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François Dessida, a short, wiry man with thick, flowing brown hair, greeted them with a short but effusive torrent of French, which Draco answered flawlessly. Introductions were made, a few Gallic shrugs thrown in the mix, then François clicked his fingers. As if by magic, the maître d’ appeared with a discreet camera.
Rebel found herself wedged between the two men, Draco’s hand back on her hip as he dragged her close enough for there to be no doubt as to their intimacy. Resurrecting her smile, she held her pose through several snaps, then exhaled in relief when François clicked his fingers again.
Wishing them a pleasant evening, he disappeared back into his domain.
By the time the maître d’ showed them to their table, having stopped at a few tables when Draco returned greetings, Rebel felt as brittle as glass and just as transparent.
Her smile was fracturing at the edges and with each brush of Draco’s hand on her—a gesture he seemed bent on repeating often in this insane charade—her insides clenched tight.
The moment they sat down and he’d dismissed the maître d’ with their wine order, he leaned forward.
‘What’s wrong?’ he breathed smoothly, but she caught the steely edge in his voice.
‘Can we dial down the touchy-feely stuff, please?’ she whispered.
‘The idea is to exhibit that we’re utterly besotted with each other. That involves a degree of contact.’
Thankful they’d been seated at an intimate table away from the nearest guests, she replied, ‘But not three thousand degrees of it. Can we not be a couple who are discreet about their PDA?’
‘To all intents and purposes, I’m about to propose to you tonight. We’re starting what will become one of the most memorable nights of our lives. And you expect me to keep my hands off you?’
Her mouth dropped open. ‘You’re about to propose?’
‘That’s generally how engagements happen,’ he replied.
‘No, I meant...you’re going to do it here?’ Her gaze darted around only to confirm they were still the subject of great interest. Anxiety clawed up her chest. Which was absurd because all this was make-believe.
‘You don’t seem pleased about it,’ he quipped.
Struggling for composure, she threw on a mock pout. ‘I guess because you’ve ruined the surprise. Now I have to sharpen my acting skills even more.’
He reached across the table and took her left hand. ‘I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion admirably.’ Raising her hand, he kissed her ring finger.
The flash of a phone camera a second later confirmed the reason for the gesture. But it didn’t stop her belly from flipping over with a mixture of anxiety and dread. The moment he set her free, she drew her hand into her lap and curled it into a fist. She was fast becoming aware that she wasn’t as immune to Draco Angelis’ touch as she’d assured herself she was. The chemistry she’d denied so vehemently last night was alive and well, and growing with each passing second.
Draco’s stellar performance continued throughout their appetiser and main courses. He tucked into his plate of braised veal and roasted vegetables soaked in red wine sauce, while she pushed her truffled chicken escalope around her plate, taking the occasional bite when he sent her a speaking look. By the time the course was over, the food had congealed in her stomach.
‘Something on your mind?’
‘You asked for my A-game. I don’t think I can bring it. I’m not sure I can pull this off,’ she blurted once their wine glasses had been refilled.
He inhaled sharply, his eyes snapping with displeasure. ‘I suggest you find a way to make it happen. We’ve set the ball rolling on this. It’s too late to change your mind now. Even if your father makes a triumphant return and you somehow find yourself with another windfall, you still have an agreement to fulfil.’
The remnants of wine she’d just swallowed turned sour in her mouth as she twisted the wine-glass stem between her fingers.
The sensation of falling deeper into a bottomless chasm grew. She jumped when Draco leaned closer. ‘He hasn’t returned, has he?’ he enquired.
Pursing her lips, she shook her head. ‘No, he hasn’t.’ Despite her calling him every free moment she’d had today, her phone remained silent.
‘Has he done this before? Disappeared without a trace?’
Pain dredged through her. With every fibre of her being, Rebel wished she could answer in the negative. ‘Yes, he’s done it before.’
Draco’s gaze sharpened. ‘When?’
‘When...when my mother died. After her funeral, he left home. He didn’t return for three months.’
