And he’ll sell out every show within a fortnight and make you a fuck-ton of money.” “Because despite the total lack of social skills, he’s a brilliant actor. “Remind me again why I voluntarily plunged myself back into hell.” “Well done on keeping your fist away from Richard Troy’s nose.” Their smiles touched, and she teased him with a dart of her tongue to his. He transferred his hand to her knee, tracing his fingers in tickling circles, and she turned her face into his. “That too.” Lily pulled the food out of his reach. Luc’s fingers ventured near her snack plate again. I read it in the Sunday papers.” She propped her chin on his shoulder, and they both leaned sideways into the shadow of the drapes when her agent wandered past, holding a glass of wine. “Ninety-eight percent of husbands who say ‘I told you so’ end up in the divorce courts, Savage. “Could have been in bed hours ago,” he murmured, and kissed her jaw before he sat down to steal her salmon puff. When his very shiny companion turned away to greet another acquaintance, Luc’s air of suave professionalism slipped into a lightning-fast grimace, a dead accurate impression of the tragedy mask, and Lily ate another miniature quiche to suppress her giggle.Ī minute or two later, the scent of his cologne was deliciously warm and spicy when he pressed his nose against her throat. Three hours into the party that she’d suggested, to celebrate the signing of all the contracts for his new show, because she was a supportive, proud wife and had temporarily lost her mind, she was thinking wistfully of his own suggestion that they spend Valentine’s Day in bed with a box of chocolates. She refuted any silent accusation that she was hiding from their guests.Įven if she was one more forced laugh and insincere comment away from building a fort with the cushions. The faint lines at the corners of his grey eyes deepened as his practised smile took on a different quality. Luc caught sight of her where she was perched on the window seat with a plate of appetisers, enjoying a brief respite from her own schmoozing duty. Hence the reason why Luc was politely chatting with someone whose conversation he had once called the verbal equivalent of a general anaesthetic. The other man was a theatrical investor and, despite the fact that he was wearing a gold brocade pantsuit, as if he’d been stuck for something to wear at the last minute and had gone all Fräulein Maria on his curtains, he was loaded and had the excellent taste to prefer Luc’s productions over any other director in the West End. Lily watched, entertained, as her husband’s expression became even more blandly charming. It looked more like an attempt to shake the wrinkles out of their sleeves than a greeting. The red-faced gentleman in the startling outfit seized Luc’s hand and flung it up and down in an enthusiastic arm-flail.
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