Valentine's Day

‘You just...’ He struggled for the right words. And he turned the recorder off. ‘You love life, don’t you?’

Generally, she just endured life. But maybe that was because she’d been missing the best of it. ‘I love the possibilities. I love that you’ve given me this opportunity and I’m going to do something I’ve always wanted to. I couldn’t do this without you.’

‘Without the station,’ he clarified.

Right. Just in case she was thinking he was doing this for her. ‘Without help.’

‘You might have got there by yourself. Eventually.’

‘Maybe not. I was this close—’ she pinched her fingers ‘—to consigning myself to the role of wife and mother. That would have meant a lot less flexibility and freedom for a really long time.’

He shrugged. ‘A different kind of adventure, perhaps?’

His words sank in. If marriage was an adventure, then shouldn’t you enter into it with someone that you’d want to be adventurous with? Discover new worlds with? Fly across a lunar landscape with. Her breath tightened up. She said the first thing that came into her head in order to stop anything more inappropriate appearing there.

‘Is that what you think marriage is? An adventure?’

‘I used to.’ He pressed his lips together the moment those few tiny words voiced.

The unexpected glimpse into his past was tantalising. She wanted more immediately. ‘Is that why you created the Valentine’s promo?’ she fished. ‘To celebrate marriage?’

His answer was fifty-per-cent snort. ‘Definitely not. I created the promo to cash in on the leap year commercialisation. Nothing more.’

Well, that was depressingly cynical. ‘You don’t think matrimony is worth celebrating?’

‘On the whole I think marriage is highly overrated.’

She stared at him. ‘I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. Otherwise you’d have been snapped up ages ago.’

One expressive eyebrow lifted. ‘You don’t think I’d have done the snapping?’

‘You strike me as a man who gets what he wants. If you wanted a wife in that big lonely house of yours there’d be one there now.’

He drained the last of his second coffee. ‘You have a very high opinion of my desirability. Not everyone would agree with you.’

His staff perhaps? ‘Maybe you work too hard keeping people at a distance...’

‘You’re here.’ He tossed it out like a challenge. ‘I can’t seem to shake you at all.’

His light words filleted her neatly along her ribs. Although, she could see he wasn’t saying them to be cruel. In fact, if anything, he looked more engaged and more intent than ever. And positively mystified.

‘I’m particularly uncaring about societal niceties,’ she murmured. ‘I’m sure there’s been a hundred not-so-subtle hints I should have been taking.’

If she weren’t so busy looking for hints that he might be more interested than he was letting on. Maybe than he even knew, himself. But for every sultry look, for every gentle touch, for every unexpected waterside kiss there was a frown, pressed lips, words like professional and aberration. And ill-equipped.

They kind of cancelled each other out.

‘Besides,’ she braved on, ‘I’m not your target market.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Really? Who is?’

She looked around. A lone woman sat reading a thick book in the far corner. Her perfectly manicured nails were the exact same shade as her shoes. ‘Her. Maybe...’ She looked around for someone else. ‘Maybe her?’

Two glamour queens in one coffee shop. Convenient.

Zander looked around far more subtly than she had. ‘They’re both very attractive.’

Of course that would be the first thing he noticed.

‘And stylish,’ he went on.

‘And well educated.’ She nodded to the woman with the thick hardback. ‘She’s reading Ayn Rand.’

‘And that’s who you think my target market is? Stylish intellectuals?’

‘I can see either one of them in your house very easily.’ Much as it galled her to admit it.

His grey eyes pierced her. ‘Can you see them sitting on the side of a weather-beaten old track for an hour making conversation with the locals while waiting to hand me an energy drink?’

She just stared. Because, no, she couldn’t.

‘So maybe my target market isn’t as clear-cut as you think?’ His chin rested on his steepled fingers and he lifted it enough to tilt his head.

Maybe not.

‘It’s a moot point, anyway,’ she breezed. ‘If you’re not actually in the market.’

He started to answer that but then changed his mind. His mouth gently closed again without making a sound.

‘So three weeks before the underground cities?’ he hedged, after a moment.

