Chapter Eight #3
Once there, Ashbridge turned, drawing Vesper nearer until she was within the circle of his arms, one of his hands still holding hers, the other coming to rest at her hip.
His height was particularly pronounced at such close range; she had to tilt her head back to look him in the eye.
She rested a hand on one of his broad shoulders, and looked away briefly when his eyes—darker in the low light of the club—met hers, the eye contact feeling too intimate, here in his arms with his hand burning through the silk at her hip.
This close, she could see how immaculately put-together he was: the carefully combed hair, the cleanly shaved jaw, the perfectly knotted tie.
Vesper wondered suddenly, wildly, without warning, what he was like in bed.
She could not picture this man coming undone.
“You’re a good dancer,” she said, because she needed to distract herself from that line of thought in a hurry.
Ashbridge was surefooted as he twirled them around the room, his hand on her hip gently steering without really giving the impression of doing so.
Vesper had danced with enough unskilled partners to recognize—and appreciate—a good dancer when she found him.
“My mother taught me,” he said with a lopsided smile, the quirk of the lips all at once making him look boyish and far too charming. “She’s a ballet dancer. Or was, I suppose. She danced in music halls before I was born.” His mouth pressed into a thin, grim line. “It’s where she met my father.”
Vesper, having come from a happy (albeit infuriating) family, had never herself had cause to utter the word “father” with the amount of disdain Ashbridge had infused it with.
“I take it you’re not close,” she said, and he looked at her, considering, for a moment before he spoke again.
“He was a posh twat who seduced her with false promises, and then refused to marry her when she realized she was pregnant, so. No. I wouldn’t say we’re close.
” He shook his head, as if shaking off the memory of the unfortunate man who’d sired him.
“Fortunately, my stepfather came into the picture—he’d been a family friend for years, and offered to marry Mum when the situation came to light.
” His mouth quirked a bit. “Turns out he’d been in love with her for ages.
And, over time, she fell in love with him, too. He’s the only father I’ve ever needed.”
“Is Ashbridge his name?” Vesper asked.
He nodded. “He’s never made me feel as if I wasn’t his son, even when my siblings came along.”
Vesper sighed, feeling a bit gooey. “That’s awfully romantic.”
Ashbridge grimaced. “Please don’t. They’re my parents.”
“Parents can be romantic, too,” Vesper said, then shook her head. “Believe me, I should know.”
“I do recall your parents being rather…” He trailed off, appearing to search for a polite word.
“Nauseating?” she suggested.
“Enamored,” he replied diplomatically.
She wrinkled her nose at him.
“Have you ever seen your mother dance?” she asked, as a way to avoid thinking about the time she’d walked into the dining room to find her mother seated on the table, her father standing between her spread legs.
She’d taken a daily forgetfulness potion for weeks afterward, before accepting the fact that, once the potion wore off, the memories inevitably returned.
It would be her (traumatizing) cross to bear, apparently.
He nodded. “She opened a ballet school, and one year, her pupils convinced her to close a recital by dancing herself. And I just remember thinking…”
“Yes?” she asked after a moment.
“It made me wonder how my father could bear it—giving her up.” There was something so soft, so warm in his tone as he spoke of his mother that, for a moment, he didn’t sound at all like the Ashbridge that Vesper thought she knew.
She wondered what it would be like to be loved by him; he struck her as the sort to be extremely loyal.
“It was his loss, clearly,” she said, and he gave a quick nod. He was no longer quite meeting her gaze—it could not have been any clearer that he didn’t wish to discuss this any further.
“I’m glad you have those memories,” she added lightly. “And you can tell her that she did a good job with you—I’ve not had my toes trodden on a single time.”
“She’d disown me if she thought I was taking pretty girls out dancing and stepping on their feet.”
“She’ll be able to sleep at night,” Vesper said, grinning at him.
Her mind tripped over the word “pretty,” which was ridiculous—it wasn’t as though she were unaccustomed to men telling her she was pretty.
She cast a glance around them; the light of the chandelier made it easy to see the other couples dancing nearby, but nearly impossible to see much beyond them into the shadows.
“Do you think people are watching us?” she asked, leaning forward so that her words fell quietly into his ear. He ducked his head, and she resisted the impulse to inhale, to breathe him in.
She felt the brush of his hair against her forehead as he glanced sideways. “Maybe,” he said, his breath warm on her cheek. “It’s hard to tell in this light.”
She nodded, then dropped his hand to reach up and curve her arm around his neck instead. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to kiss you.”
Without missing a beat, he asked, “Why, precisely, would that worry me?”
And all at once, Vesper was at a loss for words.
She hated being at a loss for words.
And she particularly hated that it was Max Ashbridge, of all people, who had put her in such a state.
Ashbridge, however, didn’t seem to be expecting any sort of a response from her.
Instead, he curved his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him, his hand warm through the fabric of her dress.
He didn’t look her in the eye, but instead gazed past her, his eyes seeming to scan the room beyond the dance floor.
“Have you noticed anything suspicious?” she asked.
“A hooded figure in a corner furtively filling packets with mysterious substances?” he asked in an undertone, an edge of wry amusement to his voice.
“I was thinking more along the lines of a blonde swiping someone’s drink.”
“I doubt we’ll be so lucky on our first attempt.”
“And,” Vesper added in the interests of fairness, “we don’t know this mysterious blonde is responsible—we’re basing this entire theory on Anna’s memories of a few seconds in a chaotic night.”
“At the moment, it’s the only lead we’ve got. I can’t exactly show up on—what was the name of the fellow who had the tainted potion?”
“Everett Carlisle—Amir, one of our bartenders, has been asking around. He was a guest of a member but has visited the club a few times before.”