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chest constricted, his hands gripped the controls so tightly his fingernails dug into his flesh until finally, he righted it. Turned it quickly and headed back down the Thames towards the airfield and safety. It had been close; he’d lost concentration, something he rarely did. He’d been thinking of Breeze. His whole life could have ended then and there. As he stepped out of the plane and towards the clubhouse and his chauffeur he wondered who would mourn him if he had lost control and plummeted. Breeze. Would she care? She would probably be pleased – after all, it would free her. He smiled wryly to himself, she’d probably even come to his funeral. Knowing her, she’d be dressed in red.
     
    She’d told him it was a gala performance tonight, with black tie and evening dresses. As he stepped out of his car, he saw her instantly, head and shoulders more beautiful than any of the other women flitting like butterflies, trying to be noticed. 
    He stood for a moment as he got out of the car. ‘Is something wrong, sir?’ George, his chauffeur enquired.
    Seb realised he had been staring, drinking Breeze in. ‘No, no, you can go now, thank you. Collect us at 11.’ She stood out like an ethereal moth among the other garish women. She wore palest lilac silk, a sheath so simple, it draped around the curves of her figure like petals unfurling around a blossom. The back of the dress dripped downwards leaving her shoulder blades, and the curve of her waist exposed and the moment he saw it he wanted to stroke his fingers down the track of her spine. As he made to walk over, another man approached her with an open smile and immediately, Seb wanted to push him to the ground. He walked faster. ‘Breeze …’ He took possession and steered her away. ‘You look absolutely ....’ Fabulous, gorgeous, beautiful? No word he could find summed her up, ‘Perfect,’ he settled on. It would do. 
    ‘Thank you.’ Her eyes, sea green, lingered on his tall figure, the hand-stitched suit with its satin lapels, the neat black bow tie. ‘You’re looking pretty good yourself. The perfect English gentleman.’ 
    ‘With perfect manners?’ His mouth twisted, his clear eyes alert to the irony in her voice.
    ‘I hope not,’ she challenged. As he steered her through the crowd, passing each door of the imposing round red brick building, he felt wisps of the few curls that had escaped her tumbling up-do and floated along the line of her bare back. Her hair was softer today, more natural; he stroked it down-like underneath his fingers.
    People stared at the stunning couple as she led him up the red carpeted stairs, past the glowing chandeliers. Hundreds of people filled the building. ‘I trust we’re going to get some privacy here somewhere.’
    ‘Don’t worry.’ She turned back and he saw colour creep into her cheeks like the first tinges of bronze on autumn leaves. ‘I have a very good friend who works here. She manages all the props; she’s staged something very special for us. You won’t be disappointed.’ When they reached the floor where the stairs ran out, the crowd finally thinned to nothing. There was a sign proclaiming, “Gallery, CLOSED for this performance”. She looked around quickly to make sure they weren’t being observed and pushed the door. He had only ever seen the Albert Hall from a private box where he had been in the centre of the crowd, right down there with the performers. Up here felt different, hidden. The cool stone floors empty, the black ironwork stark, the crowd buzzing with expectancy way below as they took their seats for the performance, not a single one of them were aware of the two people sneaking into the top floor, high above them. There, in the middle of the deserted balcony, stood a four poster bed. Like something out of the Palace of Versailles, its base and elaborately carved head was glistening with gold leaf. The blood red curtains around the bed were tied back with sumptuous gold chord,