When she flashed Lance a torn look, he took her arm within a steadying grip and steered her over to the sales desk. Five minutes later he was bundling her into a taxi for the short ride back to his hotel.
He seemed to know not to speak to her during this brief journey, or in the hotel lobby, or even on the lift ride which carried them up to the honeymoon suite. Angie was grateful for his silence, aware that she was incapable of making sensible conversation at that moment.
The lift doors opened, and before she knew it she was standing at a heavy wooden door while Lance inserted the key into its brass lock. For the first time her mind turned to what the honeymoon suite might look like. She wasn’t sure what to expect after the decor downstairs, but it wasn’t what met her eyes when Lance pushed open the door and ushered her inside.
Everything was white or cream or gold. White walls and furniture, cream carpet and curtains, gold lamps and cushions. There was quite a bit of glass too. All the table-tops were glass. One whole wall was glass, with a splendid view of the harbour bridge and surrounds. A huge crystal and gold chandelier hung from the ornately plastered and very high ceiling.
‘Oh!’ she gasped on entering, all carnal desire momentarily pushed to one side. ‘What a lovely room!’
It was more than just a lovely room. It was a honeymoon suite to exceed all honeymoon suites. Gracious. Spacious. And touchingly romantic. Angie moved in somewhat of a daze through the large sitting-area into the dream of a bedroom. She stared at the huge white four-poster bed, with its flouncy lace valance, the pearly satin quilted spread and the multitude of small lacy cushions propped up against the four satin-covered pillows. Truly a bed fit for a bride on her wedding-night.
‘You like it?’ Lance said softly, coming up from behind her and curving his hands over her shoulders.
‘It... it’s exquisite,’ she managed to get out in a strangled tone. Oh, God, she wasn’t ready for this. She’d thought she was but she wasn’t. She was petrified. Almost literally! She felt like a frozen piece of wood. Or a statue.
‘Try to relax,’ Lance suggested softly, and bent to kiss her on the neck.
Angie stiffened even further. ‘I... I need to use the bathroom.’
Lance’s lips left her constricted throat and she practically fled into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.
For a long moment she leant against the door, her eyes shut, her heart thudding. When at last she opened her eyes it was to take in the largest bathroom Angie had ever seen. And the most opulent. Great expanses of creamy gold-veined marble, with three vanity bowls, an enormous shower, a sunken spa bath, plus a matching toilet and bidet.
She shook her head at the gold taps which were in the shape of cupids, the water being shot out of their arrows. She was also stunned by all the other provisions. Every conceivable complimentary item was supplied, from ‘his and her’ hairdryers, to toiletries, toothbrushes and tissues. A telephone hung on the wall next to the toilet. The towels and robes were plush and white, small satin cupids embroidered on various corners and pockets.
This was not a honeymoon suite for any old Darby and Joan from Woop-Woop, Angie conceded. This was a honeymoon suite for a multimillionaire. One night here would cost a mint.
A new burst of nerves really did necessitate a brief using of the toilet and bidet, after which Angie got a grip on herself and returned to the living-area. There, she was amazed to find Lance in the process of filling two crystal flutes from a bottle of champagne. An elaborate silver ice-bucket was resting on a side-table, along with a huge platter of assorted fruits, cheeses and crackers. None of these things had been there, Angie was fairly certain, when they’d come in.
Or had she just not seen them? Had she been so full of blind passion when she’d first walked in that she’d been oblivious to such minor details? It was possible. She’d been ready for anything back then. Now, the time delay, plus a resurgence of nerves, was dampening her desires, making her worry that she might make a fool of herself.
Lance had had so many beautiful women—all undoubtedly more experienced than herself. His wife had been absolutely gorgeous—a young Elizabeth Taylor, with black hair, creamy skin and wide violet eyes. Helen’s ultimately proving to be a slut did not lessen the fact that she must have known everything there was to know about pleasing a man in the bedroom. Lance would not have married her if he hadn’t been very satisfied in that regard.