‘And two dance classes before then.’

‘What about my garden?’

She studied him. This man was more baffling than any of the complex scientific mysteries she’d studied at university. His garden had sat there, untouched, for years. Now suddenly he wanted it to progress immediately? ‘What about it?’

‘Don’t you want to see how it’s progressing?’

Did she want to see what some other lucky sod got to create with? ‘When it’s done.’

It was never too late to implement some self-restraint.

That triggered a couple of lines between his brows. ‘Guess I should trade in my dancing shoes and get onto a visa for Turkey, then.’

‘Ten minutes and ten pounds at Heathrow.’ She nodded. ‘I checked.’

He considered her. Then smiled. ‘You’re really excited.’

There was something looming on her horizon and every cell in her body told her it had something to do with Turkey. It had been swaying her away from Ibiza almost the moment she agreed to Spain. Making her look east. Agitating subconsciously for her to change her mind. And then, the moment she’d made her decision, this odd kind of emotional hum had commenced and it had been slowly building ever since.

Ankara. Cappadocia.

Something was going to happen there. Something life-changing. Something that felt almost fated. Briefly she wondered how she ever would have found her way there if not for the disaster that was her botched proposal, if she hadn’t met Dan before that. And suddenly everything started to feel very...

Meant.

Excited? About standing on the edge of something so huge and new?

‘You have no idea,’ she breathed.

* * *

Georgia stood at the door to the curtained-off change area in the dance studio and hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Possibly she hadn’t thought this through as thoroughly as she might have.

Imagine that.

‘Off you go...’ the woman behind her nudged. Emma. A friendly, motherly sort. A total born-again about belly dancing, given she’d only been coming a few weeks herself.

Georgia took a deep breath to quell her nerves. Maybe belly dancing wasn’t the best choice to get away from the close body contact with Zander, the brushing and heated touching. Salsa was, at least, a partnered thing. It wasn’t Zander sitting on a seat in the corner watching her wiggle and jiggle and cavort around semi-naked.

Even if it was very prettily semi-naked.

Turned out one of the things this class loved the best was a newcomer. A newcomer who turned up in the middle of a semester and in a tracksuit. The lesson of the day went on hold and all the women helped rifle through the dress-up box of spare belly-dancing bits to put a full costume together—educating her the whole time about each piece’s name, purpose, and heritage—then they thrust them at Georgia and thrust her into the change room.

Zander sent his digital recorder in with one of the ladies to capture the sounds of the excited chaos and was cooling his heels out in the dance area, getting the necessary permission forms all ready for their return.

Georgia glanced in the mirror. Her full, beaded skirt fell from her hips down to brush the floor and the matching top-piece they’d selected for her was equally modest—no worse than the vest tops she often wore at home in summer—cupping her small breasts and cascading stringed coins down in a V to point at her exposed belly button. She’d never before mourned her slim build—in fact her curvier friends had envied her for it—but standing here amongst the luscious curves and generous breasts and gorgeous outfits of the other women in the class she’d never wished more to be curvier. Rounded instead of flat.

And Zander was about to get an eyeful of all that flatness.

Emma pinned Georgia’s face veil up behind her ear and gave her a shove.

‘Out you go, love. Get it over with.’

Then they all rushed out, ankle bells ringing, dragging her along in their bright, jangly wake.

Zander’s eyes locked on her the moment she stepped out. How he spotted her amongst so many disguised, Technicolor women was a mystery. Unless he was just looking for the only boyish figure in the room.

She shrivelled up inside, instantly. This had to be her most foolish of fool-moments...

The woman he’d given his digital recorder to returned it to him with a flirty smile, and he flirted right back. In fact, from that moment on he seemed to become entranced by every other woman in the room and—God love them—they enjoyed his presence just as much. Far from being shy about the presence of a strange man in this heavily female environment, the room full of housewives, teachers, and bank clerks dressed in little more than sexy pyjamas lapped it up, escaping into their dance personas and focusing their attention on the only man in the room.

They weren’t gratuitous—they seemed respectful of the awkwardness of Zander’s position—but they were thorough. They zeroed their efforts on him and unleashed the full force of the moves for his benefit.

