Читать книгу Promise Of The Unicorn - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 5

ALL the way up in the train, Sophie had been rehearsing what she meant to say, but now that she had actually arrived—found herself enclosed in the discreetly imposing surroundings of the foyer of the Marchese bank, her mind seemed to have become a complete blank.

Not that it mattered, she thought, her mouth twisting wrily. Judging by the polite but implacable treatment she had met with at the reception desk, her journey on which so much doubt, reluctance and heart-searching had been lavished, was going to be a wasted one.

‘You wish to see Signor Angelo Marchese?’ The receptionist’s eyebrows had risen by a fraction, and her eyes had measured Sophie, taking in every detail of the expensively simple navy wool suit, and the white lawn blouse beneath it. ‘Have you an appointment?’

In spite of herself, Sophie felt a faint blush rising. How could she possibly explain to this well-groomed Gorgon the sudden impulse which had brought her here? ‘I’m afraid not,’ she managed, adding quickly as she saw the other woman’s mouth beginning to shape the negative. ‘But if you could just tell him that—that Miss Ralston is here, and would be grateful for a moment of his time.’

‘I bet’ Sophie’s sensitive antennae picked up from the receptionist’s silence, but the older woman merely said with cool civility, ‘I’ll tell his secretary, Miss—er Ralston, but I’m afraid I can’t promise anything. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat over there.’

My God, Sophie thought as she turned away, grabbing at her poise. She thinks I’m one of Angelo’s women. If it wasn’t so nauseating, it would almost be laughable.

She could have put her right, of course. She could have said, ‘Actually, Signor Marchese is my cousin by marriage.’ But she didn’t do so. It wasn’t a relationship she had any desire to acknowledge. For years, it seemed, she had been fighting to hold on to her own identity, to avoid being absorbed, however kindly, into the Marchese clan. Ever since, in fact, her mother, a widow with a young daughter had married John Marchese.

John was a big, ebullient, warm man, prepared to dote uncritically on his new stepdaughter. It was true to say that there had been little Sophie had ever wanted in her eighteen years that John was not happy to give her.

Except the one thing that really matters, she thought with a sigh.

She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. She’d been sitting on this admittedly comfortable sofa in a corner of the foyer for nearly forty minutes. At first she’d felt self-conscious, now, she felt invisible. She supposed this was the ploy with unwanted callers—to leave them there until they gave up and crept ignominiously away.

But, I’m damned if I will, Sophie thought, tilting her chin. I’m here now, and I’ll stay until they have to carry me out. I’m never going to get such an opportunity to see Angelo again.

As the youngest ever chairman of the Marchese bank, Angelo spent a lot of his time jetting between the various capital cities of the world, and it was London’s turn to suffer one of his periodic descents.

Even so, Sophie had not seriously considered seeking him out until she’d heard her stepfather mention casually over dinner the night before that he himself would be away from the bank for the entire day, attending some financial conference in the Midlands. It had really seemed to Sophie as if fate was giving her a nudge, and so she’d swallowed pride and misgivings alike, and caught the first train to London after breakfast.

And much good it had done her, she thought crossly. She might as well have stayed quietly at home, and relied on trying to snatch a private moment with Angelo when he attended her parents’ wedding anniversary party in a few days time.

Except that would probably have been harder than trying to get to him here, she knew. Wherever Angelo visited, he was invariably the guest of honour, and there would be many people ahead of her in the queue to monopolise his attention, even for a few minutes.

Under normal circumstances, Sophie would have crossed streets to keep out of Angelo’s way. At their first meeting nine years ago at her parents’ wedding, she’d been frankly in awe of this tall, rather aloof young man with his aquiline features and hooded eyes. The Marchese bank had been lending money to the whole of Europe since the days of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and Sophie had no difficulty in translating Angelo into silks and velvets, with a pearl in his ear and a dagger in his hand, she thought vengefully.

And then, for a while, her view of him had changed, after the day he’d arrived unexpectedly at their country house at Bishops Wharton and found her crying on the terrace steps.

She couldn’t even remember at this distance what her tears had been about. Probably her mother had sensibly put paid to some particularly blatant piece of spoiling on John’s part, and she was bewailing the fact. And then suddenly Angelo was sitting beside her, regardless of moss, or dust or dead leaves, his arm round her, his voice calling her ‘mia cara’ and asking what the matter was.

