Page 46 of Cross My Heart

“Because they probably do,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light. I’m not sure what Jia’s problem is, but she has some kind of chip on her shoulder about Saint and his friends. “Anyway, it’s just one party. I think it’ll be fun, seeing how the other half lives. I’ll see if I can steal some caviar,” I add, joking, but Jia doesn’t laugh.

“That one’s too short,” she says, nodding at the dress I’m wearing. “You don’t want them thinking you’re a slut.”

I blink.Okaaay. “Good point,” I say brightly, and go to try another outfit, but after another half-hour of Jia’s passive-aggressive comments, I’m wondering what her problem is. Finally, she has to get to her next lecture, leaving me to shop alone.

I take a deep breath, trying to assess my reflection in the mirror. This one is understated: a two-piece set in sky-blue silk, with a boxy top, and longer, full skirt that nips in at my waist. It looks great, like something from a 1950sVogue, but is it good enough for the St. Clairs and Lancasters of the world?

Jia’s comments have rattled me. I try not to let her words get to me, but I have to admit that I felt out of place at Saint’s dinner party, listening to all their exploits. The world they’ve grown up in is a million miles from my own modest, middle-class background. Will the Lancaster party be the same?

My phone buzzes. Saint is calling. I answer, still studying my reflection.

“Let’s skip the party,” he says immediately.

“Who is this?” I ask teasingly.

“Very funny.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “But I’m serious. To hell with boring small talk and stuffy canapes. Let’s have dinner instead, just the two of us. I know a great French bistro, on the banks of the Seine.”

I laugh at the suggestion. “Paris for dinner? Oh yeah, sure.”

“Why not? Eurostar takes an hour, we could be eating our body weight in fine steak and eclairs by tonight.”

I blink. “You’re serious?”

“I never joke about French patisserie,” Saint replies, and I have to laugh. A whirlwind trip to Paris…? I would say ‘Yes’ in a heartbeat—if I wasn’t on a mission.

“It sounds wonderful,” I tell him. “But would we actually relax and have a good time, or would your family try calling every five minutes to guilt-trip you for not showing up?”

Saint sighs, sounding reluctant. “You’ve clearly met my mother, the queen of guilt.”

“So, wouldn’t it be easier just to keep them happy, and drop by the party, just for a little while?” I suggest gently. “I promise, you can whisk me away for some ridiculously over-the-top dinner date some other time.”

“Count on it.” Saint says. “But you’re right, I suppose. See you later. I’ll pick you up at three.”

I hang up and take a deep breath. My plan for the Lancasters is still on track.

“What do you think?” the shop assistant asks, poking her head back.

“I think this is the one,” I nod, smoothing down the silk. “I’ll take it.”

* * *

When Saint picksme up from the apartment in the afternoon, I can tell that I made the right choice. His gaze devours me, hungrily, and I feel my stomach turn over in a flip of awareness.

I spin for him in a pirouette. “Like it?” I ask playfully.

He pulls me into his arms for a slow, heated kiss.Oh. I melt against him, feeling the rush of electricity through every cell in my body.

Finally, he pulls away. “Let’s go before I decide to blow off the party and just ravish you right here.” Saint gives me a wolfish look.

“Ravishing? I think that’s a new one for me.” I say with a smirk, then neatly sidestep him to collect my coat. As much as I want to find out exactly what that would involve, I need to stay focused. This party is about research and gathering info, not the liquid ache Saint sends through my body.

“You know, Paris is still on the table…” Saint says, as he holds the passenger door to his sportscar open for me. “Or Rome, Seville… Take your pick. We could probably borrow a jet if you want to go further afield. Morocco is lovely this time of year.”

I laugh, even though it’s still wild to me that he’s not even kidding. I can’t imagine the kind of life that involves spontaneous trips and private jets. “Another time,” I tell him, as he slides in behind the wheel. I pat his thigh. “You’re forgetting, a classic English garden party is wildly exotic to me. If there are cucumber sandwiches and big hats… I might just swoon.”

“I can think of better ways to make you melt.” Saint takes my hand and lifts it to his lips, giving me a wolfish look as his lips brush my knuckles.

“Like what?” I ask, feeling breathless as we start the drive.

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