He grinned his way through the whole thing.

But avoided looking at her at all.

Small mercy, perhaps, given how hot she flamed and how stumbling her movements were. But she’d signed up here for a reason—actually two reasons—and she wasn’t in a hurry to go back to the close, breathy, partnered clinch of salsa nor to be doomed for ever to being not cut out for seduction.

She lifted her chin, willing to bet that every woman in this room turned up in a tracksuit the first time and had to ease their way into the rhythmic gyrations they were currently exorcising on an indulgent Zander. And every one of them must have felt exactly as out of place and outclassed as she now did.

But had they ever felt as invisible? Despite the raunchy outfit?

Or was she deluded in thinking the draped fabrics and accenting jewels were attractive? Maybe where she saw rich, sensual colour, he saw tacky, flashy glitz.

She turned back for the change rooms.

‘Not yet, love,’ the instructor called, leaving Zander to fend for himself against the barrage of oestrogen and turning Georgia away from the gaggle that shielded her from his non-gaze towards the large mirrors lining the wall.

She forced her focus on the instructor, keeping one eye on the professional moves and the other on her own reflection, mimicking the basic choreography, taking correction, and trying to repeat the positions and sequences of the more experienced dancers.

Keeping her eyes steadfastly off the man in the background the whole time.

Belly dancing wasn’t about sex, the instructor told her, correcting Georgia’s too-jerky hips. It was about empowerment. But right now she felt pretty darned sexy. And that wasn’t something she could remember feeling in the past.

Pleasure, sure. But not sexy. Not...sensual.

The fluidity of the moves started to come more naturally, and the way the soft fabric brushing against her bare skin accentuated and teased her senses. It made her feel so...alive.

Between the concentration, the keeping of her arms above her head, and the surprising amount of effort required to gyrate everything that needed to be gyrating, her colour and her breath were up in no time. And with rows of dancers between her and the only distraction in the room she was able to concentrate better, forcing the embarrassment away with her focus and determination. It took no time at all to realise that every woman here wore a mask, something they slipped on with the beautiful fabrics. She might not be naturally seductive but, by God, she’d learn to fake it. Under her veil, she could be anyone she wanted. Sexier, smarter, stronger, more fun, more delightful—everything Zander and Kelly and Dan and her mother thought she apparently should be.

She twisted and twirled and undulated to the throng of the music and kept her eyes firmly locked on her own reflection in the mirror. She took a few more risks. She turned and twirled and kept only half an eye on what Zander was doing as he wandered the room, recording the music and the vocalisations of the women who danced for—and around—him.

He seemed totally uninterested in her presence.

Anger fuelled her moves, turned them more defiant.

Really, Zander? Even this isn’t enough...?

She spun back to the mirror, tired of trying to be what other people wanted and failing. Tired of making her decisions based on priorities that weren’t her own. She was going to be wild and sexy and beautiful just because she could. Here, in this place and in these clothes, she could.

Zander could go jump.

She slowly raised already-aching arms above her head, her concentration focused on the serpentine movements of her hands, the slow twists, the way the dozens of borrowed bracelets jangled and spun on her undulating wrists. She swayed and rolled and let her head fall back, her eyes close, and just felt the music, felt the movement of the women around her.

And she danced purely for the pleasure of it.

And then she lowered her gaze back to the mirror, back to her own flushed reflection and sparkling eyes.

Straight into Zander’s.

Everyone else in the room danced on, the instructor dissolved tactfully back into the throng and the odd person danced across the gap between them. But it did nothing to shake Georgia’s gaze free of Zander’s.

Every part of old Georgia screamed to stop. Still. On the spot.

Yet her body kept moving. Fluid, teasing. Flirting.

And just like that she felt the empowerment kick in.

Two hours ago she wouldn’t have been able to brush up against him without feeling self-conscious, but behind the veil she could do anything. Be anyone. She could look at him as she’d so desperately been wanting.

She danced on. His recorder hung, ignored, by his side.