As if it was yesterday, she could remember the silky glide of his sleeve under her cheek as he comforted her, that indefinable air of arrogant command she had sensed subdued for once, as she sobbed out some halting explanation. Remembered, too, the faint scent of his cologne, a subtle musky fragrance he still used, although these days she took care not to get too close, and which had clung to the immaculate white handkerchief he had used to dry her tears.

If he’d been secretly amused by the desolate picture she presented, at least he’d kept it to himself. His usually cool drawl had been oddly gentle as he’d soothed her, telling her there was nothing in her world worth the shedding of a single tear, and that in a day or two she would have forgotten all about it. She’d sat in the circle of his arm, almost mesmerised by the sound of his voice, until at last, worn out with emotion, she’d fallen asleep.

And then, a few days later, a package had arrived addressed to her, and when she’d removed the layers of padded wrapping, she’d discovered to her delight a small glass unicorn, and a note.

She was a Marchese now, Angelo had written, and the unicorn was part of the Marchese family crest. In addition, it was a pledge between them. If Sophie would promise not to cry anymore over trifles, then, one day, when she found something she wanted with all her heart, she could return the unicorn to him, and he would help get it for her, if he could.

Barbara Marchese had disregarded the note, but her brows had risen when she looked at the unicorn Sophie held so proudly. ‘John—it’s Venetian glass, and terribly old. Is Angelo mad? Sophie will break it.’

‘I don’t think so.’ John Marchese had fondly stroked his stepdaughter’s fair hair. ‘Will you, Sophie?’

Mutely, she’d shaken her head. Nor had she. She’d treasured the unicorn, and Angelo had become her god. She’d hero-worshipped him openly, trying vainly to think of something she wanted enough to fulfil the terms of their bargain, because it was so much like a fairy tale, and she wanted the magic to happen there and then.

But gradually, as the years passed, her attitude had changed again, as she began to perceive Angelo not as hero, but as a man, powerful, incredibly attractive and sexually charismatic, and started to make sense of the items she read in gossip columns about him.

She supposed she’d been unutterably naïve, but she’d been at boarding school a couple of years before she finally realised from the frank remarks of some of the senior girls exactly what Angelo’s relationship was with these ‘constant companions’ who appeared and disappeared in his life with such monotonous regularity. And it had been a shock to find that her prince—her fairy godfather—was in fact avidly fancied by many of her contemporaries.

‘Lucky Sophie,’ Camilla Liddell had gloated. She was older than Sophie would ever be, with sleepy knowing eyes. ‘Does beautiful cousin Angelo let little Sophie sit on his knee and cuddle him?’ She’d smiled maliciously at Sophie’s sudden flush, and added some suggestions which had made her skin crawl with disgust.

That night, in her cubicle, she’d cried herself to sleep, the covers over her head so as not to disturb the others, because something precious had been destroyed forever. And when she went home at half term, she’d almost expected to find the unicorn in shining fragments on the floor. It was some small consolation to find it still intact, but nothing was ever the same again. From that day onwards, she was on her guard, and as Angelo himself seemed to have withdrawn to a distance when they next met, the gulf between them had remained virtually unbridgeable ever since.

And that was why she’d hesitated so long about approaching him now, Sophie thought, winding a strand of her pale hair round her finger, as she often did when worried by something. Because it seemed the promise of the unicorn might have been made between two different people altogether—or, indeed, never happened at all—a figment of her childish imagination.

Except that the proof of it was there in her handbag—the unicorn itself, tissue-wrapped and tangible. But would he even remember it? And couldn’t this attempt to enlist his help simply turn into another item on the long list of the times she’d made a fool of herself in front of Angelo?

She groaned inwardly. Maybe it would be better to yield to circumstances and creep away quietly.

‘Sophie?’ A man’s voice, tinged with amazement. ‘My dear, what on earth are you doing here? John isn’t in today. Surely you knew that?’

Sophie glanced up, recognising Leonard Grant, who was deputy in her stepfather’s department.

She swallowed, meeting his puzzled gaze. ‘Actually, it was Angelo I wanted to see. I—I didn’t realise I needed an appointment.’

Leonard gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘Well, as you can imagine, the staff here have strict orders to keep pretty girls who come here asking for Angelo at bay. But that wouldn’t apply to you. You’re family, after all. Didn’t you tell them that? Didn’t John tell you what to do?’

‘Er, no.’ Sophie looked down at the tiled floor. ‘As a matter of fact, he doesn’t know I’m here. You see,’ she added, improvising wildly. ‘It’s a secret—a secret about the anniversary party.’

