Melting Ms Frost (33 page)

‘You look breathtaking,’ he said with a sort of rasp that suggested he was indeed struggling to find air.

‘You don’t look so bad yourself,’ she returned, in what was a gross understatement. He looked like he’d stepped right out of the glossy pages of
GQ
– tall, dark and incredibly handsome in a classic black tie ensemble that fitted his body like it had been tailored personally for him. Which was very probably the case, she realised, given the circles he moved in.

He crossed the room towards her with his usual fluid grace, those keen eyes taking in every detail of her appearance. He stopped in front of her, gaze mapping her face. ‘I want to kiss you,’ he said, attention dropping to focus on her mouth. ‘But I wouldn’t be able to stop myself messing up that perfect lipstick if I did.’

With the way he was looking at her, she was about to say she could easily reapply it, but he spoke again first. ‘I’ll just have to get creative.’

Hands reaching for her hips, he pushed her back a few steps until she felt the press of the table against her skirts. Dropping to his knees, he began gathering up the fabric of the dress, giving her a wicked smile before he disappeared underneath it. Annabel leaned back against the table, hands gripping the edge as she felt her underwear being pulled aside, felt Aidan’s fingers opening her a second before she felt the light press of his lips, the warm, wet flutter of his tongue over her clitoris which sent a shudder through her. Then he nudged her thighs apart and deepened the intimate kiss, his mouth closing over her, sucking at the tender flesh as his tongue stroked through her folds.

Her knees were jelly and fine tremors were chasing each other all over her body by the time he re-emerged.

‘Jesus,’ he muttered, rising to his feet to loom over her where she continued to lean against the table in an attempt to support her weight. ‘I want to be inside you.’ He licked at his moist bottom lip, the slashes of high colour across the ridge of his cheekbones evidence of his own arousal. ‘Right now. All night. Feeling you come around me again. Listening to you scream my name.’

She was on the verge of screaming it right then from frustration – the hint of regret in his voice telling her that he was going to leave her in this state even as his words ratcheted up the tension. Luckily, she bit back the urge as the door chime sounded.

With a last, lingering look that promised all sorts of pleasures later, Aidan stepped back from her. Running a hand through his mussed hair, he reached for their coats.

‘Time to go.’

They caught the lift down to the lobby with Bal, who, apart from the array of silver and jet-studded skull rings adorning both hands, some sort of black crystal encrusted cod-piece attached to the front of his trousers and the obvious lack of a bow tie, was conservatively dressed for the occasion given his reputation for outlandish costumes. Arriving on the ground floor, they found Yuliya, dramatic in blood-red satin and a queen’s ransom worth of rubies, speaking to the staff at the reception desk.

‘Perfect timing,’ she said, leaving the desk and coming to greet them. ‘I just arrived and was having them call you.’

Bal kissed her on both cheeks. ‘We’re here. Damien and Gee are on the way down. And you look absolutely ravishing,’ he said, taking her hand and giving her a little twirl. ‘I wish I’d been slower getting ready so that you’d have had to come up to find me.’

‘I’m sure my fiancé would love to read about that in tomorrow’s papers.’ Yuliya all but rolled her eyes. ‘Though, you obviously do need help dressing yourself.’ She flicked a finger at his open shirt collar. ‘Where’s your tie?’

‘Tie?’ Bal said with theatrical horror. ‘Watch your language, woman. I can’t be seen in a tie! And it would serve that idiot Viktor right to worry about you. What sort of man leaves such a beauty to travel around unaccompanied?’

Yuliya patted Bal’s cheek. ‘A very busy, highly evolved one, my dear Neanderthal. This isn’t the dark ages. He’s not even locked me in a chastity belt.’

Bal was making a show of trying to get her to prove it when Damien and Georgiana stepped out of the elevator a minute later, their arrival drawing the attention of pretty much everyone in the lobby. Damien looked effortlessly dark and sexy in black tie, the perfect foil for Georgiana’s pale gown with its bodice of silver ribbon lace and floating dove-grey chiffon skirt. Her blonde hair had been gathered into a perfect chignon with tiny pearl pins scattered throughout. Elegant diamond and pearl drops hung from her ears.

