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How the hell was he going to keep his hands to himself?
Made of pleated chiffon, her dress was the same blue as the sea where it hugged the coastline. It had a high neck with some kind of ribbon tie, and an ankle-skimming hem, but in between it clung to her body like moss to a rock.
And as she moved towards him, on silver heels that added three inches to her height, he caught a glimpse of smooth, bare thigh and realised that despite its demure length there was a leg-showcasing slit in the swirling skirt.
She stopped in front of him, teetering a little on the thick rug.
He had assumed she would put her hair up. But it was loose, casual, spilling over her bare shoulders in a way that made her look young and fresh and sexy. And then there was that intoxicating but not in-your-face scent she wore, which made all five of his senses shiver at once.
It was impossible to look and not touch and, reaching out, he ran his finger along her collarbone.
‘You look beautiful.’ Make that exquisite, he thought, watching the flush of colour flare along her cheekbones. She really was his Cinderella.
She touched his lapel lightly, one of those tentative, sanity-sapping smiles pulling at her mouth. ‘So do you.’ Now she bit into her lip. ‘I didn’t keep you waiting too long, did I?’
‘I’d wait all night for you.’ It wasn’t something he could have imagined himself doing, much less saying to any other woman, but he wanted to say it to Effie.
Her eyes met his. ‘Thank you. I was just taking a few photos. To show my mum later.’
He nodded and held out his arm.
Over the last few days, they had talked about her mum, and he’d learned that before her stroke Sam had been a beautician. And even after her stroke she’d been a good mother. It was Sam who had encouraged Effie to launch her perfume business. And it was Sam who had refused to let Effie take care of her after the second stroke.
She had nothing. No partner to support her. No money. Poor health. But she wanted the best for her daughter.
His chest tightened. Somehow, he didn’t think that this sham engagement would come under that heading.
Outside, the helicopter crouched like a dragonfly on a waterlily pad, and he helped Effie climb inside. Was that why he felt so on edge? He stared through the glass at the darkening sky. Possibly. Or more likely it was the thought of being on the mainland, within spitting distance of Andreas’s huge fabled waterside mansion.
The old familiar ache spread through his chest like an oil spill from a crippled tanker.
A mansion he had yet to visit.
Not that his father was even there, he thought as the helicopter began its descent. At their last meeting—only the second in his life—Andreas had told him that he had a horse running in the Kentucky Derby and would be watching the race in person.
If Andreas had been coming tonight, he wouldn’t even have mentioned the ball to Effie. It was too soon for her to meet the father he barely knew. And it was more than that. Once Effie met his father, their relationship would be like a ticking time bomb. All of this—the two of them together—would have to take a back seat, and he wasn’t ready for that to happen just yet.
His father’s absence should have calmed him, only he couldn’t seem to shake his unease...this nervousness that had never troubled him before.
As the helicopter landed, he felt Effie’s body tense and, glancing through the window, he saw that the red-carpeted steps to the observatory were hemmed in on either side by a phalanx of press and photographers.
Instantly he felt a rush of relief at having found an explanation for his uncharacteristic jitters. Always before he had been with a woman for whom this was the norm, but this was all new and probably terrifying for Effie, so naturally he was worrying about her.
‘It’s okay.’ He reached for her hand. ‘They can’t go inside.’ His fingers tightened around hers. ‘And I know it looks scary but it’s really quite easy. Think of it as a dance. All you have to do is stop, smile, wave and turn.’
She nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘Oh, and one more thing.’ He pulled her closer and kissed her softly. ‘Don’t let go of my hand.’
Head spinning, Effie followed Achileas along the covered roped-off walkway. Beneath the tented ceiling it felt like a cocoon, but as she stepped outside white light exploded on every side of her. She flinched, blinking. She had seen people walk the red carpet on TV countless times, but she’d had no idea it was like this—so intense, so intrusive.
‘Don’t let go of my hand.’
It was the last thing Achileas said to her before the car door had opened. Not that she’d needed telling. Blinded by the camera flashes, she hardly knew which way was up, and his hand, firmly threaded through hers, was the only thing keeping her on her feet. His other hand was curved around her waist, and she let him guide her forward—and then he stopped.
Stop. Smile. Wave. Turn.
‘Well done,’ he whispered against her ear.
