by Sara Craven
She gave herself a long look in the mirror, noticing that there was a faint flush of colour in her cheeks now, and that her mouth glowed with the lustre she’d applied.
She’d brushed her hair until it shone, and it hung now in a soft cloud on her shoulders. As he’d stipulated, she thought, her mouth curling in self-mockery.
For a moment she recalled the swift brush of his hand as he removed the clip, and felt herself shiver with a kind of guilty pleasure.
As a gesture, it was pure cliché, of course, but still devastatingly effective. It had been several minutes before she’d been able to stop shaking, gather her scattered thoughts, and finish her shopping in something like normality.
So, that was something she definitely could not afford, she thought, biting her lip. To let him touch her again.
She got up and slipped off her robe. The simple flared woolen skirt she put on was the colour of ivory, and she topped it with a matching long-sleeved sweater in ribbed silk.
She checked the contents of her bag, flung a fringed chestnut-coloured wrap round her shoulders, and left.
It was only a five-minute walk to Alessandro’s, and she found her steps slowing as she approached, taking time out to look in the windows of the boutiques and antiques shops which lined the quiet street.
The last thing she wanted was to get there first, and let him find her waiting. She might as well have ‘needy’ tattooed across her forehead.
Of course, he might not be there at all, she realised, halting a few yards from the restaurant’s entrance. Perhaps he’d instantly regretted his impulsive proposition and decided to stand her up instead.
Which would be neither kind nor considerate, but would certainly solve a lot of problems.
She peered cautiously through the window, into the black glass and marble of the foyer bar. It was already crowded, yet she saw him at once.
He was leaning against the bar, and he wasn’t alone. He was smiling down into the upraised face of a dynamically pretty redhead in a minimalistic black dress and the kind of giddy high heels that Cory had never contemplated wearing in her life.
She was standing about as close to him as it was possible to get without being welded there, and one predatory scarlet-tipped hand was resting on his arm.
As Cory watched, her whole body rigid, the other girl reached into her bag and produced a card which she tucked into the top pocket of Rome’s shirt.
Cory felt as if she’d been punched in the stomach. She wasn’t prepared for the pain that slashed at her. Pain that came from anger, and something less easy to define or understand.
Her lips parted in a soundless gasp, and for a moment she was tempted to slip away into the night. Then some new arrivals came up behind her, and one of the men was holding the door for her, and smiling, and she was being swept along with the crowd into the restaurant.
Rome was looking towards the door, scanning the new arrivals, and when he saw Cory he straightened and, with a swift word to his companion, began to make his way over to her.
He was wearing light grey trousers which moulded his lean hips and emphasised his long legs, a charcoal shirt, open at the throat with the sleeves turned back over tanned forearms, and an elegant tweed jacket slung over one shoulder.
He moved with a kind of controlled power, and as the crowd parted to allow him through, heads turned to look at him.
Cory stood helplessly, staring at him, as the force of his attraction tightened her throat.
He said, ‘Mia cara, I thought you would never come.’
And before Cory could move or speak, she found herself pulled into his arms, and his mouth was possessing hers in a long, hard kiss.
She was too stunned to struggle, or protest. And if she had it would have made little difference. The arms holding her were too strong. The lips on hers too insistent. All she could do was stand there—and endure…
When he let her go at last, there were two angry spots of colour burning in her face. She was aware of amused stares, and murmured remarks around them.
She said in a fierce strangled whisper, ‘How dare you?’
He looked amused. ‘It took great courage, I admit, but, as you saw, it was an emergency.’
She said coldly, ‘I imagine you can take care of yourself. You didn’t need to drag me into it.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But the temptation was irresitible.’
‘Then I hope you find having dinner alone equally appealing.’ Her voice bit, and she half turned.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I should not.’ He made a brief, imperative gesture with one hand, and Cory suddenly found herself surrounded. A hostess appeared beside her to take her wrap, a waiter was asking deferentially what the signorina would like to drink, and Alessandro himself, wreathed in smiles, was waiting to conduct them to their table.
