* * *
Anjuli watched the dancers from a corner of the large ballroom and took another sip of water. It hadn’t always been like this. She hadn’t always felt so alone, so detached from her surroundings. Once, she’d laughed and danced with the rest of them. Once, she’d been free to love a man who had loved her in return.
And once upon a time in a land far, far away, she’d had a child. The End.
She scanned the tables, an automatic smile on her face as she returned a few waves and nods. Thankfully, Rob had left the hall. All night she’d been conscious of his steady gaze and she felt as if she could now breathe more easily. Sort of. Before leaving Castle Manor, Connor had mentioned that Rob was flying to London in the morning. No explanation except that everything was under control and that “the boss” would be in touch while he was away. And how long would that be? Why hadn’t Rob told her? It was rude not to communicate with his client, wasn’t it? She tapped her fingers against her thighs, eyes on his table. Was Sarah going with him?
A few people asked after Ash, interrupting her thoughts, and she told them her sister had been too tired for Gay Gordons or strasthpeys. This late into her pregnancy, it was understandable, though Anjuli knew she found it increasingly difficult to handle the curiosity of seemingly well-meaning villagers, probing into her child’s paternity, and suspected the headache she’d mentioned had been an excuse to cry off and avoid difficult questions.
Anjuli pulled up her dress. The purple frock Reiver had cocked his head at was fitted at her bust, with a low V-neck and thin spaghetti straps. Damn it, her tummy refused to flatten. Cheap chocolate was just as fattening as the gourmet kind.
Damien came up from behind and put his hand around her waist. “A pot of gold for your thoughts, gorgeous.”
Anjuli sighed. “There would have to be a rainbow in order to find the gold, wouldn’t there?” At his puzzled look, she apologised for her moodiness. “I’m worried about Reiver’s operation on Monday. I’m relieved you found the tumour, but he’s just a young thing and...”
Damien softly shushed her. “Reiver will be fine, you’ll see. He’s strong and healthy in every other way. I do these ops all the time and he’ll be as good as new. We’ll go over it in detail before the surgery. But enough of that. What you need, beautiful lady, is to dance.”
Moor O’ Lass were on a set break and a DJ played love songs for those still standing after the reel. Damien drew Anjuli into his arms, right hand at her waist as they swayed to the music. Her tall, blond and bodilicious date looked every inch the heartbreaker in a dark suit and tie, but it was Rob she couldn’t take her eyes off.
He’d come back, drinks in hand.
She’d wished Rob would cover up the day he’d chopped her wood, but he hadn’t and she’d been conscious of every inch of his exposed chest and arms. Well, tonight she’d got her wish. He was wearing his kilt, with a crisp white shirt and an Argyle jacket that emphasised his broad shoulders. The Douglas tartan fell in pleated panels to midknee and his long legs were covered in thick wool hose. In total, she could see about three inches of flesh other than his hands, face and neck.
Fat lot that helped.
There was nothing tired-looking about Rob tonight, nothing tense or broody. Anjuli hated stereotypes, but she had to admit he looked the epitome of Scottish masculinity. Someone should throw him a caber so he could toss it around the room. Toss her onto a bed and...
Still flushed from dancing, Rob fanned himself with his shirt and undid the top buttons, displaying a tantalising view of his chest. Tanned, taut and oh so hard. Her heart rate sped up as she watched him adjust the wide belt across his waist. Was that a lump underneath the sporran, pushing it out like that?
Oh God. Twenty-eight-year-old women do not mentally undress men during village ceilidhs.
Anjuli jerked her eyes up only to find Rob watching her. Actually, he was more than watching her; he was studying her, an amused look in his eyes. Was she that transparent? Sarah Brunel certainly was. From the way she’d monopolised Rob’s attention all night it was clear she was keen on conquest.
Sarah did look beautiful though, in a dark green dress that matched perfectly with the Douglas plaid over her shoulders. Modest neckline. The reporter should have worn something black and slutty so she could fit her stereotype.
Anjuli looked at her hands, expecting to see a wolverine’s claws instead of nails. Sarah said something to Mac and laughed, looking bubbly and carefree. And thin.
“There’s no justice in the world,” Anjuli said, turning her face into Damien’s shoulder.