A Scandal Made At Midnight

Alessandro Rossi narrowed his eyes in speculation as he surveyed Ella’s stepsister, who had stopped abruptly in front of him, her chest heaving. He realised he was enjoying the sight, more than a bit. Her hair had tumbled from its pins and lay over her shoulders in disordered silvery-gold waves. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling—not so colourless after all, then. Right now she looked vibrant and alive, like a tiny, perfect jewel.

‘Where’s Ella?’ she demanded breathlessly.

‘I have no idea.’ He lifted the glass shoe he’d found lying on the step, like some sort of art installation or perhaps a weapon, glittering under the streetlights. ‘She left this, though.’

Liane stared at the high-heeled shoe with a flash of recognition, as if she’d seen it before. ‘She left it?’

‘So it would seem. It was lying rather artfully on the steps as I came out. Just the one, of course, like the fairy tale.’ A deliberate ploy? But what on earth for?

Liane pressed her lips together and then gave a short nod of acceptance, perhaps understanding. Alessandro’s eyes narrowed further. He’d sensed the connection between Ella and her stepsister; Ella had spoken about her with careless affection, while Liane seemed to have appointed herself as Ella’s minder. ‘Do you know what this is about?’ he asked, his tone turning terse.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I get the feeling something is going on. Something has been planned.’ And if there was one thing he hated it was being used for someone else’s purposes. He would not be that boy trotted out into the living room years ago, obediently hugging his mother and father while everyone watched and his parents pretended. No, never again.

‘Nothing has been planned,’ Liane said, but she sounded cautious. Uncertain.

Alessandro didn’t know how or why, but something about this whole bizarre scenario felt like a set-up. Why had Ella run off like that, without so much as a word? She’d made such a scene, sprinting through the ballroom, her hair and dress both flying out behind her. Rather fetching, really, if a bit clichéd and overdone. A bit staged. What was really going on? ‘Do you know where Ella went?’ he asked.

‘No.’ She pressed her lips together and again Alessandro felt there was something she wasn’t saying. Something about this whole situation definitely felt off, and he intended to find out what it was. He was not about to be played, not by Ella, not by her mousy stepsister. Not by anyone.

‘Are you sure?’ She nodded, and he gave her a measured look. Was he being fanciful in seeing something vulnerable and strangely touching in the determined tilt of her chin? In any case, he needed to get to the bottom of this absurd little drama—and quash it. ‘Why don’t we conduct this conversation somewhere a bit more private?’ he suggested, his tone as cool as hers.

Something sparked in her eyes, although the look she gave him was guarded. ‘And where would that be?’

‘I have a private suite in the hotel.’

A huff of maidenly suspicion escaped her in a gust as her body straightened, practically twanging with indignation. ‘Your private suite!’ The words were full of outraged incredulity, almost making him smile. She sounded like a scandalised spinster.

‘It is fully staffed, and has a study,’ he assured her, ‘but if you’re worried for your virtue, as far as I’m concerned the hotel bar will do just as well, trust me.’

Colour flared more deeply in her face. ‘I’m not sure what more I can tell you,’ she answered stiffly, ‘but as I am concerned for my sister, I would certainly like to hear your account of the evening.’

So she would take him to task! Again he had the urge to smile; he found, bizarrely, he was enjoying her display of spirit. Virago more than mouse, then. ‘Very well,’ he said, and gave a little courtly bow. ‘After you.’

With her head held high—and even then only reaching a bit past his shoulder—she marched past him, back into the hotel, while Alessandro followed, pocketing the shoe.

The hotel bar was a comfortable bastion of leather and mahogany, tucked in the back of the lobby, the only person in sight the weary bartender polishing glasses behind the bar. He snapped to attention when Alessandro stalked into the space, lifting two fingers and pointing to a bottle of whisky glinting in the cabinet behind him before guiding the woman to a discreet nook in the back.

‘I realise,’ he said as he sat down and the woman perched stiffly opposite him, her back ramrod-straight, ‘that I don’t actually know your full name.’

‘Liane Blanchard.’

‘You’re French?’ She nodded. So he’d been right about that accent. For some reason this pleased him. ‘What are you doing in New York?’

‘I thought you wished to discuss my sister.’

‘It’s all relevant, I assure you.’

‘Is it?’ Again with that chin-tilt, the flash of violet in her eyes. She might have been pale and small but she still had fire, even if he wondered whether she realised she did. ‘Perhaps I should be the one asking the questions.’

‘Oh, do you think so? And why is that?’

‘Because my sister ran off into the night, clearly distressed—’

‘On the contrary, she wasn’t distressed at all.’ Alessandro cut her off, his tone turning cool as he recalled Ella’s bizarre antics. ‘We were having a discussion and she suddenly took off, without a moment’s notice.’

Liane cocked her head, scepticism evident in her eyes. ‘Just like that?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. Just like that. And left this shoe.’ With mocking deliberation he placed the shoe on the table between them. ‘Now that is what I call a ridiculous shoe.’

A smile burst across her face like sunlight and then disappeared. He found he was grinning back just for a second, everything in him lightening despite his instinctive suspicion. ‘All of Ella’s shoes are ridiculous,’ she conceded, ‘but these more than most, it’s true.’

He didn’t miss the deep affection in her voice; clearly the sisters were close, and yet so very different. Ella had been bubbly and gregarious, laughing and light and easy to talk to, if a bit, well, insipid. He’d been bored, but not as bored as he usually was, and the paparazzi had almost certainly taken the publicity shots they’d needed. He’d been ready to call it a night before Ella had decided to, by sprinting out of the ballroom.

And meanwhile Liane was quiet and contained, yet with those beguiling flashes of fire, those incredible eyes...still waters ran deep, and Alessandro supposed hers ran very deep indeed.

The bartender appeared with the bottle of whisky and two glasses and Alessandro tossed the shoe onto a chair to make way for their drinks.

‘I don’t drink whisky,’ Liane informed him coolly after the bartender had left.

Unperturbed, Alessandro poured a finger of whisky in each glass. ‘There’s always a first time.’

She folded her arms and attempted to stare him down. ‘You’re rather...controlling, aren’t you?’

‘I prefer to think of it as being hospitable.’ He proffered her the glass, and after a second’s pause she took it. ‘But by all means don’t drink if you don’t want to. It seemed rude not to offer you a whisky when I’m having one myself.’ And with that he took one long, burning swallow, grateful for the heat hitting the back of his throat.

Liane put her glass down without giving it so much as a sniff. ‘I’m worried about my sister,’ she stated almost defiantly.

‘I told you,’ he replied calmly, ‘she was in no way distressed. At all.’