“Has it occurred to you that I might not find you attractive?”

“I retain this very vivid impression of how you felt in my arms—how you reacted,” Sam replied. “And it wasn’t repulsion, so don’t fool yourself.”

Ros bit her lip. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“Excellent, because those defenses of yours are a big problem for anyone trying to get to know you—to become your friend.”

“Which is naturally what you want.” Her tone was sharply skeptical.

“Yes,” he said. “But it’s not all I want. Perhaps I want to discover everything there is to know—to explore you, heart, mind…and body.”

SARA CRAVEN was born in south Devon, England, 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 Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, cooking, music and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset, England.

Sara Craven has appeared as a contestant on the British Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and is also the latest (and last ever) winner of the 1997 Mastermind of Great Britain championship.

Marriage by Deception
Sara Craven

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

Endpage

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was late. Ten minutes late.

Sam checked his watch, frowned, and poured some more mineral water into his glass.

Perhaps she’d chickened out altogether. Well, he thought with a mental shrug, he couldn’t entirely blame her. A list of the places he’d rather be tonight would run to several pages, plus footnotes.

He’d give her until eight-thirty, he decided abruptly, and if she hadn’t shown by then, he’d go home. After all, there were plenty of others on his schedule—and she hadn’t even been one of his choices for the short list either.

‘Lonely in London’, the ad in the Daily Clarion’s personal column had read. ‘Is there a girl out there who’s seriously interested in love and marriage? Could it be you?’ And a box number.

As bait, it was well-nigh irresistible, and the replies had flooded in.

He didn’t have a name for tonight’s lady. Her letter had merely been signed ‘Looking for Love’.

She’d been picked because she’d described herself as a beauty executive, and seemed younger than most of the others. And, he suspected, because her envelope bore a Chelsea postmark.

Which was why he was waiting here in the upmarket Marcellino’s, rather than some more ordinary trattoria or wine bar.

He glanced restlessly towards the door out of the restaurant, flinching inwardly as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall opposite. The cheap suit he was wearing was shining enthusiastically under the lights, his dark curling hair had been cut short and flattened on top with gel, so that it stuck out awkwardly at the sides, and gold-rimmed glasses adorned his nose.

I look, he thought, a total nerd—only not as good.

For a moment, the head waiter had hesitated over allowing him in. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes. It was something that had never happened to him before, and he would make damned sure it never happened again when all this was over, he vowed grimly. When his life eventually returned to normality.

If it ever did, he amended, his mouth tightening. If he ever managed to escape from this mess of his own creation.

As for his intended companion for the evening—if and when she turned up, she would probably take one look at him and run out screaming.

He drank some more mineral water, repressing a grimace. What he really needed was a large Scotch, or some other form of Dutch courage. But the rules of engagement for tonight were strict. And he needed all his wits about him.

He looked at his watch again. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, and then I’m out of here. And they can’t pass quickly enough.

Rosamund Craig sat tensely in the corner of her cab. They seemed to have moved about fifty yards in the past fifteen minutes, and now the traffic ahead was blocked solid yet again.

I should have set off earlier, she thought. Except that I had no intention of coming at all. There was no need. All I had to do was pick up the phone and it would all have been sorted. End of story.

Now, here I am in a crawling cab with a galloping meter, going to meet a complete stranger. The whole thing is crazy. I’m crazy.

And the dress she was wearing was part of the madness, she thought, furtively adjusting the brief Lycra skirt. Usually she avoided black, and trendy styles. Taupe was good—and beige—and grey in classic lines. Discreet elegance had always been her trademark. Not clinging mini-dresses and scarlet jackets.

And these heels on her strappy sandals were ridiculous too. She’d probably end the evening with a sprained ankle.

Although that could be the least of her problems, she reminded herself without pleasure. And the most sensible thing she could do would be to tell the driver to turn the taxi round and take her back for another blameless evening at home.

She was just leaning forward to speak to him when the cab set off again, with a lurch that sent her sprawling back, her skirt up round her thighs.

Her particular die would seem to be cast, she thought, righting herself hurriedly and pushing her light brown bobbed hair back from her face. And it would soon all be over, anyway. She was going to have a meal in a good restaurant, and at the end of it she would make an excuse and leave, making it tactfully clear that there would be no repeat performance.

Honour on both sides would be satisfied, she told herself as she pushed open the gleaming glass doors and entered the foyer of Marcellino’s.

