Innocent Cinderella. Julia James

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      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 she could still cook the pasta supper she’d originally planned when she got home.

      She headed instead for one of the long windows which had been left open to the warm evening air, stepping out on to a tiny balcony with a wrought iron balustrade.

      With a bit of luck, Mr Radley-Smith might think she’d taken advantage of his momentary inattention to disappear completely, she told herself, relishing the coolness of the orange juice against her dry throat.

      But escaping from him out here was not proving as successful as she’d hoped. Instead, Marin found she was reviewing everything Lynne had ever said about him.

      She knew for instance that, even without the company, he was a millionaire in his own right with a place in the country as well as a flat in Chelsea.

      ‘Is he married?’ she’d once asked, and Lynne had laughed.

      ‘No, my pet, nor ever likely to be. Rad seems to have a sixth sense that warns him whenever the lady of the moment starts hearing wedding bells and—bingo—suddenly he’s not really around any more. It’s invariably done with a great deal of charm, but it’s still over.

      ‘And, of course, he spends quite a lot of time abroad, which helps.’

      Before Marin had gone to work for the Ingram Organisation, Lynne had offered to see if there was anything suitable going at the agency.

      ‘You might find it more interesting than being a glorified temp,’ she’d urged, but Marin had shaken her head with determination.

      ‘No,’ she’d said. ‘It’s not for me.’

      So, perhaps I have a sixth sense too, she thought as she finished her orange juice. Although it had seemed to go on the blink outside in the corridor, just now, or she’d have dodged.

      Her haven was suddenly not as warm as it had been, either. A slight breeze had got up since sunset, and with a faint shiver she turned to go back inside.

      Only to find her path firmly blocked.

      The tall woman confronting her might be wearing the ubiquitous black, but her dress screamed French design, its severe lines relieved by the virtual collar of diamonds round her creamy throat. In her late twenties, she was reed-slim, like most of the other females in the room, and her blond hair was swept up into the kind of careless style that takes hours to achieve.

      She was beautiful, with green eyes under impossibly long, mascaraed lashes, but there was no warmth in the glance surveying Marin.

      And her tone was equally cold. ‘Excuse me, but do you mind telling me who you are? I wasn’t aware you were on our guest list for the evening.’

      ‘She’s with me, Diana,’ Jake said easily as he appeared out of nowhere, walking to Marin’s side and sliding an arm round her waist to draw her closer against him. ‘Her name’s Marin Wade. Darling, this is our hostess, Mrs Halsay.’

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