my own fault.’ He spoke more to himself than her. ‘I should never have left this up to you. I should never have thought for a second that you could manage it.’
She had no answer to that.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, visibly trying to contain his temper. She’d really rather he yelled and stomped around the room a bit. But he was too much of a man for that—with too good a rein on his emotions.
And it really hurt. She stood still, not wanting to move, not wanting to breathe in case he flared and said something else in that horrible way. And she couldn’t think of a thing to do to make it better.
‘The champagne is good,’ he finally spoke again—quiet, colourless.
She nodded, hoping for a lightening of the atmosphere. No way could he find fault with her taste. ‘Cristal.’
‘And the decoration on the napkins for the caviar—what’s that?’
‘Real gold leaf.’ She managed to get her voice higher than a thread that time.
He grunted. Maybe it was a snort. Either way it didn’t sound positive. ‘So tell me.’
Tell him what? Hell, this was such a nightmare and he was stringing it out.
‘How much?’ he asked, as if it were obvious.
‘Pardon?’
‘How much did this party cost me?’
‘Um.’ She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t got all the bills and receipts together yet. In truth she didn’t know what most of them would be.
‘Do you even know what the budget for this was?’
Budget? Oh, right. There had been a spreadsheet in the file James had mentioned. She hadn’t really got round to studying it. ‘I didn’t—’
‘What, think?’
Damn it, she’d done nothing but think about this party. ‘You said you wanted the best.’
‘You have no idea, do you, princess? A modern-day Marie Antoinette—utterly clueless.’
‘James, I…’ have no idea what to say.
‘Good thing I’m a wealthy man and can carry the blow.’ He looked, his eyes skimming over her, all dreaded sarcasm and nil humour. ‘You seriously need to grow up, Elissa.’
She bit hard on the inside of her lip. She’d heard that one before—from her father, from her brothers. But it was different this time.
She was not going to cry. Not going to. Not going to act like the spoilt, sulky girl he thought she was. She’d take the caning like a professional. And cry later.
He was serious. And she knew it was all over. This wasn’t something she could laugh off with a flippant comment. And for once she didn’t want to. She felt terrible. She’d let him down. She’d let herself down.
She really was a waste of space.
‘I’m sorry, James.’
He stared at her, definitely no forgiveness or ease in those hard, dark eyes. No sign of the golden lights. He didn’t reply, just stalked out of the room.
JAMES practised a relaxed smile all the short walk back to the ballroom. Failed. Knew he was snarl central. He stopped just outside the room and took in a deep breath. A drink. That’d help. He collared a waiter. The expensive bubbles hit the spot but didn’t soothe quite the way he wanted. He could feel the steam coming out of his ears. It wasn’t just the wasted opportunity for coverage that had him riled. It was her—if anything he was even madder because she’d been so close to succeeding. He looked around. It was one damn impressive party. From the guest list, to the catering, she had arranged the best for the best.
And yet she’d forgotten the basics. He wanted to shake her.
She arrived back in the ballroom a few minutes after him. Looked a little flushed, headed to the other side of the room—soon in conversation with several guests.
He looked away then. Got to working some guests too—there was much that could be salvaged from the evening and he might as well get something out of it. A few hours passed and he steered well clear of her, knowing both his temper and temperature would stay cooking on high if he saw too much of her.
But she wouldn’t leave his mind—and his frustration rumbled.
Eventually he caught sight of her quietly discussing something with one of the waiters. Angry as he was with her, he didn’t like to see her so subdued. The sparkle had gone. The smile was still there but he could see the hint of strain. The flush had faded; now she was pale.
If only she’d made the media arrangements. It would have been a perfect night. She would have been so thrilled—and rightly so. He’d wanted her to taste that satisfaction, to know she’d done a good job and was capable of success.
Then he’d wanted to see her satisfied in a whole other, deeply personal, deeply physical, way.
He still wanted both to happen.
He didn’t like that it wasn’t going to be tonight.
Damn it, despite everything he still wanted to rip the dress from her and feel her warm and naked against him. Why did she have to be so bloody attractive?
He took a stroll about the room, trying to get to simmer level and not still be on rapid boil. But there was only one way to rid himself of this energy.
Unable to resist, he looked again. Now she was talking with some guests. She was aware of his scrutiny; he could tell by the way she stiffened slightly. But she wouldn’t look him in the eye. He didn’t like that either.
Time to work out solutions to both problems.
Would there never be an end to this hideous nightmare? All around her beautiful people ate beautiful food, had fabulous conversations and partied while inside Liss felt as alive as petrified wood.
She talked to a few local socialites, all wanting to regale her with all the gossip, and wanting to get more from her—about Cassie and Sebastian’s relationship especially. Liss clammed up—Cassie and her brother had a right to privacy, had been through enough already. And the mention of Cassie’s name only made her feel worse. She still hadn’t been able to see her.
They asked about Sydney—and she found she couldn’t share much about that either. As they were getting nothing from her, the women’s conversation strayed onto royal affairs—literally.
‘You’ve heard the latest one—that your father had an affair with a palace maid?’ one beauty asked rather gleefully.
Her father, King Aegeus. The uncomfortable lump in her chest expanded. She’d hardly known him—the only times he’d shown interest in her in recent years was when he’d expressed his displeasure at her pursuits. She’d genuinely grieved at his death—for the relationship that could have been as much as for the life that had passed. She knew she’d missed out. He’d missed out too.
This new rumour annoyed her—maybe she got the gene for inappropriate lust from him. And the tales the women were telling only reminded her that tonight the dirt-dishing media wolves weren’t here, and they should be.
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,’ Liss snapped. ‘You should know that.’
There was a momentary silence, which Liss filled by simply having a long sip of her champagne. Not that it helped.
‘Is that your boss?’ one woman asked, looking over to Liss’s right. ‘Wow. He looks intense.’
‘He looks hot,’ said another.
Liss