A waiter came to meet her. ‘Signora has a reservation?’

‘I’m meeting someone,’ she told him. ‘A Mr Alexander.’

She could have sworn his jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly, handing her jacket to some lesser soul and conducting her across the black marble floor to the bar.

It was busy and for a moment Ros hesitated as heads turned briefly to appraise her, wondering which of them was her date.

‘The table in the corner, signora.’ The waiter’s voice sounded resigned.

Ros moved forward, aware of a chair being pushed back and a man’s figure rising to its feet.

Tall, she registered immediately, and dark. But—oh, God—far from handsome. That haircut, she thought numbly. Not to mention that dreadful suit. And those glasses, too. Hell’s teeth, what have I let myself in for?

She was strongly tempted to turn on her heel and walk away—except there was something about his stance—something wary, even defensive, as if he was prepared for that very reaction—that touched a sudden chord of sympathy inside her and kept her walking forward, squaring her shoulders and pinning on a smile.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘You must be Sam Alexander—“Lonely in London”.’

‘And you’re “Looking for Love”?’ He whistled, his firm-lipped mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You amaze me.’

Slowly, he picked up the single red rose that lay on the table beside him and handed it to her. ‘My calling card.’

As she took the rose their fingers brushed, and she felt an odd frisson, as if she’d accidentally encountered some static electricity, and found to her own astonishment that she was blushing.

He indicated the chair opposite. ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss…?’

‘Craig,’ she said, after a momentary hesitation. ‘Janie Craig.’

‘Janie,’ he repeated thoughtfully, and his smile deepened. ‘This is a real pleasure.’

He might look like a geek but there was nothing wrong with his voice, she thought, surprised. It was cool and resonant, with a faint underlying drawl. And he had a surprisingly attractive smile too—charming, lazy and self-deprecating at the same time, and good teeth.

But his eyes, even masked by those goofy glasses, were the most amazing thing about him. They were a vivid blue-green colour—almost like turquoise.

I might have to revise my opinion, she thought. With contact lenses, a good barber and some decent clothes, he’d be very much more than presentable.

‘May I get you a drink?’ He pointed to his own glass. ‘I’m on designer water at the moment, but all that could change.’

She hesitated. She needed to keep a clear head, but a spritzer wouldn’t do that much harm. ‘Dry white wine with soda, please.’

‘A toast,’ he said, when her drink arrived, and touched his glass to hers. ‘To our better acquaintance.’

She murmured something in response, but it wasn’t in agreement. Sam Alexander wasn’t at all what she’d expected, and she found this disturbing.

He said, ‘You’re not what I’d anticipated,’ and she jumped. Was he some kind of mind-reader?

‘Really?’ she countered lightly. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad?’

‘All good,’ he said promptly, that smile of his curling along her nerve-endings again. ‘But I didn’t have too many preconceptions to work on. You were fairly cagey about yourself in our brief correspondence.’

She played nervously with the stem of her glass. ‘Actually, answering a personal ad is something of a novelty for me.’

‘So what attracted you to mine?’

That wasn’t fair, Ros thought, nearly spilling her drink. That was much too close to the jugular for this stage in the evening, and she wasn’t prepared for it.

‘It’s not easy to say,’ she hedged.

‘Try,’ he suggested.

She bit her lip. ‘You—you sounded as if you wanted a genuine relationship—something long-term with real emotion. Not just…’

‘Not just a one-night stand,’ he supplied, as she hesitated. ‘And you realised you wanted the same thing—commitment?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I—suppose so. Although I’m not sure I analysed it like that. It was more of an impulse.’

‘Impulses can be dangerous things.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘I’ll have to make sure you don’t regret yours.’

He let the words hang in the air between them for a moment, then handed her a menu. ‘And the next momentous decision is—what shall we have to eat?’

She felt as if she’d been let off some kind of hook, Ros realised dizzily, diving behind the leather-bound menu as if it was her personal shield.

There was clearly more to Sam ‘Lonely in London’ Alexander than met the eye. Which was just as well, recalling her first impression.

However, sitting only a couple of feet away from him, she’d begun to notice a few anomalies. Under that badly made suit he was wearing a shirt that said ‘Jermyn Street’, and a silk tie. And that was a seriously expensive watch on his wrist, too.

In fact, instinct told her there were all kinds of things about him that didn’t quite jell…

Perhaps he was an eccentric millionaire, looking for a latter-day Cinderella—or maybe she was letting her over-active imagination run away with her.

