‘I’ve been wanting to do that all night. But not to worry, Violet. I don’t seduce sweet young things like you.

‘But perhaps it’s as well I’m flying back to England in the near future, because you are one hell of a wicked temptation. I dare say I might see you again some day. But not too soon, hopefully. I think of myself as a decent man, but I’m no saint.’

He whirled away from her and strode off down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving her staring after him in a state of shock. Just a kiss—her first kiss—and she would have said yes to anything he wanted.

Violet trembled at the thought.

About the Author

MIRANDA LEE is Australian, and lives near Sydney. Born and raised in the bush, she was boarding-school-educated, and briefly pursued a career in classical music before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.

Recent titles by the same author:

 CONTRACT WITH CONSEQUENCES

 THE MAN EVERY WOMAN WANTS

 NOT A MARRYING MAN

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Master of her Virtue

Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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CHAPTER ONE

‘ALL PACKED AND ready to go, Violet?’ her father called out to her from the kitchen.

‘Coming,’ she called back, relieved that Christmas was over for another year and she could escape back to her life in Sydney.

She’d once loved Christmas, Violet thought as she gave her bedroom one last glance. As she’d once loved this room. But that was when she’d been twelve, a whole year before puberty had struck and her carefree little girl’s world had changed for ever.

Soon after that her room had become her prison. Admittedly, a pretty prison, with pink walls, pink bedspread and pink curtains, not to mention her own television and DVD player. But a prison all the same.

‘Time to go, Violet,’ her father said, this time from her open bedroom door. ‘You don’t want to miss your plane.’

Lord, no, she thought, suppressing a shudder as she slung her carry-all over her shoulder then grabbed the handle of her small suitcase. Four days at home was more than enough. It wasn’t just the memories it evoked but the endless questioning from her well-meaning family—usually around the dinner table on Christmas day after her sister’s children had abandoned the grown-ups for a swim in the pool. How was her job going? Her writing? Her love life?

Oh yes, it always came back to her love life. Or lack of it.

When she’d said—as she’d said every year—that she wasn’t dating anyone special right now, Gavin, her wonderfully tactful brother, had asked her if she was a lesbian. Fortunately, he’d been howled down by the others, especially her brother-in-law, Steve, who was married to her sister, Vanessa, and was the nicest man. Everyone had laughed when he’d said if Violet was a lesbian then he was gay. Most unlikely, given he was a big, brawny tiler with a wife, two children and a Harley Davidson.

The subject had been dropped after that, thank heavens. But the following day, when she and Vanessa had been alone in the kitchen clearing up after their traditional Boxing Day barbeque, her sister had given her a long sidewards glance and said quietly, ‘I know you’re not gay, Vi. But you’re not still a virgin, are you?’

Violet had lied, of course, claiming she’d lost her virginity when she’d been at uni. Vanessa hadn’t looked entirely convinced but she’d let the matter drop, for which Violet was grateful.

They’d never been all that close; had never confided in each other as some sisters did. Vanessa was eight years older and had never been on the same wavelength as Violet.

Still, it seemed incredible that anyone in her family would ever think that she would find relationships with the opposite sex easy. Years of suffering from severe cystic acne had blighted her teenage years, turning her once-happy, outgoing personality into a shy, introverted one. Going to high school had been sheer torture. It wasn’t just her brother who’d called her ‘pizza face’. She’d been teased and bullied to such an extent that she’d come home crying most days.

Her distressed mother had bought every product known to mankind to fix the problem but nothing had worked, often making her skin worse. The one thing her mother hadn’t done was take her to a doctor, her father having insisted that she’d grow out of it. But she hadn’t, not till a wonderfully wise counsellor at school had taken Violet to her own doctor a few months before her graduation.

The lady GP had been very sympathetic and knowledgeable, prescribing an antibiotic lotion, as well as putting Violet on a particular brand of the contraceptive pill which was famous for correcting the hormone imbalance causing her acne in the first place. The ugly red pimples had gradually gone away, but unfortunately by then comfort-eating and constant picking had left Violet with two equally depressing problems: scars and obesity.

No, no; that wasn’t true. She hadn’t been obese. But she’d definitely been overweight.

Okay, so she’d finally fixed both those problems with a healthy diet, regular work-outs and endless sessions with a miracle laser which had cost her every cent of a ten-thousand-dollar inheritance she’d fortuitously received from a great aunt who’d died around that time. But the emotional scars left behind by years of low self-esteem at a crucial time in her life could not be so easily fixed. She still lacked confidence in her appearance; still found it hard to believe that men found her attractive. The mirror told her one thing, but her mind told her another. She had been asked out this past year a couple of times, but she’d always said no.

In her defence, neither of the two men who’d invited her out had possessed any of the qualities which she secretly desired in a man: they hadn’t been wickedly handsome, sinfully sexy or even remotely charming. One caught the same bus as she did every day and was as dull as ditch-water. The other worked in the supermarket where she shopped. Despite not being totally unattractive, he was not the kind of chap who was ever likely to make manager of the store.

Neither man had been anything like the irresistible heroes who strutted their arrogant selves through the pages of the romance novels she’d once devoured during the long, lonely hours she’d spent in her pink prison.

Her gaze flicked to the book case which still contained a large number of those romances, all of them historical, favourites that she couldn’t bear to part with. She hadn’t read any of them for ages, however, her reading habits having changed over the years.

At uni she’d been obliged to read Shakespeare and the classics as well as lots of modern literary works—she’d majored in English literature—leaving little time for reading romances. Any spare reading time she had had been spent reading the unpublished novels emailed to her by Henry, a literary agent whom she’d worked for as a paid reader. Most of those books had been thrillers.

Now that she was Henry’s full-time assistant, Violet was also obliged to read a lot of the best sellers published around the world so that she was always up-to-date with the current market. And, whilst some of these books did have romantic elements, none were anything like the raunchy historical romances she’d once been addicted to.

Suddenly, she had the urge to see if they still held the same fascination for her that they once had; if they could still make her heart race. Dropping the handle of her case, she crossed the room to the book case where she began searching for one particular favourite, about a pirate who’d kidnapped an English noble woman then fallen in love with her, and vice versa. It was all total fantasy, of course. But Violet had loved it.

‘Violet, for Pete’s sake, come on,’ her father said impatiently when she bent down to check the bottom shelf.

‘Won’t be a sec,’ she replied, her gaze quickly scanning the row of books.

