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‘Maybe you’ll be off duty long enough to try one at the party.’ Suddenly it seemed important that she would be. That Clara might take just a couple of minutes off to enjoy the evening.
‘I’ll be needing my wits about me, then. Just in case you decide to slip away under the cover of the night.’ Her smile told him that she was only half joking.
‘Yeah... Look, I’m sorry about this afternoon, Clara. I didn’t think.’
She turned to him, eyeing him coolly. ‘You didn’t think? I reckon that thinking is exactly what you did do.’
Gotcha. He was caught in the web of her gaze, and it was impossible to make anything more than a half-hearted effort to free himself. ‘Maybe...’
He tried to turn away and she caught his arm. ‘There’s no maybe about it. You made a calculated decision to go alone, because you thought it would be the best thing for Mike. You put him first, even though it meant taking a risk, but you’d prefer to charm everyone into believing that you’re just reckless.’
‘And my charm doesn’t work on you.’ Gabriel turned the corners of his mouth down in an expression of mock chagrin. Somehow it felt hollow in the face of Clara’s honesty.
‘I imagine your charm works on me...in much the way it should.’
Nicely avoided. ‘I’ll take that thought up to my study with me. I’ve a few calls to make before I get ready for this evening.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONE THING THAT you could say about Gabriel was that he knew how to give a party a lot of class. His guests couldn’t arrive too early or too late for him, and he greeted each one of them as if they’d come at exactly the right time. Everything was going smoothly, oiled by Gabriel’s ability to make everyone that he spoke to feel that they were the only person in the room.
Clara watched as he welcomed a Parliamentary advisor, complimenting her on her dress and effortlessly disengaging her from her husband’s arm. She was introduced to Alistair and Clara heard him answering her questions about the charity’s newest initiatives while Gabriel kept her husband busy. The teamwork was seamless, and equal to anything her own team could accomplish.
It was easy to watch him. Less easy to tear her gaze away from him. It took practice to put the right people together, and to make it all seem so effortless.
Finally, Gabriel saw the last of his guests off and they were the only people in the room.
‘Would you like a drink now?’ He walked into the kitchen, where rows of bottles containing every kind of spirit and flavouring had been lined up on the counter. ‘Seems a shame to let fresh peach purée go to waste. Although maybe Bellinis aren’t your style.’
‘I shouldn’t really have a drink at all.’
‘You’ve been on duty for sixteen hours now. Clock off and give the night guards their turn.’ His smile was enticing.
‘Okay. What is my style, then?’ Clara sat down on one of the high stools next to the counter.
‘I think...’ His brow furrowed in thought. ‘Nothing too sweet and no bubbles, but not bitters either.’ He selected bottles from the range in front of him, pouring the ingredients into the cocktail shaker without measuring them. Clara raised her eyebrows.
‘I think it’s better to measure by instinct. Each occasion is different.’
‘Of course. Silly me for expecting anything else.’
He grinned at her, giving the cocktail a good shake before pouring it. With a final flourish he added a twist of lemon peel to the rim of the glass.
‘An Aviation.’ The delicate violet colour from the crème de violette was unmistakeable. ‘You’re going old-school, then.’
‘I prefer to think of it as a classic.’ Gabriel set the glass down in front of her, watching Clara intently as she took a sip.
‘Mmm. Perfect, thank you. That’s a very good choice. Shame you’ll never be able to re-create this.’
‘Don’t you think that adds something?’
Somehow it did. She’d never have this moment again, and it was something that she should allow herself to savour. The taste of a cocktail and Gabriel’s dark eyes. She took another sip, and felt the effect of both going straight to her head.
‘Let me mix something for you.’
* * *
Clara looked wonderful. Most women had at least one little black dress in their wardrobe, and many of the women tonight had opted for a variation on that theme. Clara’s was quite plain, and beautifully cut so that it took nothing away from her curves. Her hair was caught back in a loose chignon, its colour the only lift that her outfit needed. If her aim was to blend into the background, she’d failed miserably.
