Читать книгу Sara Craven Tribute Collection - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 22

THIS is lunacy, thought Cory, and I should run out of here and have myself committed immediately.

But she couldn’t. For one thing, she was too sore to run anywhere. For another, her wallet and keys were in her tote bag, which Rome d’Angelo must have rescued after her fall and which was now hanging from one muscular shoulder as he waited at the counter in the coffee shop.

So, she said, perforce, to stay where she was, perched in rigid discomfort on one of the pretty wrought-iron chairs at the corner table he’d taken her to.

Round one to him, it seemed.

And all she had to do now was ensure there wasn’t a round two.

Because every instinct she possessed was warning her yet again that this was a man to avoid. That he was danger in its rawest sense.

Anyone with a year-round tan and eyes like the Mediterranean was out of her league anyway, she reminded herself drily. But the peril that Rome d’Angelo represented went far deeper than mere physical attraction.

It’s as if I know him, she thought restlessly. As if I’ve always known him…

She felt it in her blood. Sensed it buried deep in her bones. And it scared her.

I’ll drink my coffee, thank him politely, and get the hell out of here, she thought. That’s the best—the safest way to handle this.

She was by no means the only one aware of his presence, she realised. From all over the room glances were being directed at him, and questions whispered. And all from women. She could almost feel the frisson.

But then, she certainly couldn’t deny his eye-catching potential, she acknowledged unwillingly.

He was even taller than she’d originally thought, topping her by at least five inches. Lean hips and long legs were emphasised by close-fitting faded denims, and he wore a collarless white shirt, open at the throat. A charcoal jacket that looked like cashmere was slung over one shoulder, along with her tote bag.

He looked relaxed, casual—and powerfully in control.

And she, on the other hand, must be the only woman in the room with damp hair and not a trace of make-up. Which, as she hastily reminded herself, really couldn’t matter less…

Pull yourself together, she castigated herself silently.

She saw him returning and moved uneasily, and unwisely, suppressing a yelp as she did so.

‘Arnica,’ he said, as he put the cups down on the table.

‘Really?’ Her brow lifted. ‘I thought it was café latte.’

‘It comes in tablet or cream form,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘It will bring out the bruising.’

‘I think that’s already escaped,’ Cory admitted, wincing. She eyed him as he took his seat. ‘You know a lot about herbal medicine?’

‘No.’ He smiled at her, his gaze drifting with deliberate sensuousness from her eyes, to her mouth, and down to her small breasts, untrammelled under the cling of the ancient tee shirt, and then back to meet her startled glance. ‘My expertise lies in other areas.’

Cory, heart thumping erratically, hastily picked up her cup and sipped.

‘Yuck.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘This has sugar in it.’

‘The recognised treatment for shock.’ Rome nodded. ‘A hot, sweet drink.’

‘I fell down a couple of steps,’ she said. ‘I’m sore, but hardly shocked.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But you didn’t see your face just before you fell.’ He paused, allowing her a moment to digest that. ‘How did you enjoy the ball?’

Pointless to pretend she hadn’t noticed him, or didn’t recognise him, Cory realised, smouldering.

She managed a casual shrug. ‘Not very much. I didn’t stay long.’

‘What a coincidence,’ he said softly. ‘Clearly, we feel the same about such events.’

‘Then why buy a ticket?’

‘Because it was in such a good cause. I found it impossible to resist.’ He drank some of his own coffee. ‘Don’t you like dancing?’

‘I don’t think it likes me,’ she said ruefully. ‘I have this tendency to stand on peoples’ feet, and no natural rhythm.’

‘I doubt that.’ Rome leaned back in his chair, the blue eyes faintly mocking. ‘I think you just haven’t found the right partner.’

There was a brief, seething silence, and Cory’s skin prickled as if someone’s fingertips had brushed softly across her pulse-points.

She hurried into speech. ‘Talking of coincidences, what are you doing here?’

