and barely noticed. It was what she’d been born to.
Without being particularly conscious of it, he found his gaze skimming over the distinguished, easily recognizable faces of politicians and TV celebrities, searching for one face in particular. But the vicious kick of desire in the pit of his stomach when he saw her caught him off guard.
She was wearing another slim-fitting, severe black dress, which disguised rather than emphasised her figure, and high heels that made her endless legs seem as gracefully unsteady as a colt’s. She carried a large plate of canapés, which she was offering to a noisy group of media types. Her face was hidden by the silken curtain of her hair, but there was a stiffness in the set of her shoulders and a downward tilt to her head that told him she wasn’t smiling.
This was her world. So why did she look so out of place?
‘Caviar blini?’ he heard her murmur to a prominent TV news journalist, who took one without glancing at her or breaking off his conversation.
Eyes narrowed, Olivier watched.
Warm waves…sandy beach…top TV newsreader lying on it while I smash a plate of caviar blinis over his head…
Bella’s smile was a painful rictus grin as she moved on, wondering how soon she could beat a hasty retreat to her room and curl up with a book. Any time now, she thought resignedly, for all the notice anyone’s taking of me.
As she moved further into the room she could hear Miles’s voice—confident, urbane, totally in command—and once again the randomness of the gene lottery was brought home to her. How could it be that he was so…assured, and she had never felt a moment’s assurance in her whole life? She kept her head bowed, her back towards him, hoping to pass by unnoticed and be spared the inevitable embarrassment of being introduced to whichever political worthy he was talking to.
‘Ah, Bella! There you are…I was just talking about you.’
If Bella had been wearing boots at that moment her heart would have sunk into the bottom of them. Fortunately, her shiny black high-heeled shoes were too tight to leave any room for anything else, so she summoned a smile and turned round.
‘This is my little sister, Bella,’ Miles said heartily to the vaguely familiar-looking man standing beside him. ‘Named after the suffragette Christabel Pankhurst.’
Taking a caviar blini, the man smiled politely. ‘Of course. And as one of the distinguished Lawrence family I imagine you’re just as much of a trailblazer as your namesake?’
Bella felt her smile falter. Oh, yes, absolutely, she wanted to say. I’m the first member of my family to fail at anything and become a dropout. Just as she was wondering how to frame this sentence slightly more positively, the slim brunette at Miles’s side stepped in.
‘Bella’s the artistic one in the family, Prime Minister. She’s incredibly talented, so although Miles needs help to match a pair of socks, I actually have hope that we might just end up having children with a glimmer of creativity…’
Prime Minister. Oh, knickers. That was why she recognised him…
Bella cast a grateful glance at the girl who had spoken. Ashley McGarry was Miles’s fiancée. She was also extremely gorgeous, owned her own incredibly successful PR firm and was just about the nicest person Bella knew. Which was good, because it would have been hard to forgive her for the gorgeousness and success otherwise.
‘So, what kind of art do you do?’ the Prime Minister asked her politely.
Bella squirmed. ‘I paint furniture.’
The PM looked surprised. He’d clearly expected something a little more cutting edge. Ashley came to the rescue again. ‘Bella has one of the most enviable jobs in London, working in a gorgeous shop in Notting Hill that sells French antiques and vintage stuff.’ She turned to Bella with an encouraging smile. ‘I went back the other day to see if that fabulous mirror was still there, but Celia had sold it. I was so disappointed.’
Don’t worry,’ said Bella. ‘Her daughter’s twins are due any minute, so she’s asked me to do the autumn buying trip to France. I’m going to take her car and tour the markets around Paris, so I can look out for another one for you then.’
Miles looked up. ‘You’re going to France, Bella? On your own?’
Suddenly the atmosphere was very tense. Ashley laid a hand on Bella’s arm but this time said nothing. Bella felt as if someone was slowly pouring cold porridge down her back. How could she be having this conversation now? In front of the Prime Minister?
‘Yes, Miles,’ she said miserably, looking at the floor. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘We’ll talk about it later.’
‘There’s no need—I’ve said I’m going, and that’s that.’
Miles turned back to the Prime Minister and said with forced cheerfulness, ‘My sister hasn’t been…well. She’s still recovering and she needs keeping an eye on.’
It was too humiliating. Bella seemed to spend her whole life these days trying to forget what had happened, but it was impossible when to everyone else it was the single most significant thing about her. Speechless with suppressed rage, she whirled round, the plate clasped in front of her like a weapon, and walked straight into someone stepping towards her.
As if in slow motion she watched caviar blinis sail gracefully through the air and rain down all around her. The plate jolted against her hipbones, coming between her and the body of the man with whom she had collided. In a daze of embarrassment and misery she sank instantly to the floor and started to pick up scattered canapés, desperate to clear up the damage and get out.
The man she had bumped into dropped to his knees beside her.
‘It’s fine,’ she muttered miserably, without looking up. ‘Please don’t bother. I can manage.’
‘Leave it.’
His voice was very low, and very French. And very filled with barely suppressed anger.
She froze. Then, full of foreboding, she dragged her gaze upwards. Her indrawn breath made a little gasping sound. She was looking straight into the dark, gleaming eyes of the man from the auction house.
‘Wh—what? I don’t understand…’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Taking you away.’ Removing the plate from her hands, he put it on a side table and gently pulled her up. She was suddenly aware of Miles behind her, looking at her with obvious dismay that she’d managed to make a fool of herself again. She could hardly blame him. She was standing liberally smeared in first-class beluga caviar just a few feet away from the Prime Minister and some of the most important, most famous and influential people in the country.
And in front of possibly the best-looking man on the planet.
Without warning, hot tears stung her eyes, but before they spilled over she felt the man from the auction take her chin in his fingers and gently tilt her head up.
‘Oh, no you don’t, beauty. You’re not going to cry,’
