Flora wandered through into the little nooks and crannies of the downstairs of the hotel, all beautiful cozy sofas and soft lighting, large open fires everywhere. She felt very warm from the room and the noise and the dancing and the smooth whisky now coursing through her veins.
Suddenly, over the back of a sofa, she spotted his glossy nut-brown hair, and round the side, the shiny dark outline of his shoe and the long line of his trouser leg, his expensive suit, immaculate as always, so different from the rest of the men in kilts. Just himself. Just Joel.
And it flashed across her mind once more the way he had looked at her when she was dancing—it was just a split second, but she hadn’t been imagining it, had she? Had she? God, what the hell was she doing?
Slightly drunk, she forgot everything else. Forgot the rest of Mure beyond the doorway; forgot Charlie, waiting to dance with her again; forgot that she was meant to be sticking by Colton’s side, loyally listening to him and introducing him to everyone and getting people onside. She forgot everything except her proximity to Joel, to this man she had wanted so much for so long. And now they were a thousand miles away from everything else in their normal lives, everything that mattered to him—whatever that was.
She had come here to please the firm. She had left Mure to please her mother. She had stayed away because . . . because she hadn’t known what else to do. Flora felt like a boat sometimes, tossed about on the tide, not sure where she was going to end up or why. Suspecting that she would look back on her life one day and not really remember making the choices that she had made.
The fire crackled enticingly; the noise of the party faded behind her. He hadn’t seen her; his head wasn’t moving.
Flora breathed in. This wasn’t like her at all. She didn’t feel in the least like herself. But even if it was just for tonight . . . when she wasn’t feeling guilty, or down, or like a bad daughter, or out of place. When she was feeling good, feeling that she deserved something, that her hard work was paying off. When people were getting what they wanted. Couldn’t she?
She bit her lip nervously one last time, then stepped forward.
“Joel?”
“Flora! Hi! Great to see you!”
Chapter Thirty-five
Inge-Britt Magnusdottir rose to greet Flora, assuming she was looking for her boss, although Joel hadn’t mentioned that she might want to speak to him. Not that Inge-Britt had been listening particularly; she’d been nestling suggestively in the huge sofa, concentrating on his flat stomach and long thighs and wondering how soon would be too soon to suggest they leave and go back to the Harbor’s Rest. Inge-Britt had a very straightforward approach to what she felt like doing, something that Joel, in his turmoil, had been appreciating. This was territory he understood.
“Inge-Britt!” said Flora, completely wrong-footed and going instantly brick red. She felt like she wanted to cry. She did want to cry, very much. “It’s great to see you!”
“Well, everybody’s here, so I wasn’t going to be doing too much business tonight,” said Inge-Britt, smiling. “You never mentioned that your boss was so . . . interesting.”
“Didn’t I?” muttered Flora.
Joel couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Was she annoyed with him? Disappointed? Did she want him? He wanted . . . more than anything he wanted, suddenly, to take that pale hair in his hands, to pull her into his arms. He wanted to sleep with her, of course he did. Joel wanted to sleep with most people. But it was more than that. He wanted to talk to her. He wanted to comfort her; he wanted his sadness to touch hers; he wanted to share.
Joel had never wanted to share. When you have no toys, you cannot learn to share.
He shut it down. He didn’t lift his head.
“You need me?”
Yes, she wanted to say. I need you. I need something pure. I need good sex and the sensation of choosing something for myself, of not waiting to be chosen. I need to be myself; to sleep with someone people wouldn’t think was right for me; I need to be, for once, wild and dangerous, and not do what everyone expects a hardworking, quiet, colorless girl like me to do. Not in a million years.
She swallowed.
“No,” she said. “It’s fine. I just came to check you were all right. I don’t know if your ceilidh dancing’s up to much.”
“I’ll teach you,” said Inge-Britt cheerily.
“I don’t dance,” said Joel shortly.
“Well, why did you come?” said Flora before she could stop herself.
“Thank fuck,” said Inge-Britt, carelessly splashing more of a bottle of vodka she’d commandeered into both their glasses. “Scandis think it’s hilarious, I should tell you. A-diddly-diddly-diddly-diddly.” She was quite drunk.
Flora was suddenly very aware of the ridiculous tightly laced velvet bodice she was wearing, the childish soft tartan hanging to her knees, her tumbling hair. She must look unutterably silly to them, a local hick.
“I’ll get back to it then,” she said, trying to smile and failing miserably. “Colton will probably want a word later.”
“Great,” said Joel, although it hurt him tremendously to do so. He took a sip of his drink in the hope that it would numb him. “Let me know if you need anything.”
She went back to the dance, where Charlie was bravely trying to accompany Mrs. Kennedy. Without even caring about being rude, she walked up to him as the music stopped, took his hand, and pulled him away before he had a chance to bow.
Outside, the sky was white, a tiny hint of blue at the edges indicating it was close to midnight. On the lawn where the stage had been, fairy lights were still hanging, and the rustles and whispers of other couples came from among the trees. She held his huge hand and looked up at him, and he returned her gaze with those clear blue eyes; then, as the music started again, he put his hand on her face, and emboldened, she reached up and kissed him, hard, all her passion in it.
When the shock came, it was like being drenched with cold water. Which, Flora had absolutely no doubt, would also have happened if there had been any available.
There was a hand on the back of her vest, hauling her off. She turned round in shock. She had been lost, entirely, in the sheer pleasure of kissing a handsome man under a clear night sky.
Jan was standing there, her face brick red.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Flora staggered back, then glanced at Charlie, who looked defiant, irritated, and incredibly sexy.
“You told me—” she began.
“We’re taking a rest, you said!” shouted Jan. “Not broken up!”
Charlie looked at her, then back at Flora.
“It’s been months,” he said. “Look, Jan, be reasonable . . .”
“No,” she said, her mouth a tight line. “You be reasonable. You know what Daddy said.”