And there it was, dog-eared and with the pages yellowing, but the cover still as shocking as ever, with the heroine’s clothes in disarray and the handsome pirate hero looming over her with lecherous intent. Wicked devil, she thought, but with a jolt of remembered pleasure.

‘Just wanted something to read on the plane,’ she said as she quickly shoved the book into her carry-all.

Saying goodbye to her mother was the only difficult part in leaving. Her mother always cried.

‘Don’t wait till next Christmas to come home, love,’ her mother said, sniffling into a wadful of tissues.

‘All right, Mum,’ Violet said, biting her own bottom lip.

‘Promise me you’ll come home for Easter.’

Violet searched her mind for any excuse. But couldn’t find one.

‘I’ll try, Mum. I promise.’

Her father didn’t talk during the drive to the airport. He wasn’t much of a talker. A plumber by trade, he was a good but simple man who loved his wife and his family, though it was clear to both Vanessa and Violet that Gavin was the apple of his eye. Admittedly, they were like two peas in a pod, with Gavin having become a plumber as well. Vanessa was closest to her mother, both in looks and personality, whilst Violet … Well, Violet had always been the odd one out in the family in every way.

Aside from being the only one to be plagued by acne in her teenage years, she’d looked totally different as well. Where both Vanessa and her mother were blue-eyed blondes with small bones and were less than average height, Violet was taller and curvier, with dark brown hair and eyes. Admittedly, her father and brother had dark-brown hair and eyes, but they weren’t big men, both a good few inches less than six feet with lean, wiry frames.

She’d been told, when she’d once questioned her genes, that she looked like her great-aunt Mirabella, the one who’d died and left her the ten grand. Not that she’d ever met the woman. Apparently, she’d died a spinster. It suddenly occurred to Violet that maybe no man would marry her because she’d had a face covered in pimples and scars at a time when there’d been no miracle pill or miracle lasers.

But it wasn’t just in looks that Violet was different from the rest of her family. Her brain was different as well. Measured with an IQ of one hundred and forty, she had a brilliant memory, as well as an analytical mind and a talent for writing—though not creative writing so much, she was beginning to suspect. She’d finally abandoned her attempt to write her first novel this past year when she hadn’t been able to get past the third chapter.

Her writing ability, she’d concluded, lay more in being able to put her analytical thoughts and opinions into words which were original and thought-provoking. Her English essays in high school had been so good that her teachers had been stunned. They’d encouraged her to enter an essay competition on the subject of Jane Austen’s books, first prize being a scholarship to study for an arts degree at Sydney University, where all her fees and books would be paid for.

She’d won it before she’d also noted the scholarship included two thousand dollars a semester towards her living expenses. It was not quite enough for her to live on, but she’d been fortunate to find board with a widow named Joy who’d charged her only a nominal rent provided Violet did some of the heavy cleaning and helped her with the shopping.

Another plus had been the location of Joy’s terraced house. It was in Newtown, an inner-city suburb within walking distance of Sydney University. Even so, her father had still had to give her some money so that she could make ends meet. That was till she had landed the job as one of Henry’s readers, after which she’d been able to survive without outside help.

Violet had quickly found she liked not being beholden to anyone for anything; had liked the feeling of being responsible for herself. As much as she still lacked confidence in her appearance, she did not lack confidence in other areas of her life.

She knew she was good at her job as well as quite a lot of other things. She’d learned to cook well, thanks to helping Joy in the kitchen. She was a good driver, again thanks to Joy, who’d lent her a car and bravely gone with her whilst she clocked up the numbers of hours driving that she needed to secure her licence. She would have bought herself a car, if she’d needed one, but Henry worked out of an apartment in the CBD and it was much easier to catch a bus than drive into the city and find parking.

Violet supposed that, if she had a social life with lots of friends dotted all over Sydney, she would definitely have to buy herself a car. But she didn’t. Occasionally, this bothered her, but she’d grown used to not having friends; grown used to her own company. Not that she stayed home alone all the time. She often went out with Joy, who was still a real live-wire, despite being seventy-five now with two arthritic hips, which gave her hell in the winter. Every Saturday night the two of them would go out for a bite to eat—usually at an Asian restaurant—before going on to see a movie.

Violet could honestly say that she was content with her life, on the whole. She wasn’t unhappy or depressed, as she’d once been. It was a big plus to be able to look in the mirror each morning and not shudder with revulsion. Of course, if she were brutally honest, she did secretly wish that she could find the courage to enter the dating world and eventually do something about her virginal status. She hated to think that next Christmas would eventually come around and she’d make the same tired old excuse over her lack of a love life.

A wry smile pulled at the corners of her mouth as she thought of the book in her bag. What she needed was a wickedly sexy pirate to kidnap her and not give her time to think or to worry before he ravaged her silly.

Unfortunately, that was highly unlikely to happen in this day and age. It was an exciting thought, though.

Suddenly, Violet couldn’t wait to get to the airport where she could start reading.

‘Don’t get out, Dad,’ she said once they arrived at the departure drop-off point.

‘Okay. Give us a kiss.’

Violet leant over and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Bye, Dad. Keep well.’

Twelve minutes later, Violet was sitting in the departure lounge, reading the story of Captain Strongbow and his Lady Gwendaline. By the time she boarded the plane, she was halfway through the three-hundred-and-fifty-page book, having become a speed reader over the years. By the time the jet began its descent into Mascot airport, she was on the last chapter.

The story had been pretty much as she remembered—the plot packed with action, the hero thrillingly sexy, the love scenes extremely explicit and, yes, exciting. Her heart was definitely racing once more.

There was one difference, however, which she noticed on second reading: the heroine was a much stronger character than she’d originally thought. Of course, the first time round Violet had been focusing more on the hero, who was the epitome of macho attractiveness.

On second reading, however, she saw that Lady Gwendaline wasn’t as dominated by the dashing but rather decadent Captain Strongbow as she’d imagined. She’d stood up to him all the way. When it was obvious he was going to have sex with her with or without her permission, her decision not to resist his advances had not been done out of fear and weakness but out of a determination to survive. She’d faced her ordeal with courage. Faced it head-on. She hadn’t whined and wept. She hadn’t begged. She’d lifted her chin, stripped off her clothes and done what she had to do.

