by Sara Craven
Ros forced a smile, her fingers playing nervously with the stem of her flute. ‘And things that we don’t need to know—under the circumstances.’
‘So, let’s cut to the chase instead.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s clear you’re not seriously seeking a relationship, so why did you answer my ad—and why did you come to meet me?’
Ros hesitated, suddenly aware that she was strongly tempted to tell him the truth. But if she did, she argued inwardly, it would only lead to more and more complicated explanations, and recriminations—and what good could it possibly do anyway, when they were never going to see each other again?
On the other hand, she didn’t want to lie either…
‘Replying to the ad was someone else’s idea,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘And once the meeting had been set up, I felt—obliged to go through with it.’
He said softly, ‘So it was all down to your sense of duty.’ There was an odd note in his voice which she couldn’t quite interpret. It was almost like anger, but she didn’t think it could be that, because he was smiling at her.
‘But I suppose it serves me right for asking.’ He paused. ‘Are you seeing someone else?’
She hadn’t expected that, and was jolted into candour. ‘I was—but it’s over.’
‘And you used me to get rid of him—or was I simply to celebrate your new liberation?’
‘Perhaps both—maybe neither,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking that clearly.’ She hesitated. ‘But I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. In fact that was the last thing I intended…’
‘Well, don’t worry about it.’ His voice was silky. ‘I expect I’ll recover.’ He refilled her glass. ‘So, tell me about your sister.’
Ros jumped, spilling some of her wine on to the marble table-top. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked defensively, mopping up with a paper napkin.
‘She seems to have a fairly profound effect on you,’ Sam said, his brows lifting as he watched. ‘Is she your only living relative?’
Ros shook her head. ‘My parents are abroad at the moment.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And you’re house-sitting for them.’
‘I’m taking care of things while they’re away,’ Ros agreed carefully.
Well, that explained the expensive house, thought Sam. It also meant she was still guarding her real address…
He said, amused, ‘You’re like one of those Russian dolls. Or an onion. Each time I think I’ve found you, there’s another layer.’
Her mouth curved. ‘I don’t care for the comparison, but I think on the whole I prefer the doll. Onions make you cry.’
‘Indeed they do,’ he said. He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘And I suspect, Miss Janie Craig, that you could break someone’s heart quite easily.’
Ros studied the bubbles in her champagne. ‘Now you’re being absurd,’ she said crisply.
‘It always happens when I’m hungry.’ He pointed to a blackboard advertising the dishes of the day. ‘I’m having spaghetti carbonara. Are you going to join me?’
‘We agreed—just a drink.’ Ros remembered her abortive sandwich lunch, and her stomach clenched in longing.
‘I’ll let you slurp your spaghetti.’ He shrugged. ‘Or you can always go back to your lonely microwave. It’s your choice.’
‘Very well,’ she said, adding stiffly, ‘But I’m paying for my own meal.’
‘That will keep me in my place,’ he murmured, signalling to the waiter.
‘And another thing,’ Ros said, when their order, including herb bread and a bottle of Orvieto Classico, had been given. ‘If you aren’t wearing your glasses, how did you know that was spaghetti carbonara on the menu?’
Sam shrugged, cursing himself silently. ‘In a place like this, it’s practically standard,’ he countered.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose so.’
There were too many contradictions in this man, she thought, and they intrigued her. Or rather they intrigued the writer in her, she corrected herself hastily. And she could put the evening to good use by listening and observing.
‘Have you always worn glasses?’ she continued brightly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It happened very recently.’
‘I suppose it’s working with numbers all day.’ Ros sighed. ‘I expect using a computer is just as bad. I shall have to be careful.’
‘You use a computer to sell beauty products?’ Sam stared at her.
‘Not exactly.’ Ros gave an awkward laugh, aware that she’d flushed guiltily. That was too much champagne on an empty stomach making her careless, she reproached herself. ‘Just for—ordering—and sales reports. That kind of thing,’ she improvised swiftly.