Around them, the music faded slowly, the chat-level rose. A door opened on the far side and someone’s husband tiptoed in with a small boy in tow, both of them dressed in football colours. The balance between make-believe and real-world started to shift back.

Georgia lowered her arms, and her eyes. And she turned.

Zander still watched her, though his own expression was as guarded as hers must have been.

‘That was fun,’ she said, still breathing out the exertion. Not ready to lose the rush of empowerment.

He looked around them. A few covert glances looked back. ‘For everyone, it seems.’

‘Great workout.’ But all that did was draw his eyes to the heaving rise and fall of her tiny, beaded top. And he didn’t speak, just nodded his agreement.

‘I’ll just get changed. Won’t be a minute.’ She knew what came next. He always liked to interview her right after the first class, to capture her first impressions. She wasn’t sufficiently clothed or her breath sufficiently recovered to do that just yet. She followed a couple of other women into the change area. Most went home exactly as they were so it was just the few of them, all newer participants, returning to street wear.

They chatted excitedly as they stripped off the layers of magic and mystery and slid themselves back into their clothes. Just one hour ago being in her underwear in front of strangers was excruciating. Now they were sisters. Lumps, bumps, big, small. The thing that had shifted inside her wasn’t switching back.

The three others had only been coming weeks and were curious whether she’d enjoyed it, whether she’d be back. She knew, without question, that she would.

‘I hope you’re bringing him every week,’ Emma said. ‘Way to change the dynamic!’

They all laughed.

‘No one means any offence by dancing for your man,’ another said. ‘It’s just the novelty.’

‘He’s not my man,’ Georgia was fast to correct, though low so that Zander wouldn’t hear them through the flimsy fabric walls.

That caused more hilarity. ‘Oh, love,’ Emma whispered, ‘if he’s not I think he soon will be. We all saw his face while you were dancing. He’s wound as tight as a drum. It would be a shame if no one was to benefit from all our good work tonight.’

Georgia stopped one leg halfway into her tracksuit bottoms and stared at the women. They laughed wildly again. She understood exactly. A weird kind of adrenaline was still coursing through her body, too. She would have joined their laughter if the suggestion hadn’t thrown her into such a breathless stupor. And an unshakeable vision of her benefitting from tonight’s endeavours.

She tidied her hair, carefully folded her borrowed costume items, and placed them in the washing pile, and then dawdled a moment longer. Delaying the inevitable. She wasn’t sure she could walk out there and see Zander if the women with all their speculation were still around.

The longer she took, the fewer people would be in the room.

But eventually she couldn’t delay any longer. He needed his interview. She rolled the waistband of her running pants down to be more like the beautiful women she saw at the gym, more like the low-hung skirt that had just caressed her legs. More casual. As if this weren’t an enormous deal. She took a deep breath and stepped out of the change area into the dance space. Only a handful lingered. None of them was male. After the events of the evening she couldn’t really blame Zander for stepping outside so that he didn’t have to face his unexpected seductresses in the full fluorescent light of indoors.

She thanked the instructor warmly and whole-heartedly, assured her she would be back the following week and stepped out into the cool night air.

She looked left.

She looked right.

She looked across the road in case he was leaning on the lamppost, waiting.

Her stomach clenched. Nothing. No Zander anywhere.

They’d arrived separately but she saw him pull up so she knew where his Jag was. Tucking her crossed hands under her armpits, she hurried down the road a way in case he was waiting in his car. But there was just a dry rectangle on the otherwise rain-dampened road where his Jag had been.

Gone.

Her jaw tightened. Maybe he’d gone for a drink with one of the other participants in the class. Maybe he’d formed a connection with someone in particular while she was so busy ignoring how he was ignoring her. But that seemed both unlikely and unfair to Zander—he wasn’t a complete jerk. His absence didn’t automatically mean he’d scarpered with some hot, bejewelled stranger. It just meant he hadn’t stayed to see her.

That probably should have made her feel better.

But it didn’t.

All that power, the erotic blast, the sensual costume...the out and out risk she’d taken forcing herself to let those secret feelings show on the outside. All that had done was sent Zander running. So embarrassed by her display that he couldn’t even stick around to face her.

