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Under the flash of paparazzi cameras, we enter the hotel as swiftly as possible. Max ignores the questions shouted his way, so I follow his lead.
“Who’s with you tonight, Max?”
“What’s your name darlin’?”
“Are you wearingMdV,love?”
He tugs on my hand, squeezing lightly in silent question. I squeeze back:I’m fine.
Relieved to be out of their view and camera range, I admire the festive, tree-decked hotel entrance. “Can we decorate your house for Christmas?” I ask, knowing I’ve already helped Tilly Christmas-ise her house.
“Will you stay with me over Christmas?” he asks. “I want to spend it with you.”
And because I’m an all in kind of gal, I say, “I’m sure I can split my time.”
He stops walking, eyeing me critically. “Your family won’t mind?”
“Tilly will understand,” I assure him.
He cups my face, kissing me softly. “You’ll get lipstick on you,” I warn with a laugh. He just grins, kissing me again quickly before taking hold of my hand and tugging me deeper into the hotel.
We stop at the official, sponsor-adorned area while a photographer takes several pictures of us. Max’s arm comes around my waist, so I slot one behind his and smile for the camera. Afterwards, we move to the ballroom, a hundred or so people already milling around or congregating in small clusters, a large number of them recognisable faces from TV, entertainment and society in general.
“Oh, there’s that TV show host—What’s-His-Face—and that actress looks familiar.”
“You don’t seem very star-struck,” Max notes.
“That’s more Mum’s style,” I grumble.
A red-coated waiter approaches, Max picking two flutes of champagne from the salver balanced on his gloved hand. “To tonight,” he toasts, clinking his glass to mine.
A dark-skinned woman in a burgundy gown approaches, her red-stained lips pulled into a wide smile. A clipboard is held in her hand. “Mr. De Vries. How lovely to see you again.”
“Lindsey, please call me Max.”
Lindsey smiles happily.
“This is my girlfriend, Ava Rivas. Ava, this is Lindsey Elba, the fundraising manager for the charity benefiting tonight.”
Earlier, as I took in the extravagant room, I couldn’t help but notice some discreet advertising banners for survivors of sexual assault. “A very good cause,” I say, meaning it.
“Thank you, and lovely to meet you.” She turns to Max. “We received your donation—thank you again. Your support means everything to us. The auction will begin after dinner and last an hour or so. We have thirty-one items. There are detailed lists at your table for when you bid,” she adds enthusiastically.
As she heads off, I ask, “Will you be bidding on anything?”
“Have a look and let me know what I should buy.”
“Dangerous words Mr. De Vries.”
“Maximilian,” he teases back. “I’ve still yet to hear that by the way. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
I chuckle, scanning the crowd in case I recognise any other famous people. It turns out several of them know Max; he’s approached by dozens of stars—mostly women I note, some of them wanting to point out that they’re wearingone of his.
“There’s one to bid for,” he says each time, encouraging them to be generous at the auction.
Eventually, we head towards our candle-lit table where an extravagant flower arrangement towers above crystal glasses and bottles of wine. I glance at the menu when a man greets Max with cheery affection.
“Ava, meet Tariq Ali. Tariq, my girlfriend, Ava Rivas.” There’s the briefest pause before he slides his arm around my waist, adding, “Look, but don’t touch.”