Somehow, walking out had become impossible. Unless she made the kind of scene which made her blood run cold.
Tight-lipped, she took her seat, and accepted the menu she was handed.
He said, ‘Thank you for staying.’
Her voice was taut. ‘You speak as if I had some choice in the matter.’
‘Is that going to rankle all evening?’ His brows lifted, and he spoke seriously. ‘I’ve made you very angry, and I’m sorry, but it was a situation calling for drastic action. The lady was becoming persistent.’
‘And you couldn’t cope?’ Cory lifted her eyebrows in exaggerated scepticism. ‘You amaze me. And most men would be flattered,’ she added.
‘I’m not most men.’
‘I’ve noticed,’ Cory said with faint asperity. ‘Yet you took her card.’
She stopped dead, aghast at another piece of blatant self-betrayal.
I should have been cool, she berated herself. Shrugged the whole thing off, instead of letting him know I’d noticed every detail. My stupid, stupid tongue…
‘I was brought up to be polite,’ Rome returned across her stricken silence. He removed the little pasteboard oblong from his pocket and tore it into small pieces, depositing the fragments in a convenient ashtray. ‘But I prefer to do my own hunting,’ he added softly, the blue eyes seeking hers across the table.
‘I’ve noticed that, too,’ Cory said. ‘And you’re also very persistent.’
He sent her a questioning glance. ‘You have a problem with that?’
She shrugged. ‘How you conduct your private life is no business of mine. You’re an available man. You can please yourself whom you see.’
‘Not always,’ he said. ‘Not when the lady remains evasive. Or even hostile.’
He was silent for a moment, then he said evenly, ‘We haven’t got off to a very good start, Cory. So, if I’ve ruined everything, and you really want to go, I won’t stop you.’
She believed him. But the waiter was bringing their drinks, and a dish of mixed olives, and suddenly it all seemed too complicated. Besides, the performance so far had attracted quite enough attention, she reminded herself wryly.
He added, ‘But I hope you won’t.’
‘Why should it matter?’
‘As I’ve already indicated, I hate eating alone.’
Her voice was flat. ‘Oh.’
‘Among other reasons,’ he went on casually. He paused. ‘But perhaps I should keep those to myself, in case I put you to flight after all.’
His gaze captured hers, mesmerising her, then moved with cool deliberation to her mouth. She felt her skin warm under his scrutiny—her pulses leap, swiftly, disturbingly.
She managed to keep her voice under control. ‘I suspect I’m actually too hungry to leave.’
His mouth curved into a faint grin. ‘So it’s worth enduring a couple of hours of my company for the sake of Alessandro’s food?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cory said composedly. ‘They might have changed the chef.’ And she picked up the menu and began to read it.
A small victory, she thought, as his brows lifted in amused acknowledgment, proving that she might be reeli
ng, but she wasn’t out.
When they’d given their order, Rome said, ‘So—what are the rules of engagement?’
She looked at him questioningly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Kisses are clearly forbidden.’ He gave a slight shrug. ‘I was wondering whether there are any more taboos you’re meaning to impose.’
‘I already broke my major rule simply by turning up tonight,’ she said. ‘I think that’s enough for one evening.’
‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But this particular night is still very young.’
Cory took a sip of her Campari and soda. ‘Perhaps we could dispense with comments like that.’
He shrugged a shoulder. ‘Very well. Shall I say instead how mild it is for the time of year? Or calculate how many shopping days are left until Christmas?’
Cory bit her lip. ‘Now you’re being absurd.’
‘And you, Miss Grant, are being altogether too serious.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘Do you behave like this with all your dates?’
‘I usually know them rather better than I know you.’
Remembering the squeaking Philip and other disasters, Cory surreptitiously crossed her fingers under cover of the tablecloth.
‘Never a move without the safety net in place,’ Rome mocked.