That she’d found pleasure in having sex with her captor had come as a shock to Lady Gwendaline. It was blatantly obvious, though, that she had decided to go to bed with the pirate before she discovered what a great lover he was. There was nothing weak about Gwendaline. Nothing of the victim. She was a survivor because she was a decider. She didn’t just let things happen to her. She decided, then she acted. Sometimes foolishly, but always with spirit and courage.

Violet smothered a sigh as she closed the book then slipped it back into her bag. She wished she had that type of courage. But she didn’t. She couldn’t even find the courage to go out on a date. God, she was pathetic!

She was sitting there, castigating herself, when she became aware that the plane had stopped descending. It was, in fact, ascending—quite quickly. But why? Even before there was time for fear to take hold, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘this is your captain speaking. We are experiencing a small technical problem with the undercarriage of the aircraft. You may have noticed that we have halted our descent. We will be returning to ten-thousand feet, where we will maintain a holding pattern till we have solved the problem. Please keep your phones and laptops turned off during this short delay. Be assured there is nothing to be alarmed about. I will keep you informed and trust we will soon be able to resume our descent.’

Unfortunately, things didn’t work out as smoothly as that. Instead of shortly resuming their descent, they maintained a holding pattern for a tense twenty minutes, after which they flew out over the ocean where the captain dumped the rest of the fuel before finally coming in for an emergency landing. The passengers by then were armed with the disturbing knowledge that the undercarriage was probably not properly locked in. The wheels had come down but some light that should have come on hadn’t.

Or maybe it should have gone off. Violet wasn’t sure which. Her normally sharp brain had gone into panic mode when the captain had been explaining the unfortunate situation. Either way, there was a very real possibility that once they hit the tarmac the undercarriage would totally collapse and all hell would break loose.

There was a deathly silence in the cabin as they made their approach. None of the hundred-and-fifty-plus passengers were at all reassured by the captain’s cool, or the fact that their runway had already been covered in fire-retardant foam, with all emergency vehicles at the ready. The reality of the matter was that they were all facing the possibility that in a minute or so everyone in that plane might die.

Violet wished, as she braced in the crash position, that she hadn’t watched so many of those air crash investigation shows. They didn’t inspire confidence in a positive outcome.

Survivors of plane crashes often said afterwards that their lives flashed before them during their near-death experience. Violet could honestly say that didn’t quite happen to her. The only thing she could think of at that moment was that she was about to go to her grave a virgin. She had never experienced sex, or love, or passion, or anything even close.

And it was all her own fault. It was then that she made a solemn vow to herself: if she got through this alive, she would change. From now on, she would say yes when asked out, no matter who asked her.

She would make other changes too. She would stop going to an all-female gym. She would dress more fashionably; wear make-up; perfume; jewellery. She would believe what the mirror told her and not her warped mind. She would even buy a car under the positive assumption that she would definitely need one when she began socialising more. Not a boring car, either. A red two-door model!

No more ‘shrinking Violet’ for her. The time had come to shrug off her stultifying past and embrace a very different future.

If I have a future, came the awful thought.

Her chest tightened as the plane touched down, a silent prayer forming on her lips. The wheels skidded a little on the foam but they held. Dear Lord in heaven, they held! Her head shot up at the same time as lots of other heads shot up. Everyone started laughing and clapping, hugging each other and even kissing. Violet had never felt so relieved, or so happy.

She’d been given a second chance at life and, by God, she wasn’t going to waste it!

CHAPTER TWO

LEO WAS SITTING on the balcony of his father’s harbour-side apartment, sipping a glass of very nice red, when he heard a phone ring somewhere inside. Not his; he always kept his phone with him.

‘Henry, phone!’ he called out after the phone rang a few more times. Leo hadn’t called his father ‘Father’ since he’d gone to Oxford to study law over twenty years ago. They’d always been close, the result of Leo’s mother having died when Leo had been very young, and his father never having remarried.

By the time Leo had gone to university they’d been more like best friends than father and son. Henry had suggested the change and Leo had happily gone along with the idea.

He was about to get up and answer the darned phone himself when the ringing finally stopped, leaving Leo to relax with his wine and enjoy the view, which was second to none, especially on a warm summer’s afternoon. The water was bluer than blue, sparkling in the sunshine and decorated with all manner of craft, from small sailing boats to ferries to five-star cruisers. In the not-too-distant foreground stood Sydney’s iconic Harbour Bridge, along with the stunning-looking Opera House on its left.

When Henry had announced eight years ago that he was retiring to the land down under, Leo had been sceptical of the move lasting. His father was a Londoner born and bred, like himself.

A successful literary agent, Henry’s life had always been steeped in the arts. His parents had been professors of history; his only sibling—an older sister—a potter of some note. Henry’s wife had been a well-known sculptress till her untimely death—she’d been struck down with meningitis when she’d been only thirty.

Whilst never remarrying, Henry’s name had been linked with many women over the years—all of them accomplished in the arts: opera singers. Ballet dancers. Painters. And, of course, writers. How could a man of his tastes possibly be happy living in Australia which, whilst not quite the cultural wasteland it had once been, was still hardly on a par with London?

Leo had been sure his father would soon become bored. But he hadn’t. Of course, he hadn’t retired either. He’d set up shop in an apartment he’d bought in Sydney’s CBD, working from home, quickly acquiring a stable of up-and-coming Aussie writers via a clever website which he’d had designed by a professional. His agency didn’t have any partners, as he’d had in London, or even any staff at first. Henry had kept his client base small, concentrating on the thriller genre and sending most of the manuscripts out to paid readers.

One of these readers had proved to be a little goldmine—a university student named Violet who had a real knack for recognising raw talent, as well as being able to suggest the kind of revisions which could turn a promising but unpublishable manuscript into a commercial winner. Henry had quickly learnt to take Violet’s opinions and advice very seriously indeed, the result of which was a succession of best-selling books whose authors now commanded top advances and royalties.

Soon, the Wolfe Literary Agency had become the literary agency to belong to if you were a thriller writer. And, whilst Henry wasn’t interested in expanding his agency at his age, his father had had the nous to hire this Violet as his assistant once she’d graduated from university. He’d also had the nous to buy this apartment—fully furnished—when it had come on the somewhat depressed market just over two years ago.

Leo had to admit that he was impressed with the place. He was impressed with Sydney, too. It was a glorious-looking city, with a superb climate and a wealth of things to see and do. Okay, so there weren’t as many theatres and museums as London boasted, but the restaurants were top class, the shopping perfectly adequate and the beaches to die for.

