by Sara Craven
And a lucky escape it had been. For all the anguish of emotion assailing her, she could not deny that.
Because Rome and she inhabited two different worlds. And the fact that those worlds had briefly collided meant nothing. Because soon he would be gone. Back to his vineyard and his real life. A life that did not include her but which would encompass other women.
And she would remain here, and go on working for her grandfather, as if nothing had happened. So it was important—essential—that nothing did happen. Or nothing serious, anyway.
She couldn’t afford any regrets when Rome had gone.
Although it might already be too late for that, she thought, turning on to her stomach and pressing her heated face into the pillow.
Since that night at the ball, she’d scarcely had a quiet moment. He’d invaded her space, filled her thoughts, and ruined her dreams.
In the aftermath of Rob, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about men at all. It had been safer that way. But just lately she’d had a few enjoyable fantasies about meeting someone whom she could love, and make a life with, and who would love her in return.
But even this cosy daydream had been snatched away. And in its place was a much darker image. One that churned her stomach in scared excitement, and made her body tremble.
It wasn’t love, she told herself. It was lust, and she was ashamed of it. She’d believed she wanted Rob, but that had been a pallid emotion compared with this raw, arching need that Rome had inspired.
He seemed etched on her mind—on her senses. He was in this room with her now. In this darkness. On this bed. His hands and mouth were exploring her with hot, sensuous delight, and she stifled the tiny, avid moan that rose in her throat.
I don’t want this, Cory thought desperately. I want to be the girl I was before. I might not have been very happy, but at least my mind and body belonged to myself alone.
She also had to live with the shame of knowing that this need was purely one-sided. Because Rome had been able to walk away without a backward glance.
Yet her main concern was her own behaviour.
She’d never made the running with men—not even with Rob. She’d allowed him to set the pace throughout their relationship.
She was too shy—too inhibited—to set up an agenda that included sex on demand, even with the man she planned to marry.
Until now, tonight, when she had suddenly stepped out of character.
And much good it did me, she thought bitterly.
Although going to bed with Rome would have been an even greater disaster, for all kinds of reasons.
When she saw him again—if she saw him again—she would be safely back in her own skin, she told herself, and playing by her own rules. She would take no more risks. Especially with someone like Rome d’Angelo.
She would be back in control.
And the loneliness of the thought brought tears, sharp and acrid, crowding into her throat.
‘Old Sansom’s playing a cool game over this land deal,’ Arnold Grant remarked. ‘I was sure there’d be an approach from some go-between by now. So what’s the old devil up to? What’s he got up his sleeve now?’
He waited for some response from his granddaughter, and when none was forthcoming swung his chair round to look at her, only to find her sitting staring out of the window, not for the first time that day.
‘What’s the matter with you, girl?’ he demanded. ‘Are you in a trance, or what?’
Cory started guiltily. ‘I’m sorry, darling. I guess I’m a bit tired.’ She forced a smile. ‘I was out on the town last night.’
‘Quite right, too.’ Arnold surveyed her, narrow-eyed. ‘Although one night shouldn’t put those shadows under your eyes. You look as if you haven’t slept for a week. No stamina, you young ones.’ He paused. ‘So—who were you out with? Do I know him?’
Cory sighed. ‘Yes, Gramps, you do indeed know her.’ She stressed the pronoun. ‘Shelley and I went to the cinema, then had a meal in a Chinese restaurant. I really enjoyed it.’
Which was pitching it a bit high, she silently admitted. The film had been good, the food delicious and Shelley great company, but Cory had been on tenterhooks in case her friend brought Rome d’Angelo into the conversation again, which had rather taken the edge off the evening.
I’m being thoroughly paranoid, she thought.
Arnold snorted. ‘Well, you don’t look or sound as if you had a wonderful time. You’ve been quiet all week, girl. Not your usual self at all.’
‘In other words, I’m boring, and you’re going to replace me with a glamorous blonde,’ Cory teased.
