A Cinderella To Secure His Heir. Michelle Smart

       CHAPTER THREE

      THE GUESTS POURING into the ballroom made a spectacular sight. The dress code was formal, but with an invitation to be colourful, and the guests had taken it at its word. Dresses every colour of the spectrum were there, the ladies resembling creatures from a fairy tale of long ago, the men dashing in their rich long-tails. The masks, all hand-crafted, ranged from simple yet hauntingly beautiful pieces that covered only the eyes to elaborate, bejewelled face-covering creations. It was a sight that made Beth’s heart soar.

      As the guests lined the sides of the great ballroom, ladies to the left, gentlemen to the right, a quartet of ballet dancers from Compania de Ballet de Casillas performed a short opening dance to welcome them, before gracefully leaving and being replaced by two-dozen professional ballroom dancers.

      The professionals danced the first waltz alone and then the master of ceremonies instructed the gentlemen to choose a partner. Soon, four hundred people filled the floor, the dresses whirling in a wonderful kaleidoscope of colour.

      For the next dance, the ladies got to choose their partner. Only one man refused to relinquish his dance partner, and as that man was Giannis Basinas himself no one was going to argue the point with him.

      From that moment, the evening passed in a blur, and Beth found herself able to breathe properly.

      She regularly monitored the other rooms, unobtrusively checking and double-checking everything, ready to instruct a team member to fix the tiniest imperfection.

      She had lost track of time when she made another return to the ballroom and received a tap on the shoulder.

      Spinning around, expecting to find a male guest requesting a dance—something she had had to decline four times already—her heart leapt into her throat to find Valente standing before her, two flutes of champagne in his hands.

      He held one out to her and bowed his head. ‘For you, my lady.’

      Much as she would have liked to pretend otherwise, Beth had been alert to his presence the entire evening. Every small glimpse had set her pulses thumping.

      She blinked away the effect of his emerald eyes boring into her and the drumming effect playing in her head, echoes from her thundering heart. ‘That’s kind, but I don’t drink when I’m working.’

      ‘You are officially off the clock as of now.’

      She rolled her eyes and strove to keep her voice light-hearted. ‘I’ll be off the clock at four in the morning when the ball finishes.’

      ‘I have spoken to Giannis. He is exceptionally pleased with how well everything is going. Now is the time for you to turn your work head off and enjoy yourself.’

      ‘Is that what you’ve been doing?’ she asked. ‘Enjoying yourself? Because I haven’t seen you do anything that looks like work.’

      ‘Dance with me and I’ll tell you all about it.’

      ‘Valente, I’m working. I can’t dance.’

      ‘I told you, you are officially off the clock. Your work is done. Your assistant can take charge. Your instructions now are to enjoy yourself.’

      ‘Is that an official order?’

      ‘Assolutamente.’ A wicked gleam flashed in his eyes that made her belly melt all over again. ‘And the first official order for enjoying yourself is to drink this glass of champagne. The second is to dance with me.’

      Valente was the intermediary between Beth and Giannis. He spoke for the Greek billionaire. If he said she was off duty then it had to be true.

      Romance filled the air within the palace. The thought of joining the happy revellers on the dance floor with the most handsome man there was far more appealing than it should be.

      When he offered the champagne to her a second time, she took it from him and brought the flute to her lips. The bubbles exploded in her mouth. ‘If you’re lying to me and I get a rollicking for skiving off, you can pay the bonus I’ll forfeit.’

      ‘You will not forfeit the bonus.’

      He sounded so confident in this assertion that Beth relaxed enough to laugh.

      Lines appeared on his handsome face as he grinned, the only imperfections on a face that could have been designed by a renaissance master. And the lines weren’t even imperfections, serving to enhance the gorgeous face she could not help herself from drinking in.

      He held his flute to hers.

      She chinked hers to it. In unison, they drank.

      Valente placed the empty flutes on the tray of a passing waiter then held his hand out to her. ‘Time to dance.’

      But still she hesitated.

      She wanted to dance with him. She wanted it more than she should. And that was the cause of her hesitation.

      What if he wanted more than just a dance?

      And why did that thought make her skin tingle as if a thousand electric ants were zipping through her veins?

      Through the years Beth had been asked to dance by countless numbers of men. Valente was the first man she had wanted to say yes to.

      She reminded herself about all the event staff she’d seen through the years involve themselves with rich clients or the client’s staff or guests. When alcohol flowed freely, inhibitions loosened and hedonistic pleasure became the aim. She would not be like the poor events staff she’d observed through the years fall for the practised patter, kidding themselves that the attention was anything more than an eye for the chance of a willing body for a night’s pleasure, discarded and forgotten when the sun came up.

      Beth had come to distrust rich, powerful men. In her experience, they were the worst for treating women as commodities.

      Domenico had been the only rich man she’d met who hadn’t treated women like that. He’d loved Caroline and had treated her with the utmost respect.

      But Domenico had forfeited his riches out of loathing for his rich, powerful family. He’d preferred to be poor and happy than rich and cruel like his brother, Alessio. His stories about what went on behind the closed doors of the rich and powerful had only hardened Beth’s distrust of the elite.

      Valente was not a rich man. The power he exuded was a figment of her imagination.

      The dance had finished, the guests pairing off again for the next one.

      ‘Enough stalling,’ he scolded. He took the matter out of her control by taking hold of her hand and marching her to the dance floor.

      ‘I really can’t dance,’ she warned, laughing, although unable to understand why she was laughing.

      What harm would one dance do? It wasn’t as if she were agreeing to marry him!

      He guided her to possibly the only empty space on the floor. ‘It is easy. I will teach you.’

      ‘You can dance?’

      ‘Si. Follow my lead and you will be fine.’ He bowed. ‘Now you must curtsey.’

      Laughing again, she curtsied then allowed him to take her right hand in his left.

      She took a quick peek at where the other women were placing their left hands and placed hers on Valente’s bicep. It was rock-hard.

      The laughter died in her throat when he slipped his right hand around her waist and pulled her to him. Her nose was level with his neck. The scent of his cologne coiled through her and something else, something like warm treacle, pooled low in her abdomen and with it came a flash of the dream she’d had of him, of them...

      Slowly she raised her head to meet his eyes. The amusement that had been in the emerald gaze just moments ago had died.

      After