Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
you having me watched?’ he asked coldly.
‘That’s my business. I’ve made an investment in you, boy,’ Matt barked. ‘And I protect my investments.’ He paused. ‘You took her to dinner, I understand, and that’s good. But why haven’t you followed it up?’
‘Because I want her to ask herself that,’ Rome said levelly. ‘I want her to miss me.’
‘Or forget all about you,’ Matt said contemptuously. ‘You could lose all the ground you’ve won.’
‘You should have used the hired stud.’ Rome’s tone was short. ‘You’d have found him more amenable to orders. I do this my own way. That was the agreement.’
‘Then do it faster,’ his grandfather snapped. ‘This delay is costing me money. You’d better make some progress this weekend, or you’ll be hearing from me again.’
Rome replaced his receiver with a thud, his mouth grim. The temptation to tell Matt Sansom to go to hell was almost overwhelming.
But he couldn’t afford that—yet.
He had no plans to contact Cory until the middle of next week. He wanted her intrigued—seriously bewildered—and with her guard down.
He retrieved the hated dossier and glanced through it, wondering where she was and what she was doing. An item about the National Gallery caught his eye. It seemed to be one of her favourite weekend haunts, and instinct suggested that it might be the kind of place she’d choose if she was troubled about something. If…
When he actually found her there he expected to feel mildly elated that he’d been able to predict her movements—and her mood—with such accuracy. Instead, he felt winded—as if someone had punched him savagely in the gut. He found himself leaning against a doorframe, almost gasping for breath.
Even then he didn’t intend to approach her. He was, he told himself, just checking. And she had no idea he was there, watching her. So it would be easy to slip away.
Only to find himself walking across to her, as if impelled by some unseen force.
He didn’t mean to mention the Suffolk trip either. After all, it was just an idea, still in the planning stage. He was saving it for later, like the cherry on the cake. Proof of how caring he was, he derided himself.
So why had he suddenly found himself blurting it out? Almost hustling her out of the Gallery and to his car as if she might suddenly drift through his fingers and vanish?
He shook his head in exasperation.
He’d given way to a series of crazy impulses—and this was the result.
And then he’d compounded all previous errors by kissing her. And not the studied kiss he’d taken in the restaurant, which had been solely intended to rattle her. To teach her in one swift lesson how fragile that cool reserve of hers really was.
No, the truth was that he’d wanted to feel that soft mouth of hers trembling under his again. Had needed it with sudden desperation.
But he hadn’t anticipated her body’s shaken response—or that she’d—offer herself with such candour.
He still wasn’t sure where he’d found the strength to pull back. Perhaps some lurking shred of decency had reminded him that sex was not on offer. His decision. And that he’d be taking her under false pretences. Which she didn’t deserve.
He sighed impatiently—angrily.
Because, at the same time, a small hard voice in his head was telling him that he was a fool. That this was the perfect opportunity to fulfil his deal with Matt.
By dawn tomorrow, he thought cynically, he could persuade Cory to be his wife—or anything else he might ask of her.
And then he’d be done with his grandfather’s machinations and free to get on with his own life. Off the hook.
Which was what he wanted.
All that he wanted.
He tossed the towel aside and reached for his robe, tying the belt firmly round his lean waist.
And all he had to do, he told himself, was walk back into the next room and take it.
Because nothing could be too high a price to pay for Montedoro—could it?
He looked back in the mirror, but this time all he could see in his eyes was confusion.
Cursing under his breath, he switched off the light and went into the sitting room.
Cory was curled up in a corner of one of the sofas, a magazine open on her lap which she was reading with elaborate concentration.
On the table in front of her was a tray of tea, newly arrived.
Rome halted, his mouth twisting involuntarily. He said softly, ‘How very domestic.’
She looked up at him. Apart from a faint flush in her cheeks, she appeared totally composed.
She said sedately, ‘Except that I don’t know if you take milk and sugar.’
He stretched out on the opposite sofa, smiling at her. ‘Just milk, please. But I like my coffee black.’ He paused. ‘Do you think you’ll remember?’
Cory busied herself with the teapot. ‘I can just about manage that—for one evening.’
She put the cup where he could reach it. Poured her own tea. Made a studied return to her magazine.
The room was silent but for the splash of rain on the windows and the crackling of the logs in the fireplace. The warmth had dried her hair, turning it into a silken cloud round her face.
One strand drifted across her cheek and she pushed it back, knowing, in spite of herself, that the small gesture had not been lost on him. That he was reading her with the same close attention that she was paying her magazine. And probably learning far more.
He said, ‘I didn’t know you played golf.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Then why read a golfing magazine?’
‘I—I’m thinking of taking it up,’ she said defensively, and was immediately furious with herself for perpetrating such an obvious and ridiculous lie.
‘You’ve come to the right place,’ Rome said lazily. ‘When I was registering, the place started heaving with frustrated and very damp golfers, all forced off the links by the weather.’
She’d hoped to use the magazine as a barricade, but clearly that wasn’t going to work, so she tossed it aside.
She said, ‘When do you think our clothes will be returned?’
He shrugged. ‘What’s the hurry?’ He smiled again, his gaze tracing the open neckline of her robe. ‘I like you better the way you are.’
Cory bit her lip. ‘I don’t,’ she said shortly, resisting an impulse to draw the lapels closer and tighten her sash. ‘I’d prefer to be dressed and out of here.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Rome advised with a shrug. ‘I gather this is a hotel that prides itself on service. Our clothes will be brought back when they’re ready, and not a moment earlier.’
Cory studied him for a moment, frowning. ‘It’s odd,’ she said, ‘but sometimes you don’t sound Italian at all.’
‘There’s nothing strange about it,’ he said. ‘I was accidentally born there. But I doubt that I have any genuine Italian blood.’
She said, ‘But surely your mother…’
‘My mother was English,’ he said. ‘She quarrelled with her family and ran off to Europe, and she happened to be in Rome when I was born. That’s all.’
She said, ‘Oh.’
He grinned