Not to mention the harbour. He’d only been here a week but already he could see the attraction for people from gloomy old England. There was something uplifting in seeing a clear blue sky in which the sun shone brightly.

It had certainly uplifted him. Leo had been feeling a bit low of late, what with his last movie having been a box-office flop. Entirely his fault, of course. He should never have attempted to make a two-hour film out of a thousand-page novel which was character- rather than plot-based. Failure had been inevitable.

Still, it had been a bitter pill to swallow after producing a string of hits over the past decade. One of the reasons he’d accepted his father’s invitation to spend Christmas and the New Year with him here in Sydney was to get away from the media—not to mention his so-called friends, the ones who seemed to enjoy saying that his Midas touch with movies might be on the wane. By the time he went back to England, he hoped the critics would have found someone else to slam with their poisonous reviews. For pity’s sake, the movie hadn’t been that bad!

Leo was just finishing off his glass of Shiraz when the glass door to his immediate left slid back and his father stepped out onto the huge curving balcony which fronted the entire apartment. Leo was glad to see that he’d brought the bottle with him, as well as a glass for himself.

‘Well, that’s a turn-up for the books,’ Henry said enigmatically as he made his way past Leo’s outstretched legs, sat down and filled his own glass from the bottle.

It was an irritating habit of Henry’s, starting a conversation with a statement like that, then offering no explanation till questioned further. He enjoyed piquing people’s curiosity. Henry called it his cliff-hanger tactic.

‘What is?’ Leo asked as he placed his own now-empty glass on the circular table which separated them.

Henry refilled Leo’s glass before he lifted his eyes to his son. ‘That was Violet on the phone. You know? My assistant. You’ll never guess what—she’s actually coming to my New Year’s Eve party!’

Leo appreciated Henry’s surprise. He knew quite a bit about his father’s assistant. He knew that Violet, whilst extremely intelligent, was also extremely antisocial. Henry said that, although not plain, she was a dreadful dresser with no sense of style and no confidence in herself as a woman. Which Henry considered a shame, since he said she had a lot to offer, if only she’d come out of her shell and make the most of herself. She didn’t mind going out to lunch or coffee with Henry alone, but she never, ever accompanied him to any of his client luncheons, or accepted any of Henry’s other invitations, which were many and varied.

Henry had always been a social animal, loving opening nights and parties of any kind. When he’d lived in London, his New Year’s Eve parties had been legendary, the food and wine top draw, the guest lists full of fascinating people. He’d continued that tradition out here.

Violet, however, had not attended even one of Henry’s New Year’s Eve parties, not even when he’d moved in to this apartment, despite it overlooking the harbour and the bridge where all the guests would have an uninterrupted view of the famous fireworks which went off over Sydney Harbour each New Year’s Eve at midnight. One would have thought she’d have made the effort to come just to see them. But apparently not.

According to Henry, she boarded with an elderly widow and had never had a boyfriend. Or, she hadn’t since she’d started working full-time for Henry. Which didn’t mean she’d never had one, Leo conceded. Hell, she’d been to university, hadn’t she? Not even the plainest, dullest girls got through uni without being hit upon. And this Violet wasn’t plain or dull.

Maybe she’d had a bad sexual experience at some stage which had made her anti-men.

‘Did you remind her that it was fancy dress?’ Leo asked. Henry had stipulated on his invitations that guests were to come dressed as a character from a movie.

‘Yes. And it didn’t seem to worry her.’

‘Even more surprising,’ was Leo’s comment. Shy people tended not to like fancy dress. Maybe Henry was wrong in his assessment of his assistant’s personality. Maybe she had a secret love life. A married man, perhaps?

‘I wonder what character your obviously-not-so-shrinking Violet will choose?’ he said, his curiosity piqued.

Henry shrugged. ‘Lord knows. Something a little more imaginative than yours, I hope.’

‘Come now, Henry, you didn’t honestly expect me to ponce around all night in green tights and a feathered hat?’

‘But you’d make a fantastic Robin Hood, with your athletic body.’

Leo did keep himself lean and fit, but he was forty now, not twenty-five. Time for a more grown-up costume. ‘I think the character I’ve chosen suits me better.’

‘Why?’ Henry said as he poured himself another glass of wine. ‘Because you’re a fellow womaniser?’

Leo was taken aback by his father’s remark. He had never considered himself a womaniser. Possibly it looked like he was to people who didn’t really know him. He did have two marriages behind him and, yes, he was rarely without an attractive young actress to grace his arm when at the many public events he was obliged to attend these days.

But what the media didn’t know was that he didn’t sleep with any of them. Well … not any more he didn’t. He’d learned by his mistakes. The only woman Leo had sex with these days was Mandy, a fortyish divorced workaholic who ran a casting agency in London and who was the soul of discretion about their strictly sexual relationship.

Mandy liked Leo, and she liked sex. What she wouldn’t like was being featured in the gossip columns of London’s tabloids as Leo Wolfe’s latest squeeze. She had two teenage sons at boarding school whom she adored and an ex-husband whom she detested. She didn’t want to get married again. She just wanted some company in bed occasionally. They met at her Kensington town house once or twice a week when Leo was in town.

‘I’m not a womaniser,’ Leo denied, annoyed with his father for even thinking that he was.

‘Of course you are, Leo,’ Henry refuted coolly. ‘It’s in your blood. You’re just like me. I loved your mother dearly, but I sometimes think it was a blessing that she passed away when she did. I wouldn’t have stayed faithful to her. I would have made her miserable, the way you made Grace miserable,’ he pronounced as he swept the wine glass to his lips.

‘I was not unfaithful to Grace,’ Leo bit out through clenched teeth. ‘And I did not make her miserable.’ Not till after he had asked her for a divorce, that was. Till then, Grace had been totally unaware of the fact that he didn’t love her. And that he had never loved her—although Leo had thought he had when he had asked her to marry him. But he’d been only twenty, for pity’s sake, and she’d been pregnant with his child. Lust had tricked him into believing he was in love.

The lust lasted till Liam had been born, which was when Leo had really fallen in love—with his son. He’d tried desperately to make the marriage work for the baby’s sake. He’d pretended and pretended till it had nearly driven him mad. In the end, just before their ninth wedding anniversary, he’d admitted defeat and asked Grace for a divorce. He’d just started getting interested in the movie-making business and had realised he wanted to change more than just his profession. He’d never enjoyed being a lawyer, and he could no longer stand making love to a woman whom he didn’t love.

