I want to stay here, where we have privacy and Elliot has his brothers, and I have their wives, and we don’t have to hide under a cloak of secrecy.
In London it’s just us, but here . . . there’s family. And I know they aren’t mine, but they’re his, and they’ve made me feel so welcome.
We arrive up at the apartment and Elliot leads me by the hand through to the kitchen, opens the freezer, and removes a silver ice bucket.
“What’s this?” I ask.
He pulls out two Cornetto ice creams and hands one over; emotion overwhelms me as I stare at it in his hand.
“I thought we could toast New York.”
I stare at him through tears, and I know that if I didn’t already love him before . . .
I honestly do now.
I watch as he unwraps mine and he passes it over. I take it and wait for him to unwrap his, then he leads me out onto the balcony and we sit down on the day bed.
He holds his Cornetto up. “To New York.”
I smile and tap my ice cream with his. “To New York.”
He kisses me tenderly and then licks his ice cream and I could just burst out crying as I watch him.
So thoughtful.
“Don’t worry,” he says casually as he licks his ice cream. “I’ll lick you next.”
I burst out laughing. “You idiot.”
ELLIOT
I lie in bed and toss and turn. Kate is asleep beside me and it’s late.
My phone beeps with a text and I frown. Who’s that? I pick it up and read the message: it’s from the private investigator that I hired.
We found her.
What?
I sit up in a rush and walk downstairs to my study, close the door, and dial his number. “Hello.”
“We found her.”
“Where is she?”
“Nice.”
I smile broadly. “Does she still have the paintings?”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
“What?”
“She isn’t ninety at all.”
“What?”
“She’s twenty-nine and drop-dead gorgeous.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll send you an image of her right now.”
I open my computer and wait. The email comes through, my heart drops.
A blonde woman, with red lipstick. Beautiful in every way.
Someone I already know that I’m attracted to.
I know this woman, I’ve seen her at auctions before, and I’ve chased her, knowing deep down that I was supposed to meet her. That something was there.
The ballerina.
Panic runs through me.
“I’ve organized for you to meet her next week in Paris,” he says. “I know how long you’ve searched for this woman, I can’t imagine how excited you must be.”
“Yes,” I reply as the world spins on its axis.
No . . . why now?
“I’ll send through the details tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Goodnight sir.”