His hand drops, but I can still feel exactly where his fingertips were.
We stare at each other for a few heartbeats before he looks away, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
“I should go put my clothes back on,” he says.
I don’t watch him leave, instead focusing on sorting silk scarves into their designated pockets with hands that are not quite steady.
“That was wonderful.”
I look up. Mrs. Henderson-Blackwell, or Camilla as she insisted I call her, has appeared at my elbow.
“Samuel’s mother was almost in tears,” she continues. “Happy tears. She says he’s never volunteered for anything in his life.”
“He was brilliant,” I say. “Natural performer. He just needed permission to shine.”
Camilla laughs, touching my arm lightly. “You’re very good at what you do, you know? It’s quite remarkable.”
“Children are actually easier to read than adults. They haven’t learned to hide yet.”
“So, are you any good at reading what adults are hiding?” Her tone has shifted, becoming warmer and more personal.
Oh.
Suddenly, the lingering eye contact and the unnecessary touches take on a new meaning.
I’m flattered. Camilla Henderson-Blackwell is an attractive woman. But I’ve never been interested in attractive women, and even if I were, sleeping with clients is a spectacularly bad business model.
“In adults, I think they’re hiding how they wish they could go back to believing in magic,” I say lightly.
She laughs again, and I catch movement in my peripheral vision.
A man has detached himself from a cluster of fathers by the drinks table and is heading our way. He’s tall, graying at the temples, and wearing a cashmere sweater. And he’s got the rigid posture of someone who’s just watched his wife laugh too much at another man’s jokes.
I don’t need my deductive powers to work out that this is Mr. Henderson-Blackwell.
“Darling.” He slides an arm around Camilla’s waist. “Charles was just asking about the new Porsche.”
Camilla’s expression flickers with annoyance before smoothing into a polite smile. “I was just thanking Captain Giggles for the wonderful show.”
“Yes, the children seemed entertained.” Mr. Henderson-Blackwell looks at me the way you might look at a particularly persistent salesperson. “Quite a lot of running about and shouting. Very energetic.”
“That’s the goal,” I say mildly.
“Must be nice, having a job where you play all day.” He says it with a smile, but the condescension drips off every word. “Not much thinking required, I imagine.”
Camilla’s jaw tightens. “Richard?—”
“I mean it as a compliment,” he continues, steamrolling her. “I wish I could switch off my brain like that. But theoretical physics doesn’t really allow for mental holidays.”
Ah. There it is. The credentials, deployed like a weapon.
I’ve met men like Richard Henderson-Blackwell before. Men who measure their worth in publications and professorships and need everyone else to know exactly where they rank on the intellectual hierarchy.
“Richard’s at Imperial,” Camilla says with the air of someone who’s been made to say it many times. “Quantum field theory.”
“Fascinating field,” I say.
“You’ve heard of it?” Richard looks surprised, then amused. “Well. I suppose they do mention it on television sometimes. Dumbed down for general audiences, of course.”
