Rome's Revenge. Sara Craven
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PRAISE FOR SARA CRAVEN:
“Sara Craven’s latest is laced with intense overtones as she weaves together explosive characters, emotional scenes and an intricate premise.”
—Romantic Times
“Sara Craven takes a simple love story and mixes in a little betrayal and deception to come up with a very good reading experience.”
—Romantic Times
“Sara Craven puts a nice twist to a fan-favorite plot, including snappy dialogue and an interesting conflict.”
—Romantic Times
Sara Craven loves to write about powerful heroes, sizzling sexual chemistry and vibrant women determined to tame their man! Turn the pages to enjoy a story of intense passion and seductive revenge….
SARA CRAVEN was born in South Devon, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, music, cooking and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset.
Sara Craven has recently become the latest (and last ever) winner of the British quiz show Mastermind.
Rome’s Revenge
Sara Craven
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
THE charity ball was already in full swing when he arrived.
Rome d’Angelo traversed the splendid marble foyer of the large Park Lane hotel and walked purposefully through the massive archway which led to the ballroom. A security man considered asking for his ticket, took a look at the dark, uncompromising face and decided against it.
Inside the ballroom, Rome halted, frowning a little at the noise of the music and the babble of laughter and chat which almost drowned it. In his mind’s eye he was seeing a hillside crowded with serried rows of vines, and a hawk hovering silently against a cloudless sky, all enshrouded in a silence that was almost tangible.
Coming here tonight was a mistake, and he knew it, but what choice did he have? he asked himself bitterly. He was gambling with his future, something he’d thought was behind him for ever. But of course he’d reckoned without his grandfather.
He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and moved without haste to the edge of the balcony, which overlooked the ballroom floor. If he was aware of the curious glances which pursued him, he ignored them. By this time he was used to attracting attention, not all of it welcome. He’d soon learned in adolescence the effect that his six-foot-three, lean, muscular body could generate.
At first he’d been embarrassed when women had eyed him quite openly, using his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped frame to fuel their private fantasies. Now he was simply amused, or, more often, bored.
But his attention tonight was focused on the several hundred people gyrating more or less in time with the music below him, his frowning gaze scanning them closely.
He saw the girl almost at once. She was standing at the edge of the dance floor, dressed in a silver sheath which lent no grace to a body that was on the thin side of slender and made her pale skin look tired and washed out. Like a shinny ghost, he thought critically. Yet she’d probably dieted herself into that condition, boasting about the single lettuce leaf she allowed herself for lunch.
Why the hell couldn’t she be a woman who at least looked like a woman? he wondered with distaste. And how was it, with all her money, no one had ever shown her how to dress?
For the rest, her shoulder-length light brown hair was cut in a feathered bob, and, apart from a wristwatch, she seemed to be wearing no jewellery, so she didn’t flaunt her family’s money.
She was very still, and quietly, almost fiercely alone, as if a chalk circle had been drawn round her which no one was permitted to cross. Yet he could not believe she was here unescorted.
The Ice Maiden indeed, he thought, his lips twisting with wry contempt, and definitely not his type.
He’d met them before, these girls who, cushioned by their family’s riches, could afford to stand aloof and treat the rest of the world with disdain.
And one of them he’d known well.
His frown returned.
It was a long time since he’d thought about Graziella. She belonged strictly to his past, yet she was suddenly back in his mind now.
Because, like the girl below him, she was someone who’d had it made from the day she was born. Who didn’t have to be beautiful or beguiling, which she was, or even civil, which she’d never been, because her place in life was preordained, and she didn’t have to try.
And that was why Cory Grant, in turn, could stand there, in her expensive, unbecoming gown, daring the world to keep its distance.
Dangerous things—dares, he thought, his firm mouth twisting.
Because the challenge implicit in every line of her rigid figure was making him wonder just what it would take to melt that frozen calm.
Then a slight movement focused his gaze more closely, and he realised that her hands were clenching and unclenching in the folds of the silver dress.
He thought, Ah—so there’s a chink in the lady’s armour, after all. Interesting.
And right on cue, as if she was suddenly conscious that she was being watched, she looked up at the balcony and her eyes met his.
Rome deliberately let his gaze hold hers for a long count of three, then he smiled, raised his champagne glass in a silent toast and drank to her.
Even across the space that separated them he could see the sudden burn of colour in her face, then she turned and walked away, heading for the archway which led to the cocktail bar.
If I was still gambling, he thought, what odds would I give that she’ll