‘Then I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he returned drily. ‘I think your eyes will be safe for a long time yet.’
She gave a constrained smile, and stared down at her glass.
‘But I can’t say the same for your nervous system,’ Sam went on. He reached across the table and took her hand lightly, his fingers exploring the delicate tracery of veins in her wrist.
‘Your pulse is going like a trip-hammer,’ he observed, frowningly. ‘For someone who spends her life dealing with the public, you’re incredibly tense. Are you like this with all the men you meet, or is it just me?’
All the men? she thought. Apart from a couple of totally casual relationships at university, there’d only been Colin…
She withdrew her hand from his grasp, clasping both of them tightly in her lap. ‘I told you—I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Then let’s change the scenario,’ he said. ‘Let’s pretend we did it the conventional way—that I saw you in a department store at one of your promotions, chatted you up, and arranged to meet you later. Would that make you feel more relaxed?’
‘I—I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps…’
‘Then that’s what happened.’ His smile coaxed her. ‘Forget everything else. This is just Sam and Janie, meeting for a drink and a meal, and examining the possibilities. No pressure.’
She lifted her head and looked at him, seeing how the laughter lines had deepened beside his firm mouth. She realised with sudden piercing clarity how much she wanted to touch them. How she longed to experience the entire warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. To learn with slow intimacy the bone and muscle that made him. To know him with completion and delight.
And she felt dismay and exhilaration go to war inside her.
She said, breathlessly, ‘Is that what you’ve said to all the others?’
The turquoise eyes looked directly into hers. His voice was quiet. ‘What others?’
A silence seemed to enclose them—a small, precious bubble of quiet holding the moment safe.
A voice inside her whispered, Whatever happens—however long I live—whoever I spend my life with— I shall remember this.
And then the waiter came hurrying up with the platter of bread and the wine, and there was the fuss of cutlery and fresh glasses, and she was able to lean back in her chair and control her breathing, quieten the slam of her heart against her ribcage.
She thought, He said ‘let’s pretend’—and I will. I’ll be Janie, and take the risk. Go where it leads—whatever the cost…
The Orvieto was clean and cold against her dry throat, and she swallowed it gratefully. ‘That’s so good.’
‘Have you ever been to Italy?’
‘Yes, I love it. I was there for nearly three months a year or so ago.’ She halted abruptly, realising she’d given too much away again.
‘Three months?’ His brows lifted. ‘None of the usual package tours for you, I see.’
‘I was there to work,’ she said. And it was true. She’d been researching her third novel, set at the time of the Renaissance and featuring an English mercenary who’d sold his sword to the Borgias until he lost his heart to the daughter of one of their enemies. Her trip had taken her all over the Romagna, and to Florence and Siena as well. The
book had been fun to write, and had turned out well too, she thought, her lips curving slightly.
‘Some of the big foreign cosmetics companies have—training courses for their products,’ she added hastily, as she registered his questioning look.
‘Do they now?’ Sam drank some of his own wine. ‘I didn’t realise so much was involved.’ He frowned slightly. ‘You take your career very seriously.’
‘Of course,’ she said, and meant it. ‘Don’t you?’
‘I certainly used to.’ His eyes were meditative. ‘But I seem to have reached some kind of crossroads. And I don’t know for certain what my next move should be.’ He added, ‘I suppose you feel the same.’
‘What makes you say that?’
He leaned forward. ‘Isn’t it why we’re here together now?’ he challenged. ‘Because we know that everything’s changed and there’s no turning back?’ He sounded almost angry.
She tried to smile. ‘You make it sound—daunting.’
‘That’s because I’m not sure how I feel.’ His voice was blunt. ‘And, frankly, I’m not used to it.’
Ros bit her lip. ‘Perhaps we should go back to Plan A—where you’re “Lonely in London” again,’ she suggested.
‘No,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s far too late for that, and we both know it.’
