Chapter 10 #2
Much to her dismay, tears sprang to her eyes.
Luna turned away quickly, blinking hard at the sophisticated couple the next table over, who eyed her back with some distaste.
The last thing she needed was to cry. Here.
Right in the middle of this beautiful restaurant, surrounded by these beautiful people.
Oh god, she couldn’t survive that much embarrassment, surely!
“Well, damn.” Ward leaned back in his chair. He rested his hands on the table on either side of his plate. “Damn, Luna. Why didn’t you tell me?”
She flashed him a glance from under her eyelashes, conscious of how much mascara Edwina had applied and how very much she needed to not let it run in black streams down her cheeks. “I mean, doesn’t it sound a bit like a line, to you? Like I’m trying to put you off?”
Ward shrugged. “From another girl it might.” He leaned over the table then, his smile deeply sympathetic in the candle’s glow.
“But not from you. Not from fresh-as-a-daisy Luna Talbot of Crimble. If you tell me your auntie died and you’re torn up about it, well .
. .” He took up his wine flute and held it aloft.
“Here’s to—what was her name? This auntie of yours? ”
“Apolonia.”
“Here’s to Auntie Apolonia. May she rest well in the hallowed halls of great and powerful aunties of yore.”
Luna smiled at this. Auntie Apolonia certainly merited such a salute. No doubt she even now marched those hallowed, heavenly halls with a commanding stride.
Picking up her own wine glass, Luna clinked it against Ward’s. He took a large swallow, while she merely wetted her lips, another little something that did not escape the wardsman’s swift eye. His brows rose slightly. “And let me guess,” he said, “you’re a teetotaler, aren’t you?”
An embarrassed giggle escaped through her smile. “Auntie Aurora didn’t approve of strong drink,” Luna admitted, “so I’ve never had a chance to develop any taste for it.”
Ward tilted his head to one side. “And exactly how many aunties do you have to your name?”
Luna met his gaze across the table. “Plenty.”
He chuckled at this, white teeth flashing in the chandelier light.
“Here’s to plenty of aunties, then!” he declared, clinking her glass once more before draining the contents of his.
“Now,” he said, setting the flute aside and rising from his seat, “how about a dance, Luna Talbot? We’ve got to make room for dessert, after all. ”
Somehow the moment of crisis seemed to have passed.
Her hand taken in Ward’s firm grasp, Luna let him lead her through the forest of tables to the dance floor.
Soon she was wrapped in his arms, her chin close to his shoulder, his cheek pressed in her curls, her body flush against his powerful frame.
She didn’t know if this counted as dancing, per se.
Merely sway-stepping in time to the music.
But it was easy, and she felt very supported.
Some of the knotted tension in her middle began to unravel, making room for .
. . what? A little happiness? Maybe. Maybe she was happy to be out with Ward after all.
Maybe, if she weren’t due to run for her life in the middle of the night sometime very soon, she would like to stay on at Ballycastle. Get to know this man a little better.
Maybe with a handsome wardsman by her side, she wouldn’t need to run anymore.
They danced and then danced some more. The nice thing with dancing was there wasn’t much need for conversation.
Ward offered occasional quips about the couples around them, about the music played, about the band members or the setting or one of the wait staff.
Luna answered as she liked or simply smiled, and he seemed happy either way.
She needn’t worry about embarrassing herself. And Ward was a very good dancer.
She lost track of how many songs played as Ward guided her over the floor.
At last, however, he paused and pushed back the cuff of his nice suit jacket to glance at his watch.
He made a face. “Well, Luna Talbot,” he said, “I would be very glad to order you a dessert tonight but, unfortunately, I can’t stay to enjoy it with you. Duty calls.”
“Oh, no thank you, Ward,” Luna answered quickly. “I couldn’t eat another bite in any case.”
After Ward settled up their table, they walked together out to the glittering hotel foyer.
While the coat check girl fetched Luna’s fur, Ward borrowed the phone at the front desk to call a taxi.
Then they stood together by the glass front doors, but didn’t proceed outside into the cold just yet.
Luna felt all her earlier awkwardness returning tenfold.
This was the point in the evening when, according to Bryony, she really must kiss her date.
