Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
his grandfather.
He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and moved without haste to the edge of the balcony, which overlooked the ballroom floor. If he was aware of the curious glances which pursued him, he ignored them. By this time he was used to attracting attention, not all of it welcome. He’d soon learned in adolescence the effect that his six-foot-three, lean, muscular body could generate.
At first he’d been embarrassed when women had eyed him quite openly, using his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame to fuel their private fantasies. Now he was simply amused, or, more often, bored.
But his attention tonight was focused on the several hundred people gyrating more or less in time with the music below him, his frowning gaze scanning them closely.
He saw the girl almost at once. She was standing at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a silver sheath which lent no grace to a body that was on the thin side of slender and made her pale skin look tired and washed out. Like a shinny ghost, he thought critically. Yet she’d probably dieted herself into that condition, boasting about the single lettuce leaf she allowed herself for lunch.
Why the hell couldn’t she be a woman who at least looked like a woman? he wondered with distaste. And how was it, with all her money, no one had ever shown her how to dress?
For the rest, her shoulder-length light brown hair was cut in a feathered bob, and, apart from a wristwatch, she seemed to be wearing no jewellery, so she didn’t flaunt her family’s money.
She was very still, and quietly, almost fiercely alone, as if a chalk circle had been drawn round her which no one was permitted to cross. Yet he could not believe she was here unescorted.
The Ice Maiden indeed, he thought, his lips twisting with wry contempt, and definitely not his type.
He’d met them before, these girls who, cushioned by their family’s riches, could afford to stand aloof and treat the rest of the world with disdain.
And one of them he’d known well.
His frown returned.
It was a long time since he’d thought about Graziella. She belonged strictly to his past, yet she was suddenly back in his mind now.
Because, like the girl below him, she was someone who’d had it made from the day she was born. Who didn’t have to be beautiful or beguiling, which she was, or even civil, which she’d never been, because her place in life was preordained, and she didn’t have to try.
And that was why Cory Grant, in turn, could stand there, in her expensive, unbecoming gown, daring the world to keep its distance.
Dangerous things—dares, he thought, his firm mouth twisting.
Because the challenge implicit in every line of her rigid figure was making him wonder just what it would take to melt that frozen calm.
Then a slight movement focused his gaze more closely, and he realised that her hands were clenching and unclenching in the folds of the silver dress.
He thought, Ah—so there’s a chink in the lady’s armour, after all. Interesting.
And right on cue, as if she was suddenly conscious that she was being watched, she looked up at the balcony and her eyes met his.
Rome deliberately let his gaze hold hers for a long count of three, then he smiled, raised his champagne glass in a silent toast and drank to her.
Even across the space that separated them he could see the sudden burn of colour in her face, then she turned and walked away, heading for the archway which led to the cocktail bar.
If I was still gambling, he thought, what odds would I give that she’ll look round before she gets to the bar?
It seemed at first he’d have lost his money, but then, as she reached the entrance, he saw her hesitate and throw a swift glance over her shoulder, aimed at where he was standing.
The next second she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd inside the bar.
Rome grinned to himself, then drank the rest of his champagne, setting the empty glass down on the balustrade.
He took his mobile phone from the pocket of his tuxedo and dialled a number.
When his call was answered, he said, his voice cool and abrupt, ‘I’ve seen her. I’ll do it.’
He rang off, and went back the way he’d come, his long, lithe stride carrying him across the foyer and out into the chill darkness of the night.
Cory hadn’t wanted to come to the ball. And particularly she hadn’t wanted to come with Philip, who, she guessed, had been set up by her grandfather to bring her.
She thought, I really wish he wouldn’t do that, but her inner smile was tender. She knew that Arnold Grant only wanted the best for her. The problem was they’d never agree on what that ‘best’ was.
In Arnold’s view it was a husband, wealthy, steady and suitable, who would provide her with a splendid home and, in due course, babies.
For Cory it was a career, not even remotely connected with Grant Industries, and total independence.
Currently, she drew an over-generous salary as Arnold’s personal assistant, which meant that she organised his diary, made sure his domestic life ran smoothly, and acted as his hostess and companion at social events.
She felt a total fraud, knowing full well that all those activities could have fitted easily into her spare time, enabling her to do a job where she earned the money she was paid.
But Arnold insisted that he could not do without her, and had no hesitation in playing the old and frail card if he sensed she was near to rebellion.
Being allowed to move out of the big family house in Chelsea and rent a modest flat of her own had been a major concession it had taken her nearly a year of argument and cajolery to win.
‘How can you think of leaving?’ he’d protested pitifully. ‘You’re all I’ve got. I thought you’d be here with me for the few years I have left.’
‘Gramps, you’re a monster.’ Cory had hugged him. ‘You’re going to live for ever, and you know it.’
But although she no longer lived under his roof, he still felt he had carte blanche to meddle in her affairs.
And this evening was a case in point. He was a major contributor to the charity in question, and she was there to represent him, accompanied by a man who’d probably been blackmailed into bringing her.
Not, she decided, a pretty thought.
And so far it was all pretty much the disaster she’d expected. She and her escort had barely exchanged half a dozen words, and she’d seen the fleeting expression on his face when she’d emerged from the cloakroom.
You think this dress is bad? She’d wanted to say. You should have seen the ones I turned down. And I only bought it because I was running out of time and desperate, although I recognise a giant sack which also covered my face would have been a better choice.
But of course she’d said nothing of the kind. Just steadied her sinking heart and allowed him to take her into the ballroom.
And when Philip had dutifully asked her to dance with him she’d rewarded him by stepping on his foot. A painful process when your shoes were size sevens.
After which he’d hastily offered to get her a drink, and disappeared into the bar. That had been almost fifteen minutes ago, and it was more than time she went to look for him.
For all he knew, she thought, she could be lying on the floor, her face blackened and her tongue swollen with thirst.
She sighed under her breath. She always felt such a fool at these events. Such a fish out of water. For one thing, at five foot nine she was taller than most of the women. She was almost taller than Philip, which was another nail in the evening’s coffin. Thank God she’d worn low heels.
She