by Romy Sommer
“Okay, I was that shallow. But I’m trying to be a better person.” Or at least I was until Khara looked at me in the cathedral today as if I was the last drink of water on a hot day in the desert.
“If she’s Phoenix’s friend, I’m going to assume she’s not your usual type. Just be careful with her, okay?”
“She’s not a gold digger.”
“I didn’t mean you should be careful about her hurting you. I meant you should be careful you don’t hurt her. Have you considered what it will do to your friendship with Max and Phoenix if you break her heart?”
Nope. I rub my head. Doing the right thing stinks.
But I’m not sure I can walk away from Khara now. I’ve waited more than two weeks to see
that invitation in her eyes, and now that it’s there I’m probably going to prove her right, that I am just as big a douche as she always thought me.
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Jemmy shakes her head, as if she can read my mind. “I’m not saying you can’t have
something with her, just that maybe you need to re-think your usual MO of being a bastard
afterwards.”
“It’s not like I try to be a bastard.”
She grins. “So it just comes naturally to you? Your problem is that when you see something
you want, you go after it like a heat-seeking missile. But once you’ve got it, you lose interest.
Clients, cars, women. Just once, why don’t you try seeing something through? At the very least, please promise me you’ll be careful with this one?”
“What is it with everyone in this family wanting me to make promises?”
Jemmy doesn’t back down. She holds my gaze, and I’m the one to look away first. “Fine. I
promise I’ll try not to be a bastard.” I’m just not sure how. I haven’t had much practice at it. “But don’t get your hopes up. This isn’t going anywhere. I’m leaving tomorrow. And in less than a week she flies back to the States.”
“For someone as bright as you are, you can be really dumb sometimes. There’s always
another option.”
I narrow my eyes at her. “You know, you and she have a lot in common. You both give me a
hard time.”
She laughs and links her arm through mine again. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
#
The dinner seating plan is a work of genius. There is no head table at this dinner, and seating at the round tables has been determined not by rank but with an eye to everyone’s enjoyment. I’m seated at a table with a Middle Eastern sheikh I was at school with and his Oxford-educated wife, the head of the European winegrowers association, and one of Max’s cousins and her German
prince husband, both of whom work in mountain rescue. Ours is a lively table, and the only thing missing is a certain mermaid-haired waitress. Want to guess where she’s seated? Next to my sister.
They don’t seem to stop talking. I would give anything to overhear that conversation. Or at
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least to be able to moderate it. Who knows what nonsense my sister is filling Khara’s head with?
Khara has changed out of the body-hugging, ankle length bridesmaid dress, into a shorter,
flirtier cocktail dress in the same shade of royal blue, the same colour as her hair and her eyes. She no longer wears the crown of flowers, and tendrils of hair have started to escape her fancy updo.
My gaze keeps drifting back to her, no matter how hard I try, as if she exerts a gravitational pull on me.
The dinner itself is a modest four courses: soup, starter, main and dessert, and the portions are far more generous than most official banquets. My constant glances reassure me that Khara looks poised and at ease. She’s fitting in beautifully. Better than that, she looks like she’s having a good time.
My chest tightens, and it takes me a moment to identify the baffling feeling. It’s pride. And
possessiveness.
Neither are emotions I’ve felt towards any woman before.
What makes her so different from other women? On the surface, she’s no different from a
million other women, apart perhaps from her aversion to men with money. Am I only drawn to her because she’s the one in a million who hasn’t fallen at my feet?
Then Sayid says my name, drawing my attention back to my own table.
Once the last of the plates have been cleared away, it’s time for the speeches. The newly
elected prime minister makes a surprisingly heartfelt tribute for a politician - and a mercifully short one. Then it’s Phoenix’s turn. God, this woman is amazing; if she had a clone, I’d marry her. Her entire speech is in the local Westerwald dialect, and the translation is shown in three languages up on the two large screens.
“The day I met Max, I knew he was someone special. I knew he was someone I wanted to
spend the rest of my life with. What I didn’t know was that marrying him was going to take me on the biggest adventure of my life. Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that this is what our future would hold.” She sweeps her arm to take in the room filled with beautiful, glittering
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people, royalty, celebrities, diplomats and senior government officials from across Europe. “But even if I were to wake up tomorrow and discover that all of this was just a dream, Max is still the man I’d choose to marry.” She turns to her new husband, and blows him a kiss. “I love you more every day, Max.”
When Max stands to talk, he has to clear his throat to speak. “If I look overcome with
emotion, it’s because I am. I am a very happy man today, and I have to thank my wife for that.” He looks out into the distance, as if making eye contact would be more than he can handle in this moment. “Years ago, my father told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that I’d know when I meet the right person for me, because it would be the person I love in the same way I want to be loved. The day I met Phoenix I knew she was my person, because I wanted her to be loved and
happy more than I wanted to be loved or happy.”