He was fortunate that Grace had been nice enough not to punish him for not loving her. She’d given him joint custody of Liam and they were still good friends today. She’d eventually found someone else to marry and seemed happy.

But Leo had never forgotten the pain in her eyes when he’d told her that he’d fallen out of love with her. He hadn’t admitted that he’d never loved her, but she’d been shattered all the same. He’d vowed then and there to not ever hurt another person like that again. And he hadn’t, thank heavens. Not even when he’d got divorced for a second time a few years back.

Henry returned his glass to the table before settling a sceptical gaze on his son. ‘Really, Leo?’ he said. ‘What was the problem, then? You never did fully explain the reasons behind your first divorce. I just presumed there was another woman. After all, you were mixing with a pretty racy crowd by then.’

‘There wasn’t any other woman. I just didn’t love Grace any more.’

‘I see. I’m sorry to have misjudged you. But you could have set me straight before this. Why didn’t you?’

‘I just didn’t like talking about it. I guess I was ashamed of myself.’

‘No need to feel ashamed for being honest. So you weren’t unfaithful; mmm, I am surprised. I presume the same doesn’t hold for your second marriage?’

Leo couldn’t help laughing. But there was a slightly bitter edge to his amusement.

‘Unfaithfulness was certainly a large factor in that divorce,’ he admitted. ‘Just not mine.’

Henry frowned over the rim of his wine glass which had frozen just before reaching his lips. ‘Are you saying Helene was unfaithful to you?’

Again, Leo had to laugh. ‘Thank you for making it sound like that’s impossible.’

Henry looked hard at his son and saw what he always saw: a very handsome, very successful, very charming man. Women had always found him irresistible, ever since he was a little boy.

His Aunt Victoria had adored him, making sure he didn’t lack for feminine love and attention as he grew up. She’d taken responsibility for that part of his education which no father or school could provide, giving him a love of the things women loved, like movies and music.

Each year, during Leo’s summer holidays from school, she’d taken him abroad, showing him the world’s wonders and teaching him all there was to know about different cultures. She’d also taught him another talent: how to listen. Which was why the female sex found him so appealing. There was nothing more seductive to a woman than a man who listened to them. Of course, it did help that he’d also been blessed with great genes. Good looks did run in the family.

It seemed unbelievable to Henry that any woman would look elsewhere when she had a man like Leo in her life and in her bed.

‘So, who was the silly girl sleeping with?’ he asked. ‘One of her leading men, I suppose?’

‘All of them, it seems,’ Leo admitted drily. ‘Or so I found out later. I only caught her with one of them. She claimed it was only sex; that she did it to relax during a shoot. I didn’t quite see it that way. Now, could we talk about something else? This wine, perhaps?’

‘Do you like it?’

‘It’s as good as any you can buy in Europe.’

‘There’s nothing to compare with a South Australian Shiraz. And there’s nothing to compare with Sydney Harbour on New Year’s Eve.’

‘Let’s hope the good weather holds, then,’ Leo said.

‘It should. I just hope Violet doesn’t do a runner at the last moment.’

‘You think she might?’

Henry frowned. ‘Actually, no, I don’t. Which is odd in itself. She sounded different on the phone just now. More confident. No; I think she’ll turn up. I just hope she doesn’t come as someone boring like Jane Eyre. Or a nun.’

‘Most of the movies I’ve seen with nuns in them aren’t boring.’

‘True. Violet would probably come as the nun in that old movie set during the war on an island in the Pacific. What was it, now?’

‘Heaven Knows, Mr Allison.’

He slanted Leo an admiring glance. ‘Yes, that’s the one. You do know your movies, don’t you?’

‘I should do. It’s my job. Besides, that particular movie was one of Aunt Vicky’s favourites.’

‘Dear Victoria,’ Henry said wistfully. ‘I still miss her terribly, you know.’

‘So do I.’ Leo’s aunt had died a few years back, not long before Leo had married Helene. Perhaps, if she’d been alive, Aunt Vicky would have seen through Helen’s surface beauty to the ugliness which lay beneath. She’d been an excellent judge of character.

‘You know, Henry, Aunt Vicky would have loved this place.’

‘Yes. I do believe she would have. Shall we have a toast to her?’ Henry suggested.

Leo smiled with fond remembrance. ‘Why not? To Aunt Vicky,’ he said as he reached over and clinked his glass against Henry’s. ‘Who, if she were alive today, would definitely not come to your New Year’s Eve party dressed as a nun.’

Henry chuckled. ‘You’d be right there. Nothing shy and retiring about Victoria.’

They each took a deep swallow of their wine, after which both men fell silent.

Leo’s thoughts returned to Henry’s assistant, Violet. She sounded an intriguing sort of girl. He couldn’t wait to meet her. Couldn’t wait to see what she would wear to Henry’s party. He wished that the party was tonight. But it wasn’t; he’d have to wait two more whole days till New Year’s Eve. Darn! Patience was not one of his virtues.

CHAPTER THREE

‘THERE’S NO NEED for you to be nervous,’ Joy said to Violet as they drew nearer to the street where Henry lived. ‘You look beautiful.’

Violet knew that Joy was just saying that to make her feel better. She didn’t look beautiful—she looked petrified. Which was exactly what she was, all her new-found boldness having flown out the window the moment she’d climbed into Joy’s car for the drive over to Point Piper. It seemed that thinking about going to Henry’s party was a lot different from actually going.

‘I don’t think I can do this, Joy,’ she blurted out, her hands turning clammy as they twisted together in her lap.

Joy sighed, then pulled the car over to the kerbside. But she didn’t turn the small sedan around. She just switched off the engine then faced Violet with stern grey eyes.

‘Do I have to remind you what happened on that plane, Violet? And what you told me you’d decided to do from now on?’

Shame made Violet grimace. She’d been so full of resolve after her near-death experience, so determined to change. Yet here she was, skittering to a halt at the first hurdle.

‘A life lived in fear, Violet, is no life at all,’ Joy quoted from somewhere. ‘But it’s up to you. I’ll take you home if that’s what you really want. But you’ll hate yourself in the morning.’

Violet already hated herself.

Joy reached over and touched her gently on her whitened knuckles. ‘I know it must be hard for you to do this. Bad habits are very difficult to break. But you have to start somewhere. You can’t hide yourself away for the rest of your life. You’re no longer a teenage girl with a face full of pimples and scars. You’re a lovely young woman with clear skin, beautiful eyes and a figure I would have killed for when I was your age.’

