on, he noticed that she kept her back to him. Was she being courteous and giving him some privacy? Or was it because she couldn’t face what they’d done? Or to stop herself being tempted? The way she’d kissed him this morning made him wonder.
A cold shower did a lot to restore his equilibrium and he managed to keep his face neutral when he knocked on her door. ‘Ready for breakfast?’ he asked when she opened the door.
She nodded. ‘I’ve packed. Do we need to check out first?’
‘No, we’ll do that after breakfast.’
Liam took Polly to one of the oldest cafés in Vienna, where he knew the pastries were wonderful. Her smile was very bright, so he knew she was worrying that he’d push her to talk about those scars on her wrists. Well, he wasn’t going to push her. He’d wait until she was ready to tell him.
‘I’m having the Viennese specialty—Sachertorte and a melange.’ At her questioning look, he said, ‘Coffee. It’s a cross between a latte and a cappuccino, without the cocoa on top.’
‘Sounds good. And you’re actually having chocolate cake for breakfast?’
‘This is more than just chocolate cake.’ He shrugged. ‘This is Vienna. The cakes here are fantastic. There’s a whole counter over there,’ he said, indicating the glass-fronted display with all kinds of cakes and pastries. ‘Go and find something you like the look of.’
She gave him a grateful look and escaped to choose some cake.
When the waitress brought their order over, he found that she’d opted for a rich strawberry torte, thin layers of soft sponge and strawberry mousse, topped with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.
‘That looks lush.’
She tasted a forkful. ‘It is. Want to try some?’
‘Swap you for a taste of my Sachertorte?’
‘Deal.’
Her smile was still a bit on the over-bright side, but Liam could tell she was starting to relax with him again. He enjoyed her feeding him a forkful of her torte, too; though he couldn’t help thinking about last night and wishing things were different. He really was going to have to get a grip.
‘A bit too rich for me,’ was her verdict on the Sachertorte, ‘but the coffee’s fantastic.’
After breakfast, they headed back through the main streets.
‘I can’t believe how pretty it is here,’ Polly said at the corner of Stefansplatz. She gestured to the gothic cathedral with its distinctive roof. ‘Just look at that, the way the spire’s so sharp against the sky.’
Liam had almost forgotten how much he loved Vienna, the wide streets and the incredible architecture and the art installations everywhere. Seeing it with Polly made him see it through fresh eyes.
‘You’re not the only one who likes it.’ He pointed out the artists who were painting street scenes, with racks of pictures for sale set up by their easels.
A string quartet dressed in eighteenth-century costume was playing Mozart.
‘Can we stop and listen for a while?’ Polly asked.
‘Sure.’ And that was the other thing Liam loved about Vienna: the sound. The city of music. No out-of-tune buskers, here: whether they were string quartets or jazz trios or opera singers, they were all note-perfect.
They lingered until the piece ended, enjoying the music. And then the quartet started playing ‘The Blue Danube’.
A waltz.
Liam glanced at Polly. Dancing in public would mean that she’d have to fake it. And that would make sure the physical awkwardness between them was gone before they went back to training. ‘Recognise the tempo?’
Her eyes went wide as she guessed what he meant. ‘We can’t.’
‘Sure we can. It’s Vienna. People expect it.’
‘But … ‘
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the steps again?’
She lifted her chin. ‘I have not.’
‘Dare you.’
She held his gaze, and he knew she’d guessed he was calling her on something else. Then she nodded. ‘You’re on.’
Two seconds later, they were in hold and were waltzing along the wide street. Polly didn’t miss a step, to his relief, doing the turns perfectly and keeping in time with the quartet. The tourists who’d stopped to listen to the music moved back slightly, giving them space to dance.
Everything faded for him except Polly and the music. Dancing to the slow, regular beat of the old tune. The rise and fall of their steps. Whirling her round, his leg sliding between hers and hers between his as they turned. Just like last night in the candlelit ballroom, when she’d looked up at him, those gorgeous brown eyes huge, and he’d dipped his head to kiss her.
It was too much for him to resist. He lowered his mouth to hers, his body on automatic pilot as he led her through the steps. His mouth was tingling where his lips touched hers—and then she kissed him back, her mouth sweet and responsive, making him feel as if they were dancing on air instead of in a wide, bustling boulevard.
It was a while before Liam realised that the music had stopped and people were clapping.
And he was still kissing Polly. Dancing to music that existed entirely in his head.
He slowed his steps to a halt and pulled back, noting the glitter in Polly’s eyes and the hectic flush on her cheeks.
‘Sorry,’ he mouthed. Even though he wasn’t.
‘Bravo,’ one of the onlookers called.
What else could he do but brazen it out? He bowed, and stood back as Polly dipped into a curtsey.
Dancing, he thought, could fix almost anything.
Except Polly’s reservations. Because as soon as she stood straight again, all her barriers were back in place. Her eyes were filled with panic. And he didn’t have a clue how to reassure her, because he was in exactly the same state.
They checked out of the hotel and took the train back to the airport to catch their flight. She was quiet all the way home, clearly brooding, and Liam had no idea how to reach her. All he could do, back in London, was to insist on seeing her home, right to her front door.
‘Thank you. I didn’t think I’d ever get the waltz. And what you did, setting up the ballroom like that … that was special.’
‘Pleasure.’
She looked at him. ‘I owe you an explanation. About …’ She glanced down at her wrists.
Was that what she’d been worrying about, rather than the growing physical and emotional awareness between them? ‘It’s OK. You don’t owe me anything.’
‘Do you want to come in, um, for a glass of wine?’
He had a feeling that this was Polly’s way of telling him she was ready to talk. And maybe what had happened with her wrists was the key to whatever was holding her back. Maybe if he understood that, he could make some sense of this whole thing between them. ‘OK. That’d be good,’ he said lightly.
She let them into her flat, dropped her bag in the hallway, ushered him into the kitchen and poured them both a glass of wine. Then she took a deep breath. ‘Those scars are because I cut my wrists when I was fifteen.’ She looked away. ‘God, even saying it aloud makes me feel so ashamed.’
He’d already worked that out for himself, because she couldn’t look him in the eye.
‘I don’t know how close you are to your family,’ she said.
‘On and off,’