Jin thought Penn had gone above and beyond to host the press at the Athereum’s meeting hall. Waiters in tailcoats glided about with trays, narrow flutes catching the light of the dazzling chandeliers high above. The gloss of the floors was complemented by the richly patterned rugs from a desert far, far away, and the decor that decked the place was dark and decadent.
He thought he heard a sound and turned toward the shadows, umbrella ready.
“It’s me.”
Jin’s heart leaped at her voice. “The dark is no place for a dove.”
“What if I don’t want to be a dove?”
Flick moved into a wash of light. Her curls framed the soft beauty of her face, several ringlets draped over her brow. A knot lodged in his throat. “What are you wearing?”
“What are you wearing?” she sputtered back, just as surprised.
“You said I dress like someone’s dead!” he exclaimed.
“You said I dress like a flag!” she said at the same time.
The silence gripped them.
She looked glorious, clad in crushed velvet in the deepest, darkest emerald. It began with a tight collar around her throat, flaring before a cinched waist where the wide folds of the skirt began. It held her the way she ought to be held, tightly, fiercely. Beautifully. He wanted to sweep forward and do the same. He wanted to bury his nose into her hair and inhale the sunshine of her spirit.
“Lilac,” she said stiffly. She’d tugged gloves to just above her elbows, leaving inches of bare skin to taunt him. “You went with lilac.”
The color of your beret, he wanted to say, but it sounded stupid of him now, even if it had seemed like a good idea when he was ordering the jacket at the tailor. He wore it unbuttoned over a crisp white shirt, his black-bordered kerchief tucked into the breast pocket, the ensemble completed by cream trousers.
There was a guardedness in Flick’s gaze, worry and concern rampant. Her mother would be here, Arthie had said.
“It’s going to be all right,” Jin said.
“Is it easier to have no heartbeat?” she asked softly. “To feel nothing at all?”
He didn’t want her to think of her mother and the horrible things Lady Linden had done. He didn’t want Flick to rethink handing her the envelope.
“We’re alone in a dark corridor,” Jin said, tilting his head toward her, “and you wish to philosophize?”
For the rest of his days, he would recall the way her sunflower eyes went ink black at his words.
“No,” she whispered, and surged toward him, backing him to the wall of the alcove and stealing the air from his lungs.
He trailed his fingers up the smooth shine of her gloves. Her breath caught, hooded gaze following the movement and sending a spike through his blood.
And then, with a sweet little sound, she rose up and kissed him. Softly, gently. Driving him mad. He pulled away with a tsk, his voice a low scrape of want. “Let me show you how it’s done, love.”
He cupped her face between his hands and slanted his lips to hers.
She gasped into his mouth, shuddering against him before she matched his push with her pull, pressing the length of her body against his, drawing a sound out of his throat, drowning him in that meadow of wildflowers and sunlight.
“Flick,” he whispered, half groan, half prayer.
She pulled back slightly, staring up at him with something like wonder and delight. “Say it again.”
He crooked a lazy grin. “Really, Felicit—”
“No. Not the name she gave me. The name I made for myself.”
And he was so stunned by the force of her words, by the fervor of her spirit, that he did.
“Flick.” He pressed a kiss to the bridge of her nose, where freckles fanned like stars in the night.
“Flick.” He pressed another to the edge of her mouth, cherishing the sound of her irritation.
“Flick.”
He coaxed her mouth apart, and her breath caught when he bit down on her lower lip. Her arms settled to his shoulders, hands reaching for his hair, threading into the strands and pulling him tighter.
He tasted hope in her kiss. Possibility. Jin felt good about tonight, and not only because he was finally kissing Felicity Linden.
The clock tower struck nine. They pulled apart, breathless and dazed.
It was time.