There’s hardly a dry eye in the room when he’s finished, though luckily they’re mostly tears
of laughter.
Unlike the British weddings I’m used to, the cake isn’t cut before we dance. That ritual only
happens at midnight, so when his speech is done, Max invites us to move to the ballroom. My pulse kicks up a notch as the guests move across the domed vestibule to the ballroom. Tonight, this room looks nothing like the empty, cavernous space where I taught Khara to dance. The room glitters with the light of a thousand tiny fairy lights, and the heavy scent of flowers fills the air. I move through the crowd, just like that heat-seeking missile my sister called me.
Khara and Jemmy still have their heads bent together.
“Don’t believe anything she tells you,” I say as I come up behind them.
Khara blushes, but Jemmy just grins.
“Ready for our moment of glory?” I ask Khara.
“No. But maybe I’ll get lucky and twist my ankle or something on the way to the dance floor,
and be spared the humiliation.”
“You’ll be great. After all, I taught you.”
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Jemmy rolls her eyes. “You’re both doomed then.”
“Haha.” I turn to Khara. “Remind me to tell you the story about the time my sweet little sister gate-crashed her ex-boyfriend’s wedding.”
“Don’t you dare!” Jemmy smacks my arm. Hard.
The evening’s entertainment is as unusual as the bride and groom: it’s a famous American
rock band Phoenix knows from her days on the road with her musician father. The bride and groom take their places in the centre of the dance floor, and the crowd forms a wide circle around them.
The music starts, a chart-topping rock ballad from our youth, and Max and
Phoenix start to move, eyes only for each other. Even a cynical heart like mine can’t help but be moved.
When the song ends, I hold my hand out to Khara. She places her hand in mine, and I lead her
out onto the dance floor to join the bride and groom. The next song is another of the band’s most famous hits, but they’ve slowed the tempo into a romantic rumba. I turn Khara into my arms with a little spin, and place one hand on her waist, holding her other. “Remember: keep looking at me.
Don’t look at your feet. I’ve got you.”
I lead her into the steps, our thighs and hips brushing as we sway together through the dance.
She keeps her gaze on my face, and I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.
I’ll admit, I’ve seduced a lot of women, and I’ve been seduced. I’ve danced in far more
romantic settings, I’ve practically made love to a woman on a dance floor. But no moment I’ve ever experienced is as sensual as this one, or as all-consuming. The slide of her silk dress beneath my fingers, her subtle rose perfume, her pupils so dilated they’re like pools of ink, and the rise and fall of her breasts as we glide together. I’m barely aware of the other couples on the dance floor: Max and his mother, Phoenix and Max’s grandfather.
I only realise the song is over when applause breaks through the bubble that seems to
surround us.
We stop moving and I lean close to whisper in her ear. “I want you.”
“Yes.” Her breath is warm against my cheek.
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Then she spins away with a soft laugh, holding her hands out to Max’s grandfather. With a
sigh, I remember my own duty and move to dance with Anna. This time as we dance, a more sedate foxtrot, I’m barely aware of my partner. I’m just going through the motions, my entire awareness focussed on Khara, who looks so confident and so poised with the old man that I think she’d win the glitter ball if this were Strictly.
Other couples are joining us on the dance floor now. “Go claim your girl,” Anna laughs,
releasing me.
But it’s not as easy as that.
This is a royal ball, after all, and there are people who want a piece of me. A piece of Khara too, it seems. Over the shoulder of the Crown Prince of Norway, I see her dancing with Mateo, and it takes every ounce of self control I have not to be rude and cut short our conversation so I can interrupt their dance.
I manage to smile and make polite conversation to any number of dignitaries, before my
mother rescues me and insists I dance with her. “Lajos tells me you’re going to Erdély tomorrow,”
she says, not wasting time on small talk as we circle the dance floor. I merely nod, too busy
searching the ballroom for Khara. I finally spot her by the bar with the lead singer of the rock band.
“I’m very proud of you,” my mother says softly.
I flick my attention back to her.
“I know this isn’t an easy decision, and I know what we’re asking you to give up, but I’m
proud of you for making the effort and for at least considering Lajos’ offer. Whatever you decide, we’ll support you.”
“Dad too?”
“Him too.” She sighs. “We just want you to be happy.”
By midnight, I can safely say that I’ve done my bit as the dutiful son and potential heir. I’ve talked to so many people that I haven’t had much time to either dance or drink. This might be the first wedding I’ve attended since I turned eighteen at which I haven’t been drunk by this time.
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The DJ who replaced the band some time ago stops the music, the dancing ceases, and we all
gather around the cake which is carried to the edge of the dance floor by two liveried footmen.
Together, Max and Phoenix cut the towering croquembouche cake with a ceremonial sword, though
it’s more for show, since the creation of puff pastry balls is held together by nothing more than a delicate web of spun caramel threads.
