Sara Craven Tribute Collection. Sara Craven
what shall I call you?’ Arms folded behind his head, fingers laced, he regarded her. ‘Darling—my love—my sweet?’
She did not look at him. ‘No, thank you.’
‘You make things very difficult.’ He spoke softly, faint laughter in his voice. ‘Italian is such a beautiful language for making love.’
‘It’s also just a pretence,’ she said quietly. ‘When you’re not Italian.’
There was a silence, then, ‘Touché,’ he murmured. ‘Which I believe is French.’ He paused. ‘Does it matter so much—my not being Italian?’
‘It doesn’t matter at all. Except…’
‘Tell me.’
She smoothed the towelling robe over her thigh. ‘Except that I never seem to get to know you—know who you really are. Or what you want.’
Her voice lifted in a kind of appeal. She felt him hesitate, and waited.
But Rome’s eyes were hooded. He said lightly, ‘At the moment, my priority is dinner. Have you looked at the menu yet?’
‘Yes.’ Cory fought down her disappointment. Whenever she thought she was getting close to him, he retreated to a distance again. But why?
She cleared her throat. ‘I thought—the pâté, followed by the beef in red wine.’
‘That’s what I’m having.’ His voice was cool. ‘And as we’re clearly soulmates, you can stop wondering about me, mia bella—and worrying.’
But Cory, watching him rise lithely to his feet and cross the room to telephone their order, knew it could never be that simple.
Because instinct was telling her that knowledge could be dangerous. And that sometimes it was better—and safer to go on wondering…
He said, ‘Tell me about your grandmother.’
Dinner was over, and they were lingering over coffee. The food had been delicious, and, to Cory’s surprise, Rome had ordered a bottle of dark, velvety wine to accompany their meal.
As he’d filled their glasses, she’d said doubtfully, ‘Do you think that’s wise?’
‘You’d have preferred a Bordeaux?’
She’d said, ‘I was thinking about later…’ and had flushed when he’d raised his eyebrows and begun to laugh.
She’d said hurriedly, ‘I meant you shouldn’t drink and drive.’
‘I’m disappointed.’ He had still been grinning. ‘But I promise to stay well within the limit,’ he’d added softly. ‘On all counts.’
Which, Cory thought, smouldering, had been enough to kill anyone’s appetite stone dead.
Yet, strangely, she’d eaten every crumb of pâté, and done full justice to the rich and fragrant casserole. The wine, too, lingered on the palate.
Now, the table had been cleared by an efficient young waitress, and the tray of coffee she’d brought had been placed on the table by the fire.
Cory would have preferred to stay at the dining table, which had conferred a kind of much-needed formality to the proceedings.
She was listening all the time for the knock on the door which would announce the return of their clothing.
Her camisole and briefs had quickly dried on the bedroom radiator, and she was now wearing them again under her robe. They were only a fragile form of protection at best, but she felt better—safer with them on.
But she wouldn’t really relax until she had the rest of her things back.
All through dinner she’d been taking surreptitious glances at her watch as she marked the way time was passing all too quickly.
If they didn’t leave here soon, she thought, it might be too late…
Then mentally berated herself for being over-fanciful.
She had no real reason to feel threatened. Rome had been the perfect dinner companion, chatting with her on all kinds of topics, sounding out her opinions, even arguing lightly at times.
So far the conversation had been general. But now Rome’s question about Beth had moved it back to the personal again.
She moved restively. ‘My grandmother? Why do you want to know?’
‘Because the two of you were clearly close, and I’m interested.’ He paused. ‘Does it hurt you to talk about her?’
Cory’s smile was suddenly tender. ‘No, not really. She was just a lovely person—very gentle, and calm, and she and my grandfather adored each other. She told me once it was love at first sight—although when they met she was actually engaged to someone else.’
‘Who also, presumably, found her gentle and lovely.’ Rome grimaced. ‘It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow.’
‘Yes,’ Cory admitted. ‘But Gran had already realised they weren’t right for each other. She was going to break off the engagement anyway. Meeting Gramps was just the final impetus she needed.’
‘And what about you?’ Rome said. ‘Do you believe in love at first sight?’
She drank some coffee. She said, ‘I suppose there has to be a real initial attraction in any relationship. But on the whole I think love should build up from trust—friendship—respect.’
‘How very virtuous,’ he said softly. ‘And what about passion—desire—the touch of someone’s hand that tells you the world has changed for ever? Does that mean nothing?’ He paused. ‘Or is that what scares you?’
This, she thought, was what she’d been dreading from the first.
He didn’t have to put a hand on her. This line of questioning could strip her naked emotionally.
The atmosphere in the room seemed to have thickened suddenly—become electrically charged. The heat from the burning logs had become too intense. The brush of the towelling robe against her bare skin was almost more than she could endure.
She said, too vehemently, ‘I’m not scared.’ And wondered precisely whom she was trying to convince.
‘Then why won’t you look at me?’
Somehow, she made herself lift her head. Meet his gaze.
His mouth was smiling faintly, making her remember how it had felt on hers. His eyes were caressing her—pulling away the thick enveloping folds of the robe. Uncovering her, she thought dizzily, for his private delight.
He hadn’t laid a finger on her, but the mere possibility had the power to make her body moisten and melt. And he had to be aware of it. Had to know what he was doing to her…
And she had no defences. Technically, she wasn’t a virgin. Her brief time with Rob had dealt with that on a physical level. But sensually, and emotionally, she was untouched. And she knew it. As he must, too.
She said swiftly, huskily, ‘Don’t…’
‘Why not?’
She could think of a host of reasons, including all the high-flown phrases about respect and trust that she’d already trotted out.
But they all seemed unimportant against the burning reality of need. It was crude and it was violent, and it was tearing her apart. So that all she could do was stare at him wordlessly—and wait.
He said again, quietly, ‘Why not?’
And this time it was an affirmation of a decision already made. A pact that had been agreed.
The tap at the door was a jolt to her senses as sudden and shocking as a blow, so that she almost cried out.
Rome got to his feet and went