‘God forbid,’ Arnold said devoutly. ‘And you’re not boring, child. Just—different.’ He gave her a sharp look. ‘Is it man trouble?’
‘No,’ Cory said, her throat tightening. ‘No, of course not.’
It wasn’t really a lie, she defended silently. Because there was no man to cause trouble—not any more.
She hadn’t heard from Rome, or set eyes on him, all through this endless week.
She’d filled her days with activity—work, food-shopping, cooking, cleaning the flat to a pristine shine.
But the nights had been a different matter. Sleep had proved elusive, and she’d spent hours staring into an all-pervading blackness, longing for oblivion.
She’d used her answering machine to screen her calls, but she could have saved herself the effort because none of them had been from him.
On the street, her senses felt stretched to snapping point as she scanned the passers-by, looking for him. As she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to find him there.
Only, he never had been.
So that particular episode was clearly over and done with almost before it had begun, she told herself determinedly. Rome had found someone else to pursue—metal more attractive. And, in the long term, that was the best—the safest thing.
It was the short term she was having trouble handling.
‘Money, then?’ Arnold persisted. ‘Are those sharks of landlords giving you trouble? Do you want my lawyers to deal with them?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Cory protested. ‘They’re a very reputable property company.’
‘Hmm.’ Arnold was silent for a moment. Then, ‘If you’ve got yourself into debt, child, you can tell me. I could always raise your salary.’
‘Heavens, no.’ Cory was aghast. ‘I don’t earn half what you pay me as it is.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ her grandfather said gruffly. ‘So what’s the problem?’
Cory shrugged. ‘It’s nothing serious,’ she prevaricated. ‘It’s probably all the wet weather we’ve had. I may be one of these people who needs the sun. I’m just feeling in a bit of a rut—not too sure where my life is going. That’s all.’
It was his turn to sigh, his face set in serious lines. ‘Ah, child. You need to go to parties. Meet more people. If my Beth hadn’t been taken, she’d have seen to it. Arranged a social life for you. Made sure you enjoyed yourself.’ He shook his head. ‘But I’m no good at that sort of thing. I’ve let you down.’
‘Oh, Gramps.’ Cory’s tone was remorseful. ‘That’s not true. And I hate parties.’
‘Nevertheless, you need a change of air—a change of scenery,’ Arnold said with decision. ‘I’m going down to Dorset this evening, to spend the weekend with the Harwoods. Why don’t you come with me? They’re always asking about you. And that nephew of theirs will be there, too, on leave from the Army,’ he added blandly. ‘You remember him, don’t you?’
Yes, Cory remembered Peter Harwood. Good-looking in a florid way, and very knowledgeable about tank manoeuvres. Keen to share his expertise, too, for hours on end. Not an experience she was anxious to repeat.
She said gently, ‘It’s a kind thought, Gramps, but I don’t think so. I—I have plans of my own.’
And now he would ask what they were, and she would be floundering, she thought, bracing herself mentally.
But, blessedly, the
phone rang, diverting his attention, and the awkward moment passed.
As she was preparing to leave that evening, Arnold halted her with a hand on her arm. ‘Sure you won’t come to Dorset?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said firmly.
He nodded glumly. ‘Any message for young Peter?’
Her swift smile was impish. ‘Give my regards to his tank.’
But she would do something positive this weekend, she determined. She wasn’t going to waste any more time phone-watching.
Rome had appeared in her life, and now he had gone again, and she should be feeling thankful, instead of this odd hollowness, as if the core of her being had been scooped out with a blunt knife.
But I’ll get over it, she told herself resolutely. I did before. I can again.
And as a first step, she didn’t go to the health club in the morning. Just in case Rome had decided to use it after all and she ran into him there—literally as well as figuratively, she thought, remembering their previous encounter with a grimace.
Instead she’d go to Knightsbridge and indulge in some serious window shopping. Maybe have lunch at Harvey Nicks, and spend the afternoon at the cinema, or a theatre matinée.
