Imelda didn’t get up. She waited for Cillian to come to her.

‘God, Imelda, I’m so sorry.’ He reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

‘Sorry for what?’

‘For everything.’

‘You’ll have to be more specific than that,’ she replied coolly, but her heart was thumping.

‘For Grisha. Ruby told me what happened. Is he okay?’ He sat down on the steps but kept a respectful distance.

‘He’s fine. You can see that for yourself.’

Cillian sighed. ‘Talk to me, Imelda.’

‘I was there. I saw you.’

‘It was just a dance, Imelda.’

‘It was the last dance. Did you kiss her?’

He shook his head. ‘How can you ask that? Do you really think so little of me?’

‘What was I supposed to think?’

‘I waited for you all night. Always one eye on the door hoping to see your face.’

‘But you didn’t wait quite long enough did you? Didn’t see me when I did come through the door?’ Her eyes prickled with threatened tears at the memory, but she blinked them away.

‘I thought you weren’t coming. That bitch’ – he spat the word out like a fly – ‘grabbed me for a dance and I didn’t want to make a scene. If I’d known what she’d done . . .’ He shook his head in disgust. Imelda was desperate to believe him, but she had to be sure.

‘Look at me!’

He turned to face her. When Imelda read cards, she always trusted her instincts. Now she tried to read Cillian’s face. She reached out and touched the bruise on his cheek, traced a line with her finger down to his split and swollen lip. He flinched.

‘Don’t ever lie to me,’ she whispered.

He took her hand and kissed her palm with exquisite tenderness.

‘Imelda, as soon as I met you, I was a dead man walking. I love you. Please tell me that you believe me.’

Imelda smiled. ‘Let’s just say I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt. For the moment.’

Inside the vardo, she poured wine into both glasses and they drank. Imelda could feel the heat inside her flickering like the flames of the tealights. The anticipation of his touch, his kiss, was almost unbearable. A song began to play on the radio and Cillian put down his glass and turned up the volume. Al Martino was imploring a woman with Spanish eyes to wait for him.

‘Dance with me.’

‘Is this the last dance?’ Imelda asked teasingly.

He took her into his arms and pressed their bodies together with fierce longing before releasing her just enough to look into her eyes.

‘I’m hoping it will be the first of many. But I still get the kiss.’

As their lips touched Imelda tasted blood, but any pain that either of them felt was forgotten.