‘Really?’

‘God, yes. I had no bust to speak of, even in my twenties. And no hips either. But we’re talking about you, dear, not me. So what’s it to be? Are you going to your boss’s party, or are you going to be a wishy-washy lily-livered little nincompoop and ask me to take you home?’

Violet could not help it. She laughed, her laughter breaking some of the tension which had been gathering inside her chest since she’d got dressed this evening.

‘Of course,’ Joy rattled on, ‘if you ask me to take you home, I’m going to be very annoyed indeed. It took me ages to find that infernal costume amongst all the sentimental stuff I’ve kept over the years, then even longer to alter it to fit you. When Lisa played Snow White in her college review she was skinny and flat-chested like me. Look at all the work I had to do on that bodice alone, cutting it down the middle, then adding facings and putting in eyelets and laces so that we could give your very nice bustline more room.’

Violet glanced down at the bodice of her costume, startled to find that from that angle all she could see were two half-mounds of naked flesh oozing out of the top. She hadn’t realised that so much of her breasts were on display. Standing up, her reflection in Joy’s full-length mirror hadn’t looked quite so daring. Such a sight only added to her nervous state. She wasn’t used to showing off her body.

Lady Gwendaline didn’t mind, however, came the unexpected thought. She flashed her cleavage around with panache, enjoying the effect it had on Captain Strongbow.

‘And don’t forget all the money you’ve spent on everything else,’ Joy continued relentlessly. ‘New shoes. Hair. Make-up. All wasted if you go home now.’

Strangely, it was thinking of Lady Gwendaline’s boldness which made up Violet’s mind more than Joy pointing out the money she’d spent on herself.

Violet scooped in a deep breath before unlocking her twisted fingers then breathing slowly out. ‘All right. I’ll go.’

Joy’s face lit up. ‘That’s marvellous. I’m so proud of you.’

Violet didn’t feel all that proud of herself. Not yet. Underneath, she still felt petrified. But to go back home was unthinkable now.

‘If you don’t mind my making a suggestion…’ Joy said as she started the engine once more. ‘Have a glass or two of wine when you first get there. Nothing like a bit of Dutch courage to settle the nerves.’

‘All right,’ Violet agreed, thinking it was a good idea.

‘When you really think about it, Violet, there’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just a party.’

Violet straightened her shoulders and steeled her resolve. Joy was right. It was just a party; nothing to be afraid of. It wasn’t as though she was going to be left totally alone with a roomful of strangers. Henry would be there and at least one of his authors, whom Violet had met, or at least talked to over the phone.

Unfortunately, however, there would be lots of people there she didn’t know—clever, cultured people, the kind Henry liked to socialise with. People from the artistic world. Playwrights and painters. Musicians and movie people.

‘Oh my goodness, I forgot!’ Violet exclaimed just as Joy pulled into the steep driveway which led down to the guest car park attached to Henry’s apartment block. ‘His son will be there.’

‘The movie producer?’

Henry was always talking to Violet about his son and his successes, information which she had imparted to Joy.

‘Yes. Leo. He came over from London to spend Christmas and New Year with his father.’

‘And that’s a problem?’

‘No. No, I guess not. It’s just that … Well, he’s rather famous, isn’t he?’ Not to mention very good-looking. Henry had a photo of him dressed in a tuxedo on his desk. It had been taken at an awards night when one of his movies had won best picture.

‘Did his wife come with him?’

‘His wife?’ Violet echoed blankly.

‘Isn’t he married to Helene Williams? The actress?’

‘He was. They’re divorced now.’

‘Keep well away from him, then,’ Joy warned as she pulled up next to a flashy red sports car. ‘Especially if that’s his car.’

‘For heaven’s sake, Joy, I doubt a man like Leo Wolfe would ever be interested in someone like me. For one thing, he has to be well over forty. He has a twenty-year-old son from his first marriage.’ Violet had actually met the son, Liam, when he’d been down under for a backpacking holiday earlier in the year. He’d stayed with his grandfather for a few days and had come into the office one day. A very good-looking boy. And extremely charming.

‘Older men often like pretty young girls,’ Joy pointed out drily. Especially sweet, innocent ones like you, she didn’t add. But she thought it. Lord, but she hoped she’d done the right thing, encouraging Violet to doll herself up and go to this party. It had seemed the right thing at the time, with Violet wanting so desperately to throw off her hang-ups and lead a more normal life for a twenty-five-year-old girl.

It was obvious by the look of this place, however—harbour-side apartments in Point Piper cost heaps—that Violet’s wealthy boss and his even wealthier son lived and mixed in circles where traditional values and morals were not necessarily adhered to. The rich and the famous lived life by their own rules. Perhaps she shouldn’t have told Violet to have a drink or two.

Still, she could hardly start raising her doubts now. And she wasn’t Violet’s mother, after all.

But she did feel responsible for her. Violet had become more than a boarder in the years they’d lived together. She was a dear friend. But she’d be a babe in the woods in the company she’d be keeping tonight.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Joy piped up in what she hoped was a casual-sounding voice. ‘You’re going to have the devil of a time getting a taxi home after midnight on New Year’s Eve. What say I come back and pick you up around one o’clock?’

Violet looked taken aback by the offer. ‘I couldn’t ask you to do that, Joy.’

‘Don’t be silly. I won’t be asleep; I’ll be staying up to watch the fireworks, as always. I could leave straight after they’re finished. I’ll give you a ring once I get here. You have your phone with you, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Violet said. ‘In here.’ And she lifted the silver clutch bag she’d bought for the occasion.

‘That’s settled, then. Off you go, now, before you start having second thoughts again.’

Violet opened the car door and got out, after which she bent down to give Joy a shaky smile. ‘Thanks for everything, Joy.’

Joy stifled a groan as she took one last look at Violet’s impressive bosom spilling out over the tightly laced bodice. ‘I, er, might be a bit earlier than one o’clock,’ she said hurriedly. ‘It shouldn’t take me too long to get from Newtown to here at that time of night.’

‘Whenever you can get here will be fine. So what’s the time now? I’m not wearing a watch.’

Joy glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Nearly eight-thirty.’

Violet frowned. The invitation had said any time after eight, but everything seemed very quiet. She would have expected the guest car park to be full by now and people to be arriving every few minutes. She knew Henry had asked around sixty people, because she herself had emailed out the invitations, of which at least fifty had RSVP’d that they were coming.