‘I see.’ Leonard patted her shoulder. ‘Well, in that case I’ll have to see what I can do. I’m sure Angelo could spare you a moment, under the circumstances.’

She watched him go. Well, she was committed now. It was like getting on a roller coaster and wishing you hadn’t, but knowing just the same there was no getting off.

Suddenly, she could hear Mark’s voice in her ear, softly persuasive. ‘Darling, the guy’s your cousin, even if it is only by marriage. If anyone could help us, it’s him. Is it really so much to ask?’

‘Yes,’ she thought despairingly. ‘Far too much.’ She wished she was a million miles away, and still travelling. But she wasn’t here just for herself. She was here for Mark, for their happiness. Surely her love for him was worth the sacrifice of a little pride?

She sat on the edge of her seat, feeling as if only her tension was holding her together until Leonard came back. He was smiling.

‘You’re in luck. He was just about to go to lunch. I’ll take you up to the top floor.’

She was so nervous she could hardly speak as they went up in the lift.

A dark girl was waiting for them, looking upset. She almost pounced on Sophie. ‘Miss Ralston? I’m so sorry—I didn’t realise. I haven’t worked here for very long, and I didn’t know you were a member of the family.’

Sophie wanted to reply, ‘I’m not’ but under the circumstances that would hardly be tactful, she realised, especially as the double doors standing open opposite the lift undoubtedly led straight into Angelo’s office.

She was ushered in, heard the secretary’s nervous, ‘Miss Ralston, sir,’ and felt the doors close behind her.

Her first impression was one of dazzle. Light poured into the penthouse office from windows on three sides. If it was a ploy to put clients at a disadvantage, then it certainly worked, Sophie thought, blinking.

In all that light, Angelo was darkness, from the top of the thick black hair, springing back from his forehead, down over the immaculate city suit to the subdued gloss of his handmade shoes.

‘Cara Sophie. What an enchanting surprise.’

The words were welcoming, but there was mockery just below the surface, rasping along Sophie’s nerve-endings. She looked at him numbly, unable to think of a single thing to say in reply. This was the effect he invariably had on her, she realised bitterly, wiping everything from her mind with the sheer power of his physical presence.

He began to walk towards her, moving with the lithe sinuous grace of a black panther, and Sophie felt the breath catch in her throat as she registered yet again, the sheer impact of his devastating good looks. It was unfair, she thought unwillingly, assimilating the long-lashed brilliance of his eyes, the high-bridged patrician nose and the proud sensual curve of his mouth.

He halted a few feet from her, lifting one eyebrow in a combination of enquiry and amusement. ‘Lost for words, cara? Leonard tells me you wish to discuss some matter to do with the anniversary party—some problem, perhaps?’

Sophie swallowed. ‘Well—not exactly,’ she returned feebly. ‘I know I did tell Leonard that, but actually it’s something rather more personal.’

‘I see.’ The midnight eyes studied her for a long moment, then he turned away with a faint shrug. ‘I think this may take rather longer than I thought. Forgive me for a moment.’

He walked to the long curved desk, and flicked a button on the intercom system. ‘Miss Bradley? Telephone the Savoy, if you please, and make my excuses to Signora Vanni, and whatever apologies are necessary. Assure her that I look forward to our theatre engagement this evening.’ He listened for a moment, as the message was being repeated, then nodded. ‘Bene. Perhaps you would also arrange for lunch for two to be served in the director’s dining room. I understand it is not being used today.’

‘Oh, please, no,’ Sophie interrupted, mortified. ‘There’s really no need to go to all this trouble—change your arrangements like this. And I don’t want lunch. I—I’m really not hungry.’

‘Perhaps not, but I am.’ His tone was faintly crushing.

‘Yes, but you could still go to the Savoy. I could come back some other time …’ Sophie began to back towards the door.

Angelo sighed impatiently. ‘Please don’t be foolish, Sophie. Presumably you had some important motive for seeking me out in this way. Has it suddenly become less so?’

Sophie bit her lip. ‘No,’ she admitted stiffly. ‘Only, I didn’t mean to intrude—to interfere in your personal affairs. I’m sorry.’

He gave a swift shrug. ‘Don’t be. Unless it is also your intention to disrupt my arrangements for this evening too?’

