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“Do you need to?” He murmured, crouching down and holding the dress for Finn to stand in to.
Despite her misgivings, the dress had a power all of its own. She couldn’t resist. She moved her feet through the opening and, as Caradoc eased it gently up her body, she felt like Cinderella. Except Caradoc was no fairy godmother.
He zipped the back deftly, and she squashed the traitorous thought that he seemed too familiar with the anatomy of a dress such as this. Caradoc stepped backwards to study her and then disappeared again. He retuned with two boxes. One was clearly shoes, and the other was black velvet.
“I brought my own shoes. They’ll be fine.”
He placed the black velvet box on the foot of the bed and then opened the shoe box. “Let’s see about that, Cinderella,” he echoed her earlier thoughts with such clarity that Finn startled. The shoes were, of course, in a different league to anything she owned. They were a rose gold, and she recognised the name from the pages of Vogue magazine.
“Well?” He asked softly, collecting the final box once more.
“Well,” she said with a shrug. There was a mirror behind him, and in it she caught a glimpse of her reflection. Was that really her?
“Finally,” he said, handing the black rectangle to her with a lack of ceremony that sat at odds with his degree of preparation. Her fingers trembled as she opened it, and the sight of diamonds and emeralds inside made her chest squeeze. “This isn’t real?”
Caradoc’s expression was droll. “What do you think?”
“I think … it’s beautiful, but way too much.”
“It’s just enough,” he assured her with the sort of complacent arrogance that convinced her she was just the last in a long line of women he’d treated to a similarly awe-inspiring seduction. It was all too easy for him.
He was suave, he was like an American James Bond, only without the gun and enemies lurking at every corner.
“Where are we going?” She couldn’t take her eyes off her appearance.
“My mother’s birthday.”
Her eyes flew to his face. “Oh, Caradoc. No.” She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” he said, as though her objection was of little importance.
“Seriously, no. I don’t belong there.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a family thing,” she said weakly.
“You’ve spent the last week in my bed. You’ve become some kind of idol to Maddie. You don’t think you’ve already crossed that line?”
Whatever did he mean? A
nd how did he feel about that? She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified to imagine that perhaps she’d been pushing herself on him and intruding.
“Stop over-thinking everything,” he demanded wearily. “I live and die by my decisions, and still I make them in a fraction of the time you do! Why can you not let your impulses rule? It will be a night of food, wine, dancing and life. Believe me, Finn, after the last week, I want nothing more than to feel alive.”
He didn’t say that one thought that had been niggling at him all day – never had he felt so alive than when holding Seraphina in his arms. He couldn’t acknowledge the thought because it absolutely terrified him, and Caradoc Moore was not a man to live in fear.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sasha Moore – she used the surname despite the fact she’d been remarried several times, most recently to a Bollywood actor – was the very definition of glamour. She was celebrating her sixtieth birthday but she could easily have been mistaken for Caradoc’s sister rather than his mother. Her hair was a glossy, sunflower blonde, and her flesh was golden all over.
Outside, snow threatened the skies of Manhattan, but inside the five star hotel, it was warm and cosy. The room wasn’t filled. It was an elegant gathering of perhaps eighty acquaintances, rather than a mad crush of revellers. Each and every one of the women wore dresses similar to Finn’s – expensive, and with so much fabric that they made whoosh, whoosh noises as they walked. With a few notable exceptions of course. There was a handful of women wearing very little at all – two of them she recognised from one of those fly-on-the-wall reality shows where spoilt rich kids spend time with the plebs of society and attempted to blend in.
Seraphina had always found such a concept to be endlessly demeaning and insulting, and she made sure to avoid getting caught in the same circle of conversation.
Sasha was, as one might expect, the centre of attention. Her gown was gold and jewelled, and figure-hugging to her knees, where it kicked out like a mermaid’s tale.
“She’s beautiful,” Finn observed in a muted undertone, not speaking to anyone in particular.
