last minute because of a reconciliation?
And why should she care? She’d had her chance and turned it down.
The chance wouldn’t come again. She must force herself to remember that.
But after only half an hour she heard him return, walking quickly along the corridor until he entered his room and slammed the door like a man who was really annoyed.
After that she dozed until there was a knock at her door.
Even though Darius had told her about the attendants, what happened next was a shock. They simply took her over, allowing no room for argument, and proceeded to turn her into someone else. She yielded chiefly out of curiosity. She was fascinated to discover her new self.
If she’d been fanciful—which she prided herself on never being—she might have thought of Cinderella. The fairy godmother, or godmothers since there were two of them, waved their wands and the skivvy was transformed into a princess.
Or at least a passable imitation of one, she thought. How well she could carry it off was yet to be seen.
When she was alone again she surveyed herself in the mirror, wondering who was this glamorous creature with the elegant swept-up hair, wearing the dark red glittering cocktail dress. She had always regarded herself as a tad too thin, but only a woman with her shape could have dared to wear this tight-fitting gown that left no doubt about her tiny waist and long legs, while revealing her bosom as slightly fuller than she had imagined.
A princess, she thought. Princess Harry? Not sure about that.
Even she, self-critical though she was, could see how the expert make-up emphasised the size of her blue eyes, which seemed to have acquired a new sparkle, and the width of her shapely mouth.
From nowhere came the memory of her husband, whose work in tourism had often taken him away on trips.
‘I could get jealous of all those expensively dressed women you meet,’ she’d teased him once.
‘Forget it,’ he’d told her. ‘You don’t need that fancy stuff. You’re better as you are.’
‘A country bumpkin?’ she’d chuckled.
‘My country bumpkin,’ he’d insisted, silencing her in the traditional way, making her so happy that she’d believed him and wasn’t jealous. Only to discover at last that she should have been.
And if he’d ever seen her looking like this? Would anything have been different?
Suddenly she wanted very badly to find Darius, see the expression in his eyes when he first glimpsed her. Then she would know—
Know what?
If she only knew that, she would know everything. And it was time to find out.
A few moments later, she was knocking on Darius’s door. As soon as he opened it he grew still. Then he nodded slowly.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
‘Will I do?’
‘You cheeky little devil; I’ve already given you the answer to that.’
He drew her into the room and stood back to look at her, then made a twirling movement with his hand. She turned slowly, giving him time to appreciate every detail, then back again, displaying herself to full advantage. After all, she reasoned, he was entitled to know that his money had been well spent.
‘As long as I do you credit.’
‘I’ll be the envy of every man there.’
And that, she thought, was what he chiefly cared about, apart from his children. She was there to be useful, and it would be wise to remember that. But it was hard when the excitement was growing in her.
Darius put his hands on her shoulders, holding her just a few inches away, his eyes fixed on her face.
‘Beautiful,’ he said. ‘Just as I hoped. Just as I imagined. Just as—’
‘Am I interrupting anything?’ said a voice from the doorway.
Darius beamed at the young man standing there. ‘Marcel!’ he exclaimed.
Next moment, he was embracing the newcomer, thumping him on the back and being thumped in return.
Marcel, Harriet thought. The half brother from Paris.
‘I’m sorry to come in without knocking,’ he said, ‘but the door was open.’
His eyes fell on Harriet, and the pleasurable shock in them was very satisfying.
‘You’ve been keeping this lady a big secret,’ he said, speaking with the barest trace of a French accent. ‘And I understand why. If she were mine I would also hide her away from the world. Introduce me. I insist.’
‘This is Harriet,’ Darius replied, moving beside her.
‘Harriet,’ Marcel echoed. ‘Harriet. It is a beautiful name.’
She couldn’t resist saying cheekily, ‘Actually, my friends call me Harry.’
‘Harry?’ He seemed aghast, muttering something in French that might have been a curse. ‘That is a monstrosity, to give a man’s name to such a beautiful lady. And this fellow allows them to treat you like this? You should be rid of him at once.’
‘Cut it out!’ Darius said, grinning, which seemed to amuse Marcel even more.
‘Just thought I’d get in the mood now the circus has come to town,’ he said.
‘Circus is right,’ Darius agreed. ‘I’ve warned Harriet.’
‘Harriet? You mean you don’t call her Harry? But of course, you’re not a friend; you are—’ He made a vague but significant gesture.
‘Hey,’ she said and he turned his merry gaze on her. ‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ she told him impishly.
‘Ah, yes, I see. How wise.’
‘Can we drop this?’ Darius asked.
‘Certainly. So, Harriet, Darius has warned you, and you know we’re a load of oddities.’
‘I’ll bet you’re no odder than me,’ she riposted.
‘I’ll take you up on that. Promise me a dance tonight.’
‘She declines,’ Darius said firmly.
‘Oh, do I?’
‘Definitely.’
Marcel chuckled and murmured in Harriet’s ear, ‘We’ll meet again later.’
‘Are any of the others here?’ Darius asked.
‘Jackson. Travis isn’t coming. He can’t leave America—some television
