She blinked, apparently surprised by his question—though he couldn’t fail to notice the gleam of something unfamiliar in her green eyes, which looked a little like triumph.
‘Just a touch. A little mascara. A brush of lip gloss,’ she said, before slanting him a look of challenge. ‘Why? Is that not allowed?’
‘Of course it’s allowed.’ He reached for the carafe of Scotch, then thought better of it. ‘You just look...different. That’s all.’
‘I thought that was the whole idea?’
‘Yes, I know, but...’
Lizzie hid a smile as, for once, the powerful billionaire was lost for words. She might not have had much experience of men but even she could tell he was impressed by her appearance. More than impressed. For a moment she’d thought his eyes were going to pop out of his head when she’d walked into the room. And although that realisation gave her pleasure, it was superseded by an irritation that he was obviously so shallow. What did her mother used to say?Fine feathers make a fine bird.
He wasn’t interested in the real her, she reminded herself. Only the dressed-up-doll version. First of all in the borrowed dress and now wearing a brand new maternity wardrobe accompanied by a series of jaw-dropping price tags, bought from a shop so dazzling that many times during that afternoon she’d wanted to pinch herself to check she wasn’t dreaming.
But the dream was soon to become reality, because tonight Niccolò was taking her to some fancy cocktail party and although he had assured her that the Livingstones were ‘good people’—whatever that meant—she was terrified of having to go out and face his inner circle. Galleries and hospital trips accompanied by one of his many staff were one thing. This felt very different.
‘Remind me again why I’m going?’ she said.
‘Didn’t we agree that it might make your time here more enjoyable?’
‘Did we?’
‘I’d hate people to think I was channelling Mr Rochester by locking you in the metaphorical attic,’ he drawled. ‘So why don’t you leave me in peace and let me go and get dressed?’
Lizzie wanted to ask if he could please stop speaking to her in that voice, because the lazy intonation was doing dangerous things to her pulse rate. She preferred it when he was clipped and precise. When he was trying to avoid her. He was doing that for a good reason and she needed to heed it. She needed to stop melting whenever he was around and remind herself that he was unknowable and remote, and that was deliberate.
But he hadn’t been so unknowable in the park the other day, had he—when he had found her wandering around in the snow? His face had been raw and savage, filled with a powerful emotion she didn’t recognise. The usual gleam of his black eyes had been replaced by a bleakness which had chilled her to the bone and made her want to reach out to him. She had wanted to ask him what had caused it, but his jaw had been so set and forbidding that she hadn’t dared.
In fact, she had contemplated the wisdom of accepting tonight’s invitation at all, wondering if she was getting in deeper than she should by involving herself in his life like this. For someone like him, this was probably nothing but a mildly amusing exercise. He was powerful enough and wealthy enough not to care if he created something of a society scandal—in fact, it might even enhance his playboy reputation. Bringing a pregnant ex to a party was a pretty audacious move in anyone’s books and it would probably serve her better if she refused to go.
But how would that come over? She couldn’t hide herself away for the rest of her life, could she? Their night of passion might have been ill judged, but it had still been the most wonderful thing which had ever happened to her. Niccolò had made her feel things she hadn’t thought possible. And yes, he’d done a runner afterwards and she had become pregnant as a result, which wouldn’t have been on anyone’s wish list, least of all hers. But from the first moment of discovering she was having a baby, Lizzie had been in a state of wonderment.
She thought about the lovely fatherly doctor she’d seen at the plush clinic on the Upper East Side earlier that day who’d told her she was doing just fine—more than fine, she was positivelyblooming. He might have been a bit surprised but had passed no judgement when she’d explained that the father didn’t want to be involved in any way, other than paying her medical expenses. She wondered what he’d say if he knew that Niccolò hadn’t asked her a single question about the baby. She’d thought natural curiosity would lead him to enquire about the sex of their child, at least. But no. She wasn’t even sure if he knew her due date. He didn’t want to know because he didn’t care, she reminded herself fiercely—and she was going to have to deal with that. She was going to love this baby enough for both of them. And she could. She would.
Climbing into the back of a chauffeur-driven limousine, Lizzie thought how incredible her new clothes felt. There was something to be said for the sensual feel of natural fibres against your skin. She’d bought new underwear, too—which she hadn’t realised she needed, until the rather bossy woman in the lingerie department had informed her just how much her measurements had changed. Now, thanks to the delicately supportive bra, her breasts were pert rather than bouncy—something which hadn’t escaped Niccolò’s attention either—judging by the searing look he had subjected her to, before quickly averting his gaze. Her breasts had tightened and she’d felt a rush of pure lust in response. Did he realise that? Was he aware that he could reduce her to a quiver of need, with just a single smoky glance—or did all women react to him in that way?
The party was being held in a place called Tribeca, in a sprawling penthouse apartment at the top of an impressive old building, and from the moment Lizzie walked in, she was dazzled—because it was like being inside a giant snowball. Everything appeared to be white. White carpets. White sofas. A man in a snowy jacket was playing on a white baby grand piano. Against this stark backdrop, the guests stood out with dramatic elegance—the men in dark tuxedoes, and beautifully dressed women perching effortlessly on precariously high heels, their precious jewellery sparkling beneath the lights.
‘Don’t tense up,’ instructed Niccolò softly.
‘That’s okay for you to say. You do this sort of thing all the time. I don’t.’
‘Would it help to tell you that you look amazing?’
She wanted to say it wasn’t about how she looked, it was how shefelt—which was totally out of her depth. But she wasn’t going to flag up any more insecurities, especially not at a moment like this. ‘Very kind of you to say so,’ she answered.
‘It’s not kindness, Lizzie,’ he said softly. ‘It’s the truth.’
‘Don’t be nice to me, Niccolò. It throws me off-balance.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I thought so.’
Everyone turned to look when they walked in. Of course they did. When you were a servant you noticed everything and Lizzie still thought of herself as essentially, a servant. She could see the women’s gazes flick assessingly from Niccolò to her and then back again. What were they thinking? That they were a mismatched pair? Normally she would have agreed with them, but she was still glowing from his words of praise.
She scanned the room. There was a man with horn-rimmed glasses she’d definitely seen on a chat show back in England and, in a far corner of the penthouse, a leggy model with a Cleopatra hairstyle—surrounded by a clutch of adoring men. A woman in a shimmering gold cocktail dress and a mane of matching hair came gliding over to greet them. ‘Nic!’ she murmured, her smile brushing each of his chiselled cheeks as she leaned forward to kiss him. ‘So good to see you.’
‘Donna!’ he responded, with a smile Lizzie had never seen him use before. ‘I’d like you to meet Lizzie. Lizzie—this is Donna, our host.’