‘I came to look over the facilities.’

‘You live in the area?’ The question escaped before she could prevent it.

‘I plan to.’ He smiled at her. ‘I hope that won’t be a problem for you.’

Cory stiffened. ‘Why should it?’

‘My appearance seems to have a dire effect on you.’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ she returned with studied coolness. ‘Don’t read too much into a moment’s clumsiness. I’m famous for it. And London’s a big place,’ she added. ‘We’re unlikely to meet again.’

‘On the contrary,’ he said softly. ‘We’re bound to have at least one more encounter. Don’t you know that everything happens in threes?’

Cory said shortly, ‘Well, I’m not superstitious.’ And crossed her fingers under cover of the table. She hesitated. ‘Are you planning to take out a membership here?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’ His blue gaze flickered over her again. ‘Although, admittedly, it seems to have everything I want.’

‘And separate days for men and women,’ Cory commented pointedly, aware that her mouth had gone suddenly dry.

‘Except for weekends, when families are encouraged to use the place.’ His tone was silky.

Cory played with the spoon in her saucer. ‘And is that what you plan to do? Bring your family?’

His brows lifted. ‘One day, perhaps,’ he drawled. ‘When I have a family.’ He paused again. ‘I’m Rome d’Angelo, but perhaps you know that already,’ he added casually.

Cory choked over a mouthful of coffee, and put her cup down with something of a slam.

‘Isn’t that rather an arrogant assumption?’ she demanded with hauteur.

He grinned at her, unabashed. ‘And isn’t that a defence rather than a reply?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cory said, feeling one of those hated blushes beginning to warm her face. Oh, no, she appealed silently. Please, no.

He said, ‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘To do what?’ Fall over again, send the table crashing, spill my coffee everywhere?

‘To tell me your name.’

She said with sudden crispness, ‘I’m grateful for your help, Mr d’Angelo, but that doesn’t make us friends.’

‘I’d settle for acquaintances?’ he suggested.

‘Not even that.’ Cory shook her head with determination. ‘Ships that pass in the night.’

‘But we didn’t pass. We collided.’ He leaned forward suddenly, and, in spite of herself, Cory flinched. ‘Tell me something,’ he invited huskily. ‘If I’d come down to the ballroom last night, and asked you to dance—what would you have said?’

She didn’t look at him, but stared down at the table as, for a few seconds, her mind ran wild with speculation, dangerous fantasies jostling her like last night’s dreams.

Then she forced a shrug, only to wish she hadn’t as her bruises kicked back. ‘How about, “Thank you—but I’m here with someone.”?’

Rome’s mouth twisted. ‘He seemed to be doing a great job.’

‘That’s none of your business,’ Cory fought back. ‘Will you please accept, Mr d’Angelo, that I don’t need a saviour, or a Prince Charming either.’

‘And your circle of friends is complete, too.’ He was smiling faintly, but those incredible eyes glinted with challenge. ‘So what is left, I wonder? Which of your needs is not being catered for?’

Cory’s face was burning again, but with anger rather than embarrassment. She said, ‘My life is perfectly satisfactory, thank you.’

He was unperturbed by the snap in her voice. ‘No room for improvement anywhere?’

‘I have simple tastes.’

‘Yet you wear Christian Dior,’ he said. ‘You’re more complicated than you think.’

Suddenly breathless, Cory reached down for her tote bag, jerking it towards her. Then rose. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she said. ‘And for the character analysis. I hope you don’t do it for a living. Goodbye, Mr d’Angelo.’

He got to his feet, too. His smile held real charm. ‘Until next time—Miss Grant.’

She’d almost reached the door when she realised what he’d said, and swung round, lips parting in a gasp of angry disbelief.

But Rome d’Angelo wasn’t there. He must have used the exit that led straight to the street, she realised in frustration.

Her mouth tightened. So, he liked to play games. Well, she had no intention of joining in—or of rising to any more of his bait.

