Part 18 (1/2)

By which I gather that he does not want me to bring it up again. Even so, I persevere. ”I don't understand why the men who a.s.saulted him aren't being held to account. What they did was wrong.”

”You may think so,” Edward says quietly. ”But there are a great many who disagree with you. As I am sure you have no wish to draw unwelcome attention to yourself, you should forget what you saw.”

I understand his concern for my sake but his seeming callousness disappoints and worries me. Softly, I say, ”I can't forget it and not withstanding my respect for your advice, I won't. I am not a child to be s.h.i.+elded from unpleasant realities. Nor am I willing to ignore rank injustice.”

”Then you will place yourself in danger,” Edward says. I have never heard him speak so coldly. ”And others with you. Is that what you wish?”

”Of course it isn't but--”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. ”Enough. This is neither the time nor the place for any such discussion.”

Reluctantly, I have to admit that he has a point. We are arriving at our destination. Getting out of the car, I am still dwelling on his uncharacteristic behavior when I notice a nearby building of such extraordinary size and beauty that it eclipses everything else around it.

Constructed of black steel and silvered gla.s.s, it is far taller than any other in the city. There is no indication of what goes on inside but I can't help wondering what the view from the topmost floors is like. There must be days when the inhabitants are far above the clouds, unfettered by the world. I envy their freedom, however illusionary it may be.

A few minutes later, I step off an elevator in the smaller building where the soiree is being held. The elegant apartment looks as though it was taken directly from an English country manor. Tufted sofas and wingchairs are upholstered in chintz and strewn with needlepoint pillows. Marble-topped tables hold crystal vases overflowing with flowers. The paintings are old, heavily framed, and mostly of horses and dogs. The effect is warm and gracious even if I can't imagine myself ever living with it.

Our hosts, a couple I remember meeting the previous evening at the opera, greet us in the entrance hall. Beyond them a hundred or so people are gathered for a private performance by a world-renown cellist. Servers circulate with hors d'oeuvres and champagne. I sip a little of the wine but forego any food until I can figure out how to juggle both while shaking hands and smiling non-stop.

Edward and Adele introduce me to yet more people. Those I didn't meet at the opera have nonetheless heard about my arrival in town, no doubt thanks to the private link on which Society exchanges news and gossip. I'm wondering what I might learn from it about Ian when a frisson of awareness interrupts my thoughts. I look up.

He is standing not twenty feet away, watching me.

Chapter Nineteen.

Amelia ”Ian,” Adele says with a smile. ”What a surprise.” She leans toward him and drops her voice a notch. ”I thought you detested such events yet here you are for the second evening in a row.”

”Could it be that I've suddenly acquired an interest in culture?” he asks, grinning down at her.

”Of course it could be, dear boy,” my grandmother replies. ”I just don't think it actually is.”

Observing them, I realize that of course Adele knows Ian. Indeed, in all likelihood she knows him well. Moreover, she regards him with affection.

Questions tumble through my mind. Why is he here? Why does he have a look in his eye that I recognize all too well--dark and smoky but also hard and a little frightening? What on earth am I supposed to say to him?

After my bold declaration that we were done, I'd expected at least a little time to sh.o.r.e up my defenses before having to face him again. Yet first I find myself supporting him against Davos, then he sends me lewd flowers, and now he shows up where I had no expectation he would be.

”Amelia,” he says, the husky timber of his voice threatening to melt me. Before I can even think of stopping him, he takes my hand, turns it, and holding my eyes with his, presses a velvety warm kiss into my palm.

The flute of champagne I am holding only just makes it to safety on a nearby table.

”Ian,” I murmur because apparently I'm incapable of saying anything else.

He smiles and without a flicker of hesitation, says, ”Will you excuse us, Adele? Amelia and I have a few things to discuss.”

My grandmother--who until now I have believed truly has my best interest at heart--waves a hand. ”Of course, dear boy. Take all the time you need.”

Traitor! I cast a frantic look around for Edward only to discover that he's on the other side of the room deep in conversation with Ian's sister, Marianne. Edward is always so imperturbable that it's difficult to imagine what he's thinking but just then he looks unusually intent. I can't help wondering what Marianne could have said or done to prompt such a reaction.

Any such curiosity will have to wait. I have other, far more immediate concerns.

Ian is still holding my hand, having tucked it into the crook of his arm in a seemingly gentlemanly gesture that might fool others but doesn't deceive me for a moment. He is leading me away from the soiree toward a small room off to one side. The d.a.m.n man must have a mental map of every trysting spot in Manhattan.

My traitorous body stirs in antic.i.p.ation. But this time I am fiercely determined not to give into it. I dig my heels into the plush carpet and hiss, ”Let me go. I'm not interested in discussing anything with you.”

He stops but doesn't release me. To the contrary, his hand tightens on mine. He looks strangely pleased as though my refusal, far from angering him, is what he wants.

I'm thoroughly confused, more than half convinced that I will never understand this mercurial man.

Softly, he says, ”Whatever you say, sweetheart. We can have this out right here.”

As much as I don't relish the thought of a scene, I have to know. ”Have what out? There's nothing for us to discuss.” With rash impulsiveness bordering on madness, I add, ”Unless you'd like to apologize for what you said? Explain why you are such an a.s.s? I'm willing to listen to that.”

His jaw clenches. The hardness in his eyes is even more p.r.o.nounced but so is the dark seductiveness.

”You're seeing Sergei Zharkov.”

That's what he wants to talk about? How could he possibly even know? Adele couldn't have told him, she was with me from the time we arrived. Edward must have but why? And why would Ian care?

”I am taking cla.s.ses with Sergei but I don't see what--”

”I don't want you to.”

My mouth drops open but I recover quickly. There is only one possible response and I don't hesitate to give it.

”You don't have any say in what I do.”

I wait, silently daring him to claim otherwise. If he starts in again about owning me, I swear I won't be responsible for what happens next.

Ian's eyes narrow. He casts me an a.s.sessing look, as though trying to judge how serious I am. His mouth tightens. ”You know Zharkov likes women? A lot.”

Sergei likes women a lot or he likes a lot of women? I'm confused but I don't really care. It has nothing to do with me. The Russian certainly is a very attractive man, superbly fit and with a wild edge to his nature that I find undeniably appealing. If I have a 'type', I think I've figured out what it is. But Ian, heaven help me, is the original. Everything else is a pale reflection.

”I don't see why that matters,” I say. ”He's an incredibly talented ballet master. Taking cla.s.s from him is a privilege.”

Ian's jaw is clenched. I stare at it in unwilling fascination. His thoughts and emotions are usually so contained but not now. I don't need any special insight to understand that he's fighting the urge to tell me again not to see Sergei. But I do feel dangerously curious about how he imagines that he could enforce such an order.

At length, he says, ”Why are you doing this?”

”Doing what?” I ask. ”Living my own life? Making my own choices?”

”Driving me crazy,” he says.