‘The seafood’s good here,’ he commented. ‘Do you like lobster?’

‘I love it.’ Ros’s brows lifted slightly when she noted the price.

‘Then we’ll have it,’ he said promptly. ‘With a mixed salad and a bottle of Montrachet. And some smoked salmon with pasta to start, perhaps?’

Definitely a millionaire, Ros thought, masking her amusement as she murmured agreement. Well, she was quite prepared to play Cinderella—although she planned to be gone long before midnight.

The bar had been all smoked glass and towering plants, but the dining room was discreetly opulent, the tables with their gleaming white linen and shining silverware screened from each other by tall polished wooden panels which imposed an immediate intimacy on the diners.

At the end of the room was a tiny raised platform, occupied tonight by a pretty red-haired girl playing popular classics on the harp.

As they were conducted to their table, Ros allowed herself a swift, sideways glance to complete her physical picture of her companion.

Broad-shouldered, she noted, lean-hipped, and long-legged. Attributes that disaster of a suit couldn’t hide. He moved confidently, too, like a man at home in his surroundings and his situation. That early diffidence seemed to have dissipated.

She’d come here tonight with the sole intention of letting him down lightly, yet now she seemed to be the one on the defensive, and she didn’t understand it.

As they were seated the waiter placed their drinks tenderly on the table, and laid the red rose beside Ros’s setting with the merest flick of an eyebrow.

To her annoyance, she realised she was blushing again.

She rushed into speech to cover her embarrassment. ‘This is lovely,’ she said, looking round her. ‘Do you come here often?’ She paused, wrinkling her nose in dismay. ‘God, I can’t believe I just said that.’

‘It’s a fair question.’ His grin was appreciative. ‘And the answer is—only on special occasions.’

Ros raised her eyebrows, trying to ignore the glint in the turquoise eyes. ‘I imagine you’ve had a great many of them lately.’

His look was quizzical. ‘In what way?’

‘Answers to your advertisement, of course.’ She carefully examined a fleck on her nail. ‘My—friend said you’d get sacks of mail.’

‘There’s been a fair response,’ he said, after a pause. ‘But not that many with the elements I’m looking for.’

‘So,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t I slip through the net?’

‘Your letter intrigued me,’ he said softly. He sat back in his chair. ‘I’ve never actually met a “beauty executive” before. What exactly does it involve?’

Ros swallowed. ‘I—demonstrate the latest products,’ she said. ‘And work on stands at beauty shows. And I do cosmetic promotions in stores—offering free make-overs. That kind of thing.’

‘It sounds fascinating,’ Sam said, after a pause. He reached across the table and took her hand. Startled, she felt the warmth of his breath as he bent his head and inhaled the fragrance on her skin. ‘Is this the latest scent?’

‘Not—not really.’ Hurriedly, she snatched back her hand. ‘This one’s been out for a while. It’s Organza by Givenchy.’

‘It’s lovely,’ he told her quietly. ‘And it suits you.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, do you find your work fulfilling?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why else would I do it?’

‘That’s what I’m wondering.’ His gaze rested thoughtfully on her face. ‘I notice you don’t wear a lot of make-up yourself. I was half expecting purple hair and layers of false eyelashes.’

‘I look very different when I’m working. I hope you’re not disappointed,’ she added lightly.

‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘On the contrary…’

There was a silence which lengthened—simmered between them. Ros felt it touch her, like a hand stroking her bare flesh. Enclosing her like a golden web. A dangerous web that needed to be snapped before she was entangled beyond recall. A possibility she recognised for the first time, and which scared her.

She said, rather too brightly, ‘Now it’s your turn. What do you do to earn a crust?’

He moved one of the knives in his place-setting. ‘Nothing nearly as exotic as you,’ he said. ‘I work with accounts. For a multinational organisation.’

‘Oh,’ she said.

‘You sound surprised.’

‘I am.’ And oddly disappointed too, she realised.

‘Why is that?’

‘Because you’re not like my—any of the accountants I’ve ever known,’ she corrected herself hastily.

‘Perhaps I should take that as a compliment,’ he murmured, the turquoise eyes studying her. ‘Have you known many?’

The dark-suited high-flier from the city firm to whom she submitted her annual income and expenditure records, she thought. And, of course, Colin, with whom she’d been going out for the past two years. And about whom she didn’t want to think too closely just now.

