Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
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.
‘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 that 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.
She gave herself a long look in the mirror, noticing that there was a faint flush of colour in her cheeks now, and that her mouth glowed with the lustre she’d applied.
She’d brushed her hair until it shone, and it hung now in a soft cloud on her shoulders. As he’d stipulated, she thought, her mouth curling in self-mockery.
For a moment she recalled the swift brush of his hand as he removed the clip, and felt herself shiver with a kind of guilty pleasure.
As a gesture, it was pure cliché, of course, but still devastatingly effective. It had been several minutes before she’d been able to stop shaking, gather her scattered thoughts, and finish her shopping in something like normality.
So, that was something she definitely could not afford, she thought, biting her lip. To let him touch her again.
She got up and slipped off her robe. The simple flared woolen skirt she put on was the colour of ivory, and she topped it with a matching long-sleeved sweater in ribbed silk.
She checked the contents of her bag, flung a fringed chestnut-coloured wrap round her shoulders, and left.
It was only a five-minute walk to Alessandro’s, and she found her steps slowing as she approached, taking time out to look in the windows of the boutiques and antiques shops which lined the quiet street.
The last thing she wanted was to get there first, and let him find her waiting. She might as well have ‘needy’ tattooed across her forehead.
Of course, he might not be there at all, she realised, halting a few yards from the restaurant’s entrance. Perhaps he’d instantly regretted his impulsive proposition and decided to stand her up instead.
Which would be neither kind nor considerate, but would certainly solve a lot of problems.
She peered cautiously through the window, into the black glass and marble of the foyer bar. It was already crowded, yet she saw him at once.
He was leaning against the bar, and he wasn’t alone. He was smiling down into the upraised face of a dynamically pretty redhead in a minimalistic black dress and the kind of giddy high heels that Cory had never contemplated wearing in her life.
She was standing about as close to him as it was possible to get without being welded there, and one predatory scarlet-tipped hand was