She flushed. ‘Oh, no.’ She stole a look at him beneath her lashes. ‘Is the lady you’re meeting Gianetta Vanni, the dress designer? I read in the papers she was in London.’

‘It is,’ he said briefly. ‘But we are here to discuss some personal matters of yours, not mine.’

Sophie’s flush deepened. That was the real Angelo, she thought. King of the cutting remark, making her feel a schoolgirl again. She wished she could tell him to go to hell.

He glanced at the thin platinum watch on his wrist. ‘Lunch will be a few minutes. Perhaps you would like an aperitivo—something to calm your ruffled temper, and give you courage perhaps,’ he added sardonically.

Sophie opened her eyes wide. ‘Do I need courage?’ she asked, deciding it was safer to overlook the remark about her temper.

The dark face was enigmatic suddenly. ‘That, cara, will depend probably on the magnitude of the problem you wish to discuss with me. So—will you have a sherry, perhaps, or a martini?’

‘Sherry would be fine.’ Sophie sent him an angelic smile. ‘Do you know this is the first time you’ve ever offered me a drink. Is it an acknowledgement that you regard me as an adult at last?’

His mouth twisted. ‘No—merely that I recognise that in the eyes of the law at least, you are now old enough to be given alcohol—no more. Don’t hope for too much from me, Sophie,’ he added acidly.

Rage made her dumb as he crossed to an antique cabinet and extracted a decanter and two crystal glasses. The sherry was pale gold and very dry, and Sophie could cheerfully have thrown it all over him, but her reasons for seeking him out, allied with the certainty that he would undoubtedly retaliate if she did any such thing, stayed her hand. And, oddly enough, the sherry did seem to have a calming effect, its caress like velvet against the taut muscles of her throat.

As she sipped it and began slowly to look around her, and take in her surroundings, she was able to see that although it was a large room, it was far more businesslike and less luxurious than any of her previous imaginings about the Marchese bank had suggested. Not that she’d ever expended much thought on the subject, she hastily reminded herself, but it had always seemed natural to picture Angelo against a background of opulent marble halls.

But the only real sign of opulence in the room was the chair on which she herself was now seated. It was low, made from some pale hide, deeply cushioned, and designed, she realised to put anyone who used it at an actual physical disadvantage, staring up at the huge desk which dominated the room, and the dominating man who sat behind it.

As their glances met, he sent her a faint smile, and lifted his glass in salute. ‘Well, Sophie?’

He wanted to know why she had come, and she didn’t know what to say, or where to begin.

‘Is this where you put people when they want a loan?’ she asked at last, trying for brightness and playing for time.

‘Sometimes.’ The dark brows lifted mockingly. ‘I hope you don’t want to ask for a loan, Sophie.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said hastily, thanking her stars that it was true. She looked round her again, avoiding his gaze. ‘What a fantastic building this is. Of course, I’ve never been here before.’

‘But that,’ Angelo reminded her silkily. ‘Is entirely through your own choice. I seem to remember when it was once suggested, you told me that all commerce was disgusting but bankers were the worst of all, because they were predators. Or had you forgotten?’

No, she hadn’t forgotten. The memory still made her cheeks burn, particularly as she’d chosen a family dinner party for her outburst. It had been sparked off by a letter from a friend, Rosemary, blotched with tears to say that she wouldn’t be returning to school the following term, because her father’s company was in financial trouble. Rosemary had not had a complete grasp of what had happened, but it seemed clear her father was being made bankrupt, and they would lose nearly everything they possessed.

The letter had upset Sophie, and she’d tried to discuss it with her mother, but Barbara, abstracted over her guests, had said, ‘Later, darling.’

During the dinner, she’d been quiet, thinking of Rosemary, and her family, and the trouble which had come to them, and when she’d come out of her reverie, it was to find careers were being discussed, and that she was suddenly the focus of attention, with John proposing not too seriously that she might find an opening in the Marchese bank.

She’d looked past him and seen Angelo—seen the slightly derisive smile which twisted his mouth as he listened, and had exploded, the natural tension he inspired in her combining lethally with the anguish she felt for Rosemary. She had heard her voice storming into the startled silence, saying stupid, unforgivable things that she was totally unable to prevent, cringing from them, from the shock on John and Barbara’s faces, and from the contempt in Angelo’s eyes.

How typical of him to remind her, she thought stormily.

She said evenly, ‘Are you still blaming me for something I said when I was a child?’

‘Implying that you are now a woman?’ Angelo’s mouth curled.