‘A couple.’ She shrugged. ‘In my work, you meet a lot of people.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ He paused. ‘But you’ve given me a whole new insight into accountancy and its needs. Maybe I should come to you for one of those make-overs.’

‘Perhaps you should.’ Involuntarily, she glanced at his hair. It was only a momentary thing, but he saw.

He said softly, lifting a hand to smooth the raw edges into submission, ‘I did it for a bet.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Ros stiffened, flushing slightly. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s really none of my business.’

‘If that was true,’ he said, ‘you’d be at home now, microwaving yesterday’s casserole. Instead of tasting this wonderful linguine,’ he added as their first course arrived.

Yesterday’s casserole would certainly have been the safer option, she thought ruefully, as she picked up her fork.

‘So, what I have to ask myself is—why are you here, Janie? What’s the plan?’

She nearly choked on her first mouthful. ‘I don’t know what you mean. Like the others, I answered your ad…’

‘That’s precisely what I don’t understand. Why someone like you—someone who’s attractive and clearly intelligent—should feel she has to resort to a lonely hearts column. It doesn’t make a lot of sense.’

‘It does if you spend a lot of your time in isolation,’ she said.

‘But your working day involves you with the public. And men go into department stores all the time.’

A stupid slip, Ros thought, biting her lip. She would have to be more careful.

She shrugged. ‘Yes, but generally they come to beauty counters to buy gifts for the women already in their lives,’ she returned coolly. ‘And when the store closes, like them, I go home.’

‘You live alone?’

‘No, with my sister—who has her own life.’ She put down her fork. ‘And I could ask you the same thing. You’re employed by a big company, and a lot of people meet their future partners at work, so why “Lonely in London”?’ She paused. ‘Especially when you seem to have such low expectations of the result.’

‘I’m sorry if I gave that impression.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Actually, I didn’t know what to expect. You being a case in point,’ he added with deliberation. ‘Your letter was—misleading.’

Her heart skipped a beat. She tried a laugh. ‘Because I don’t have purple hair?’

‘That’s only part of it. On paper, you sounded confident—even slightly reckless. But in reality I’d say you were quite shy. So how does that equate with being a super saleswoman?’

‘That’s a persona I leave behind with the make-up,’ she said. ‘Anyway, selling a product is rather different to selling oneself.’

‘You didn’t think it was necessary tonight?’ Sam forked up some linguine. ‘After all, you claimed in your letter to be “Looking for Love”, yet I don’t get that impression at all. You appear very self-contained.’

Ros kept her eyes fixed on her plate. How did I think I would ever get away with this? she wondered.

She said, ‘Perhaps I think it’s a little early to throw caution to the winds.’

‘So why take the risk in the first place?’

‘Maybe I should ask you the same thing. You were the one who placed the ad.’

‘I’ve been working abroad for a while,’ he said. ‘And when you come back you find the waters have closed over. Former friends have moved on. Your mates are in relationships, and three’s very definitely a crowd. Girls you were seeing are married—or planning to be.’ His mouth tightened. ‘In fact, everything’s—changed.’

Ah, Ros thought, with a sudden pang of sympathy. I get it. He’s been jilted. So, I did the right thing by coming here tonight.

‘I understand,’ she said more gently. ‘But do you still think a personal ad is the right route to take?’

‘I can’t answer that yet.’ His smile was twisted. ‘Let’s say the results so far have been mixed.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be.’ The turquoise eyes met hers with total directness, then descended without haste to her parted lips, and lower still to the curve of her breasts under the clinging black fabric. ‘Because tonight makes up for a great deal.’

She felt her skin warm, her whole body bloom under his lingering regard. Felt her heart thud, as if in sudden recognition—but of what?

And she heard herself say, in a voice which seemed to belong to someone much younger and infinitely more vulnerable, ‘You were right about the linguine. It’s terrific.’

In fact, the whole meal was truly memorable, progressing in a leisurely way through the succulent lobster, the crisp salad and cool fragrant wine, to the subtle froth of zabaglione.

Ros was glad to abandon herself to wholehearted enjoyment of the food, with the conversation mainly, and thankfully, restricted to its appreciation.

Much safer than the overly personal turn it had taken earlier, she told herself uneasily.

She’d expected to find tonight’s situation relatively simple to deal with. For a few hours she’d planned to be someone else. Only she hadn’t put enough effort into learning her part. Because Sam Alexander didn’t seem convinced by her performance. He was altogether far too perceptive for his own good—or hers.