Her date, who had just spent an awful lot of money on a meal far more sumptuous than anything Luna had ever tasted.
Not to mention the wine, which was even now making her a bit lightheaded.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have sipped quite so much. Luna bit her lip.
“Hey.” Ward reached out suddenly and took her hand in his. “I’m not going to kiss you tonight,” he said.
Luna flashed him a swift glance. “You’re not?”
“Nope.” He shook his head. “Tonight was about one thing only: figuring out whether or not you want me to look you up again when I get back from assignment. That’s it. But now the question pends: Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Want me to look you up when I get back?”
Luna couldn’t bear to hold that green-eyed gaze for long. She lowered her lashes, felt the flush stealing up her neck. Then she nodded.
“Was that a yes?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Ward slipped a finger under her chin and tipped her face back, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Once more. For the peanut gallery.”
Her flush redoubled in power until she quite glowed through all Edwina’s cosmetic powder. “Yes, John Ward,” she managed. “I . . . I would like that. Very much.”
Ward’s grin flashed, showcasing both of those dangerous dimples. “Now that’s an answer a fellow can live on through long stakeout nights.”
Luna’s stomach whooshed with wine, mingled with a tumult of feelings and undeniable attraction and .
. . and something else. Something deeply sad which she couldn’t explain.
She turned away, relieved to see the automagic mobile drawing up to the front of the hotel.
“What was that taxi number again?” she asked rather breathlessly.
Ward walked her outside, held the taxi door, and instructed the driver to take her wherever she needed to go, on him. Luna, still standing on the sidewalk, shivered within the folds of her coat. But she knew she had to do something.
“Ward?”
“Yes?”
“I . . . had such a lovely time tonight.”
“I did too, Luna Talbot. I did too.”
Luna turned to the cab. Then, setting her teeth, she whirled back again, took hold of Ward’s face, went up on tiptoes in her (borrowed) fancy shoes, and kissed his cheek.
She felt the dimple break out beneath her lips before she pulled away and all but flung herself into the depths of the taxi.
She could not bear to look back at him, but kept her gaze carefully averted from the window, staring instead at the (borrowed) beaded purse in her lap.
“Where to, lady?” the cabbie asked.
“Number twenty-seven, Bootblack Alley,” Luna answered hastily, fully conscious of the disapproving look the cabbie shot her in the rearview mirror.
But the automagic car kicked into gear, carrying her away from an incredible evening.
Away from the handsome wardsman, away from chandeliers and candlelight and crisp napkins and sparkling wine.
Back to the grime and worry of real life.
And Luna continued to stare at her purse.
To her great surprise, a strange little hiccupping sound rose from her chest and tried to burst out.
She clasped a hand tightly to her mouth, determined to restrain it.
It lodged in her throat, however, refusing to budge, and tears sprang to her eyes.
But she couldn’t cry. She simply couldn’t.
Not with all this makeup on her face. Not when she’d just had such a lovely, lovely time with a lovely, lovely man.
Not when she should be so perfectly happy.
And yet . . . and yet . . .
Another little hiccupping sound burst free, along with a single tear, which raced swiftly down her cheek. Gulping hard, Luna opened her purse and fumbled for the handkerchief inside. She dabbed away the tear and swiped gently under her eye so as not to disturb her mascara.
Then she looked down at the hankie. And recognized a pattern of dancing mushrooms. Turning the little square of cloth around, she found the embroidered initials: NG.
Suddenly, she was back in that not-so-long-ago, late-summer day, drenched from a storm and standing in a puddle in the middle of The Arcane Bouquet.
She remembered the violent sneezes which shook her body, and how the strange man in front of her, all gentlemanly concern, offered her his handkerchief and invited her back behind the counter for a cup of tea.
A disgusting cup of tea, as it would turn out. But life-altering in its way.
Luna released a cold breath, one finger tracing first the N then the G, feeling the silken texture of thread.
She’d meant to wash and return his handkerchief, but for some reason she’d held onto it.
A memento of that day when the tea leaves in the bottom of her morning cuppa had promised a change of fortune.
That change of fortune had come in the guise of Nigel Grimm.
A strange, prickly feeling worked its way through Luna’s veins and settled in her gut. How foolish she felt. So completely foolish.