A Scandal Made At Midnight

‘Where’s Liane?’

Alessandro glanced behind Ella, where waiters were prepping trays of champagne for yet another gala, this one at the Rossi Hotel in Mayfair. He was so very tired of these parties, and yet he’d been looking forward to seeing Liane in the gown he’d bought her tonight. Looking forward to it quite a lot, in fact, no matter what he’d told himself about them being friends.

‘She decided not to attend,’ Ella replied with a careless shrug. ‘The flight tired her out, apparently.’

‘She’s had all day to recover.’ They’d taken a redeye from LA to London, and he’d offered the jet’s bedroom to Liane and Ella, preferring to work through the night and then doze in a reclining chair. There had been very little opportunity to talk during the eleven hours from LA to London and yet now he realised that, even so, Liane had been rather pensive and quiet. Had she been avoiding him after their discussion yesterday? Why, when they’d finally cleared the air? Unless, of course, they hadn’t.

Ella raised her eyebrows. ‘What does it matter? Unless you want her to feature in today’s posts? I could take a photo of her, lying in bed with a cloth to her head, you hovering by her bedside...’ The smile she gave him was disconcertingly knowing.

‘No, of course not.’ It was a ridiculous idea, and in any case he couldn’t care less about the stupid social media posts, even if they were achieving exactly what he’d intended them to. ‘I simply expected her to be here.’ Wearing the gown he’d bought for her, that made her look like a Greek goddess come to life—Persephone, perhaps, or the nymphs Echo or Thetis... Good grief, but he needed to get a hold of himself. ‘Is she unwell?’

‘I think she might have a bit of headache.’ Ella cocked her head, looking at him speculatively, one hand planted on her hip. ‘If you want, you could go check on her before the party starts. Make sure she’s okay.’ Her eyes danced. ‘I think she’d appreciate it.’

‘I’m sure there’s no need,’ Alessandro muttered, turning away. He needed to stop thinking about Liane. He’d thought they’d reached an understanding, an equilibrium, yesterday afternoon, when he’d made it clear they would not be taking their relationship anywhere, if they even had a relationship, which they didn’t, but clearly his brain hadn’t got the memo because he’d been thinking of nothing but her all day.

Still, he realised as he began to circulate among the arriving guests, he was annoyed and even worried that she’d decided to be a no-show. What was really going on? Was she hiding again, or what if something was wrong? What if she was ill? He frowned, considering the matter. Ella had said she had only a bit of a headache, but what if it was something more? What if she was upset? He’d been a bit brusque yesterday, perhaps. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings, but neither had he wanted to give her any hope.

The most expedient thing to do, he decided, was to check on her. Five, ten minutes, max, and then he’d be back at the party. He strode through the hotel, mindless of the guests glancing his way. Soared upwards in the lift to the top floor where Liane and Ella were staying in one of the two royal suites, a sudden sense of urgency firing his long strides, the thudding of his heart. Hammered on the door.

‘Liane?’ he called. There was no answer and he rapped again sharply. ‘Liane! Answer the door!’

‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ Sounding harassed as well as a bit alarmed, Liane flung open the door and stood there, chest heaving, face flushed, as she stared at Alessandro in irritated confusion. She was wearing a soft jersey T-shirt that clung to her slight curves and a pair of tracksuit bottoms that hung loosely from her hips. A single white-gold plait lay over one shoulder and her eyes sparkled like amethysts. She looked, Alessandro thought, irresistible.

‘What on earth is wrong?’ she exclaimed, at the same time he cut across her,

‘Why didn’t you come to the ball?’

‘Because I’m not Cinderella,’ she shot back, ‘and I had a headache.’

‘But the gown—’

‘I’ll wear it in Paris. You didn’t want me to wear the same thing at each party, anyway.’ She shook her head slowly, her expression caught between exasperation and weariness. ‘Why are you looking so furious? Just because I’m not downstairs to do your bidding?’

He stared at her for a moment, completely discomfited. He was acting like a madman. Why had he raced up here? Why was he so angry? Not with her, he realised, not with her at all, but with himself. She drove him crazy...and that was his fault. He was allowing his emotions to be engaged, to be overwhelmed, by this slip of a woman. No matter how they’d allegedly cleared the air in LA, he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

‘I... I don’t know,’ he said, his tone wondering, incredulous. This was so unlike him, so unlike everything he prided himself on being. Restrained. Controlled. Level-headed...

‘You don’t know?’

No, he realised, the problem was he did know. He knew all too well. And as Liane stood there, gazing at him in confusion, he closed the space between them, taking her into his arms, feeling the rightness of her body against his, slender and supple and pliant. He bent his head, his lips a fraction of an inch from hers, and heard her inhale sharply. Then, with a tiny sigh, she softened against him. And he kissed her.