Watching Georgiana glide as though her feet didn’t touch the ground, Annabel braced for the sneering judgement on her own dress that was surely to come. But although the blonde gave her a thorough going over, she followed it with no more than a shallow, fleeting smile before letting Damien lead her towards the doors.

As the hotel was situated directly behind the opera house, the party set off on foot. In their strappy evening shoes, the women all felt the bite of the freezing air on their toes while the light snowfall decorated heads and shoulders with a dusting of icy jewels.

The snow had been falling pretty much since the middle of the day, when Annabel and Aidan had finally left the hotel to rest tender muscles and take in the sights. The settling drifts and twirling flakes lent the city a magical winter wonderland feel, especially in the pretty squares and amongst the stalls of the Wintermarkt, where the sweet-spiced scents of fresh baked goods mingled with the more potent aroma of warm glühwein and only added to the charm.

To Annabel’s mind, however, the best thing about Vienna had been the abundance of beautiful cafés the cold weather had given them the regular excuse to stop in and warm up on truly excellent coffee. What wasn’t to love about a city reportedly famed for having created the first coffee house in Europe?

Rounding the corner to the front of the Opera House, Annabel saw that the pavement directly outside the arched entrance had been covered by a red carpet around which crowds of onlookers and paparazzi had gathered.

An explosion of noise and flashbulbs erupted as their party crossed the red carpet – mostly frenzied shouts vying for the attention of Bal and Damien. When Bal ‘raised the horn’ – the ubiquitous rock’n’roll hand signal symbolising the devil’s horns – the screams of delight became almost deafening. Damien, on the other hand, didn’t react at all. The son of legendary musician Drake Harcourt, he had a rock’n’roll pedigree and a scandalous family history that made him a favourite obsession with the popular press. But watching as he breezed past as though he’d not noticed a thing, Annabel figured the feeling was far from mutual.

They made their way under the arched canopy of the loggia, up a shallow set of steps and through the doors. Inside the lobby, more photographers waited, crowding around the base of the magnificent ivory marble staircase as they encouraged celebrity guests to pose on the steps to great effect.

With a protective hand against her spine, Aidan guided Annabel up to the first floor where the cream of the international jet set and A-list stars rubbed shoulders with influential political leaders and corporate bigwigs. A select guest list of two hundred had been invited to the exclusive VIP dinner which was taking place prior to the ball opening its doors to the greater public at nine p.m.

One of the long intermission halls – a beautiful room with tapestry-lined walls and unique golden chandeliers – had been transformed into a dining room. Round tables had been covered with white linen and the places set with decorative gold-plated cutlery while tall, ornate gold candelabra rose from exquisite white floral centrepieces.

At Damien’s table, which was set to one end of the room by a low stage, Annabel found herself in the company of some of the guests from the previous night’s dinner party. And she was once again seated beside Bal, who made the first two courses of the meal pass quickly as he flirted and joked and shared salacious, not to mention utterly libellous, bits of gossip about many of the room’s occupants.

At the next table were the Reisers. Astrid – resplendent in gold couture, to match the colour theme for the night – managed to look the epitome of gracious calm even as she kept an organisational eye on every detail of the evening she’d been responsible for creating.

Over dessert, she made her way onto the stage and introduced the president of the charity – the Future Bright Foundation – who in turn formally welcomed them all to the inaugural Bright Ball, an event which the charity intended to host annually as the major fundraiser for their cause. There followed a projected presentation which highlighted the charity’s commitment to bringing education to every child across Europe, regardless of race, gender, religion, or social or economic standing, and showcasing how the generous donations from their benefactors were being put to good use.

‘And now that we have filled your stomachs and emptied your wallets,’ the president finished up to ripples of laughter, ‘I would ask that you all join me in the auditorium as the doors have been opened and it’s time to get the dancing underway.’

