The Virgin's Debt to Pay
Pascal Blanc hurried over to him at that moment, shaking his head and smiling. ‘Luc, this is incredible. Nessa is a sensation; it’s all people are talking about, wondering who she is and where she came from. You’ve both been invited to a function this evening in Dublin, celebrating the racing industry in Ireland. I don’t think I need to tell you how important this is.’
Luc knew exactly how important it was. So far the industry here had largely been closed to him socially, but one win with an outsider filly and a beautiful young female jockey and suddenly he was being granted access.
Yes, said a voice. This is it. And yet now that the moment had arrived, all Luc could seem to think about was not the potential for acceptance at last, but what Nessa would look like in a dress.
* * *
‘Is it really necessary for me to attend?’ Nessa’s gut was churning.
‘Yes, it is,’ Luc said, looking frustrated. They’d returned to the racing stables after the race and Luc had just informed Nessa about the function in Dublin that night.
She couldn’t even begin to describe the trepidation she felt at the thought of some glitzy social event. She’d never been a naturally girly girl and her few experiences of dressing up had invariably ended in failure when she’d seen how wide of the mark she was with current trends.
There’d been one memorable incident in university when she’d gone to a party and a girl had said snarkily, I didn’t know it was a fancy dress party. After that, Nessa had given up trying to fit in. She wasn’t cool, or fashionable, or blessed with any innate feminine wiles or sensuality. Luc had proved that in no uncertain terms.
‘I don’t have anything suitable to wear to an event.’
 
; Luc glanced at his watch. ‘I’ve asked a stylist to come from a local boutique with a selection of dresses. She’s also bringing someone to look after hair and make-up.’
Nessa felt as if a noose were tightening around her neck. Luc was still dressed in a three-piece suit, in deference to the dress etiquette of the races. It was distracting to say the least, especially in the way that it seemed to be moulded to his muscles.
‘Why is it so important that I go? I’m just the jockey. They won’t know who I am.’
Luc took out his mobile phone and, after a few seconds of swiping, handed it to Nessa. She gasped. It was a headline on an online racing journal. Two gorgeous fillies triumph at the Kilkenny Gold Stakes! And there was a photo of a beaming Nessa astride the horse, being led around the winner’s enclosure.
‘Unfortunate headlines aside, you’re a sensation. Everyone could see, just from that race, how talented you are.’
Nessa handed the phone back, feeling a little sick. She’d wanted to do well, but she’d never expected this level of attention. The euphoria of the win was draining away to be replaced with anxiety. She’d never liked being front and centre, and certainly not in an environment outside her comfort zone.
Her sister Iseult had struggled with this kind of thing too, but she’d since blossomed into a poised and elegent Sheikha of Merkazad. Even so, she had confessed to Nessa that she still found it hard sometimes to pretend that she was comfortable with dressing up.
But Nadim loved her no matter how she looked or what she wore. A pang lanced Nessa to think of their bond. She felt very alone all of a sudden.
‘What’s wrong?’
Luc’s question jolted Nessa out of her reverie. He was frowning down at her, and she hated the thought of him seeing an ounce of the vulnerability she felt. She was being ridiculous. It was just an event.
She tipped up her chin. ‘Nothing is wrong. What time should I meet the stylist?’
‘They’ll be here within the hour. I’ve asked Mrs Owens to move you to a bigger bedroom suite to accommodate you getting ready. We may have more events like this to go to. I’ll meet you at the front of the house at seven p.m.’
* * *
Nessa looked at herself in the mirror and blinked. Was that her? She felt the same inside, but on the outside she looked like a stranger. Her hair was pulled back on one side and trailed over her other shoulder in a rippling cascade of glossy waves. She wore a shimmering black dress that clung to her shoulders in a wide vee, and showed what felt like acres of pale flesh.
It was gathered under her breasts and fell in a swathe of material to the floor. Under the dress she wore spindly delicate high heels that made her walk with her chest out and with an unnatural arch in her back.
Her make-up was discreet, at least, but it made her eyes look huge. Her lips glistened with flesh-coloured lipstick.
The stylist stood back and looked at her critically. ‘You look stunning, Miss O’Sullivan.’
‘Call me Nessa, please,’ Nessa said weakly, feeling like a fraud.
The stylist looked at her watch as the hair and make-up girl tidied up her things.
‘It’s almost seven p.m. You should go down to meet Mr Barbier.’ The stylist winked. ‘What I wouldn’t give to swap places with you right now. He is gorgeous.’