by Sara Craven
“Has it occurred to you that I might not find you attractive?”
“I retain this very vivid impression of how you felt in my arms—how you reacted,” Sam replied. “And it wasn’t repulsion, so don’t fool yourself.”
Ros bit her lip. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.”
“Excellent, because those defenses of yours are a big problem for anyone trying to get to know you—to become your friend.”
“Which is naturally what you want.” Her tone was sharply skeptical.
“Yes,” he said. “But it’s not all I want. Perhaps I want to discover everything there is to know—to explore you, heart, mind…and body.”
SARA CRAVEN was born in south Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, cooking, music and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset, England.
Sara Craven has appeared as a contestant on the British Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and is also the latest (and last ever) winner of the 1997 Mastermind of Great Britain championship.
Books by Sara Craven
HARLEQUIN PRESENTS®
1999—A NANNY FOR CHRISTMAS
2058—MARRIAGE UNDER SUSPICION
2077—IRRESISTIBLE TEMPTATION
2093—MARRIAGE AT A DISTANCE
2119—BARTALDI’S BRIDE
Sara Craven
MARRIAGE BY DECEPTION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
SHE was late. Ten minutes late.
Sam checked his watch, frowned, and poured some more mineral water into his glass.
Perhaps she’d chickened out altogether. Well, he thought with a mental shrug, he couldn’t entirely blame her. A list of the places he’d rather be tonight would run to several pages, plus footnotes.
He’d give her until eight-thirty, he decided abruptly, and if she hadn’t shown by then, he’d go home. After all, there were plenty of others on his schedule—and she hadn’t even been one of his choices for the short list either.
‘Lonely in London’, the ad in the Daily Clarion’s personal column had read. ‘Is there a girl out there who’s seriously interested in love and marriage? Could it be you?’ And a box number.
As bait, it was well-nigh irresistible, and the replies had flooded in.
He didn’t have a name for tonight’s lady. Her letter had merely been signed ‘Looking for Love’.
She’d been picked because she’d described herself as a beauty executive, and seemed younger than most of the others. And, he suspected, because her envelope bore a Chelsea postmark.
Which was why he was waiting here in the upmarket Marcellino’s, rather than some more ordinary trattoria or wine bar.
He glanced restlessly towards the door out of the restaurant, flinching inwardly as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall opposite. The cheap suit he was wearing was shining enthusiastically under the lights, his dark curling hair had been cut short and flattened on top with gel, so that it stuck out awkwardly at the sides, and gold-rimmed glasses adorned his nose.
I look, he thought, a total nerd—only not as good.
For a moment, the head waiter had hesitated over allowing him in. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes. It was something that had never happened to him before, and he would make damned sure it never happened again when all this was over, he vowed grimly. When his life eventually returned to normality.
If it ever did, he amended, his mouth tightening. If he ever managed to escape from this mess of his own creation.
As for his intended companion for the evening—if and when she turned up, she would probably take one look at him and run out screaming.
He drank some more mineral water, repressing a grimace. What he really needed was a large Scotch, or some other form of Dutch courage. But the rules of engagement for tonight were strict. And he needed all his wits about him.
He looked at his watch again. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, and then I’m out of here. And they can’t pass quickly enough.
Rosamund Craig sat tensely in the corner of her cab. They seemed to have moved about fifty yards in the past fifteen minutes, and now the traffic ahead was blocked solid yet again.
I should have set off earlier, she thought. Except that I had no intention of coming at all. There was no need. All I had to do was pick up the phone and it would all have been sorted. End of story.
Now, here I am in a crawling cab with a galloping meter, going to meet a complete stranger. The whole thing is crazy. I’m crazy.
And the dress she was wearing was part of the madness, she thought, furtively adjusting the brief Lycra skirt. Usually she avoided black, and trendy styles. Taupe was good—and beige—and grey in classic lines. Discreet elegance had always been her trademark. Not clinging mini-dresses and scarlet jackets.
And these heels on her strappy sandals were ridiculous too. She’d probably end the evening with a sprained ankle.
Although that could be the least of her problems, she reminded herself without pleasure. And the most sensible thing she could do would be to tell the driver to turn the taxi round and take her back for another blameless evening at home.
She was just leaning forward to speak to him when the cab set off again, with a lurch that sent her sprawling back, her skirt up round her thighs.
Her particular die would seem to be cast, she thought, righting herself hurriedly and pushing her light brown bobbed hair back from her face. And it would soon all be over, anyway. She was going to have a meal in a good restaurant, and at the end of it she would make an excuse and leave, making it tactfully clear that there would be no repeat performance.
Honour on both sides would be satisfied, she told herself as she pushed open the gleaming glass doors and entered the foyer of Marcellino’s.
A waiter came to meet her. ‘Signora has a reservation?’
‘I’m meeting someone,’ she told him. ‘A Mr Alexander.’
