Cass laughed as Quentin took hold of her hands. He had relaxed her—and he had surprised her by turning out to be the best fun. Every time she had worried that she couldn’t pull this off, Quentin had shaken her out of it. He was just the best at bolstering her confidence. With a purse of his lips, or a tweak of her hair, he’d made everything seem that it might be all right. This was one occasion when first impressions were most definitely wrong. Quentin had turned out to be a real fairy godmother.
‘You look beautiful,’ he said.
‘Why don’t I believe you?’ She pulled a face.
‘I have no idea,’ he protested. ‘Nigel? Mirror, please...’
The room felt silent and she was stunned.
‘Well? Say something, sweetie,’ Quentin prompted.
She couldn’t. She was too full of emotion. She was normally so down to earth, and yet after years of trying to blank out the past she was seeing not herself, looking spruced up and almost passable in the mirror, but her mother instead. Had her mother felt like this—like a chicken being prepared for the feast? She could remember enough to know that her mother had tried so desperately hard to keep the interest of Cass’s father, and that to do that she had been forced to compete with much younger groupies. How helpless she must have felt...
‘Sweetie?’ Quentin prompted anxiously. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ she said, lifting her chin and adding a smile. Quentin and his team had worked so hard that she owed it to them to put a good face on this. ‘I can’t thank you enough,’ she said to him and to everyone else.
To her embarrassment and amazement people started clapping, until the whole room was ringing with applause.
‘Well, I can’t pretend it’s been easy,’ Quentin admitted with a sigh. ‘But I suppose it’s a mark of my genius that you’ve turned out as well as you have.’
* * *
Where the hell was she? He had waited long enough. He glanced at his watch and then at the door. The event was being catered at his penthouse in the centre of Rome. One hundred carefully selected sponsors were attending. They would be raising a lot of money for the charity tonight, and everything had to be perfect. Cassandra could not be late. They’d be sitting down to dinner soon, and it was unthinkable that he would have an empty place next to him.
His internal rant ended abruptly when Cassandra entered the room. Everyone stopped talking and turned to look at her. His mind blanked completely. She looked stunning. Where had that poise come from—that enchanting smile that lit up the room? He was more used to seeing her up to her elbows in mud, leaning on a pitchfork handle.
She saw him at once and smiled, but her eyes were wary as she darted a glance around the room. This was not her comfort zone, though she was a good actress and stepped forward with apparent confidence. Only he had seen the momentary falter in her step; everyone else was riveted by the sight of her. But why was she alone? Where were his people?
He felt protective suddenly, and held his breath as she walked towards him. It was then he realised that Cassandra didn’t need anyone to escort her, and that she could hold everyone’s attention without any effort at all.
‘So you got here eventually,’ he said curtly as she halted in front of him.
‘Good evening to you too,’ she murmured, extending her hand. ‘I wasn’t in a position to speed things up.’ Lifting her chin, she held his stare steadily. ‘I think I presented the beauticians with more problems than they had anticipated.’
He ground his jaw, admiring her even more for her honesty. ‘I doubt that.’
‘I’m sorry if I’ve kept you waiting,’ she added. ‘This sort of transformation takes a lot of time. Do you approve?’
Her concern on this point at least was genuine. Did he approve? So much he wanted to tell everyone to leave.
‘You’ll do,’ he offered coolly. She looked magnificent. She looked like a queen—like a goddess, a fact that hadn’t been lost on any man in the room.
‘Do I look good enough?’ she prompted, with real concern in her voice.
‘Of course you do,’ he said shortly. ‘Can you really imagine Quentin setting you free unless he was completely satisfied?’
At last she laughed. ‘I suppose not,’ she confessed, smoothing her hands down her dress.
The gown was composed of some floating sky-blue fabric, cunningly cut to mould her ripe figure. He would give the designer a bonus on top of his extortionate fee for designing a dress so perfect for Cassandra. The shade of blue brought out the colour in her eyes, and while the neckline was higher than he would have preferred, maybe he was wrong in thinking it should be lower. As it was now, it hinted at the treasures underneath without revealing them. He found this more provocative than putting everything she had in such lush abundance on show.