But at the same time she found herself wondering how he’d found out her name. And what else he might know about her.

And realised that the swift shiver curling down her spine was only half fear. And that the other half was excitement.

‘You’ve met her? You’ve talked to her?’ Matt Sansom’s laugh rasped down the telephone line. ‘You don’t waste much time, boy.’

‘I don’t have a lot of time to waste,’ Rome reminded him levelly. ‘I have a life to get back to, and work to do.’ He paused. ‘But believe this. She isn’t going to be any kind of push-over.’

‘That’s your problem,’ his grandfather snapped. ‘Failure doesn’t enter the equation. What woman can resist being swept off her feet?’

In spite of himself, Rome felt his mouth curve into a reluctant grin as he remembered angry hazel eyes sparking defiance at him from the floor. Remembered, too, how slight she’d felt as he’d lifted her. Felt a small sensuous twist of need uncoil inside him as he recalled her pale skin, so clear and translucent that he’d imagined he could see the throb of the pulse in her throat as he’d held her. As he’d breathed the cool sophisticated fragrance that the heat of her body had released.

‘This one could be the exception,’ he drawled. ‘But I’ve always preferred a challenge.’

‘So when will you see her again?’ Matt demanded eagerly.

Rome smiled thinly. ‘I’ll give her a couple of days. I need the time to find an apartment—establish a base.’

‘I’ve told Capital Estates to prepare a list of suitable properties,’ Matt barked. ‘They’re waiting for your call. And don’t stint yourself. You need a background that says money.’

And he rang off.

Rome switched off his mobile and tossed it on to the bed, frowning slightly.

Well, he was committed now, and there was no turning back, he thought without pleasure. But Montedoro was all that mattered. All that could be allowed to matter.

And he had somehow to overcome his personal distaste for the means he was being forced to employ to save his vineyard.

Although, to his own surprise, not every aspect of the deal was proving as unpalatable as he’d expected.

Cory Grant was the last girl he would normally have pursued, but he could not deny she intrigued him. Or perhaps he just wasn’t used to having his advances treated with such uncompromising hostility, he thought, his mouth twisting in self-derision.

Whatever, he’d enjoyed crossing swords with her in this preliminary skirmish.

The invisible circle still surrounded her, but within it she wasn’t as prim and conventional as he’d thought. Under that ancient tee shirt she’d been bra-less, and at one moment he’d found himself, incredibly, fantasising about peeling the ugly thing off her, and discovering with his hands and mouth if her rounded breasts were as warm, and soft, and rose-tipped and scented as his imagination suggested.

But that wasn’t in the equation either, he reminded himself grimly. Because he intended to keep all physical contact between them to an absolute minimum. He’d have quite enough to reproach himself for without adding a full-scale seduction to the total.

So, he was planning an old-fashioned wooing, with flowers, romantic dates, candlelit dinners, and a few—a very few—kisses.

Not as instantly effective as tricking her into bed, he thought cynically, but infinitely safer.

Because sex was the great deceiver. And great sex could enslave you—render you blind, deaf and ultimately stupid. Make you believe all kinds of impossible things.

Just as it had with Graziella.

He sighed harshly. Why hadn’t he seen, before he’d got involved with her, that behind the beautiful face and sexy body she was pure bitch?

Because a man in lust thought with his groin, not his brain, was the obvious answer.

And at least he wasn’t still fooling himself that he’d been in love with her.

In bed, she’d been amazing—inventive and insatiable—and he’d been her match, satisfying the demands she’d made with her teeth, her nails, and little purring, feral cries.

But when he’d asked her to marry him—laid his future and Montedoro at her feet—she’d burst out laughing.

‘Caro—are you mad? You have no money, and the d’Angelo vineyard was finished years ago. Besides, I’m going to marry Paolo Cresti. I thought everyone knew that.’