And she was looking forward to the time, fast approaching now, when she could thank him nicely for her meal and leave, knowing she would never have to see him again.

And it had nothing to do with his awful hair, or the nerdy glasses, or his frankly contradictory taste in clothes. In fact, it was strange how little all those things, so unacceptable at first, had come to matter as the evening wore on.

And, in spite of them all, she still couldn’t figure him for a man who would have to look too hard for a woman. Not when there was a note in his voice and a look in those extraordinary blue-green eyes that made her whole body shiver, half in dread, half in excitement.

But I don’t want to be made to feel like that, she thought. Not by a complete stranger, anyway. Someone I’m not even sure I can trust…

‘Would you like a brandy with your coffee?’ Sam was asking. ‘Or a liqueur, maybe?’

‘Nothing, thanks.’ Ros glanced at her watch. ‘I really should be going home.’

‘Already?’ There was faint mockery in his tone as he checked the time for himself. ‘Scared you’re going to turn into a pumpkin?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But it’s getting late, and we both have to work tomorrow.’

And, more importantly, something was warning her to get out while the going was good, she realised.

‘You’re quite right, of course,’ he said slowly. His glance was speculative. ‘Yet we both have so much more to learn about each other. You don’t know my favourite colour. I haven’t asked you about your favourite film. All that sort of stuff.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We seemed to skip that part.’

‘We could always order some more coffee,’ he suggested quietly. ‘Fill in some of the gaps.’

She forced a smile. ‘I don’t think so. I really do have to run.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that.’ He was silent for a moment. Then, ‘So, where are you based at the moment, Janie? Which store?’

She swallowed, as another pit opened unexpectedly in front of her. ‘No—particular one,’ she said huskily. ‘I’m helping launch a new lipstick range—so I’m travelling round quite a bit.’ She forced a smile. ‘Variety being the spice of life.’

‘That’s what they say, of course.’ He leaned back in his chair, his face in shadow away from the candlelight. His voice was quiet, almost reflective. It engaged her, locking her disturbingly into the unexpected intimacy of the exchange.

‘But I’m not sure I agree,’ he went on. ‘I’d like to think that I could stop—running. Stop searching. That just one person—provided she was the right one—could give my life all the savour it needs.’

There was a tingling silence. Her throat seemed to close, and deep inside she was trembling, her whole body invaded by a languorous weakness. She wasn’t used to this blatantly physical reaction, and she didn’t like it. Didn’t need it.

Let this be a lesson to me never to interfere again in other people’s concerns, she thought, swallowing, as she called herself mentally to order. And now let me extricate myself from this entire situation with charming finality. And, hopefully, no hard feelings.

She gave a light laugh. ‘Well, I hope you find her soon.’ She pushed her chair back and rose, reaching for her bag. ‘And thank you for a—a very pleasant evening.’

‘I’m the one who’s grateful. You’ve given me a lot to think about,’ he returned courteously, as he got to his feet in turn. ‘It’s all been—most intriguing. Goodnight, Janie.’

‘Goodbye.’ She smiled determinedly, hoping he’d take the point. Politeness demanded that she offer her hand, too.

The clasp of his fingers round hers was firm and warm. Too firm, she realised, as she tried to release herself, and found instead that she was being drawn forward. And that he was bending towards her, his intention quite obvious.

She gasped, her body stiffening in immediate tension, and felt his mouth brush her parted lips, very slowly and very gently. Not threatening. Not even particularly demanding. Nothing that should cause that strange inner trembling again. But there it was, just the same, turning her limbs to water. Sending a ripple of yearning through her entire being. Just as if she’d never been kissed before. And as though she was being taught in one mind-numbing lesson where a kiss might lead.

When he raised his head, he was smiling faintly.

‘No,’ he said, half to himself. ‘Not what I was expecting at all.’

She said between her teeth, ‘Good. I’d hate to be predictable. Now, will you let me go, please?’

‘Reluctantly.’ His smile widened, but the turquoise gaze, boring into hers, was oddly serious. ‘And certainly not without something to remember me by.’

He picked up the dark red rose from the table and tucked it into the square neckline of her dress, sliding the slender, thornless stem down between her breasts.

Then he stepped back, looking at the effect he had created. Seeing how the crimson of the flower gleamed against the cream of her flesh.