Or she might go to a travel agency and book herself some winter sunshine.
Except that she already knew what she was going to do. What she always did when she was at a loose end, or troubled. Although she had no real reason to feel like that, she reminded herself. Not any more. Because, with luck, that particular trouble was past and gone.
Nevertheless, she would go to the National Gallery and look at the Renaissance paintings. It might be a very public place, but it was her private sanctuary, too. Her comfort zone.
And that was what her life needed at this particular moment, she thought. Not shopping, or long-haul holidays, but tranquillity and beauty.
She would let those exquisite forms and colours work their magic on her, and then, when she was calm and in control, with her life drawn securely round her once more, she would plan the rest of her day.
She dressed swiftly in a simple grey skirt with a matching round-necked sweater in thin wool, tied a scarf patterned in grey, ivory and coral at her throat, and thrust her feet into loafers. Then she grabbed her raincoat and an umbrella and set off for Trafalgar Square.
The Gallery was having a busy morning. Cory threaded her way between the school parties and guided groups of tourists until she reached the section she wanted. Thankfully, it was quieter here, as most of the crowds seemed to have been siphoned off to some special exhibition, and she wandered slowly from room to room until she found the Mystic Nativity by Botticelli and a seat on a bench facing it.
It had always been her favourite, she thought, as she drank in the clear vibrant colours. She loved the contrast between the earthiness of the kings and shepherds, come to do honour to the kneeling Virgin and her Child, and the ethereal, almost terrifying beauty of the watching angels.
Usually just a few minutes in front of it melted away any stress she might be experiencing. But today it wasn’t having the desired effect, and after a while she got up restlessly and walked on.
She paused to look at another Botticelli—the great canvas of Venus and Mars—staring for a long disturbing moment at the languid beauty in her white and gold dress, with a world of secret knowledge in her face, and the conquered, sated man next to her.
What would it be like, she wondered, to have that kind of sexual power? To bewitch a man, and leave him drained, and at your mercy?
Love winning the ultimate victory over war, she thought as she turned away.
She would go and get some coffee, she decided, and then probably revert to Plan A and the shopping expedition to Knightsbridge.
She was on her way out when she saw the portrait. She’d noticed it before on previous visits—a young man in his shirtsleeves, his curling hair covered by a cap, turning his head to bestow a cool and level glance on his observers.
But this time she went over to take a much closer look. She stood motionless, her hands clenched in her pockets, staring at the tough, dynamic face, with the strong nose, the firm, deeply cleft chin and the high cheekbones, as if she was seeing it for the first time.
Aware of the slow, shocked beat of her heart. Because, she realised, if Rome d’Angelo had been alive in the sixteenth century, he could have modelled for this portrait by Andrea del Sarto.
Since their first meeting she’d had the nagging feeling that she’d seen him somewhere before, and had been trying to trace the elusive resemblance. And now, at last, she’d succeeded. He’d been here all the time. In her sanctuary. Waiting for her.
She shook her head, her lips twisting in a little smile.
She said softly, ‘Your eyes are the wrong colour, that’s all. They should be blue. Otherwise you could be him—five hundred years ago.’
And heard, from behind her, as she stood, rooted to the spot in horrified disbelief, Rome’s voice saying with cool dryness, ‘You really think so? You flatter me, cara.’
CHAPTER SIX
CORY looked down at the polished floorboards at her feet, praying they would open and swallow her.
The last time she’d felt such a complete idiot had been standing on her own doorstep as Rome walked away, she thought detachedly, feeling the first scalding wave of embarrassment wash over her. And, before that, when she’d taken that spectacular dive at his feet.
Now she’d let him catch her standing there talking to herself, for God’s sake. Speaking her thoughts aloud, as she often did. And this was once too often.
She turned slowly, her face still flushed.
