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The only formal party she had ever been to in her life was her high school prom. This was far out of her league, but to her surprise she felt comfortable. The clothes were better, the food more exotic, the people more serious and aware of their own importance, but all in all the same dynamics applied: polite chitchat, polite laughter, the constant mingling. The politicians worked the room while the lobbyists worked the politicians. Everyone wanted something from someone else.
Her French had rapidly returned, once she heard it spoken again, but then French had been her best language. Ronsard had spoken in English, however, so that was how she had answered him. She doubted he was a man who ever let anything slip, but if he thought she didn’t understand him he might be a little careless in what he said. It wasn’t her intention to hide the fact that she spoke the language, though, as that was too easy to give away, and he would immediately be suspicious.
She had to avoid any appearance of being interested in him. Quite the opposite, in fact. He had to make all the moves, so he couldn’t suspect her of maneuvering for an invitation to his villa. But at the same time she had to show she liked him, or she wouldn’t have a reason for accepting.
In her favor was the fact that other women fawned over him. She would stand out in his mind because of her very lack of response. Men liked a challenge, and she was going to give him one.
The dancing started, and she let herself be steered around the floor by the first person who asked, who happened to be the boring gentleman she had been talking to earlier. He pumped her arm as if he expected her to spout water out of her mouth, and all the while he enthused about thoroughbred racing. She smiled and made an occasional comment, and he was happy.
Next the ambassador claimed a dance. He was a stately gentleman with silver hair and a sweet smile, a little shorter than his wife, but with a smooth tact that made her instantly comfortable. He spoke to her as if she were indeed an old friend of the family, chatting on about friends they supposedly had in common, a vacation their families had once spent together when she was a child. She wondered if one of the qualifications to an ambassadorship was to be a consummate liar, because he excelled.
After the dance with the ambassador ended, she excused herself and went to the ladies’ room, where she killed as much time as she could. She didn’t immediately return to the ballroom, but mingled in the oth
er rooms, speaking to those people to whom she had already been introduced. If Ronsard really wanted to dance with her, he was going to have to find her.
He did. A warm hand closed around her elbow and he said, “You promised me a dance.”
Niema hesitated. A small silence fell around them. Everyone knew who he was, of course, and waited to see if she would snub him. She saw his eyes begin to narrow, and into the silence she said, “Are you certain you want to risk your toes?”
Relieved chuckles rippled around them. His face relaxed, and a slight smile curved his lips. “My toes would be honored.” He held out his hand, indicating the direction of the ballroom.
She walked calmly by his side, ignoring the hand that settled on the small of her back. The orchestra was just beginning a number slower than the others had been, and she realized that he had waited and chosen his moment—either that or bribed the orchestra.
“I thought you were going to refuse me,” he said in a low voice as his arm closed about her waist and he swept her into a gliding circle. He held her closely enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, the movement of his legs against hers, but not so close that she would be alarmed and pull back.
“I was.”
One dark eyebrow arched, his expression sardonic. “Why didn’t you?”
“A dance won’t hurt me,” she said calmly.
“Neither will I.” He looked down into her face, his tone gentle. “I assume Madame Theriot warned you against me.”
“Understandable, don’t you think?”
“Understandable, but unnecessary. I mean you no harm.”
She didn’t respond to that, her expression serene as he swept her around the floor. He danced with a grace that made the exercise effortless, and she thanked God that her parents had insisted she take dance lessons in high school even though she would much rather have learned how to hang glide; at least she wouldn’t embarrass herself. A socialite would know how to dance, after all.
When she made no effort to pick up the conversational ball, he asked, “Are you just visiting, or have you been employed at the embassy?”
“Gracious, no!” She looked amused. “Visiting, only.”
“For how long?”
“No definite time. A few weeks.”
“That isn’t much time,” he complained softly, looking down at her with such apparent masculine interest that a woman would have to be blind to miss it.
“Monsieur Ronsard—”
“Please don’t be alarmed. You’re a lovely woman, and I would like very much to see you while you’re in Paris. That is all.”
“There’s no point in it.” She looked away, staring at a point over his shoulder. She made her tone gentle and faintly sad.
He firmed the guiding touch of his hand on her back, pressing his palm against her. Her gown was fairly low cut in back, and his fingers brushed her bare skin. “There is always a point to pleasure.”
“I don’t seem to be very good at pleasure these days.”