‘Do you think I’m too early?’

‘Maybe. Do you want to get back in the car and wait a while?’

Violet knew if she did that she might never get out again. Her stomach was beginning to churn again. ‘No. No, best I go inside. Thanks again, Joy, for driving me. And for offering to pick me up.’

‘No trouble.’

‘Off you go, then. I’ll be fine. I know the way.’ She’d been to Henry’s apartment a couple of times, once before he bought it and once a few months after, Henry having wanted her to see what he’d done with it. Despite the place coming fully furnished, he’d added quite a few touches of his own to counter the starkly modern decor. He’d put some turquoise and silver cushions on the white leather sofas and warmed all the white walls with some brightly coloured paintings, mostly seascapes done by local artists.

There was no doubt it was a spectacular looking apartment with a spectacular view of the harbour, but it wasn’t the sort of place Violet would have felt comfortable living in. All the walls facing the harbour were glass without a single curtain or blind to provide privacy. Violet knew she would feel very exposed living there, like a fish in a glass bowl.

Not a bad setting for a New Year’s Eve party, however.

Violet frowned again as she stared up at the still-empty driveway. Where was everyone? It did seem strange that no one had driven in since her own arrival. Maybe they were already inside. Maybe she wasn’t early; maybe she was late.

There was only one way to find out, she supposed. Squaring her shoulders, she turned and made her way over to the glass-walled foyer of the building. Inside, a security guard sat behind a large curved reception desk. The design of the building was big on curves; all the glass walls facing the harbour were gently curved, as well as the balconies which fronted the entire length of each apartment.

A buzzer rang when she pushed open the door, bringing the guard’s head up from whatever he was doing. Probably reading. He looked around sixty, a jovial-faced fellow with a ready smile.

‘You’ll be here for Mr Wolfe’s party, by the look of you,’ he said cheerily.

‘Yes,’ she said, trying not to feel foolish in her Snow White costume.

‘Name, please, miss?’ the guard enquired.

‘What? Oh … er … Violet Green.’

His head dropped, presumably to check Henry’s guest list.

When he looked up again, he was still smiling. ‘You can go on up, Miss Green.’

‘Thank you. Has … um … anyone else arrived yet?’

‘Only the caterers, miss. You’re the first guest.’

She sighed a deep sigh. ‘Oh dear.’

‘I’m sure it won’t be long before the others get here. Mr Wolfe’s parties are always very popular. Ah, look, there, didn’t I tell you? There’s someone else arriving now.’

Violet glanced over her shoulder just in time to see a white stretch-limousine slide down the steep driveway before being expertly manoeuvred to stop reasonably close to the foyer door. A smartly uniformed chauffeur alighted and strode round to open the back door, standing to attention as Henry the Eighth climbed out followed by one of his wives; impossible to guess which wife. One with her head still on. Whatever, the costumes were extremely elaborate and expensive, making Violet feel instantly ill at ease in her home-made outfit.

Not that it wasn’t well made; it was. And very close to the picture most people had in their head of what Snow White had worn. It had an ankle-length gathered skirt made in a pale-blue silk, the same pale-blue silk used in the puffed sleeves. The fitted bodice was made in red velvet which matched the red velvet band in Violet’s hair, hair which she’d had dyed black for the night and styled in a shoulder-length bob.

Her shoes were black patent pumps with small heels and diamante-encrusted bows on the front, the closest she’d been able to get to the shoes in the picture of Snow White she’d printed off the Internet. The stiff stand-up collar which wrapped around her neck and framed her face was white. The only major difference in her own costume was the laced-up front, a necessity to make the costume fit.

She’d actually felt very happy with her costume … till now.

‘Is there a ladies room down here?’ she quickly asked the security guard before the swish new arrivees swept into the foyer. ‘I’d like to freshen up a bit before going upstairs.’ Despite Henry’s apartment being number one, it was located on the first floor of the building, the ground floor taken up with the owners’ car park.

‘Just down that corridor, miss,’ he indicated. ‘Right next to the lift.’

‘Oh, yes, I can see it. Thank you.’

Her hand was actually on the powder-room door when Joy’s voice popped into her head.

You’re not going to be a wishy-washy, lily-livered little nincompoop, are you?

Shame and anger revived her determination to have done with her silly shy self once and for all. With her bag clutched tightly in one hand, she moved on to firmly press the lift button instead. The doors opened immediately and she stepped inside.

This is New Year’s Eve, Violet lectured herself as she rode the lift up to the first floor. A night for facing things head-on; a night where the past was finally put aside in favour of the future. It’s up to you, Violet, to make that future a better place. A bolder place. A place where you finally look in the mirror and see the truth. Your Snow White might not be the fairest in the land but you are an attractive, intelligent woman. There’s no need for you to go through life alone. No need to shrink away from social situations just because they’re out of your comfort zone.

Lady Gwendaline never shrank away from anything, she reminded herself. And, boy, she’d been really out of her comfort zone when she’d been kidnapped by that ruffian. Whenever you feel your courage or your confidence waning, think of her and what she would do. Don’t be shy. And, above all, don’t be a wishy-washy, lily-livered little nincompoop!

CHAPTER FOUR

‘THERE’S THE DOORBELL,’ Henry said to Leo. Both men were standing at the built-in bar opening a few bottles of nicely chilled champagne. ‘Answer it for me, will you, Leo? I’ll pop out to the kitchen and let the caterer know people are arriving.’

‘Fine,’ Leo agreed, depositing the champagne bottle he was holding into one of the ice buckets before heading for the front door.

His eyebrows rose when he opened it to find the most delicious looking Snow White standing there. All alone, he noted happily; no Prince Charming by her side. He also noted that her lovely big brown eyes were staring at him like he was a little green man from Mars. It occurred to Leo that perhaps she was thinking he hadn’t bothered to dress up. He supposed his black dinner suit, white dress shirt and black bow-tie didn’t look like a fancy dress costume.

‘Good evening, Snow White,’ he said with what he hoped was a suitably suave smile. ‘Do come in. By the way, my name is Bond. James Bond,’ he added, looking deep into her eyes.

‘Oh,’ she said, her prettily pale cheeks colouring with the most enchanting blush. It was then that Leo twigged who she was.

‘You’re Violet, aren’t you? Dad’s assistant.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am. But how did you …?’

‘Call it intuition,’ he interrupted smoothly. ‘I presume you know who I am. When I’m not being James Bond, that is.’