She could have sworn his jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly, handing her jacket to some lesser soul and conducting her across the black marble floor to the bar.
It was busy and for a moment Ros hesitated as heads turned briefly to appraise her, wondering which of them was her date.
‘The table in the corner, signora.’ The waiter’s voice sounded resigned.
Ros moved forward, aware of a chair being pushed back and a man’s figure rising to its feet.
Tall, she registered immediately, and dark. But—oh, God—far from handsome. That haircut, she thought numbly. Not to mention that dreadful suit. And those glasses, too. Hell’s teeth, what have I let myself in for?
She was strongly tempted to turn on her heel and walk away—except there was something about his stance—something wary, even defensive, as if he was prepared for that very reaction—that touched a sudden chord of sympathy inside her and kept her walking forward, squaring her shoulders and pinning on a smile.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘You must be Sam Alexander—“Lonely in London”.’
‘And you’re “Looking for Love”?’ He whistled, his firm-lipped mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You amaze me.’
Slowly, he picked up the single red rose that lay on the table beside
him and handed it to her. ‘My calling card.’
As she took the rose their fingers brushed, and she felt an odd frisson, as if she’d accidentally encountered some static electricity, and found to her own astonishment that she was blushing.
He indicated the chair opposite. ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss…?’
‘Craig,’ she said, after a momentary hesitation. ‘Janie Craig.’
‘Janie,’ he repeated thoughtfully, and his smile deepened. ‘This is a real pleasure.’
He might look like a geek but there was nothing wrong with his voice, she thought, surprised. It was cool and resonant, with a faint underlying drawl. And he had a surprisingly attractive smile too—charming, lazy and self-deprecating at the same time, and good teeth.
But his eyes, even masked by those goofy glasses, were the most amazing thing about him. They were a vivid blue-green colour—almost like turquoise.
I might have to revise my opinion, she thought. With contact lenses, a good barber and some decent clothes, he’d be very much more than presentable.
‘May I get you a drink?’ He pointed to his own glass. ‘I’m on designer water at the moment, but all that could change.’
She hesitated. She needed to keep a clear head, but a spritzer wouldn’t do that much harm. ‘Dry white wine with soda, please.’
‘A toast,’ he said, when her drink arrived, and touched his glass to hers. ‘To our better acquaintance.’
She murmured something in response, but it wasn’t in agreement. Sam Alexander wasn’t at all what she’d expected, and she found this disturbing.
He said, ‘You’re not what I’d anticipated,’ and she jumped. Was he some kind of mind-reader?
‘Really?’ she countered lightly. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad?’
‘All good,’ he said promptly, that smile of his curling along her nerve-endings again. ‘But I didn’t have too many preconceptions to work on. You were fairly cagey about yourself in our brief correspondence.’
She played nervously with the stem of her glass. ‘Actually, answering a personal ad is something of a novelty for me.’
‘So what attracted you to mine?’
That wasn’t fair, Ros thought, nearly spilling her drink. That was much too close to the jugular for this stage in the evening, and she wasn’t prepared for it.
‘It’s not easy to say,’ she hedged.
‘Try,’ he suggested.
She bit her lip. ‘You—you sounded as if you wanted a genuine relationship—something long-term with real emotion. Not just…’
‘Not just a one-night stand,’ he supplied, as she hesitated. ‘And you realised you wanted the same thing—commitment?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I—suppose so. Although I’m not sure I analysed it like that. It was more of an impulse.’
‘Impulses can be dangerous things.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘I’ll have to make sure you don’t regret yours.’
He let the words hang in the air between them for a moment, then handed her a menu. ‘And the next momentous decision is—what shall we have to eat?’
She felt as if she’d been let off some kind of hook, Ros realised dizzily, diving behind the leather-bound menu as if it was her personal shield.
There was clearly more to Sam ‘Lonely in London’ Alexander than met the eye. Which was just as well, recalling her first impression.
However, sitting only a couple of feet away from him, she’d begun to notice a few anomalies. Under that badly made suit he was wearing a shirt that said ‘Jermyn Street’, and a silk tie. And that was a seriously expensive watch on his wrist, too.
In fact, instinct told her there were all kinds of things about him that didn’t quite jell…
Perhaps he was an eccentric millionaire, looking for a latter-day Cinderella—or maybe she was letting her over-active imagination run away with her.
‘The seafood’s good here,’ he commented. ‘Do you like lobster?’
‘I love it.’ Ros’s brows lifted slightly when she noted the price.
‘Then we’ll have it,’ he said promptly. ‘With a mixed salad and a bottle of Montrachet. And some smoked salmon with pasta to start, perhaps?’
Definitely a millionaire, Ros thought, masking her amusement as she murmured agreement. Well, she was quite prepared to play Cinderella—although she planned to be gone long before midnight.
