The Cinderella Moment (19 page)

As they moved round the room, it was as though Angel was melded to Nick’s body. He led her in the tango, quickly, then slowly, then quickly again. Quick, quick, slow: her steps keeping up with the sudden turns and long languorous strides of the tango. The ballroom tango was different from the Argentinian one, but for Angel it was every bit as laden with fire.

She could feel Nick’s body, warm and hard against her own, and smell his cologne and the faint tang of masculine sweat as he held her close, never allowing more than an inch or two to separate them.

Angel’s heart drummed in her chest, her skin tingled and her breath came fast and shallow. It’s the dance—the exertion, she told herself, but she knew it was a lie.

The music reached its crescendo, Nick spun her round one last time and with a flourish of violins, the dance ended.

Neither of them moved. All around them couples were hurrying back to their places in the circle but Angel and Nick just stood there staring at each other. Nick’s breath was coming in quick pants and Angel couldn’t seem to find her voice.

Nick stepped back. He looked slightly dazed, like he wasn't sure what had just happened.

“I think that was the last dance,” he said eventually.

“Oh,” said Angel, trying to feel relieved.

“The class has finished,” he added.

“Yes,” said Angel, trying to take her eyes off his.

“Maybe we can do it again tonight?”

“Tonight?” Angel struggled to think beyond the moment.

“We could dance again tonight. After dinner.”

“Sure.”

“Only if you want to?”

“Yes
…
if you do
…
I mean
…
sure.” Angel took a breath, “We’d better get back to our places.”

She turned away, heading for the safety of the group. She didn’t know if it would stop the tide of heat rising up inside her, but it was better than staying close to Nick.

She’d never felt this way. It must have been the dance, she told herself firmly, trying to ignore that moment when Nick had looked into her eyes and she’d felt complete.

Angel moved faster. She had to find the Comtesse and go. Once she was back at the house she could ring Lily. Hopefully she’d know what to do.

Because the only thing Angel knew was that she had to do something,
anything
, except fall in love with Nick Halliday.
 

Chapter Twenty-One

Lily’s didn’t answer her phone. Angel rang and rang and left a zillion urgent messages begging Lily to call, but by evening she’d still heard nothing.

She sat at the dressing table and pondered the situation. It was a mess. The truth was she should never have agreed to have dinner with Nick.

If only she could talk to Lily. Angel tried her again. Nothing.

Finally she rang her mother, but it was more to hear her voice than anything else. Simone still sounded kind of faint so Angel had told her how awesome summer camp was and then got off the phone.

She looked at herself in the mirror. It was funny how telling lies didn’t seem to show on your face.

She frowned. If only she’d told Nick she was ill, or still jetlagged, or something! The last thing she needed was to spend the evening alone with a guy who made her insides turn to mush.
Especially
when he thought she was somebody else.

But it was too late now. She’d just have to try to keep things short and simple. Like only having a main meal with no entrée or dessert. And definitely no dancing. She’d be boring and tired. He wouldn’t be interested after that.

“Focus on the Teen Couture,” Angel told herself firmly. “Don’t get too close or say too much to him.” She poked her tongue out at her reflection. “Shouldn’t be too hard—I’ll just remember he’s probably like one of those jerks from the boys’ school.” But even as she said it, her reflection revealed the truth. She knew that Nick wasn’t like them at all.

When Marie came up to tell her that he was waiting downstairs, Angel was just putting on her new silver shoes. She stared at herself in the mirror; she was actually wearing Oscar de la Renta! It was a gorgeous dress: pure silk, just short of knee-length and a perfect cornflower blue with silver clasps at the shoulders and a narrow silver belt. Angel felt utterly Parisian in it and she couldn’t help doing a twirl just to see how beautifully the skirt billowed around her.

It was extraordinary how good a pretty dress could make you feel, Angel thought, as she ran down the stairs. And how much harder it made remembering her resolve of appearing dull and tired and keeping the evening short.

Nick stood up the moment she entered the drawing room and Angel couldn’t help noticing how good he looked in his dark-blue sports jacket, white linen shirt and trousers that just had to be Armani.

“You look lovely. Ready to go?” asked Nick, gazing at her. He turned to the Comtesse with a smile. “I see you managed to find Lily something to wear, Godmother.”

The Comtesse laughed. “
Naturellement
, what did you expect?”

“Only the best, as usual, but I think you and Lily have exceeded expectations.”

Angel felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but it wasn’t Nick’s compliment that made her blush. Lily! She
had
to remember that he thought she was Lily. She mustn’t allow herself to be beguiled by his compliments, her new dress or a dinner in Paris. And she definitely mustn’t think about how pleased the Comtesse looked at seeing them together.

The masquerade was a wretched thing. It was bad enough deceiving Nick, but deceiving the Comtesse was worse.

For a moment she was tempted to confess everything—right there in the middle of the drawing room—and then Nick held out his hand.

“Shall we go?”

Angel nodded. There’d be no confession tonight. For better or worse, she was going to dinner with Nick. It wasn’t ideal, but at least she’d see Paris.

The Comtesse rose. “Bring Lily home by midnight, please Nicky. She has a fitting tomorrow morning and the polo in the afternoon. I think you are playing?”

“Yes.” Nick grinned at Angel. “You’ll love it, Lily, we’re playing the—”

“Why don’t you tell her all about it over dinner, Nicky,” said the Comtesse.

***

Outside, Nick helped Angel into his black Mercedes convertible. “Okay with the top down?” he asked.

“Sure.”

Nick got in and a moment later they were driving through Paris at night.

“It’s not far,” said Nick.

“Mmm,” was all Angel could think to say. What
could
you say when you were out (on a date?) with a guy who thought you were someone else?

