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The words hung in her mind, mingling with those he’d spoken just now. Teasing her. Tempting her...
She took a mouthful of her cocktail.
And promptly choked.
Grabbing a nearby paper napkin, she clutched it to her lips. ‘Oh, my God! What’sinthat?’ she exclaimed hoarsely.
A laugh broke from Dante. ‘You mean apart from the maraschino cherry and the slice of orange, and the added sugar? Well, Angostura bitters for bite, and a hefty slug of cognac for punch. It’s the cognac that gives it its kick,’ he said kindly.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said again. ‘I thought it would be just champagne diluted with juice. You know...orange or peach or something.’
‘That’s a Buck’s Fizz or a Bellini,’ Dante informed her. His eyes met hers, and once again the high-voltage charge of terror mixed with excitement went right through her. ‘But this moment definitely calls for something with a kick.’
Something changed in his expression...something she could not read this time.
‘Just as you have given me a kick I never thought was possible, Connie.’
He reached his hand out to her just lightly, touching the fall of her hair, then dropping back. Then he tapped the rim of his glass against hers again.
‘Drink up.’ He smiled. ‘But this time just sip, OK?’
Bravely, Connie did just that. She was ready for the kick this time.
Ready for so much more...
And those butterflies soared again, iridescence in their wings.
Dante was still in something of a disbelieving daze. His incredulous eyes kept going to Connie across the table in the hotel restaurant, where they had repaired once she had cautiously finished her champagne cocktail, and he—much less cautiously, for he’d felt strongly that he needed something to deal with what was coursing through his veins—had demolished the rest of his martini.
His gaze went to Connie yet again, as though magnetised. He’d guessed that with some pampering and new clothes she might look different from the way he’d become used to, but this...
Her upswept hair, tinted a rich mahogany, was styled so that delicate tendrils whispered around her face, and her eyes, already deep and blue, with the aid of subtle make-up were now so much deeper and so much bluer that he blinked. Her mouth was accentuated with rich lipstick and her delicate cheekbones sculpted with blusher. And, of course, there was that stunning cocktail dress in shimmering shades of peacock-blue and green which skimmed lovingly over her svelte curves and was utterly perfect on her.
Oh, the whole impact was just as he had exclaimed—amazing.Somewhere deep inside, at the very centre of him, he felt a low, dark purr start up.
But he didn’t want to over-focus on the physical impact she was having on him. He knew very well that there was more to her than that. Oh, she was still Connie as he had come to know her—natural and unpretentious and open and sweet-natured—but now... He tried to give words to his thoughts. Now he could see a glow about her—a new confidence, a sense of vitality that she’d been missing. It was as if she were rediscovering, reclaiming, something of her own. Something that had been put aside in her years of caring for her grandmother.
She can look forward to the future now—with new confidence in herself, new assurance, new hopes and prospects.
He was glad for her—and he said as much now.
‘I feel this is the beginning of something new and exciting for you, Connie,’ he said. ‘And you deserve it—you truly do.’
He lifted his wine glass, took an appreciative sip of the expensive vintage. He wanted Connie to have a wonderful evening, to celebrate this fresh start to her life.
‘Tell me, have you any thoughts...ideas...about what might come next for you?’
For a moment he thought he saw something in her eyes—but it was gone before he could identify it.
‘Well, I feel a lot fitter—thanks to all those weeks at the resort—and with more energy too.’
Her voice changed, and again Dante felt there was something in it that he could not quite place.
‘I know that with Gran gone I have to look forward now. Pick up the reins of my life again.’ She frowned a little. ‘I’m just not really sure quite yet what I want, or how to go about it.’
He took a forkful of his melt-in-the-mouth lamb.
‘You used to tell me that you’d once considered doing a Master’s degree,’ he reminded her. ‘Is that still a possibility? An ambition?’