The bar had been all smoked glass and towering plants, but the dining room was discreetly opulent, the tables with their gleaming white linen and shining silverware screened from each other by tall polished wooden panels which imposed an immediate intimacy on the diners.
At the end of the room was a tiny raised platform, occupied tonight by a pretty red-haired girl playing popular classics on the harp.
As they were conducted to their table, Ros allowed herself a swift, sideways glance to complete her physical picture of her companion.
Broad-shouldered, she noted, lean-hipped, and long-legged. Attributes that disaster of a suit couldn’t hide. He moved confidently, too, like a man at home in his surroundings and his situation. That early diffidence seemed to have dissipated.
She’d come here tonight with the sole intention of letting him down lightly, yet now she seemed to be the one on the defensive, and she didn’t understand it.
As they were seated the waiter placed their drinks tenderly on the table, and laid the red rose beside Ros’s setting with the merest flick of an eyebrow.
To her annoyance, she realised she was blushing again.
She rushed into speech to cover her embarrassment. ‘This is lovely,’ she said, looking round her. ‘Do you come here often?’ She paused, wrinkling her nose in dismay. ‘God, I can’t believe I just said that.’
‘It’s a fair question.’ His grin was appreciative. ‘And the answer is—only on special occasions.’
Ros raised her eyebrows, trying to ignore the glint in the turquoise eyes. ‘I imagine you’ve had a great many of them lately.’
His look was quizzical. ‘In what way?’
‘Answers to your advertisement, of course.’ She carefully examined a fleck on her nail. ‘My—friend said you’d get sacks of mail.’
‘There’s been a fair response,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But not that many with the elements I’m looking for.’
‘So,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I slip through the net?’
‘Your letter intrigued me,’ he said softly. He sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve never actually met a “beauty executive” before. What exactly does it involve?’
Ros swallowed. ‘I—demonstrate the latest products,’ she said. ‘And work on stands at beauty shows. And I do cosmetic promotions in stores—offering free make-overs. That kind of thing.’
‘It sounds fascinating,’ Sam said, after a pause. He reached across the table and took her hand. Startled, she felt the warmth of his breath as he bent his head and inhaled the fragrance on her skin. ‘Is this the latest scent?’
‘Not—not really.’ Hurriedly, she snatched back her hand. ‘This one’s been out for a while. It’s Organza by Givenchy.’
‘It’s lovely,’ he told her quietly. ‘And it suits you.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, do you find your work fulfilling?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why else would I do it?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering.’ His gaze rested thoughtfully on her face. ‘I notice you don’t wear a lot of make-up yourself. I was half expecting purple hair and layers of false eyelashes.’
‘I look very different when I’m working. I hope you’re not disappointed,’ she added lightly.
‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘On the contrary…’
There was a silence which lengthened—simmered between them. Ros felt it touch her, like a hand stroking her bare flesh. Enclosing her like a golden web. A dangerous web that needed to be snapped before she was entangled beyond recall. A possibility she recognised for the first time, and which scared her.
She said, rather too brightly
, ‘Now it’s your turn. What do you do to earn a crust?’
He moved one of the knives in his place-setting. ‘Nothing nearly as exotic as you,’ he said. ‘I work with accounts. For a multinational organisation.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘You sound surprised.’
‘I am.’ And oddly disappointed too, she realised.
‘Why is that?’
‘Because you’re not like my—any of the accountants I’ve ever known,’ she corrected herself hastily.
‘Perhaps I should take that as a compliment,’ he murmured, the turquoise eyes studying her. ‘Have you known many?’
The dark-suited high-flier from the city firm to whom she submitted her annual income and expenditure records, she thought. And, of course, Colin, with whom she’d been going out for the past two years. And about whom she didn’t want to think too closely just now.
‘A couple.’ She shrugged. ‘In my work, you meet a lot of people.’
‘I’m sure you do.’ He paused. ‘But you’ve given me a whole new insight into accountancy and its needs. Maybe I should come to you for one of those make-overs.’
‘Perhaps you should.’ Involuntarily, she glanced at his hair. It was only a momentary thing, but he saw.
He said softly, lifting a hand to smooth the raw edges into submission, ‘I did it for a bet.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Ros stiffened, flushing slightly. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s really none of my business.’
‘If that was true,’ he said, ‘you’d be at home now, microwaving yesterday’s casserole. Instead of tasting this wonderful linguine,’ he added as their first course arrived.
Yesterday’s casserole would certainly have been the safer option, she thought ruefully, as she picked up her fork.
‘So, what I have to ask myself is—why are you here, Janie? What’s the plan?’
She nearly choked on her first mouthful. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Like the others, I answered your ad…’
‘That’s precisely what I don’t understand. Why someone like you—someone who’s attractive and clearly intelligent—should feel she has to resort to a lonely hearts column. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.’
