The Rolls-Royce sat at the kerb outside Qinn’s studio, its black paint dulled by the evening mist. The shop door opened. Qinn stepped out in a navy evening dress cut on the bias, shoulders bare, strawberry-blonde hair swept into a neat updo. The ring-light makeup was subtle and precise; it made her eyes deeper and her mouth look softer.
The rear window lowered. Sebastian’s gaze locked on her for half a second. His pupils dilated. The breath he drew was almost inaudible. Then the expression closed again.
She was barely remarkable without makeup the other day. Tonight she is dangerously captivating.
Daniel opened the door. Qinn slid onto the rear seat and kept a polite distance. She turned her head. Sebastian wore a black tuxedo cut close across the shoulders; the line of his jaw was sharp under the interior light. Her fingers tightened on the clutch in her lap.
He looks breathtaking in that suit. I am completely, utterly defenceless.
Sebastian adjusted his cuff. “Let’s go, Daniel.”
At the gallery the flashbulbs stuttered across the stone steps. Sebastian offered his hand. Qinn took it, her fingers tightening once before she stepped down. His palm rested lightly at the small of her back as they climbed. She arched forward a fraction at the contact. He noticed and left his hand exactly where it was.
Inside, the white ceiling rose high above evenly spaced abstract canvases. Glasses touched. Sebastian moved her through the room, handshakes and nods. She stopped beside a group of three people who had been standing in awkward silence for too long. One quiet sentence from her and all three laughed; shoulders dropped.
Sebastian, several paces away, raised an eyebrow.
Later he drew her into a quieter corridor.
“What was that back there?”
She met his eyes. “That was me doing my job. You wanted believable. That group has been standing there miserable for fifteen minutes by your own account. Now they’re not.”
His jaw shifted. “I didn’t say do it that well.”
Her voice dropped, deliberately light. “I was just playing the part, Mr Hale. Now that I am being this real, why exactly are you so annoyed?”
He stepped closer. “I have no desire for anything more real than necessary. Keep it within bounds.”
His tie had loosened. She reached up without asking and straightened the knot. The back of her hand brushed the edge of his collar. The corridor was empty; she could hear the faint catch in his breath. She looked up.
“There is no one here, Qinn. No need to act.”
Voices and the rustle of dresses approached. She did not step back. She held his gaze and winked once, quick and wicked.
Sebastian exhaled through his nose. When the group turned the corner he pulled her hard against him, arm locked around her waist, the picture of a couple who had momentarily forgotten the room existed.
Mrs Hale stood beside a large canvas, silver hair pinned, navy gown matching the tone of Qinn’s dress. She took both of Qinn’s hands.
“There you are. I have been wanting to meet the woman my son mentions so carefully.”
Her eyes lingered on Qinn’s cheekbones. One fingertip touched her chin, tilting her face.
“Have we met? Your face feels familiar somehow.”
Qinn’s smile stayed even. “I have one of those faces. People say that a lot.”
Mrs Hale released her. “I am sure it will come to me.”
Later, by a tall window, Mrs Hale’s voice was lower.
“She is charming, Sebastian. Genuinely. But charm is not what the board is voting on next month.”
“I am aware of what the board is voting on.”
“Vanessa Pembroke Styles will be at the next dinner. I would like you to actually speak to her this time.”
Sebastian’s eyes flicked once toward Qinn, still laughing with a small group across the room.
In the car the distance between them had narrowed. Their hands rested on the seat, little finger and little finger almost touching. Neither looked down.
“You handled the room well tonight.”
“Was that a compliment, Mr Hale?”
A pause. “Don’t get used to it.”
The corner of her mouth lifted. She turned to the window so he would not see it. His little finger was less than a centimetre from hers.
That night, in her own bedroom, Mrs Hale removed her earrings and set them in the box. She touched her own cheek in the same place she had touched Qinn’s. Her eyes widened. She opened the drawer of the dressing table and found the old card: QINN ASHFORD, PROFESSIONAL MAKEUP ARTIST, a telephone number, a date two years old.
She laid her finger on the card and left it there.