She’d thought maybe he was being tactful, keeping his eyes averted, trying to make a difficult class that bit easier for her. That maybe he was more affected than he was letting on. She’d thought that burning, blazing moment in the mirror might have been sensual desire pumping back at her.

But what if it was anger? Or discomfort.

A tight ball settled high in her chest. Maybe he was just plain embarrassed. Just because he’d admitted to there being some chemistry between them didn’t mean he wanted it there. Or wanted to do anything about it beyond the kiss they’d shared—some lousy accident of adrenaline.

She hooked her thumbs under the curled waist of her pants and let them unravel back to their usually modest position. She flattened them down with unsteady fingers as deep sorrow washed through her.

That was it.

She was done.

If who she was just wasn’t enough for the high standards of Alekzander Rush, then so be it. She liked Georgia Stone. Lots of people did. And not because she was a carbon copy of everyone else spilling out of London’s entertainment district, but because she was her: loyal and bookish and fond of long, quiet walks in ancient forests and lazy afternoons with girlfriends tucking into a steaming ale pie.

She’d set out on the Year of Georgia to find out who she really was and—surprise, surprise—she’d been there all along. And it only took her half a year.

She turned and walked the block back to her car.

And if Zander didn’t like the Georgia she’d uncovered, well...his loss.

EIGHT

August

There really weren’t enough showers cold enough or long enough to get the haunting, hot mirror scene out of Zander’s mind. It was all too easy to cop out when you were the boss, when you had staff to do things for you.

Minions.

He’d never felt the distinction so clearly until he had Casey ring Georgia up and let her know he wouldn’t be coming to belly-dancing classes with her any more. That she was OK to go to them solo. That he got what he needed that first night. It wasn’t hard to find an excuse. Salsa was on a Wednesday night. Belly dancing was on a Tuesday. He had network meetings until late on a Tuesday.

Not so late that he couldn’t get across town to the dance studio, in fact, but it was too convenient an excuse to pass up. There was no way on this green earth that he was setting foot back in there while Georgia was around.

He’d already been back to see the instructor, to get from her the interview he’d been too much of a coward to get from Georgia right after her first class had finished. It was only the fact that her borrowed car was parked virtually outside the door to the dance studio that made it even remotely OK that he’d just bolted on her. Left her there alone.

What a class act.

She hadn’t called him on it. Or emailed. Or even asked Casey what was up with her coward of a boss. And that said a lot about how she was feeling about his disappearing act. Defiant. Irritated.

Possibly hurt.

But getting hands-on with her was no better an idea now than it had been up at Hadrian’s Wall. And so walking out of there seemed like the most prudent action at the time. He’d spent a lot of time and energy avoiding emotional entanglements, focusing on his career; this was really no different. If spending time around Georgia was making it too hard to keep her at arm’s length, then there was really only one solution.

Getting Casey to do his dirty work for him—well, there was no excuse for that. He’d just needed some space from the mirror scene before they headed off into the wilds of Turkey together.

But that was only effective if he could exorcise the memory branded into his brain.

And three hours in the air and three more in a car—no matter how luxurious—was a lot of nothing to try and fill with other thoughts.

Another cowardly act. Getting Casey to shift his flights so that they weren’t travelling together. That bought him precious more hours to build up his reserves against Georgia. To get through the weekend in Turkey. Both of them had jobs to be back for come Monday morning so this was the most fleeting of Turkish experiences. But he’d re-routed through Istanbul whereas Georgia was touching down in Ankara. Again, precious hours for last-minute fortification.

‘Göreme.’

His driver slowed on the limits of a village. At first glance it looked much like the extraordinary landscape they’d been driving through for some time: gorgeous, golden rock faces, enormous jutting spurs of sandstone. But as they got closer Zander started to notice the details. Square edges, dark windows, balconies, a layer-cake of dwellings carved into the rock face. They drove more fully into town and it looked much like any other, people milling around stone storefronts with brightly painted signs on them, cars angle-parked in front for the convenience of shoppers. But behind it—towering high behind it—a rock face filled with homes.