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‘After...?’ he checked.
After the extended foreplay, she wanted to say, but thankfully remained silent.
‘God, no. It was nothing like that. We were just dancing,’ Julius said, and Beatrice wished she could question his choice of the wordjust, because the images were so sensual and graceful and compelling. ‘Admittedly,’ he added, ‘I don’t know how we got onto Latin American, but clearly we did...’
‘Clearly.’
Now she had another thing to add to her thirtieth birthday. Even if she didn’t go through with it, Beatrice wanted to add dancing to that phantom list for that phantom night.
She tried to haul her mind from Cuban-heeled boots and all the other things she’d never done, yet which somehow Julius had made her consider.
And she didn’t quite know why.
Arrogant, haughty, cutting—that didn’t evenbeginto describe him.
He was sounrepentant.
So contrary.
For he could be so rigid and formal, yet conversely so at ease with himself.
And so damned sexy too—which was the very reason she was employed, after all.
And, although he was supposed to be lying low, they could hardly ban dancing—although Beatrice did have one genuine concern.
‘These are seriously good photos.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I mean they weren’t taken on a phone. These are professional shots. How did anyone get close enough to take them? Where was your security?’
‘There were boats all around. My mistake.’
‘Well, I don’t see any issue. It just looks like you enjoyed your weekend.’
‘The issue is...’ There was a pause, a rare beat of reticence, before he spoke on. ‘They weren’t taken at the weekend.’
For the first time since meeting him she sensed his discomfort. ‘So?’
‘These were taken on the first anniversary...’ He paused. ‘Of Claude’s death.’
She thought back to the wooden, formal man she had met at her final interview, then looked at the photos, and struggled to reconcile the two men. Perhaps she was starting to know him better...
Knowhim?
A tiny bit. Enough to understand that these headlines hurt him, even if he would never admit it.
‘Okay.’ Beatrice looked again at the pictures, with this new information on board. ‘So, these were taken on the anniversary of Prince Claude’s death.’
‘Yes, I attended a formal service that morning—though apparently I was faking my solemn mood then.’
‘So, you’re only allowed one emotion a day?’
Beatrice raised her eyebrows and he gave a silent, mirthless half-laugh, as if relieved that she got it.
Lately, she did.
Beatrice herself had only used to feel two things: cold and lonely.
