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Heat spread through her veins like wildfire.
‘I don’t think you see me clearly,’ she said after a moment.
‘No?’
‘I’m very good at not being seen.’
His laugh was husky. ‘It’s quite charming that you think so.’
She shook her head a little. ‘I don’t really understand...’
‘You are a beautiful young woman with hair the colour of desert sand and eyes like the sky. Even in this boxy uniform, you are very, very noticeable.’
She stared at him for sever
al seconds, pleasure at war with uncertainty. Remember Max, she reminded herself. He’d noticed her. He’d praised her, flattered her, and she’d fallen for it so fast she hadn’t stopped to heed any of the warning signs. And look how that had turned out!
‘Thank you.’ It was stiff, an admonishment.
He laughed. ‘You are not good with compliments.’
She bit down on her lip, their situation troubling her, pulling on her. ‘I should go.’
He reached a hand out, pressing it to her knee. Her skin glowed where he’d touched her, filling her with a scattering sensation of pins and needles. ‘No more compliments,’ he promised. ‘Tell me about yourself, Daisy Carrington.’
Her eyes flared wide. ‘How do you know my surname?’
‘I asked my chief of security.’
‘How...?’
‘All hotel staff are independently vetted by my agencies,’ he explained, as though that were no big deal.
Her lips parted. ‘Then I suspect you know more about me than I realised.’
‘It’s not comprehensive,’ he clarified. ‘Your name, date of birth, any links to criminal activity.’ He winked. ‘You were clear, by the way.’
Despite herself, she smiled. ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘May I call you Daisy?’
‘So long as you don’t expect me to call you anything other than Your Highness,’ she quipped.
‘Very well. So, Daisy? Before you started working here, what did you do?’
Her stomach clenched. Remembered pain was there, pushing against her. She thought of her marriage, her divorce, her acceptance to the Juilliard, and pushed them all away. ‘This and that.’ A tight smile, showing more than she realised.
‘Which tells me precisely nothing.’
‘I worked in hospitality.’
‘And it’s what you have always wanted to do?’
The question hurt. She didn’t talk about her music. It was too full of pain—pain remembering her father, and the way he’d sat beside her, moving her fingers over the keys until they learned the path themselves, the way she’d stopped playing the day he’d left. And then, when her mother was in her low patches, the way Daisy had begun to play again—it was the only thing she had responded to.
‘It’s what I gravitated to.’
‘Another answer that tells me nothing.’