Her voice faltered slightly, ‘You said—you promised—that you’d let me decide—and that you’d accept my choice.’
‘Yes.’ The turquoise eyes held a glint. ‘Just don’t expect me to take no for an answer, that’s all.’
Bowls of creamy pasta were set in front of them, giant pepper mills wielded and dishes of grated parmesan offered.
She was glad of the respite, although nervousness had blunted the edge of her hunger by now.
I’m not a risk-taker by nature, she thought. How on earth am I going to get way with this?
‘Eat.’ Sam waved a fork at her when they’d been left alone again. His smile slanted. ‘You need to build your strength up.’
‘Please,’ she said, her throat constricting. ‘Don’t say things like that.’
‘Why not? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You have cheekbones like wings. A breath of wind would blow you away. And, oddly enough, I don’t want that to happen.’ He paused. ‘As for the rest of it, you can call the shots, Janie. I won’t push you into anything you don’t want—or aren’t ready for.’
‘Another promise?’ Her smile trembled as she picked up her fork.
‘No,’ he said, eyes and voice steady. ‘A guarantee. Now eat.’
In the end, she finished every scrap of pasta, and followed it with a generous helping of tiramisu.
‘That was wonderful,’ she admitted, leaning back in her chair as their plates were removed.
‘And the best part was when you finally stopped checking where the door was,’ Sam said drily, as he poured the last of the Orvieto into their glasses. ‘For the first hour I was waiting for you to do a runner at any moment.’
She blushed. ‘Was I that bad?’
‘You were never bad,’ he said. ‘Just strung out.’ He paused. ‘How’s the pulse-rate?’
‘Calm, I think,’ she said. ‘And steady. At the moment.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’d hate to think I wouldn’t merit a slight flutter—in the right circumstances.’ He paused. ‘Shall we have coffee?’
It was, she knew, a loaded question. The obvious response was, why don’t I make some back at the house? And that, almost certainly, would be what he was waiting to hear. Hoping to hear. And yet…
The house was her domain—her little fortress. The place where she led her real life—not this pretence she’d been lured into.
To invite him back would be to breach some invisible barricade, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.
It was all going too far, too fast, she thought, swallowing. One false step and she could be out of her depth—the waters closing over her head.
He said gently, ‘Stop struggling, darling. The choice is between filter and cappuccino, nothing else. Though I wish…’
‘Yes?’ she prompted at his hesitation.
He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
He’d been about to say, I wish you’d trust me, he realised ruefully, and he was in no position to ask any such thing.
It had been good to watch her start to relax—to laugh and talk with him as if they were together for all the right reasons, he thought, as they drank their coffee.
Even so, he was aware that, mentally, she was still on guard. Emotionally, too, he told himself wryly. There was an inner kernel to this girl that was strictly a no-go area. That he suspected she’d fight to protect.
So, he would proceed with caution, and anticipate the eventual rewards of his forbearance.
There was silence between them, but it was a companionable silence, with neither of them believing they had to strive for the next remark.
He watched her covertly as she sat, quietly at ease, looking down at the green-gold of the strega in her glass. He’d told himself more than once over the past twenty-four hours that she wasn’t his type, but now he found himself noticing with curious intensity that her mouth was soft, pink and strangely vulnerable now that she’d relaxed.
Her lashes, too, were a shadow against that amazing creamy skin. He imagined what it would be like to see all of it—to uncover her slowly, enjoying every silky inch—and found his body hardening in sharp response. Like some bloody adolescent, he mocked himself, dropping his table napkin discreetly into his lap.
But he had to be careful, because she still wasn’t convinced about him, and he knew it. One wrong move and there was a real danger she’d blow him away. Which he didn’t want, and, as he reluctantly had to acknowledge, not merely because he still had no clear understanding of her motivation or needs in replying to the personal ad.