They feed each other cake, then the footmen start to serve the guests. With this important
ritual over, the ballroom gradually empties as many of the older guests leave, and I finally get a moment alone. I take a seat at an empty table, helping myself to the remnants of the bottle of Cristal left on the table, and watch Khara twirl around the dance floor with a famous American stock car racer, looking every bit as if she’s having the time of her life. She’s lost her shoes and dances barefoot, and that possessive feeling is back, holding me in its vice grip.
“I created a monster,” I mutter as Max sinks into the chair beside me, though I say it with
fondness.
“Your Galatea has done you proud.” He’s lost both his tie and his jacket at some point during
the evening, and his shirt hangs loose beneath his waistcoat. “If you decide you don’t want to be a prince, you can always take up a new career as a makeover artist.”
I shake my head. Khara is no Galatea or Eliza Doolittle. “I didn’t give her a makeover. She’s
still the same person she always was. I just gave her some tools to boost her confidence. Besides, this was a one-time thing. There was only ever one Galatea for Pygmalion.”
“Pygmalion also fell in love with his Galatea.”
Ha. There’s no chance of that. I don’t fall in love. Can’t. Won’t. I’m not sure which verb fits best. Perhaps all of them. Instead, I say to Max, “You are such a nerd. You should have studied Classics instead of wine making.”
“Right back at you. But seriously, what’s going on with you and Khara? You’ve been dancing
around each other figuratively as well as literally all week.”
“Nothing’s going on with her. You’re the one who told me Khara would have my balls and
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eat them for breakfast. You have no idea how right you were.”
He chuckles. “Must be a novel feeling to be turned down.”
I blow out my breath. “She hasn’t turned me down. Quite the opposite. But she has made me
want to be less of a bastard.” It feels good to be honest for a change.
“Ouch. That’s got to be a real challenge for you.”
I cast a dark glance his way, only to see that he’s laughing at me.
“I want her more than I’ve wanted any other woman, but if I act on it, I’m just going to prove to her that I’m exactly the bastard she thinks I am.” Was that Cristal laced with truth serum?
Max shrugs. “Or you could act on it and not be a bastard.”
I don’t answer, not wanting to admit I have no idea how to do that.
“You’ll figure it out. Consider this an opportunity to try to be a better man.” He slaps me on the shoulder and rises. “I’m going to find my gorgeous wife so I can dance with her.”
The ballroom lights have dimmed, and the music changes from an upbeat tune to a slower
song. Khara is still dancing with the racing driver, and no way am I going to sit here on the
sidelines and watch him put his arms around her. I drain the last of the Cristal from the bottle and stride onto the dance floor.
“I believe this dance is mine.” I hold out my hand in invitation to Khara. She glances at her
dance partner who shrugs and turns away to join the group gyrating behind us. I feel no qualms about interrupting. Any man who can walk away from her that easily doesn’t deserve her.
She takes my hand, and I pull her in close, wrapping my arms around her waist.
“Are you having fun?” I whisper against her ear.
Her breath hitches. “More fun than I’ve ever had in my life. I even danced with the same rock
star whose posters decorated my teenaged bedroom.”
I don’t want to talk about the other men she’s danced with. All that matters is this moment.
She presses closer agai
nst me, her breasts brushing against my chest, and this time it’s my
breathing that stutters. It takes all the willpower I possess to keep my hands where they are, rather
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than slide them over her curves the way they want to.
“You're not going to take this opportunity to hit on the bridesmaid?” Her voice is low and
husky, filled with temptation. “This is your last chance.”
I clear my throat. “Are you flirting with me?”
“What if I am?”
I can’t resist. I’m not strong enough to resist. What can I say? I am a bastard. I slide my hand down to the curve of her ass, holding her so close that she can have no illusions about my state of arousal. With a laugh and a toss of her hair, which has tumbled loose around her shoulders
sometime during the evening, she spins away from me. But she doesn’t slap my face, or pin me
with that icy glare I’ve seen too many times, so I pull her back against me. Her back is pressed up against my front, and we sway together for a long moment, our bodies pressed together, my hands on her hips. Then I drop my head to trail my lips down the curve of her neck, not caring who sees.
Her skin tastes of roses, and sweat, and champagne.
“You’re not just the bridesmaid.” I nibble on her earlobe, and feel her shiver. “You’re Khara
Thomas, the most exasperating, desirable, intimidating woman I’ve ever met.”
She turns to face me, eyes wide. “I intimidate you?”
“Yup. You don’t fall for any of my lines. That’s very intimidating.”
She laughs, tipping her head back, and I take advantage of the move to trail kisses along her
exposed collarbone.
“You don’t need any lines to make me fall.” Her voice is nothing more than a caress beside
my ear.
“I wanted to prove to you that I’m not an entitled jerk who just wants to get into your pants, but it turns out you were right. I am that guy.”