Someone was speaking. “This is one of the valuable volunteers who bring new experiences into the lives of our young people. Miss Jones is a graduate of the Royal School of Ballet…”
Like an automaton Emily bent her head and sank down in a curtsy. From an etiquette point of view it was the right thing to do, but more importantly it also gave her a great chance to avoid looking up at the man she’d last seen in the garden at Balfour, when he’d drawn her into the shadow of the trees and kissed her with an arrogance and an expertise that shocked and thrilled and horrified her.
Call me when you grow up…
She steeled herself, and looked up.
The express train hit. For a moment the breath was knocked out of her and it was like falling. Like skydiving into the sunset. And then realizing that you didn’t have a parachute.
Luis Cordoba raised one fine eyebrow a fraction. Beneath it his eyes were a hard, dull gold. “Really, Miss Jones?”