Innocent Cinderella. Julia James

expected some comment when she emerged from the bedroom, but he just flicked her with a glance and nodded abruptly.

      Not that she wanted his approbation. God forbid. But still…

      She said, ‘I didn’t know what to do with my hair.’ She touched its shining fall, reaching, straight as rain water, to her shoulder blades with a self-conscious hand. ‘Whether or not I should try to put it up, perhaps.’

      ‘It looks fine.’ He walked to the door. ‘Shall we go?’

      ‘Whose party is this?’ she asked, eventually breaking the silence as she sat beside him in the black cab he’d summoned with such irritating ease. ‘Or is it strictly on a need-to-know basis?’

      ‘It’s being given by the boss of Torchbearer Insurance, a major client of ours,’ he said after a pause.

      ‘And is your agency doing a good job for them?’

      ‘The best,’ he nodded.

      ‘Then you should be among friends,’ she said. ‘So why trail a strange girl along with you?’

      His mouth twisted. ‘Call it—a different kind of insurance,’ he said. ‘Personal liability. And perhaps I should ask you a few questions before we get there—for a start, how old are you?’

      ‘Twenty.’ Telling him straight seemed better than some coy evasion.

      ‘You look younger.’

      So the carefully applied make-up hadn’t supplied one atom of sophistication after all, she thought, and stifled a sigh.

      ‘And what do you do for a living—when you’re in work?’

      ‘I’m a secretary,’ she said. ‘I do agency work here in the UK and Europe. I’m good with computers, and I speak French and a smattering of Italian. I also book restaurant tables, make excuses on behalf of my employer, send flowers, organise travel and collect dry-cleaning.’

      ‘My God,’ he said. ‘You sound like a wife.’

      She played with the chain on her bag. ‘Doesn’t Lynne do all that for you?’

      ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But she’s actually going to be a wife, probably thanks to my specialised training.’

      Somehow the outraged gasp she’d intended turned into a giggle. ‘I wouldn’t let her hear you say that.’

      ‘Neither would I,’ he said, and grinned back at her. ‘So, what happened to the job? Was the restaurant overbooked? Did the flowers fail to arrive?’

      Her throat tightened; she didn’t look at him. ‘There was a—misunderstanding which couldn’t be resolved.’

      There was a pause, then he said drily, ‘I see.’

      No, she thought, you don’t. But it’s still too new, too raw for me to talk about. And, even if the memory is still capable of making me feel sick to my stomach, you are the last person in the world I could ever confide in anyway.

      She hurried into speech. ‘Maybe you should tell me how I’m supposed to address you this evening. I can hardly go on saying—“Mr Radley-Smith.”’ She hesitated. ‘Do I call you Rad, as Lynne does?’

      ‘That’s for working hours,’ he said. ‘In my more private moments, I prefer Jake. So make it that, please.’

      She bit her lip, thinking the last thing she wanted was to be part of any of his private moments. She said tautly, ‘I’ll—try to remember.’

      And when all this is over, she thought, I’ll try even harder to forget.

      The party was being held at the Arundel Club, just off Pall Mall. The entrance hall was like a grand foreign church, complete with classical statues, and Marin, self-conscious about the clatter of her heels on the wide marble staircase, wondered if she ought to tiptoe instead.

      At the top of the stairs, they turned left into a wide corridor carpeted in dark blue. There were alcoves at intervals along the entire length, some with a small, gilded table displaying either a large and elaborate piece of antique ceramic or a flower arrangement, while others were occupied by small armchairs upholstered in gold-and-ivory stripes.

      Jake Radley-Smith indicated a door on the right-hand side. ‘The women’s cloakroom,’ he said laconically. ‘You might want to check your wrap.’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I probably should.’

      As she stepped inside, Marin was engulfed in a high-pitched chatter, and a clash of expensive perfumes. Handing over her shawl, she was aware of two girls next to her glancing at it, and then looking at her, before exchanging faintly derisive smiles.

      No, she told herself. They’re quite right. I don’t belong here. I’ll just have to keep thinking of the money and that will get me through.

      She fussed with her hair for a minute or two and applied a touch more lipstick, waiting for the crowd to clear.

      When she emerged into the corridor, Jake Radley-Smith was standing a few yards away, frowning at a large, predominantly brown landscape occupying the wall between two alcoves.

      She made herself walk towards him and forced a smile. ‘I’m ready.’

      ‘Somehow,’ he said, ‘I rather doubt that.’ As she reached him, he took her by the shoulders, spun her into the nearest alcove and kissed her very slowly, and extremely thoroughly, that astonishing mouth moving on hers with an expertise that turned her legs to water, and almost—almost—had her clinging to his shoulders to steady herself.

      ‘What the hell,’ she said furiously when she could speak, ‘was all that in aid of?’

      ‘Window dressing,’ he told her calmly. ‘Nothing to get uptight about. But I’m not usually seen with anyone who looks quite so untouched, and people might wonder.’

      ‘You,’ she said, her voice shaking, ‘don’t have to be seen with me at all. This was your idea. Not mine.’

      He said, ‘Then consider the kiss an afterthought.’ He smiled at her. ‘And it’s worked. You look just ruffled enough for people to wonder.’

      Then he took her hand and walked her briskly to the end of the corridor, where a pair of double doors stood ajar, and ushered her into the room beyond before she could think of a crushing remark—or anything to say at all, for that matter. Because ruffled was hardly the word to describe the welter of emotion churning inside her.

      The President’s Room was vast, ornate, brightly lit and full of people, all of them talking above the efforts of a string quartet to play Mozart.

      Almost as soon as they got inside, a male voice called, ‘Rad—good to see you. I’ve been wanting a word.’

      For a moment, they were surrounded, then suddenly her companion was gone, drawn forward on a wave of greetings into a group of other men and hidden behind a wall of suits.

      Which meant, thankfully, that she now had her hand back, so all she needed to do was try to recover her breath, along with some much-needed composure. And not touch a finger to her tingling mouth to see if it was really as swollen as it felt.

      Mr Radley-Smith was clearly someone who intended even the least of his kisses to be remembered, she thought, swallowing. And his casual riposte of ‘window dressing’ was also going to linger in her mind for some time to come. As would ‘afterthought’.

      More than time for Operation Camouflage, she decided, unclenching her fists in order to take a glass of fresh orange juice from a proffered tray and looking round for sanctuary.

      The crowd seemed to be drifting in the direction of the long buffet tables, where chefs in tall, white hats were waiting to carve from an enormous turkey as well as joints of beef and ham, for a moment, Marin’s stomach lurched in longing. But she resisted temptation, telling herself