Starlight Over Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett

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      If she could still see at that point. She pressed a fingertip to the corner of her eye, barely resisting the urge to rub, and cursed her decision to wear the contact lenses she’d been talked into trying by her mother. The lift dinged to announce her arrival, and the discomfort of her new lenses was soon forgotten as a hostess in a stunning black dress stepped forward to greet her with a smile. In short order, her name had been checked off on the hostess’s list and Jess had been steered towards the ladies’ cloakroom to divest herself of her coat and boots.

      Hanging up the little backpack she’d used to carry her silver evening bag and black heels, Jess swapped the cosy boots for the strappy, sophisticated shoes and muttered a small prayer of thanks for the gel inserts her mum had reminded her to buy. When her school friends had been cramming their toes into the latest fashionable footwear, Jess had been clumping around in the Clarks wide-fit brogues Mum had insisted upon. She might be blessedly free of corns, hammertoes and other unsightly horrors she’d been warned cheap shoes would cause, but all that growing room meant her size seven adult feet were not the right shape for most high heels within her limited price range.

      It took a couple of halting steps before she found her balance on the thick pile carpet. A couple of lengths of the wide area between the cubicles and the sinks later, she was feeling more confident of her footing. Her blasted eye started itching again, sending Jess scurrying over to the sinks to check her make-up in the brightly lit mirrors. Satin-lined wicker baskets rested in the spaces between each white porcelain bowl, stuffed with every imaginable emergency supply a woman could need from tampons to deodorant and perfume. She even spotted a little sewing kit tucked into one corner.

      With a damp cotton bud, she managed to remove the small streak of mascara beneath one eye without destroying her eyeliner. Much heavier than her usual neutral shades, the black liner and sparkling silver eye shadow made her olive-green eyes look huge. It was strange seeing the whole of her face without the comforting shield of the dark-framed glasses she was used to seeing perched on the bridge of her button nose. She felt oddly naked without them.

      Make-up checked, shoes and bag exchanged, there was really no excuse for Jess to linger in the bathroom any longer. She cast a quick glance towards the cubicles, contemplating the wisdom of a pre-emptive wee, before deciding against it. By the time she’d wrestled down her tights and the enormous Bridget Jones pants beneath them, she’d be all hot and bothered. Before she could change her mind, Jess forced herself to leave the safety of the bathroom and returned to the lobby to find the smiling hostess waiting at a discreet distance. With a sweep of her arm, she ushered Jess towards the entrance to the party then left her with a quiet wish that she enjoy her evening, the siren call of the lift summoning her to greet a new arrival.

      Smoothing a nervous hand over one velvet-clad hip Jess took a deep breath, fighting the temptation to tug at the hem of her party dress which suddenly felt at least three inches too short. The midnight-blue sheath had been an impulse purchase when she submitted to her mother’s cajoling and joined her in the buffeting, shoving crowds thronging Regent Street a couple of weekends ago. A clever section of ruching stretched from a diamante flower on her left-hand side across to the opposite hip, falling in forgiving waves that disguised any hint of a tummy her support pants had failed to suck in. The wide shoulder straps provided perfect cover for her bra, the front scooped low enough to show off her décolletage without flashing more than she was willing to share with anyone other than a lover – not that she had many of those lined up. Though she’d had had her fair share of boyfriends at university, none had developed into anything long-term.

      Only one man had caught her eye since leaving university, and Tristan Ludworth was so far out of her league she could drape herself naked across his desk and he’d probably still not take the hint. Not that Jess did any hinting. Just the sight of Tristan was enough to make her feel giddy and off-balance, like being in a high-speed lift. She could hold her own with him when it came to work stuff, but only by removing her glasses whenever he was in the vicinity. A blurry, out of focus Tristan was a lot easier to cope with.

      The only other man she’d had a serious long-term crush on was her older brother’s best friend, Steve, back when she was thirteen and first starting to notice boys. He’d always felt like a safe option to practice her new and tender feelings on. Their mothers had been friends for years, and Steve had always been a familiar presence in her life. He’d tolerated her awkward teenage flirting with kindness, and never made her feel foolish.

      Nothing about the way Tristan made her feel was safe. Exhilarating, yes, with a hint of something dangerous and outside her comfort zone. Like riding a roller-coaster, when she’d always preferred the steady even pace of the merry-go-round.

      For a fleeting moment she wished she’d stuck with the perfectly serviceable black crepe evening dress hanging unused in her wardrobe. It had always been her plan to wear it tonight – sophisticated and understated, her mother had assured her when she’d first bought it as a wardrobe staple, pointing out how the forgiving drape of the material hid the excess weight that seemed to settle around her middle and bottom the moment she even glanced at a slice of cake. Safe and boring more like, a mutinous little voice had whispered in the back of her mind – perfect for someone who had never chosen the road less travelled in any of her twenty-two years. Head down, study hard, do the right thing, had been the mantras she’d carried from childhood into uneventful adulthood. Just lately those mantras had started to feel less like sensible rules to live by and more like the restraining reins her parents had made her wear as a clumsy toddler eager to explore.

      The arch of her mother’s eyebrow when she’d descended the stairs at home earlier might have dented her confidence had her dad not swooped in to twirl her around before planting a kiss on her cheek and declaring she’d be the belle of the ball. Her mum’s face had softened then and she too had kissed Jess before bombarding her with such a flurry of questions about what she was taking with her – yes, she had her gloves, no, she hadn’t forgotten her personal alarm, yes, she would be careful and take a taxi if she was at any risk of walking on her own for any distance – that she’d not had time to consider whether she should change her dress until she’d been ensconced on an overheated tube train whisking her in from the suburbs, and by then it had been too late. Only now, dithering as she was, she wished she’d stuck to her usual, practical style.

      ‘God, Jess, just open the bloody door,’ she muttered, furious with herself.

      ‘Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness, or so they say.’ The voice purring just behind her ear sent a shiver down Jess’s spine that had nothing to do with nerves. Feeling a blush rising to burn her cheeks, she tilted her head to glance up and back into the face of a fallen angel. And if there was anyone who could tempt her into sin it was Tristan Ludworth. As ever when she met the hint of wicked humour in his chocolate brown eyes, butterflies fluttered in her middle.

      He’d joined Beaman and Tanner the same week as her, and from the moment he’d sat down beside her at the company induction day, she’d been drawn to him. She shouldn’t like him – they were rivals on the same graduate training programme and, come the summer, they’d be fighting it out for a permanent position on the staff. The trouble was he was so charming and funny it was impossible not to like him.

      He was the son of an aristocrat, according to the coffee room gossip mill, and Jess could well believe the lips currently smiling down at her had been born with a silver spoon between them. And there was no way the tuxedo he wore had come off the peg, it fit too well – the jacket hugging his broad shoulders, and the trousers the perfect length to cover the tops of his shiny, patent-leather shoes. His bow tie – classic black, not like those awful novelty ones some men wore – looked hand-tied, and the handkerchief sticking up from the top СКАЧАТЬ