Free Forgiven but Not Forgotten? by Abby Green Page A

complicated chignon. Jewels sparkled brilliantly at her neck and ears. Her profile was as regal as any queen. The only thing marring the picture was the blood-red stain of wine that was blooming outwards from her chest and up over her cleavage.
    The dream faded and shifted, and now they were in that boutique, surrounded by mannequins in beautiful dresses and sparkling jewels behind locked displays. She was laughing, girlishly and innocently, huge blue eyes sparkling with mischief as she pointed to one of the mannequins and said imperiously, ‘I want that one!’
    Andreas bowed down in a parody of a manservant and she laughed even more, watching as he clambered into the window display to tussle with the mannequin and take off the dress. She was in fits of giggles now, watching him wrestle the stunning dress off the dummy before finally handing it to her with a flourish of triumph.
    She curtseyed and said, with a flicker of those black lashes, ‘Why, thank you, kind sir.’ And then she vanished into the dressing room, pulling velvet folds of material behind her.
    There was a fizzing sensation in his blood. Andreas felt buoyant when only minutes ago, surveying the crowd in the ballroom, he’d felt cynical...
    And then she was there, in front of him again, and Andreas was falling into eyes so blue it hurt to look at them. And then the hurt became a real pain, and he looked down stupidly, to see a knife sticking out of his belly and blood everywhere.
    He looked up and she was smiling cruelly. ‘No, I did not ask you to touch me. I would never let someone like you touch me.’
    His friend who had died, Spiro, was behind Siena, laughing at him. ‘You thought you could remain immune?’
    And then Andreas was falling down and down and down...
    Andreas woke with a start, clammy with sweat, his heart pounding. He looked down and put a hand to his belly, fully anticipating seeing a knife and blood. But of course there was none. It was a dream. A nightmare.
    He’d had that dream for months after he’d left France but not for a long time. He remembered. Siena. She was here, in his apartment. His heart speeded up again and he got out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers. He assured himself that it was just her presence that had precipitated the dream again.
    But it had left its cold hand across the back of his neck. He went into the darkened drawing room and poured himself some whisky, downing it in one. He slowly felt himself come back to centre, but was unable to shake the memory of that evening.
    Andreas had been duty manager, overseeing the exclusive annual debutante ball, making sure it went without a hitch. He’d viewed all those beautiful spoilt young women with a very jaundiced eye, having heard all sorts of stories about their debauched ways.
    Still, he’d barely believed them. They’d all looked so innocent. And none more so than the most beautiful of them all: Siena DePiero. He’d noticed that she was always slightly apart from the others, as if not part of their club. And the way her father kept her close at all times. He’d read her aloofness as haughtiness. And then he’d seen the moment when her dinner partner had accidentally spilled red wine all over her pristine white dress. Andreas had clicked into damage limitation mode and smoothly offered to take her to the boutique for a fresh dress.
    Her father had been clearly reluctant to let her out of his sight but had had no choice. He wouldn’t let his daughter be presented at the ball in a stained gown. And so Andreas had found himself escorting the cool beauty to the boutique, and had been very surprised when she’d confided huskily, ‘Please excuse my father’s rudeness. He hates any sort of adverse attention.’
    Andreas had looked at her, taken aback by this politeness when he’d expected her to ignore him. Shock had cut through his cynicism because she’d looked nervous and blushed under his regard. To his complete embarrassment he’d found his body