Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
as she made for the wide central stairway.
She was two thirds of the way down, head bent, moving fast, when she suddenly felt her warning antennae switch to full alert, and glanced up, startled.
She saw him at once, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her.
Recognition was instant, sending her pulses into over-drive.
She felt her lips frame his name, then stiffened in sudden, almost violent negation. Because he couldn’t be here—he couldn’t be…
Her foot caught the moulded edge of the step, and she stumbled. As she fell, she grabbed at the rail and managed to check her headlong descent, but she couldn’t prevent herself sliding down the last half-dozen steps on her hip, and landing in an untidy huddle at his feet.
She lay for a moment, winded, hearing a buzz of comment, aware of shocked faces looking down at her. Of one face in particular, dark and coolly attractive, with vivid blue eyes fringed by long lashes, a high-bridged nose, and a mouth redeemed from harshness by the sensuous curve of its lower lip.
She realized too that he was kneeling beside her, and she was lying across his knees, his arm supporting her.
His voice was low and resonant with a faint accent she could not place.
‘Don’t try to move. Are you hurt?’
‘No.’ The denial was swift, almost fierce, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position. ‘I’m fine—really. It was just a stupid accident.’
She was going to have the mother of all bruises on her hip, but she’d deal with that tomorrow. At the moment, her main concern was getting out of the club with what little remained of her dignity.
But his hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to stay where she was.
‘Maybe I should take you to the nearest casualty room—get you checked over.’
‘There’s no need for that. No damage has been done.’ She hunched away from him. She felt dazed, her body tingling, but instinct told her that had more to do with his hand on her shoulder than the tumble she’d just taken.
‘Then perhaps you’d take me instead.’ His face was dead-pan, but there was a glint in those amazing eyes. ‘I’m not used to having girls fall at my feet, and shock can be dangerous.’
‘Oh, really?’ Cory glared at him as she hauled herself painfully upright. ‘Now, I’d say you’d spent your adult life stepping over recumbent women.’
Oh, God, she thought, appalled. What am I doing? I can’t believe I just said that.
His brows lifted. ‘Appearances,’ he said softly, ‘can be deceptive. Something I also need to remember,’ he added quietly as he, too, got to his feet.
Cory was almost glad to see one of the physiotherapists hurrying towards them. She answered his concerned questions, declined having her ankle examined, and agreed to fill out an accident report.
‘But later.’ Rome d’Angelo took her arm, and apparent control of the situation. ‘Now the lady needs something to drink.’
Cory hung back, trying not to wince. She was altogether more shaken than she’d realised, but the fall was only partly responsible.
Now she needed to get away before she made an even bigger fool of herself.
She said, controlling the quiver in her voice, ‘I’m really all right. There’s no need for you to concern yourself any more.’
‘But I am concerned,’ he said softly, as the crowd began to melt away. ‘You threw yourself, and I caught you. And I’m not prepared to put you down yet. So, are you going to walk to the coffee shop with me—or do I have to carry you?’
Cory heard herself say, ‘I’ll walk.’ And hardly recognised her own voice.
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,