Damn.
His
Bremont wristwatch never lied. It was after midnight, and Fitzwilliam Darcy was
unavoidably, unacceptably late. Reynolds was doing his best, but it would take
at least fifteen minutes to cross town to the Marquee. He’d be lucky if he
caught the last number.
A
quarter of an hour later he dashed beneath the neon sign, past the queue and
doorman, and through the double doors into the club. His table – their table – was in a dark corner, with
a lipstick-marred wine glass upon it, next to her Rolleicord camera and a
tumbler containing a thoroughly melted whiskey-rocks. Damn.
By
the stage, a wild crowd still surged to the beat. Which tune was this?
Sweet Little Sixteen.
Maybelline.
Poor
Little Fool.
He knew them all, of course.
“I know you can dance, since
it i’nt hard,” he heard her say in his head. “The question is, do you?”
‘If I can find you, I will,’ he
muttered beneath his breath.
He surveyed the twisting, seething
mass of youth. A sea of bouffants and fringes, tossed like mad to the beat of
the music, hair pushed out of Nefertiri-lined eyes by manicured fingers. Darcy
narrowed his eyes.
Then
there she was – almost up against the stage, head thrown back in laughter as
she tossed her hair back and forth. He took in her shockingly abbreviated dress
– the color of a ripe tomato – which clung to her hips and breasts and bared
her arms to the shoulder. Her dark hair was teased at the crown, falling
thickly in perspiration-soaked strands to stick to her face and neck. Lord, she
was incredible.
Suddenly
she opened her eyes and met his gaze from across the room. For a moment neither
moved – then she broke into a wide grin reserved only for him, completely
unaware of the disappointed look she earned from her dancing partner. Is that Rory Storm?
It didn’t matter. Darcy had come in
time.