He was rewarded with a small, sweet smile. ‘Yes. You’re Henry’s son, Leo, the famous movie producer.’

‘Maybe not so famous after my last effort,’ he replied drily. ‘But let’s not talk shop tonight. Or stand in the doorway.’

Her full skirt swished as she stepped inside the foyer. Leo closed the door before taking her elbow and steering her into the middle of the huge but empty living room.

‘I came too early,’ she said, sounding embarrassed.

‘Not at all,’ Leo assured her. ‘Everyone else is late.’

Another small smile, but it didn’t hide her tension. Henry hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said she had no confidence in herself. She didn’t, though Leo could not understand why. She was very attractive, and obviously highly intelligent. Henry would not have employed her as his assistant if she wasn’t. Violet was a puzzle, all right.

‘Henry’s out in the kitchen,’ he explained. ‘With the caterers. Look, let’s pop that bag of yours in Henry’s bedroom. Unless you want to carry it with you all night.’

‘No, not really,’ she said, and followed him meekly into the master bedroom where he told her to put the bag on the nearest bedside table.

‘Henry won’t mind. You can use his bathroom too, when needs be. Save you sharing the main bathroom with the other guests,’ he informed her as he led her back out into the still-empty living room. ‘Henry!’ he called out. ‘Violet’s here.’

Henry waddled out of the kitchen, his gait somewhat impaired by the pillow tied around his waist underneath his brown woollen habit. Leo watched his father do a doubletake when his eyes landed on Violet.

‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed as he came up to her. ‘I didn’t recognise you there for a moment.’

Clearly, Violet didn’t usually look as good as she looked tonight. Yet Leo could see that she wasn’t just all clothes, hair and make-up. She had lovely dark eyes, porcelain skin, nice cheekbones, a lush mouth and a good body. At least, the parts Leo could see were good. Very good. He conceded that she might not be so perfect underneath that full skirt. She might very well be pear-shaped with huge thighs and thick ankles. Impossible to tell in that get-up.

‘I didn’t recognise you either,’ Violet replied.

Leo knew exactly what she meant. Henry had totally transformed himself from his usual trim, elegant self into a portly and rather drearily dressed Friar Tuck, even going to the length of covering his thick head of well-groomed silver hair with a brown wig which had the appropriate bald spot.

‘Yes, but not for the better, I fear,’ Henry said wryly. ‘Lord knows what possessed me. Whereas you, my dear girl, look absolutely gorgeous.’

There it was again, that blush, at which point Leo totally abandoned his earlier theory that Violet might be having a secret affair with a married man. Mistresses didn’t blush like that.

At the same time, he wasn’t willing to believe she was pure as the driven snow. She was too attractive for that to be the case. Real Snow Whites did not exist in this day and age. Despite looking little more than twenty tonight, she had to be … what? Twenty-five, twenty-six, maybe? University degrees took three or four years at least, after which she’d been working for his father for about four years.

No, his first theory had to be right. She’d had a bad sexual experience at uni which had knocked her for a six and made her retreat into herself. That would certainly explain her lack of social confidence.

Poor darling, he thought, and resolved to do his best to make sure she enjoyed herself at this party. He suspected it had been a big deal for Violet to come here tonight. Maybe the lure of the fireworks had finally overridden her shyness. Though, ‘shy’ was not quite the word he would use when describing her. A truly shy girl would not have shown that much cleavage …

The doorbell ringing again stopped Leo from ogling Violet’s exceptional breasts, bringing his eyes back up to Henry’s face.

‘Do you want me to answer that?’ he asked his father.

‘No, I’ll get it. You can pour Violet a glass of that champagne I bought especially for tonight.’

‘Do you like champagne?’ Leo asked her as he led her over to the corner bar. ‘You can have something else, if you like. Henry has a bit of everything behind here.’ Leaving Violet standing next to a bar stool, he made his way behind the black, granite-topped bar which had an assortment of glasses and bottles at the ready.

‘I’m not sure I’ve ever had real champagne,’ she said, making no attempt to sit on the stool. Understandable, given the width of her skirt.

‘Don’t worry. You’ll like it. Henry only ever buys the best.’

‘Have you always called your father Henry?’ she asked as he filled two crystal flutes with the chilled champagne from the ice bucket.

‘Ever since I went to uni. His idea, not mine. I suspect he didn’t want the women he fancied knowing he had a grown–up son.’ He handed one glass over to Violet before lifting the other to his lips.

‘I thought James Bond only drank dry martinis,’ she said with just a hint of a smile curving her ruby red lips.

Lord, but she was a provocative package when she smiled like that. More so because she wasn’t aware of her attraction.

‘I have a confession to make,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’

‘I don’t think I’d make a very good James Bond. I get tired even watching 007 in action. All those car chases, not to mention the fights. After which he has to make love to at least half a dozen different women, most of whom are trying to kill him.’

She laughed. Not the laughter he’d become used to with women—nothing forced or flirtatious, a natural-sounding laugh.

Leo realised at that moment just how jaded he’d become with the female company he usually kept. All the up-and-coming young actresses he met at parties and premieres who obviously saw him not as a mere man but as a step up the ladder of their careers. They fluttered their false eyelashes at him and flattered him endlessly, hanging on his every word and laughing coquettishly, even when he hadn’t told a joke.

He couldn’t imagine Violet acting that way. Nothing false about her, he thought, as his eyes dropped once more to the creamy mounds of flesh which were fighting to be freed from that corset-like bodice. Leo knew that, without a bra, Violet’s breasts would settle into lushly natural curves, not stand up high on her chest like two huge grapefruits the way Helene’s had done.

The prospect of spending this New Year’s Eve party with a girl like Violet was an unexpectedly pleasant one. He’d already been curious about her, but he hadn’t anticipated being this enchanted by her. Enchanted and intrigued.

The sounds of loud laughter brought his gaze over Violet’s shoulder to the group of guests who’d just arrived. Leo didn’t know the people beneath the costumes but felt sure their real characters matched the ones they’d chosen for the evening. Henry the Eighth and wife, along with Napoleon and Josephine. The men would be ruthless and their women little more than expensive window dressing. Leo had met their kind before.

What he hadn’t met before was Violet’s kind. She was like a breath of fresh air in a world filled with pollution.

‘Why don’t we take our drinks out into the balcony?’ he suggested, eager to get her alone and find out more about her.

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