While they’d been eating he’d tried to probe gently, but had found himself blocked. She still wouldn’t let him get too near. Or at least not yet…
And there had been a time when this would have suited him very well.
While he’d been a foreign correspondent he’d kept well out of emotional entanglements. He’d told himself it wasn’t fair to keep a woman hanging around until he returned from yet another assignment, even if they were willing to do so—and, without conceit, he knew that there’d been several who’d been prepared to wait for as long as it took.
Only that hadn’t been what he wanted—so he’d taken care to keep his relationships light, uncommitted and strictly physical, making it clear there was nothing more on offer. And inflicting, he hoped, no lasting damage along the way.
But this time it was different, although he had no logical reason for knowing it was so—just a gut reaction.
She glanced up suddenly and found his eyes fixed on her, and he saw the colour flare under her skin, and wondered if there was anything in his face to betray this swift, unlooked-for hunger that she’d aroused.
‘More coffee, Janie?’ He kept the words and the smile casual.
‘No, thanks.’ It irked her to hear him call her that, and had done all evening. In fact, she’d been debating with herself whether she should tell him her real name—indeed, whether she should come clean about the whole situation.
But the truth had no part in this game they were playing, she thought, with an odd desolation.
Besides, she wasn’t sure how he’d react. He could be angry. Could even get up from the table and walk out of the bar, and out of her life. Which would undoubtedly solve all kinds of problems. Except that she wasn’t ready for that.
‘Then I’ll get the bill and take you home.’
‘I was going to pay half,’ she remembered.
‘We’ll argue about that later.’ He helped her into her jacket, coolly, politely.
As the fresh air hit her, she felt suddenly giddy—light-headed. Oops, she thought. I’ve had too much to drink.
Two glasses of wine was usually her limit,
yet tonight there’d been all that champagne before the Orvieto had arrived. Had he done it deliberately? Was this part of his grand seduction technique? She asked herself as disappointment settled inside her like a stone.
On the corner, she paused. ‘There’s really no need for you to come any further. I’ll be fine.’
His hand was firm under her elbow. ‘I prefer to make sure,’ he said. ‘One of my little foibles.’
When they reached the house, she found the bulb had failed in her exterior light, and she fumbled trying to get her latchkey in the lock.
‘Allow me.’ Sam took it from her hand and, to her fury, fitted it first time.
‘Thank you,’ she said grittily.
‘Don’t say things you don’t mean, Janie.’ She could hear the grin in his voice. ‘You know you’re damning my eyes under your breath. Now, put the hall light on while I check everything’s all right.’
‘Another of your little foibles, I suppose?’ she tossed after him.
‘The age of chivalry isn’t dead,’ he returned, giving the ground-floor rooms and basement area a swift inspection. At the door of the sitting room he paused, as if something on the other side of the room had engaged his attention. When he turned back to her there was a faint smile playing round his mouth, and dancing in his eyes. ‘And to prove it,’ he went on, ‘I’m going to wish you a very good night, and go.’
She felt her lips part in shock. ‘But…’ she began, before she could stop herself.
‘But you thought I was going to close the door and jump on you,’ he supplied understandingly. ‘And don’t think I’m not tempted, but I noticed how carefully you were walking and talking on the way back, and I’d prefer to wait for an occasion when you know exactly what you’re doing—and why—so that you can’t plead unfair advantage afterwards.’
Ros walked to the front door and jerked it open. ‘I’d like you to leave. Now. And don’t come back,’ she added for good measure.
He smiled outrageously down into her hostile eyes. ‘You can’t have been listening to me, Janie. I told you—I don’t take no for an answer. Now, sleep well, dream of me, and I’ll call you tomorrow.’
His hand touched her face, stroking featherlight down the angle of her cheek, then curving to caress the long line of her throat before coming to rest, warm and heavy, on her slender shoulder. It was the touch of a lover—deliberately and provocatively sensuous in a way a simple kiss on the lips would never have been. It was both a beckoning and a promise. A demand and an offering.