Читать книгу Sara Craven Tribute Collection - Сара Крейвен, Sara Craven - Страница 24

THEY walked in silence, not touching, but Cory was heart-stoppingly aware of the tall figure moving with lithe grace at her side. She had half expected him to take her arm or her hand, and was grateful for the respite. Which was all it was.

Because she had no idea what would happen when they reached their destination.

She couldn’t feel shock or even mild surprise that, as she’d feared, he’d discovered where she lived. Not any more. Every defence she had seemed to be crumbling in turn.

Which one would be next? she wondered, with a slight shiver.

Rome noticed instantly, but misinterpreted her reaction.

‘You’re cold.’ He slipped off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

‘Thank you.’ Her fingers curled into the warm, soft cloth, gathering it round her like a barricade. Which was a mistake, because inextricably mingled with the smell of expensive wool was the now familiar scent of Rome himself, clean, totally male and almost unbearably potent. Reminding her of those few pulsating moments in his arms when her shocked senses had not just breathed him—but tasted him…

She hurried into speech. ‘But you’ll be frozen.’

‘I don’t think so.’ There was a smile in his voice. ‘I spend too much out of doors in all kinds of weather.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Yes—of course.’

She could hear the click of her heels on the pavement, hurrying slightly to keep up with his long stride. The air was cool, and there was a sharp dankness in the air which made her nose tingle.

She told herself, with an inward sigh, ‘It’s going to rain.’

‘Is that a problem for you?’ His answer, laced with faint amusement, alerted her to the fact she’d spoken aloud.

‘Not really.’ A faint flush warmed her face. She didn’t want him to think she was making conversation for the sake of it. ‘If you live in England, you can’t let rain bother you too much. And when we lived in the country everything—the grass, the leaves—was so washed and—fragrant afterwards, I even began to like it. But here in the city the rain just smells dirty.’

‘You liked the country best?’ His tone was reflective. ‘Then what made you leave?’

‘The house wasn’t the same after my grandmother died,’ Cory said, after a pause. ‘Too many memories. So my grandfather decided to sell it and base himself entirely in London. I don’t blame him at all for that, but I miss the old place just the same.’

‘Where was the house?’

‘In Suffolk.’ Her voice was soft with sudden longing. ‘There was an orchard, and a stream running through the garden, and when I was a child I thought it was Eden.’

‘It was the other way round for me,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘I was brought up in cities, and I have had to wait a long time to find my own particular paradise.’

‘But you have it now?’

‘Yes,’ he said, with an odd harshness. ‘I have it, and I mean to keep it.’

Cory turned her head to look at him in faint bewilderment, and stumbled on an uneven paving flag.

Instantly Rome’s hand shot out and grasped her arm, steadying her.

She felt the clasp of his fingers echo through every bone, sinew and nerve-ending. Was aware of her body clenching involuntarily in the swift, painful excitement of response. Bit back the small gasp that tightened her throat.

Turned it into a breathless laugh instead. ‘Oh, God—I’m so clumsy. I’m sorry. Perhaps it was the wine. I’m not accustomed to it…’

‘You don’t usually drink wine?’ He looked down at her, brows lifting.

‘Rarely more than one glass.’ Her smile was rueful. ‘So I’ll never make your fortune for you. Isn’t that a shocking admission?’

‘It confirms what I suspected,’ Rome said, after a pause. ‘That you work hard, and take your pleasures in strict moderation.’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘That makes me sound very dull.’

He smiled back at her. ‘Not dull, mia cara.’ His voice was suddenly gentle. ‘Merely—unawakened.’

She stared at him, her lips parting in surprise and uncertainty. When he halted, it took her a moment to realise that they’d actually reached the front door of her flat.

And some kind of moment of truth, she thought, her heart lurching half in panic, half in unwilling excitement.

As she fumbled in her bag for her key, she heard herself say in a voice she barely recognised, ‘Would you like to come in—for some more coffee?’

His hesitation was infinitesimal but fatal, cutting her to the core.

‘I cannot mia bella.’ He sounded genuinely regretful, but it was rejection just the same. ‘I have to go back to the restaurant and close the deal with Alessandro.’

She said, ‘Oh.’ Then, ‘Yes—I see.’

She rallied, fighting down the disappointment that was threatening to choke her. Fighting to conceal from him that he had the power to hurt her.

She said brightly, ‘Well—thank you for a lovely meal.’

‘The gratitude is all mine, Cory mia.’ He took the hand she did not offer and raised it to his lips, turning it at the last moment so that his mouth brushed her inner wrist, where the telltale pulse leapt and fluttered uncontrollably at the brief contact.

‘And perhaps I had better have my jacket,’ he went on conversationally as he released her. ‘Unless, of course, you wish to keep it.’

‘No—no—here.’ Almost frantically she rid herself of its sheltering folds and pushed it at him. ‘Goodbye.’ She turned away, stabbing her key into the lock.

