told you, no jeans! We'll pick you up at seven-fifteen. Okay?'
After she had rung off Zoe sat down to sip the glass of apple juice she was drinking with her meal. Only then did it occur to her to wonder where Connel lived. A flutter of excitement began in her stomach. What sort of place did he have? She was curious.
Let's face it, she was curious about everything to do with Connel. His background, his family, where he lived, what he read, what he did in his spare time! Any detail about him was interesting to her.
She began impatiently clearing away the evidence of her meal. Couldn't she think of something else? That afternoon she worked on next week's film schedule, noting down new ideas for scenes, frowning over the script and worksheet.
At six she went upstairs to have a shower before getting dressed. After putting on filmy black silk bra and panties, richly trimmed with lace, then a matching black chemise, with a deep band of lace at the hem and neck, she wriggled into a very brief black dress. Armless and almost backless, it began just where her breasts began, leaving a tantalisi
ng glimpse of white flesh, then clung all the way down to just above her knees, so tight it was a second skin.
Staring at herself in it, she hesitated—was it too daring for a private party? She had bought it to wear on public occasions, film functions, award ceremonies, times when she would be on view, when the paparazzi would be swarming and reporters around. It was a dress to dazzle, to catch the eye, make people look twice, maybe three or four times. It was a dress to be seen in!
She had only worn it once or twice before, and she knew it was not a dress you could relax in. Men stared too much, especially if you forgot and bent forward even a little so that they saw more of your breasts.
Should she change into something less daring? She looked at her watch, groaning. No, there was no time; it was seven now and Mark and Sancha would arrive before she got her make-up on if she didn't hurry.
Cautiously perching on the edge of her dressing-table stool, she began to smooth foundation over her skin with her fingertips.
As she had suspected, her sister and brother-in-law arrived promptly. Hearing their car grate over the gravel, Zoe took a last look at herself, grimaced, then fled, grabbing up her black velvet cape and black velvet evening bag from the bed as she ran.
When she opened the front door there was a silence, then Mark gave a long wolf whistle, his brows rising.
Sancha said, 'That dress is…' Words appeared to fail her for a second, then she took a long breath and said, 'I've never seen you wear it before—did you buy it specially for tonight? It will certainly make Connel sit up.'
'And beg,' Mark dryly murmured.
'I didn't dress for Connel Hillier,' snapped Zoe. 'And it isn't new. It's the dress I bought in the spring, when we were up for a Best New Feature Film award, which we should have won, but which was stolen from us by…'
Sancha's eyes widened and she interrupted. 'Oh, yes, I remember! I caught a glimpse of it while we were watching the television news coverage of the awards.'
'I wasn't on the TV programme! As we didn't win, they weren't interested in us,' Zoe bitterly said.
'No, but when they announced the nominees for that category they scanned the tables of each film up for the award, and I saw you, with the rest of the people in your film, the actors, and Will, and your assistant, whatever her name is…but as you were sitting down I didn't realise the dress was so…'
Her voice tailed off.
'So what?' demanded Zoe, bristling. 'What's wrong with this dress?'
'Not a thing,' Mark said, grinning wickedly, looking her up and down, from her wild red hair to her creamy, naked shoulders and the smoothness of her half-covered breasts, down over the tight black dress to her long, sleek legs and small feet in expensive Italian black leather high heels. It's scrumptious, positively delicious. You'll be fighting men off all evening.'
'Would you like me to get one just like it?' Sancha asked in a chilly voice.
'You? Certainly not,' he said, frowning. 'You're my wife, a respectable married woman—I don't want other men eying you in public, and if you wore that dress they would.'