He was standing about a yard away, unsmiling, the brilliant eyes slightly narrowed, his damp hair curling on to his forehead. He was wearing narrow black trousers, with a matching rollneck sweater, and carrying a russet waterproof jacket over one arm.
Cory lifted her chin in challenge. ‘There’s a saying about eavesdroppers.’
Rome nodded. ‘I know it. But your comments were hardly derogatory. And you would never have made them to my face.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Just like you—looking at Renaissance paintings.’
‘So, you just happened to—turn up?’ Her tone was incredulous.
Rome shrugged a shoulder. ‘I can hardly visit the Uffizi,’ he returned coolly. ‘But it’s true that I hoped I’d find you here,’ he added.
She wished she could stop shaking inside. She said haughtily, ‘I can’t imagine why.’
Rome’s brows lifted. ‘No, mia bella? I think you do your imagination less than justice. Except where this portrait is concerned.’ He looked past her, studying it reflectively. ‘Is this really how you see me?’
Cory’s flush deepened. ‘You can’t deny there is a resemblance,’ she said defensively. ‘And he’s not named in the portrait. He could be one of your ancestors.’
Rome’s mouth twisted. ‘I doubt it, but it’s a romantic thought.’
‘From now on I’ll try and keep them under control,’ Cory told him with bite. ‘Do enjoy your art appreciation.’
As she made to walk past him, he detained her with a hand on her arm.
‘You’re not leaving?’
It was her turn to shrug. ‘I’ve seen what I came to see.’
‘And so have I,’ he said softly. ‘Another intriguing coincidence. So—now we have the rest of the day ahead of us.’
She said thickly, ‘You take a hell of a lot for granted, Mr d’Angelo. And I have other plans.’
‘Do they involve anyone else?’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘A simple no would be enough.’ The blue eyes were dancing suddenly, and her mouth felt dry. His voice was suddenly coaxing. ‘Take pity on me, Cory mia. Cancel your arrangements and spend the day with me instead.’ His smile coaxed, too. Disturbingly. ‘Help me play tourist.’
She bit her lip. ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’
�
�You haven’t given it a chance,’ he said. ‘It might improve on acquaintance and—who knows?—so might I.’
In response, her own mouth curved reluctantly. ‘Don’t you ever take no for an answer?’
‘That, mia bella, would depend on the question.’ His voice was silky. ‘But I promise you one thing, Cory Grant. When you say no to me and mean it, I’ll listen.’
There was a brief heart-stopping pause, then he said abruptly, ‘Now, will you come with me? Share today?’
He held out his hand steadily, imperatively, and almost before she knew what she was doing she allowed him to take her fingers—clasp them.
He nodded, acknowledging the silent bargain, then moved off, making for the main exit, sweeping her along with him so fast that Cory practically had to jog to keep up.
She said breathlessly, ‘Just a minute—you haven’t told me yet where we’re going.’
‘First—to the car park.’
‘You’ve—bought a car?’
‘No, I’ve leased one.’
‘And then?’
He gave her a swift sideways glance. He was smiling, but there was an unmistakable challenge in the blue eyes.
He said softly, ‘Why, to Suffolk, of course, mia cara. Avanti.’
She said, ‘It is a joke, isn’t it? You’re not really serious?’
They were out of London now, and travelling towards Chelmsford, as Cory registered tautly.
‘Am I going in the wrong direction?’ Rome asked. ‘I was aiming for Sudbury.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No—that’s fine. But I still don’t know why you’re doing this.’
The car was dark, streamlined and expensive, and he handled it well on the unfamiliar roads—as she was grudgingly forced to admit.
‘I’m tired of concrete,’ he said. ‘I thought you would be, too.’
‘Yes—but you don’t just—take off for Suffolk on the spur of the moment,’ Cory said warmly. ‘It’s a long way.’
‘And we have the rest of the day.’ He flicked a glance at her, a half-smile playing round his mouth. ‘Would you prefer to turn back? Visit another art gallery—or perhaps a museum?’