“How did you like dancing class?” asked Nick.

“More than I thought I would,” replied Angel, grateful that on this subject at least she could be honest. “I was totally nervous, but Señor Martinez makes you feel like you can actually dance.”

Nick laughed. “That’s Fred—my first class with him, I was two left feet and zero rhythm.”

“Really?” Angel was surprised. That hadn’t been her impression while dancing with Nick. Quite the opposite. She thought of being in his arms and feeling the firmness of his chest as she’d followed his lead. How he’d held her hand in his, tenderly yet firmly, his other hand on her waist, pushing her away, pulling her close, moving as one. It had seemed pretty near perfect.

What was she doing? Don’t think about him, she told herself. Just talk!

“Have you had many lessons with Fred?”

“Every summer season for the past three years. I should’ve learned at school, but I was so clumsy I always found a way to avoid that particular class.”

“I can’t imagine you being clumsy.”

“Couldn’t take two steps without falling over my own feet,” said Nick laughing. “I was sure you’d remember that—you used to tease me about it enough.”

“I’m sorry, that wasn’t kind of me,” whispered Angel.

“No, but I never minded because you were always nice to me afterwards.”

“I was?”

“Sure, in fact I think I used to fall over a lot more when you were around just so you’d be extra nice to me later.”

“I sound awful,” said Angel, pulling a face.

“No, you were fun.”

She was surprised and Nick, seeing the look on her face, laughed and nodded. “You were, you know. You were the one bright spot in that awful summer. I remember it vividly because my parents had brought me to Paris to tell me they were getting a divorce and when summer was over I’d be going to boarding school.”

“That’s horrible.”

“Yes. I spent plenty of time at the Comtesse’s, while she was trying to get them to reconcile. You and I were together a lot.” He smiled. “You were so bright and funny, you made me feel better.”

A wave of guilt washed over Angel. These memories weren’t meant for her. She had no idea what to say. She only knew that she couldn’t pretend to remember that summer when Lily and Nick had played together and she’d helped him forget his troubles for a while.

She leaned her head back against the soft leather seat, let the night air flow across her face and tried to think of a safe topic. She found herself musing about
Roman Holiday
—her favorite movie in which Audrey Hepburn pretends to be an ordinary girl instead of a princess and has one marvellous day in Rome with Gregory Peck.

I’m pretending, too
, thought Angel.
Except that it’s the other way round—I’m an ordinary girl pretending to be a princess, I’m lying to Nick Halliday instead of Gregory Peck and I’m in Paris not Rome.

Angel sat up and looked around. She was definitely in Paris—right in the center of it! Nick had driven into the Étoile—the giant roundabout where twelve roads meet—and right in front of them was a huge marble archway with an enormous French flag waving gently from its centerpoint.

“The Arc de Triomphe,” said Nick.

Angel gazed at it in awe.

“There’s a great view of Paris from the top. We could go up this weekend, if you’d like.”

“That sounds wonderful,” replied Angel. She’d love to see Paris—although it was probably better not to see it with Nick.

“Afterwards we could walk down the Champs Elysées to the Louvre.” Nick glanced at her. “If you wanted.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit the Louvre,” said Angel, wishing she could think of a nice way to turn him down.

“Great,” replied Nick, pleased. “There’s a painting I’d love you to see.”

“
La Joconde?
” Angel asked. “I’ve always wanted to see that.”

“Everyone wants to see the Mona Lisa,” replied Nick. “But da Vinci did another painting I like even better.”

“He did?” asked Angel.

“It’s probably my favorite painting in the whole museum. I’ll show you, rather than explain it.”

With the Étoile now behind them, Nick turned into a maze of narrow side streets. Angel was wondering when they’d reach the restaurant when he pulled into the curb and switched off the engine.

Swivelling in his seat, he faced her. “If you’re willing to battle the tourist hordes I’ll take you to see the Mona Lisa, too.”

“That’s okay,” said Angel, wishing he wouldn’t look at her quite so intensely. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

“I thought we decided it was a criminal offense to see Paris alone,” said Nick, reaching out and brushing an errant strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers were cool against her skin and Angel felt suddenly warm—warmer than the night air.

“Shouldn’t we be going? We don’t want to be late.” She knew it was abrupt and awkward, but she couldn’t sit there a moment longer. Nick was too
…
too
…
She didn’t know exactly, only that she shouldn’t be alone with him.

Nick jumped from the car. “You needn’t be afraid of me, you know,” he said as he helped her out.

“I’m not,” she shot back. “It’s just that I—I don’t like being late. It’s—it’s one of my quirks,” she ended lamely.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to mess with a quirk,” said Nick, grinning. “So let’s go.”

They walked quickly down the street. As they turned the corner, Angel stopped. In front of her flowed the River Seine and, a few hundred yards away on the far bank, stood the Eiffel Tower. It was a stunning sight: the tall iron column reaching upwards against the evening sky, its graceful curves and soaring arches illuminated by a million fairy lights.

“Nice, isn’t it?” said Nick.

“Nice? Oh no, it’s much,
much
better than nice.”

“You’re right, it’s spectacular.” Taking her hand, Nick led her across the bridge.

Angel looked around. She could see no sign of a restaurant, only a mass of people walking along the bank enjoying the warm evening.

“Looks like it might rain,” said Nick, leading her through the crowd. “Lucky we can dance inside.”

“Were we going to dance outside?” asked Angel, surprised.

“There’s room on the foredeck.” He saw her puzzled look. “It’s dinner and dancing on a
bateau-mouche
.”

It took Angel a second to remember that a
bateau-mouche
was a riverboat; they were having dinner on one of the famous Parisian pleasure-boats that took sightseers up and down the Seine.