Damien led his group of guests to two private boxes, plushly decorated in red with velvet-cushioned seating and small linen-covered tables holding ice buckets chilling bottles of champagne and wine. Stepping into one of the boxes, Annabel took in the sight of the grand auditorium before her. Opposite, across the expanse of the ground floor which had been cleared of seating and was full of milling crowds, an orchestra filled the stage providing a classical backing track to the noise of hundreds of chattering voices. Meeting each side of the stage, three tiers of private boxes and two upper galleries festooned with festive garlands and wreaths, ringed the enormous space in a horseshoe shape, the whole luxuriously decorated in golds, reds and creams.

A sudden fanfare from the stage cut through the noise and drew everyone’s attention to the conductor, who bowed to the crowd before asking that the floor be cleared for the debutants. Obediently, the crowds parted, pushing back against the walls.

Yuliya took two glasses of champagne that Aidan had poured and handed one to Annabel. ‘You’ve not been to a Viennese ball before?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Annabel shook her head as the orchestra struck up with new vigour.

‘Then you’ll enjoy this spectacle – I always do. It’s a tradition here to officially open balls with a processional Polonaise – a type of court dance which is performed by debutants.’

As she spoke a column of young women dressed in snow-white gowns and men in black tails filed into the auditorium. Four abreast, gloved hands linked, row upon row promenaded down the centre of the dance floor at a dignified pace, their gliding steps in keeping with the music’s tempo, every third one accentuated by a slight bending of the knees.

And the rows kept coming, until the dancers numbered over a hundred. When the head of the column reached the opposite end of the dance floor, the couples parted, with pairs looping right and left to double back along either side of the advancing centre ranks. Once all of the couples had been divided into two separate trains, the dance became more complex as the group performed patterns – winding, criss-crossing, side-stepping, their precise formations and contrasting black and white costumes giving the illusion of a giant moving chequerboard.

The dance finished to great applause, leaving the debutants drawn into two circles on the dance floor. As the noise died down to be replaced by the sweet, slow strains of a violin, the couples turned to each other and performed a courtly bow, the young women placing their fingers lightly in those of their partners before folding into low, graceful curtsies and the men bowing at the waist to almost touch their foreheads to their grasped hands. When the women rose, each couple came together in the closed position before moving as one in the first turning steps of the waltz.

Applause erupted again at the sight. After the stately symmetry of the Polonaise, the fluid swirl of the waltz created a dizzying spectacle of black and billowing white. As, here and there, the guests started to step from the sidelines and join the circling mass, Annabel had to admit that her mother had been right about the dress. A waltz required big skirts.

Beside her, Yuliya put down her glass. ‘I’m going to dance,’ she announced, grabbing a surprised Bal by the arm and dragging him from where he stood chatting at the back of the box, laughing dirtily at something one of his companions was saying. ‘Anybody joining us?’

Two other couples quickly followed, and Annabel returned her attention to the dancing below. After only a moment, she felt a hand descend onto her shoulder and turned to see that Aidan had stepped up beside her. ‘How about you, Ms Frost. Would you like to dance?’

She cast another glance at the spinning sea of humanity and shook her head. ‘I don’t really know how.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Aidan said. ‘Nor do half the people on that floor. And wait until Bal gets out there. You’ll actually be able to see him counting the steps aloud.’

Annabel laughed, diverted by the unlikely picture that would make – one of the bad boys of rock counting steps like a child. ‘That reminds me of—’ When she realised she’d been about to share a silly memory of her counting the steps while she danced on her father’s feet, she stopped herself. ‘Never mind,’ she dismissed, self-consciously turning away.

She felt Aidan shift closer. ‘Reminds you of what?’ he prodded gently, but with enough interest in his tone to tell her that he wouldn’t let it drop.

So, taking a sip of champagne and keeping her eyes averted, she told him. For a moment he stayed silent by her side, then reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. Surprised by the gesture, she turned to be met by a gaze warmed by something that looked like pride. ‘Finish your drink and then you can use my feet.’

‘You don’t waltz,’ she challenged, flustered

‘I do. I grew up with four sisters all of whom attended the local dance school and all of whom found it useful to have a practice partner at home. You should see my
pas de deux
.’ He gave a formal little bow and held a palm out to her. ‘Would you do me the honour, Ms Frost?’