He said softly, ‘I prefer—goodnight.’

As the door opened at last, she allowed herself a quick glance over her shoulder, but he was already yards away, his long stride carrying him back to his own life—his own preoccupations.

Cory thought, So that’s that, and went in, closing the door behind her.

Rome cursed savagely under his breath as he walked away. What in hell was the matter with him? he demanded silently. His grandfather had been right. She was ready to fall into his outstretched hands.

All he’d had to do was walk through that door with her and she’d have been his. Total victory with minimum difficulty, he thought cynically.

A victory that he’d wanted, starkly and unequivocally, as the unquenched heat in his body was reminding him. The whole evening had been building to that moment.

And yet—unbelievably—inconceivably—he’d held back. Made a paltry excuse about an appointment that was actually scheduled for the next day.

And she’d known. The street lighting had taken all the colour from her face and turned her eyes into stricken pools.

And suddenly he’d found himself wanting to pick her up in his arms. To hold her close and bury his face in the fragrance of her hair, and keep her safe for ever.

Perhaps the wine had affected him, too, he derided himself.

Because he’d planned a verbal seduction only, he reminded himself tautly. He’d intended to entice her with spoken caresses and half-promises, and a hint of passion rigorously dammed back. Yet scrupulously ruling full physical possession out of the equation.

Probably because he’d never visualised it as a genuine temptation, he acknowledged ruefully.

So what had changed—and when?

At what moment had she ceased to be a target—and become a woman?

It was when I called her ‘unawakened’—and realised it was true, he thought.

She’d been engaged to be married. It was unrealistic to suppose she hadn’t been involved in a sexual relationship with her fiancé. Yet his experience told him that, sensually and emotionally, she was still a virgin.

That maybe the Ice Maiden image was born from disappointment rather than indifference. That all the potential for response was there, waiting, just below the surface.

He’d felt it all evening in the swift judder of her pulses when he’d touched her, in the tiny indrawn breaths she hadn’t been able to conceal. And in the sudden trembling capitulation of her mouth as he’d kissed her.

Shock tactics, he’d told himself at the time, when he’d seen her standing there, the wide eyes filling with accusation. An expedient designed merely to prevent her from sweeping out and reducing his chances of saving Montedoro to nil.

He hadn’t expected to enjoy it so much. Or to want so much more so soon either. That was an added complication he could well do without.

That, indeed, he would do without. Because he wasn’t some adolescent at the mercy of his hormones, he reminded himself bluntly. He had control, and he would use it from now on.

But he hadn’t anticipated Cory Grant’s own hunger, he thought, his mouth tightening.

He realised now what it must have cost her to issue that faltering invitation. Had seen the shock in her eyes when he’d stepped back.

But perhaps in the greater scheme of things that was no bad thing, he told himself tersely. He would stay away for a few days, he decided. Keep her guessing. Allow her to miss him a little, or even a lot, before he made another approach. And then, just when she thought it was safe to go back in the water…

Because he couldn’t afford any softening, whatever the inducement. He had to stay focused—cold-blooded in his approach. He had too much at stake to allow any ill-advised chivalrous impulses to intervene.

And if he’d created an appetite in Cory Grant, he could use it. Feed it tiny morsels rather than a full banquet. Until she could think—could dream—nothing but him, and the denial he was inflicting on her senses.

And that voluptuous ache in his own groin would simply have to be endured for now, he thought grimly.

When all this business was behind him, and Montedoro was safe, he would indulge himself. Take a break in Bali or the Caribbean. Find some warm and willing girl looking for holiday pleasure, and tip them both over the edge during long hot moonlit nights.

Someone who did not have bones like a bird and skin like cool, clean silk. Or a wistful huskiness in her voice when she spoke of her childhood.

He sighed restlessly and angrily, and lengthened his stride.

The Ice Maiden, he decided broodingly, would have been altogether easier to cheat.

Cory leaned back against the door of her flat, staring sightlessly in front of her, trying to steady the jagged breathing tearing at her chest.

‘I don’t believe I did that.’ Her voice was a hoarse, angry whisper. ‘I can’t believe I said that.’

I’m not drunk, she thought. Therefore I must be mad. Totally out of my tree.

And now, somehow, I have to become sane again. Before I end up in real trouble.

She shuddered, crossing her arms defensively across her breasts.

She’d just issued the most dangerous invitation in her life—and somehow she’d been let off the hook. Rome had turned her down, for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom but for which she had to be grateful, she told herself resolutely.

Only, she didn’t feel grateful. She felt bewildered, bruised and reeling. Lost, even. And humiliated in a way she’d sworn would never happen again.

She eased herself slowly away from the door and fastened the bolt and the security chain before heading for her bedroom. She didn’t put on any of the lights. She just went in and fell across the bed, without removing her clothes or her make-up. Curling up in the dark like a small animal going to earth to escape a predator.

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.’