A Spanish Vengeance. Diana Hamilton
wink before sashaying off to the bar.
How dared he? How could he? Lisa knew she was about to be horribly sick. But she mustn’t! Her fingers dug into Ben’s shoulders. The pain in her gut was unbearable. Think about something else.
Revenge.
Show him! Show him that she wasn’t a silly little girl with the smell of the schoolroom still lingering around her; that she wasn’t the type to cry for a month because she’d been conned by an expert.
He was now standing a scant three feet away, his beautiful eyes lightly hooded as he watched her. What was his intention? How did such guys operate? Would he tap her on the shoulder, wish her a pleasant flight tomorrow, then join his new prey at the bar?
Or would he simply ignore her?
Well, he wouldn’t ignore this—without giving herself time to think—her misery was too great to allow coherent thought—she lifted her hands, pulled Ben’s head down and kissed him as if she were auditioning for a part in a blue movie.
And while Ben was trying to recover, his face brick-red, she looked into Diego’s suddenly ferocious black eyes and lashed out, ‘Go away! You’re cramping my style!’ and watched him turn abruptly on his heel, his mouth hard, his shoulders rigid, as he walked over to his new woman. Lisa thrust her knuckles into her mouth and bit them. She wanted to run after him, take it all back, beg him to make everything all right again.
But she knew she couldn’t. The fairy tale romance was over, the ecstatic days when two hearts had seemed to beat as one had turned into a sordid nightmare.
She turned to Ben, her face white. ‘Take me home. He won’t be coming. I can explain. But not now. Take me home!’
CHAPTER TWO
SOMEONE was watching her. Lisa could actually and physically feel the dark power of unknown eyes on her. Nothing like the vaguely patronising glances she had endured all evening from the great and the good who were here in this glamorous setting to support and, far more importantly, be seen to support a fashionable charity.
She could feel the intensity of that look as it bored between her silk-clad shoulder blades. Feel the watchful, coldly cutting contempt.
It was unsettling, eerie.
A cold shiver flickered through her.
It was all in her imagination. It had to be!
Annoyed with herself, with the weariness that was making her prey to fanciful imagery, she did her best to dismiss it. She was overtired, that was all. It was obviously time to make tracks.
In her capacity as Sub for the Social Editor, as well as her own recently acquired title of Fashion Editor, she had noted the names and titles of those with the highest profiles and details of what the women were wearing. Neil, her snapper, had the shots. She’d dig him out from wherever he’d sloped off to and tell him to call it a day.
She was so tired her legs were having difficulty bearing her slight weight. If things at Lifestyle went on the way they were she’d find herself subbing for every department and working right round the clock eight days a week. Experienced editors were leaving in droves. Rats deserting the sinking ship, as her father said every time a letter of resignation landed on his desk.
The noise of high society at play had given her a pounding headache and she couldn’t wait to get back to the peace and quiet of her flat. Trouble was, she was a round peg in a square hole and knew it. Perhaps that was responsible for the manic sensation of despising eyes following her every movement. She was transposing her own inner feelings on to a non-existent entity.
Of course no one was watching her, despising her! Why on earth would they?
Slender in her understated black sheath dress, she straightened her wilting spine and headed for the lavish buffet. Found Neil, as she’d thought she would, scoffing canapés as if he hadn’t eaten for a fortnight.
‘I’m off,’ she said, shaking her head at his offer of wine. ‘We’ve got all we need.’ Though whether the tumbling circulation figures would be boosted by the feature in next month’s issue was highly debatable.
Neil’s brown eyes roamed her pale face. ‘You look bushed. You should find yourself a proper job!’ He abandoned the food in favour of a glass of red wine. ‘Hang on a sec and I’ll give you a lift home. I take it I’m invited to your engagement bash tomorrow night?’
‘Of course. The more the merrier.’ Lisa smiled then, her first genuine smile of the evening. A comforting warmth flooded through her, swamping out the unsettling sensation of being watched.
Dear Ben. She’d do her best to make him a good wife. No grand passion for either of them and that, they’d decided, was actually a bonus. There would be no ephemeral highs or debilitating lows in their relationship. They had discussed it, accepted it—embraced it, even. A safe marriage, a secure one, affection and respect on both sides was all either of them wanted. She didn’t know about Ben but she guessed he was too pragmatic to harbour strong emotions; and as for her, well, the events of five years ago had put her right off the concept of passionate love. She would never again feel so deeply about anyone as she once had for the Spaniard. Which was a blessing. The stronger the emotions, the greater the hurt.
Unnervingly, the feeling of being watched came back again with a vengeance. She hated it; it scared her. It swamped all those comforting thoughts of Ben and the life they planned together.
She was out of here, home to get some much needed rest before her imagination ran away with her completely! ‘I’ll pass on that lift.’ It was an effort to speak. ‘I’ll grab a taxi. See you.’
It was an even greater effort to turn. And impossible to stem her gasp of shock as she saw him. Cold black eyes watching her.
Just as she remembered him but with breath-snagging changes—a haughty elegance that made him seem older than his twenty-seven years, his dark, perfectly crafted suit adding to the intimidating effect, oozing the cool self-assurance of a man wholly at ease with himself.
The handsome features were arrogantly cold, the black eyes narrowed and intense as they raked the pallor of her face.
‘Diego!’ His name escaped her on a shaky huff of breath and everything inside her descended into chaos as he acknowledged her with a cool, dismissive dip of his dark head, turned on the heels of his immaculate, hand-crafted black leather shoes and walked away from her through the bejewelled, designer-clad chattering masses as if he didn’t care to sully himself by any verbal contact.
Sophie was sprawled out on the sitting room sofa in the shoe box flat they shared near Clapham Common, her attractive face suffused with an enviable inner radiance until she glanced up on Lisa’s arrival. ‘God, you look awful!’ She hauled herself into a sitting position. ‘What happened? Did Neil make another pass at you? Shall I phone Ben and get him to go round and slap him?’
Lisa’s mouth twitched. As usual, Sophie was completely OTT and she needed that to help her get the main event of the evening—seeing the man she had once believed to be the love of her life again—in proper perspective.
‘No, nothing like that, thank heavens!’ She lobbed her handbag to the floor and draped herself on to the armchair with the dodgy springs. ‘These high society charity bashes are a complete pain.’
‘Entirely your own fault,’ Sophie pointed out unsympathetically. ‘You should never have let yourself be talked into joining the staff. They tried to twist my arm too, remember, but I stuck out for my chosen career in physiotherapy.’
Lisa shrugged and kicked off her shoes. It was old history. She’d never got to university. On her return from Spain, joining her father in the service flat near the magazine’s head office, he’d asked her to re-think her future.
The publishing company was in difficulties. They were in the process of downsizing, selling off or closing down the stodgy middle-of-the-road titles, concentrating on the flagship Lifestyle. They