A Wild Affair

'Why do you think I'm not looking forward to it? I shall feel like a clown.'

'You certainly don't look like one,' Lilli assured her. 'Quincy, believe me, you look fantastic.'

The doorbell rang and Quincy stiffened, biting her lip. 'That will be them.' Her hands curled at her sides, her nails digging into the soft skin of her palms as she grimly considered her reflection in the mirror. How would Joe look at her?

'I'll go,' said Lilli, paused, came back and gave her a quick kiss. 'Remember, you look beautiful.'

'Thanks, Lilli,' Quincy said gratefully. She needed all the confidence-boosts she could get tonight. Lilli walked out and the door opened, followed by Carmen's high clipped tones. Quincy turned slowly and reluctantly to leave the room. She found herself face to face with Joe as she came out of the door. He was frowning as she appeared, but the frown vanished and his face tightened as he looked at her. Quincy could not read his expression. He looked at her with a blankness which defeated her attempt to guess at his reaction.

'There you are!' said Carmen. 'Give her the flowers, Joe.'

Joe's hand came out holding a small cellophane-wrapped box. Quincy automatically took it and the flashlight of the photographer exploded in her face, blinding her. When she could see again she looked at the spray of flowers inside the box, forcing a smile.

'How pretty!'

'Take t

hem out,' Carmen commanded. 'Joe, pin them on her, would you? That would make a nice shot.'

Quincy's fingers fumbled helplessly with the lid of the box. Joe leaned forward and removed it for her, scooped out the spray of pink orchids, and, holding them, moved closer. Quincy looked down, her lashes drooping against her hot cheek, as his fingers took a fold of her gown so that he could pin the flowers to it. She stood frozen in intense awareness as his cool fingers brushed the warm flesh of her half-exposed breasts. He was standing so close to her that their bodies almost touched, she heard his breathing above the ragged sound of her own. The photographer took pictures, moving around them. Through her lashes Quincy took in the elegance of Joe's evening clothes; his wide shoulders smoothly filling a beautifully tailored jacket, his long legs moulded by the matching trousers. His shirt was white, a ruffle of fine lace tumbling down the front of it, which gave him something of an eighteenth-century look, and which emphasised the brown, sun-tanned skin and the jet of his eyes.

'The car's waiting outside,' Carmen reminded them as Joe stepped back, having adjusted the flowers to his satisfaction.

'Have a good time,' said Lilli with a certain sarcasm in her voice, and Quincy gave her sister a drowning, pleading look.

Joe intercepted it, his brows meeting. As they left he let Carmen and the photographer go on ahead and slowed his own stride, murmuring to Quincy: 'What's wrong? Nervous?'

She gave him a quick look. 'Scared stiff—do we have to have that photographer hanging around all evening?'

Joe frowned again. 'I'll speak to Carmen,' he said as they came out into the street.

A silvery-blue limousine stood in the yellow lamplight and a chauffeur in a peaked cap and dark uniform saluted as he opened the passenger door for them. Quincy was helped into the back by Joe amid further flashlit excitement, the photographer darted around the car clicking away like a computer.

They drove through streets shining with a sudden spring rain, the windows of the limousine spattered briefly before the rain stopped, the tyres hissing as they moved over the wet road surface. When they climbed out in front of the Ritz, Quincy's eyes skipped down Piccadilly, which was ablaze with lights, faintly blurred by the recent rain, the street lamps glimmering along the edges of the park which was plunged into darkness, the trees whispering in the wind. Joe took her arm, his fingers warm, and guided her into the hotel entrance.

Nervously Quincy walked beside him up the short flight of steps into the elegant Edwardian atmosphere of the Palm Court bar, her eyes absorbing the streaked pink marble of columns, the potted palms and gold-leaf decorations which were reflected in enormous mirrors giving the spacious room an impression of even greater width. The head waiter greeted them with a smile, led them to a table at one end of the room, and Joe seated Quincy on the brocade-covered couch, seating himself beside her. Champagne in a silver ice bucket was waiting for them, the bottle masked by a white damask napkin.

'Shall I open the champagne now, sir?' the waiter asked. A tall, elegant man with black hair, he gave Quincy a friendly smile as he poured the straw-coloured wine into her glass, but although she smiled back she was still too aware of Carmen and the photographer to relax. Joe waited until the waiter had moved away, then leaned forward and said to Carmen: 'That's enough for the moment, isn't it? Why don't you two come back in an hour and get a few pictures of us at dinner, then we can enjoy our meal in peace?'

Annoyed, Carmen began: 'But…'

'Off you go, Carmen,' Joe interrupted, his tone firm, and, with a scowl, she walked away with her photographer at her heels.

Quincy gave a long sigh of relief. Joe's dark eyes slid sideways, amusement in their depths. 'Feel better?' he asked with a slight mockery behind his voice, as though Quincy's nervous dislike of being watched was foolish. No doubt it was, she thought, as she sipped her champagne and let her gaze wander around the room, but she couldn't relax while she was conscious of the photographer, whose antics had already attracted far too much attention to them. The bar was crowded, all the other tables already occupied, and she saw several well-known public faces, but although people had clearly recognised Joe this was not the sort of place which encouraged clients to make a public display or show curiosity in any of the famous guests. People politely looked away, pretended not to have noticed them.

The tables were small, topped with grey-streaked marble, with pink velvet-upholstered chairs around them. One side of the rectangular room was dominated by a small fountain whose centrepiece was a rocky edifice surmounted by golden figures, naked nymphs and mermaids, with fretted green ferns around the base.

'How do you like the Ritz?' Joe asked, watching her over the rim of his glass.

'It's very ornate,' Quincy said doubtfully.

He laughed. 'The decor is a mixture of Art Nouveau and Baroque. The hotel was built seventy-five years ago. Cesar Ritz was a Swiss who already had a luxury hotel in Paris—both of the Ritz hotels were built to give the same air of timeless elegance. One day you must see the Paris Ritz—you can eat your dinner in a beautiful little walled garden, with fountains playing, and white statues standing under plane trees—it's a very romantic setting. They have a pianist playing Gershwin in the bar and 'Stars in the sky…' He grinned at her, wicked teasing in his face.

'You can order the stars from the menu, I suppose,' Quincy retorted.

'At the Ritz you can get anything you want,' Joe mocked. His glance moved sideways to touch the waiter refilling their glasses with champagne. 'Isn't that so, Mr Michael?'

'Certainly, sir,' the waiter agreed with a twinkle.