She lifted her chin. ‘Perhaps. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Don’t you ever get sick of security? Tired of measuring every step?’ The blue eyes danced, challenging her. ‘Aren’t you ever tempted to live dangerously, Cory mia?’
She met his glance squarely. ‘I thought that was what I was doing.’ She leaned forward suddenly, clenched fists on the table. ‘Why am I here tonight—having dinner with—a mysterious stranger?’
‘Is that how you see me?’ he was openly amused.
‘Of course. You appear out of nowhere, and then you’re suddenly all round me—in my face at every turn. I don’t understand what’s going on.’
‘I saw you,’ he said quietly. ‘I wanted to know you better. Is that so surprising?’
Yes, she thought. Yes.
She lifted her chin. ‘Why—because you felt sorry for me—leading contender in the Worst Dressed Woman contest?’
He said slowly, ‘I promise you—pity never entered my mind.’ There was an odd silence, then he went on, ‘So—what can I do to become less of a mystery?’
‘You could answer a few questions.’
He poured some mineral water for them both. ‘Ask what you want.’
Cory hesitated, wondering where to begin. ‘Why are you called Rome?’
‘Because I was born there.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess my mother was short on inspiration at the time.’
‘What about your father?’
Rome’s mouth twisted. ‘He wasn’t around to ask. I never even knew his name.’
‘Oh.’ Cory digested that. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need,’ he told her levelly. ‘My mother made a mistake, but she had enough wisdom to know that it didn’t have to become a life sentence. That she could survive on her own.’
‘But it can’t have been easy for her.’
‘Life,’ he said, ‘is not a cushion.’ He paused. ‘Or not for most of us, anyway.’
Sudden indignation stiffened her. ‘Is that aimed at me?’
‘Are you saying you’ve grown up in hardship?’ There was a strange harshness in his tone.
‘Materially, no,’ Cory said curtly. ‘But that’s not everything. And you’re not exactly on the breadline yourself if you can afford a place in Farrar Street, over-priced tickets to charity bashes, and the joining fee at the health club.’
He shrugged. ‘I make a living.’
‘And how do you do that?’ she said. ‘Or is that part of your mystery?’
‘Not at all.’ Rome smiled at her, unfazed by the snip in her voice. ‘I sell wine.’
‘You’re a wine merchant?’ Cory was disconcerted. There was something about him, she thought, something rough-edged and vigorous that spoke of the open air, not vaults full of dusty bottles.
‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘Because the only wine on offer is my own.’
She stared at him. ‘You own a vineyard?’
‘Own it, work in it—and love it.’
His voice was soft, suddenly, almost caressing. This was a man with a passion, Cory realised. And the first chink he’d shown in his armour.
Would his voice gentle in the same way when he told a woman he loved her? she wondered. And had he ever said those words and meant them?
Instantly she stamped the questions back into her subconscious. These were not avenues she should be exploring.
She hurried back into speech. ‘And is that why you’re in London? To sell your wine?’
A selling trip was unlikely to last long, she thought, and soon he would be gone and her life could return to its cherished quiet again, without troubling thoughts or wild dreams.
‘Partly,’ he said. ‘I’m always looking for new markets for my wine, of course, but this time I have other business to transact as well. So my stay will be indefinite,’ he added silkily. ‘If that’s what you were wondering.’
Wine-grower and part-time mind-reader, Cory thought, biting her lip.
It was a relief when the waiter arrived to take their order, and there were decisions to be made about starting with pasta or a risotto, and whether she should have calves liver or chicken in wine to follow.
When everything, including the choice of wine, had been settled, and they were alone again, he said, ‘Now may I ask you some personal questions?’
‘I don’t know.’ She could feel herself blushing faintly as she avoided his gaze. ‘Maybe we should keep the conversation general.’
‘Difficult,’ he said. ‘Unless we sit at separate tables with our backs to each other. You see, mia bella, you’re something of a mystery yourself.’