He watched her react, as his tiny shaft struck home, then went on, ‘And a woman who wants something. That’s a dangerous combination, Sophie.’

She remained silent. Nothing about this interview was going as planned. The determination which had prompted her to seek it had vanished, and only the difficulties remained.

‘We established, I think, that you did not wish to choose banking as a career,’ the smooth voice went on. ‘What have you decided to do with your life?’

She hesitated. Now was the time to tell him. He’d provided her with the perfect opening, but still she prevaricated. ‘I’m starting a secretarial course in the autumn.’ She tried a smile. ‘I can’t go on living at home forever, although I’ve enjoyed this year. John felt that I’d been away so much at school that it was time I got to know them both all over again.’

‘You don’t have to explain the situation to me.’ He was lounging in his chair, watching her, his face giving nothing away. ‘And shall you enjoy being a secretary?’

Sophie shrugged. ‘It’s an—adequate way of making a living,’ she returned.

‘And is that really so vital? You are now a rich man’s daughter, do not forget.’

‘Oh, there’s no danger of that. After all, you’ll always be there to remind me, won’t you?’

He smiled lazily, ‘Of course.’ He paused, as a respectful knock at the door heralded lunch. ‘Shall we go in?’

Sophie took a deep breath and struggled out of the chair, ignoring the helping hand he offered her. She felt oddly light-headed as she stood up. She’d been a fool to have that sherry on an empty stomach, she reproached herself as she allowed herself to be conducted out of the office and along the carpeted corridor to the directors’ dining room.

It was a quite a small room, the oak-panelled walls imposing an extra intimacy. A table had been set for them beside the window, with its view of roofs, glass tower blocks and steeples. The sun spilled across the spotless white damask cloth, and sparkled from the crystal and silverware. There were flowers, scented carnations in a silver vase, in the centre of the table, and wine cooling in a napkin covered container.

In spite of her nervousness, and her earlier claim that she wasn’t hungry, Sophie found the scene irresistibly inviting. Besides, she hoped the food would put some fresh heart into her.

‘Your jacket, miss?’ An elderly waiter was hovering benevolently, waiting to take it from her. As Sophie twisted her body slightly, sliding her arms out of the sleeves, she saw that Angelo was watching her, his dark eyes frankly appraising the thrust of her breasts against the thin lawn blouse.

She tried to return his glance with cool indifference, but she was already aware of the mounting colour in her cheeks, and his scarcely veiled amusement at her embarrassment. It would have given her the greatest pleasure to have been able to walk out on him, she thought furiously.

She sat stiffly while the waiter served the avocado vinaigrette, wondering if she would be able to choke any of it past the knot of tension in her throat. She was remembering various laughing comments from her stepfather about Angelo’s predilection for beautiful girls, and while she didn’t consider she came into that category, it was nevertheless disturbing to be looked over in that way.

By coming here today, she’d placed herself at a disadvantage, she realised ruefully. It might have been safer to wait for the anniversary party, and approach him under the sanctuary of her stepfather’s roof. As it was, she felt rather out on a limb suddenly.

It was all too easy to contemplate Angelo’s wealth and power as chairman of the bank, and virtual head of the Marchese family, and to overlook the fact that he was also very much a man, barely more than thirty, and sensationally attractive.

And for the first time he’d looked at her, not as if she was a troublesome child, but as though he liked what he saw. She wished wryly that she’d stayed with the jeans and sweatshirts he was accustomed to from her.

The second course—chicken in a thyme and lemon sauce—was served, and the wine was poured. With a dignified, ‘Perhaps you’ll ring for me, sir, when you’ve finished,’ the waiter withdrew.

‘Alone at last,’ Angelo remarked. ‘Don’t look so apprehensive, cara. There’s a very solid table between us, and you have an assortment of cutlery with which to defend yourself should my wicked desires prove uncontrollable.’

Sophie addressed herself to her chicken, her face wooden, raging inwardly that he could apparently read her thoughts with such accuracy.

‘No comeback?’ he continued tauntingly. ‘From your earlier remark, I thought you wanted me to regard you as a woman, but perhaps you’re having second thoughts about that.’

The moment of truth had come. Sophie lifted her chin and gave him a cool look. ‘Not in the slightest,’ she countered. ‘As it happens, it’s all to the good if you’re prepared to admit I’m not a child any more. You see——’ she moistened her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue. ‘You see—I want to be married.’