‘A man over twice your age?’ He looked down at the lush nakedness she’d just yielded to him, inch by tantalising inch. ‘You can’t do it.’

‘Now you’re talking like a fool. Paolo is a successful banker, and wealthy in his own right.’ She paused, avid hands seeking him, stroking him back to arousal. ‘And my marriage to him makes no difference to us. I shall need you all the more, caro, to stop me from dying of boredom.’

For a long moment he looked at her—at the glittering eyes, and the hot, greedy mouth.

He said gently, ‘I’m no one’s piece on the side, Graziella.’ And got up from the bed.

Even while he was dressing—when he was actually walking to the door—she still didn’t believe that he was really leaving her. Couldn’t comprehend his revulsion at the role she’d created for him.

‘You cannot do this,’ she screamed hysterically. ‘I want you. I will not let you go.’

Up to her marriage, and for weeks afterwards, she’d bombarded him with phone calls and notes, demanding his return.

Then had come the threats. The final hissed vow that she would make him sorry.

Something she’d achieved beyond her wildest dreams, he acknowledged bitterly.

At first, he’d thrown himself into life at Montedoro with a kind of grim determination, driven by bitterness and anger.

But gradually, working amongst the vines had brought a kind of peace, and a sense of total involvement.

And that was something he wasn’t prepared to lose through the machinations of a lying wife and a jealous husband.

Since Graziella he’d made sure that any sexual encounters he enjoyed were civilised, and strictly transient, conducted without recrimination on either side.

But Cory Grant did not come into that category at all, so it was far better not to speculate whether her skin would feel like cool silk against his, or what it would take to make her face warm with sensual pleasure rather than embarrassment or anger. In fact, he should banish all such thoughts from his mind immediately.

Even though, as he was disturbingly aware, he might not want to.

For a moment he seemed to breathe her—the appealing aroma of clean hair and her own personal woman’s scent that the perfume she’d been wearing had merely enhanced.

He felt his whole body stir gently but potently at the memory.

Ice Maiden? he thought. No, I don’t think so. And laughed softly.

‘You’re very quiet today.’ Arnold Grant sent Cory a narrow-eyed look. ‘In fact, you’ve been quiet the whole weekend. Not in love, are we?’

Cory’s smile was composed. ‘I can’t speak for you, Gramps, but I’m certainly not.’

Arnold sighed. ‘I thought it was too good to be true. I wish you’d hurry up, child. Help me fulfil my two remaining ambitions.’

Cory’s brows lifted. ‘And which two are those today?’

‘Firstly, I want to give you away in church to a man who’ll look after you when I’m no longer here.’

‘Planning another world cruise?’ Cory asked with interest.

Arnold frowned repressively. ‘You know exactly what I mean.’

Cory sighed. ‘All right—what’s your second ambition?’

Arnold looked saintly. ‘To see Sonia’s face when she learns she’s going to be a grandmother.’

Cory tutted reprovingly at him. ‘How unkind. But she’ll rise above it. She’ll simply tell everyone she was a child bride.’

‘Probably,’ her grandfather agreed drily. He paused. ‘So is there really no one on the horizon, my dear? I had great hopes you’d hit it off with Philip, you know.’ He gave her a hopeful look. ‘Are you seeing him again?’

Cory picked up the cheques she’d been writing for the monthly household bills and brought them over to him for signature. ‘No, darling.’

‘Ah, well,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t obligatory.’ A pause. ‘What was wrong with him?’

This time she sighed inwardly. ‘There was—no chemistry.’

‘I see.’ He was silent while he signed the cheques. As he handed them back, he said, ‘Are you sure you know what you want—in a man?’

‘I thought so, once.’ She began to tuck the cheques into envelopes. ‘These days, I’m more focused on what I don’t want.’

‘Which is?’

Eyes like a Mediterranean pirate, she thought, and a mouth that looks as if it knows far too much about women and the way they taste.

