The Scent of Mimosa

Secrets

Vince rubbed his eyes and propped himself up on one elbow on the daybed. Sunlight was pouring through the rotunda windows and the heat was already almost unbearable. He had no idea how late it was. 

He sat up and looked about him for his watch. Clothes were strewn all over the floor as far as the candelabra on the other side of the room. He remembered with a smile how that dress had got there. He definitely wasn't about to forget any of it.

Last night wasn't what he had been expecting when he had rushed back across the Atlantic Ocean. But he wasn't sure now what he had been expecting. For someone who usually knew precisely what they wanted and why they wanted it, Vince realised he had been strangely blank on this one. 

He knew he had wanted her, that was for sure, but not without setting some ground rules first. Most importantly: what happened in the bedroom could not affect what happened in the boardroom. But somehow he had allowed his libido to get out of control. No ground rules had been set and now the field was wide open.

Vince groaned. He had been such an idiot. That he didn't even have a contract with her stung. He couldn't bring himself to consider what would happen if John Harris found out about any of this. That wouldn't happen though. He didn't really believe that Cassandra was the type to sell him out over some lover's spat, despite the series of aphorisms that ran through his mind: all's fair in love and war, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

This could be a disaster, he realised. And yet... it didn't feel like one. Actually, he felt strangely carefree, as if some great burden had been lifted from him.

He looked down and realised that he had a colorful patchwork quilt wrapped around his waist. Sometime during the night, Cassandra must have gotten up and covered him. He grinned at how like her it was to put an old-fashioned touch on even a wild night of passion. 

He was sure there was really no need for him to worry. Who was to say that the relationship had to come to an unpleasant end anyway? If he wasn't very much mistaken, the sex last night had suggested there was much, much more mileage to be wrung out of this liaison. He could quite happily continue to be involved with Cassandra Ducasse until the launch of the Imogen fragrance at the very least.

He jumped off the daybed with a spring in his step. Just where was the lady anyhow? he wondered. His gaze travelled up to the gallery where Cassandra's work equipment was kept. 

Usually, the red velvet theatre drapes that cordoned off the area from the rest of the room were kept open, but this morning they were partially drawn, screening Cassandra's desk from his sight. He assumed she must have risen before him and got to working. That was the kind of behaviour he normally expected from himself. Then again, he knew she loved her work. 

He pulled on his trousers and crept silently up the steps, a mischievous smile spreading across his face in anticipation of her surprise. With a flourish, he pulled aside the curtain at the top of the stairs.

He had expected to find her sitting at her desk, pipette in hand. He had imagined that she might be wrapped, like him, in a quilt, the creamy skin of her shoulders exposed, her wild hair tied in a rough plait and slung over to one side. And she would turn and look at him, her eyes as fierce and hungry as they had been last night. And from there... well, who knows what might follow? 

But the balcony was deserted, and Vince felt a stab of disappointment as he surveyed the empty desk before him.

It was an old desk, probably made at least a century ago, with carved scrolls and filigrees around its base and legs. The shelving that he had previously believed was attached to the wall, he now saw rose up from the back of the desk like seating in an amphitheater: curved around three sides in an inverse U-shape.