Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
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.