She shrugged. ‘Oh, I’ve a list a mile long. And I need to catch the post with these—and call at the supermarket before I go home. I haven’t a scrap of food at home.’

‘Then stay the night again.’

‘Gramps—I’ve been here since Saturday.’

‘Yes,’ Arnold said. ‘And I’m wondering why.’

‘Does there have to be a reason?’ Cory got up from the desk, the graceful flare of her simple navy wool dress swinging around her.

‘Usually when you descend like this you have something you want to tell me.’ His eyes were shrewd. ‘Something on your mind that you need to discuss.’ He paused. ‘Or you’re hiding.’

‘Well, this time it was just for fun.’ Cory dropped a kiss on his head on her way to the door. ‘So, thank you for having me, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She couldn’t fool Gramps, she thought ruefully, as she posted her envelopes and hailed a taxi.

She’d gone straight home from the health club on Saturday, changed, thrown some things in a bag, and turned up on his doorstep like some medieval fugitive looking for sanctuary.

And all because Rome d’Angelo had known her name.

How paranoid can you get? She asked in self-denigration. It didn’t follow that he also knew her address—or that he’d seek her out.

Although he’d said they would meet again, she reminded herself with disquiet. But perhaps he’d simply been winding her up because she’d made it so very clear she didn’t want his company.

Undoubtedly he enjoyed being deliberately provocative, she thought, remembering the considering intensity of his gaze as it had swept over her, making her feel naked—as if all her secrets were known to him.

‘A tried and tested technique if ever I saw one,’ she muttered to herself, and saw the cab driver give her a wary glance in his mirror.

For once, the supermarket wasn’t too busy, and she had leisure to collect her thoughts, dismiss Rome d’Angelo from her mind, and concentrate on what she needed to buy.

She picked up some bread, milk, eggs and orange juice, then headed for the meat section. She’d buy some chops for dinner, or maybe a steak, she thought, sighing a little as she remembered the clear soup, sole Veronique, and French apple tart that Mrs Ferguson would be serving to her grandfather.

She swung round the corner into the aisle rather too abruptly, and ran her trolley into another one coming in the opposite direction.

She said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ then yelped as her startled gaze absorbed exactly who was standing in front of her.

‘You,’ she said unsteadily. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Buying food,’ Rome said. ‘But perhaps it’s a trick question.’

‘In this particular supermarket?’ Her voice cracked in the middle. ‘As in—yet another amazing coincidence?’

‘I told you that things ran in threes.’ He looked understated but stunning, in casual dark trousers and a black sweater, and his smiling gaze grazed her nerve-endings.

‘So you did.’ She took a breath. ‘You’re following me, aren’t you? Well, I don’t know what happens where you come from, but here we have laws about stalking—’

‘Hey, calm down,’ Rome interrupted. ‘If I’m following you, how is it my trolley’s nearly full, while yours is still almost empty? The evidence suggests I got here first.’

‘Well, I’m damned sure you’ve never been in this shop before,’ she said angrily.

‘Because you’d remember?’ He grinned at her. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘Not,’ she said, ‘my intention.’

‘I believe you. And, actually, I’m here, like you, because it’s convenient. I live just round the corner in Farrar Street.’

‘Since when?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘Since three hours ago.’

‘You’re telling me you’ve found a place and moved in—all since Saturday morning?’ Cory shook her head. ‘I don’t believe it. It can’t all happen as quickly as that.’

‘Ah,’ he said gently. ‘That depends on how determined you are.’ His gaze flickered over her, absorbing the well-cut lines of her plain navy coat, the matching low-heeled shoes, and her hair, caught up into a loose coil on top of her head and secured by a silver clasp. ‘Another change of image,’ he remarked. ‘I’ve seen you dressed up at the ball, and dressed down at the club. Now you seem to be wearing camouflage.’

‘Working gear,’ she said curtly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have my own trolley to fill.’

