Page 11 of Carbon

“The hairdresser will be here in two hours,” Angie said. “How’s the editing?”

“Done. Finally.” I’d typed “The End” onThe Dark Night, and usually that would free my mind to turn one of the hundreds of ideas floating around inside my brain into a tangible plot line. But not tonight. No, tonight all I could think of was how Mother’s last soirée ended—with me bent forward over a chair while Mr. Midnight ploughed into me from behind.

Angie mistook the flush of my cheeks for something else and smiled. “I heard you and Gregory Fitzgerald got on well at lunch the other day.”

“It was okay. He’s not as bad as I remembered.”

“Oh, don’t play coy. You’ve gone all pink.”

Yes, but Gregory couldn’t have been further from my mind. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing to do with the fact that Gregory’s coming tonight?”

“No, honestly.”

She just laughed. “You don’t fool me.”

Well, as long as she thought my blushes were over Gregory, I could deal with that. Far better to believe I’d got the hots for a well-to-do doctor than a faceless hunk who’d shown up once to shag me senseless.

“Have you decided on a dress?” I asked, changing the subject.

Angie’s raised eyebrow told me she knew what I’d done, but she humoured me anyway and turned to the four possibles hanging from the wardrobe door, all bright red and all more risqué than I’d ever have dared to wear.

“I’m thinking the one on the left.” She looked me up and down. “Unless you want to borrow that one?”

“No!”

While Angelica had been blessed with a naturally slim figure, every cake I ate went straight to my bottom, and I had to wear a bra at all times. I’d fall right out the top of that dress, and then there was the colour. Mother had decreed we wear either red or black to fit with her party theme, and my choice would most definitely be the latter. Long, dark, plain—I envied those ladies in the Middle East who got to wear a burka every day.

“I’ve already chosen my outfit,” I said.

“Where?”

I pointed across the hallway, through the open door to my bedroom. “There.”

Angie squinted at my bed. “You do know this is a party, right? Not a funeral?”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that.” And I didn’t want to give Gregory the wrong idea, or anybody else either. Unless... Mr. Midnight had mentioned a “next time.” Was he being serious? I mean, I hadn’t heard a peep from him, but what if...?

No.

I mustn’t get my hopes up, and besides, now I’d had time to think about that night, I realised I must have been suffering from temporary insanity. Honestly, skipping off to meet a stranger for sex again would be a terrible idea.

Crazy. Awful. An idea so bad it made me ache between my thighs just considering it.

“You’ve got that look again,” Angie said. “Still daydreaming about Gregory?”

Damn my flipping face, betraying me like that. “I’m going to change.”

Her laughter followed me out of the door.

* * *

“Can I get you another drink?” Gregory asked.

He’d worn a tuxedo with a red bow tie as a nod to Mother’s theme.

I glanced at my champagne flute—half empty, but it was my third glass, and I was wearing heels. “Better not, but thank you for offering.”

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