She shook her head, attempting a casual laugh. ‘My life’s an open book.’
‘If so, I find the opening chapters immensely intriguing,’ Rome drawled. ‘I keep asking myself who is the real Cory Grant?’
Her flush deepened. ‘I—I don’t understand.’
‘Each time we meet I see a different woman,’ he said softly. ‘A new and contrasting image. The silver dress was too harsh for you, but tonight you’re like some slender ivory flower brushed with rose. The effect is—breathtaking.’
Cory discovered she was suddenly breathless herself. She tried to laugh again. To sound insouciant. Not easy when she was shaking inside.
‘Very flattering—but a total exaggeration, I’m afraid.’
‘But then, you don’t see with my eyes, mia cara.’ He paused, allowing her to assimilate his words. ‘So, I ask again, which is the real woman?’
Cory looked down at her glass. She said huskily, ‘I can’t answer that. Maybe you should just choose the image you like best.’
‘Ah.’ Rome’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘But so far that image is just my own private fantasy. Although I hope that one night it will become reality.’
His eyes met hers in a direct erotic challenge, leaving her in no doubt over his meaning. He wanted to see her naked.
She felt her pulses thud as she remembered her certainty that he’d been mentally undressing her at the ball, and her colour deepened hectically.
She said unsteadily, ‘Please—don’t say things like that.’ And don’t look at me like that, she added silently, as if you were already sliding my clothes off.
His brows lifted. ‘You don’t wish to be thought attractive—desirable?’
‘Yes, one day—by the man I love.’
Oh, God, she thought. How smug that sounded. How insufferably prim. As if she’d turned into the heroine of some Victorian novel. And waited for him to laugh.
Instead he sat quietly, watching her, his expression unreadable.
At last, he spoke. ‘Tell me, cara, why are you so afraid to be a woman?’
‘I’m not,’ she denie
d. ‘That’s—nonsense. And I really don’t like this conversation.’
Rome’s brows lifted sardonically. ‘Have I broken another rule?’
‘I’d say a whole book of them.’ She wanted to drink from her glass, but knew that he’d see her hand trembling as she picked it up and draw the kind of conclusions that she could not risk.
‘No kisses and no questions either.’ Rome shook his head. ‘You don’t make it easy.’
She forced a taut smile. ‘But life isn’t a cushion. I’m sure someone said that once. And here comes our first course,’ she added brightly.
She hadn’t expected to be able to swallow a mouthful, but the creamy risotto flavoured with fresh herbs proved irresistible, and the crisp white wine that Rome had ordered complemented it perfectly.
She said, striving for normality, ‘We should be drinking your own wine.’
‘Perhaps next time. Alessandro and I are about to strike a deal. I came here early so I could talk to him.’
‘Until you got sidetracked, of course.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Rome said meditatively. ‘I wonder if she has a rule book.’
‘If so, it’ll be the slimmest volume in the western hemisphere,’ Cory said acidly, and stopped, appalled. ‘Oh, God, I sound like a complete bitch.’
‘No.’ Rome was grinning. ‘Merely human at last, mia cara.’ And he raised his glass in a teasing toast.
As the meal proceeded, Cory found to her surprise that she was beginning to relax, and even enjoy herself.
The conversation was mainly about food. It was a nice, safe topic, but even so Cory found herself silently speculating about the man opposite her, talking so entertainingly about Cajun cooking.
Rome’s life might now be centred on an Italian vineyard, but it was obvious that he was a cosmopolitan who’d travelled extensively. There was still so much she couldn’t fathom about him, she thought restlessly.
She wondered about his parentage, too. His mother presumably had been Italian, so he must have derived those astonishing blue eyes from his unknown father. An English tourist, she thought, with an inner grimace, enjoying a holiday fling with a local girl, then going on his way without knowing a child would result. However strong Rome’s mother had been, she would have had to struggle in those early years.