But he didn’t move. ‘You must take your job very seriously.’

‘I do,’ she said. ‘I also enjoy it.’

‘All appearances to the contrary,’ he murmured. ‘I thought British companies were adopting a more casual approach.’

‘My boss is the old-fashioned type,’ she said. ‘And I must be going.’

Rome leaned on his trolley, his eyes intent as they examined her. ‘I hoped it might be third time lucky,’ he said softly.

‘Tell me something,’ she said. ‘Does the word “harassment” mean anything to you?’

He looked amused. ‘Not particularly. Now, you tell me something. In these politically correct times, how does a man indicate to a woman that he finds her—desirable?’

‘Perhaps,’ Cory said, trying to control the sudden flurry of her breathing, ‘perhaps he should wait for her to make the first move.’

Rome’s grin was mocking. ‘That’s not an option I find very appealing. Life’s too short—and I’m an impatient man.’

‘In that case,’ Cory said, having yet another go at tugging her trolley free, ‘I won’t keep you from your shopping any longer.’

Rome propped himself against the end of the shelving, and watched her unavailing struggles with detached interest.

‘Maybe they’re trying to tell us something,’ he remarked after a while.

‘Oh, this is ridiculous.’ Cory sent him a fulminating glance, then shook the entangled trolleys almost wildly. ‘Why don’t you do something?’

His brows lifted. ‘What would you like me to do?’ he asked lazily. ‘Throw a bucket of cold water over the pair of them?’

Cory’s lips were parting to make some freezing remark that would crush him for ever when she found, to her astonishment, an uncontrollable giggle welling up inside her instead.

As she fought for control, Rome stepped forward and lifted his own trolley slightly, pulling the pair of them apart.

‘There,’ he said softly. ‘You’re free.’ And he walked away.

Cory stood, watching him go.

So, that was that, she thought. At last he’d got the message. She knew she should feel relieved, but in fact her reaction was ambivalent.

She moved to the display cabinet, took down a pack containing a single fillet steak, and stared at it for a long moment.

Then, on a sudden impulse, she followed him to the end of the aisle. ‘Mr d’Angelo?’

He turned, his brows lifting in cool surprise. ‘Miss Grant?’ The faint mockery in his tone acknowledged her formality.

She drew a breath. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Someone told me,’ he said. ‘Just as someone told you mine—didn’t they?’

Cory bit her lip. ‘Yes,’ she admitted unwillingly.

‘So, now we both know.’ He paused. ‘Was there something else?’

‘You were very kind to me when I fell the other day,’ she said, stiffly. ‘And I realise that my response may have seemed—ungracious.’

She paused, studying his expressionless face.

‘I hope you’re not waiting for a polite denial,’ Rome drawled at last.

‘Would there be any point?’ Cory returned with a faint snap.

‘None.’ He sounded amused. ‘Is that it—or are you prepared to make amends?’

‘What do you mean?’ Cory asked suspiciously.

Rome took the pack of solitary fillet steak out of her hand, and replaced it on a shelf.

He said quietly, ‘Have dinner with me tonight.’

‘I—couldn’t.’ Her heart was thudding.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I don’t know you.’ There was something like panic in her voice.

He shrugged. ‘Everyone starts out as strangers. I’m Rome, you’re Cory. And that’s where it begins. But the choice is yours, of course.’

She thought, And the risk…

In a voice she hardly recognised as hers, she said, ‘Where?’

‘Do you like Italian food?’ And, when she nodded, ‘Then, Alessandro’s in Willard Street, at eight.’

Cory saw the smile that warmed his mouth, and her own lips curved in shy response.

She said huskily, ‘All right.’

‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’ He turned to go, then swung back. ‘And you won’t need this.’

His hand touched her hair, unfastening the silver clasp, releasing the silky strands so that they fell round her face.

He said softly, ‘That’s better,’ and went, leaving her staring after him in stunned disbelief.