by Sara Craven
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.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘YOU don’t have to do this,’ Cory told her reflection. ‘You don’t have to go.’
It was seven-fifteen, and she was sitting in her robe at her dressing table, putting on her make-up. And starting to panic.
She couldn’t believe that she’d capitulated so easily—that she’d actually agreed to meet him, against all her instincts—and counter to her own strict code, too. Rule One stated that she never went out with anyone whose background and family were unknown to her.
And Rome d’Angelo could be anyone.
Except that he was quite definitely someone. Every hard, arrogant line of his lean body proclaimed it.
He walked away, she thought. And I should have let him go. It should have ended right there. And it certainly need not go any further.
She put down her mascara wand, and thought.
Rome d’Angelo might know her name, but that was all, she told herself with a touch of desperation. Her telephone number was ex-directory, and he couldn’t know where she lived—could he?
On the other hand, these were obstacles that could easily be overcome by someone with enough determination.
So—she needed a contingency plan, she thought, frowning, as she fixed her favourite gold and amber hoops in her ears.
Well, she could always sub-let the flat and find somewhere else to live in a totally different part of London. Somewhere she could lie low and wait for Rome d’Angelo to go back to wherever he’d come from.
As she realised what she was thinking, Cory sat back, gasping. Was she quite mad? she asked herself incredulously. Was she seriously contemplating uprooting herself—going into hiding to avoid nothing more than a casual encounter?
Because Rome d’Angelo wasn’t here to stay. He was just passing through. She knew th
at as well as she knew the pale, strained face staring back at her from the mirror.
And he was clearly looking for amusement along the way.
But, on the scale of things, she would never be the number one choice for a man in search of that kind of diversion, she acknowledged with stony realism. So, why had he asked her?
Of course he was new in town, and probably didn’t know many people as yet, but that would only be a temporary thing. A single man of his age with such spectacular looks would soon be snowed under with invitations. He wouldn’t have enough evenings—or nights—to accommodate the offers that would come his way. Maybe she was just a stopgap.
Cory grimaced as she fastened the pendant which matched the earrings round her throat.
For a moment she wished she was Shelley, who wouldn’t hesitate to date Rome d’Angelo, whatever the terms, and who would frankly revel in the situation. And then wave him a blithe goodbye when it was over.
‘You only live once,’ Cory could hear her saying. ‘So, go for it.’
And she wouldn’t be able to credit the kind of heart-searching that Cory was putting herself through.
But then Shelley had never had someone like Rob in her life, Cory reminded herself defensively. Had never known what it was like to suffer that level of betrayal. Never needed to armour herself against the chance of it happening again.
And yet, as Shelley had warned, Rob was in the past, and she couldn’t use him as an excuse to shelter behind for ever.
She had her own private fantasy that some day in the future she’d meet someone kind, decent and reliable, who would love her with quiet devotion, and that she’d make a happy life with him. It was up there with the house in the country and the log fires, she thought with self-derision.
But, in the meantime, until that day arrived, maybe she needed to be more relaxed about men in general, so that she’d be ready for the man of her dreams when he showed up.
And Rome d’Angelo would be excellent material for her to practise on. To remind her, just for a short time, what it was like to talk, laugh and even flirt a little.
Because that was precisely as far as it was going. Flirting was fun—and it was relatively safe, too, because it was conducted at a distance.