And a muscle moved beside his mouth. Swiftly. Uncontrollably.

She felt her nipples swell and harden against the hug of the dress, and had to bite hard on her lower lip to dam back the small, urgent sound rising in her throat.

He said softly, ‘Janie—stay, please. You don’t have to leave.’

There was the hot, salty taste of blood in her mouth.

She said huskily, ‘Yes—yes, I do.’ And barely recognised her own voice.

Then she turned and walked quickly away, across the restaurant and into the foyer. Knowing as she did so that he was still standing there, silent and motionless, watching her go. And praying that he would not follow her.

CHAPTER TWO

ROS let herself into her house. Moving like a sleepwalker, she went into the sitting room and collapsed on to the sofa, because, as she recognised, her legs no longer wished to support her.

‘My God,’ she said, in a half-whisper. ‘What on earth did I think I was doing?’

Fortunately there’d been a cab just outside the restaurant, so she’d been able to make an immediate getaway.

Not that Sam Alexander had been anywhere in sight as she’d driven off, and she’d craned her neck until it ached to make certain.

But all the same she hadn’t felt safe until her own front door had closed behind her.

And, if she was honest, not even then. Not even now.

I should never have started this, she thought broodingly. I should have left well alone.

Because men like Sam Alexander could seriously damage your health. If you let them.

And it was useless to pretend she hadn’t been tempted. Just for a nano-second, perhaps, but no less potent for all that. Which had never been part of the plan.

Oh, God, the plan.

Unwillingly, her mind travelled back ten days, reminding her how it had all begun…

’Ros, just listen to this.’

As her stepsister hurtled into the room, waving a folded newspaper, Ros stifled a sigh and clicked ‘Save’ on the computer.

She said, ‘Janie, I’m working. Can’t it wait?’

‘Surely you can spare me five minutes.’ Janie operated the wounded look, accompanied by the pout, so familiar to her family. ‘After all, my future happiness is at stake here.’

Ros eyed her. ‘I thought all your happiness—past, present and future—was tied up in Martin.’

‘How can I have a relationship with someone who won’t commit?’ Janie demanded dramatically, flinging herself into the chintz-covered armchair by the window.

‘You’ve been seeing him for a month,’ Ros pointed out. ‘Isn’t that a little soon for a proposal of marriage?’

‘Not when it’s the right thing. But he’s just scared of involvement. So I’ve decided to stop being guided by my heart. It’s too risky. I’m going to approach my next relationship scientifically.’ She held up the newspaper. ‘With this.’

Ros frowned. ‘With the Clarion? I don’t follow…’

‘It’s their “Personal Touch” column,’ Janie said eagerly. ‘A whole page of people looking for love—like me.’

Ros’s heart sank like a stone. ‘Including a number of sad individuals on the hunt for some very different things,’ she said quietly. ‘Janie, you cannot be serious.’

‘Why not?’ Janie demanded defiantly. ‘Ros, I can’t wait for ever. I don’t want to go on living with our parents either. I want my own place—like you,’ she added, sweeping her surroundings with an envious glance. ‘Do you know how lucky you were, inheriting a house like this from Grandma Blake?’

‘Yes,’ Ros said quietly. ‘But, given the choice, I’d rather have Gran alive, well, and pottering in the garden. We were—close.’ She gave Janie a searching look. ‘You’re surely not planning to marry simply for a different roof over your head?’

‘No, of course not.’ Janie sounded shocked. ‘I really need to be married, Ros. It’s the crucial time for me. I wake up in the night, sometimes, and hear my biological clock ticking away.’

In spite of her concern, Ros’s face split into a grin as she contemplated her twenty-two-year-old stepsister. The tousled Meg Ryan-style blonde hair, the enormous blue eyes, and the slender figure shown off by a micro-skirt and cropped sweater hardly belonged to someone on the brink of decay.

Sometimes she felt thirty years older than Janie, rather than three.

‘Better your biological clock than a time bomb,’ she said caustically.

‘Well, listen to this.’ Janie peered at the paper. “‘High-flying, fun-loving executive, GSOH, seeks soulmate”. He doesn’t sound like a bomb.’ She frowned. ‘What’s a “GSOH”?’

‘A good sense of humour,’ Ros said. ‘And it usually means they haven’t one. And “fun-loving” sounds as if he likes throwing bread rolls and slipping whoopee cushions on your chair.’

‘Uh.’ Janie pulled a face. ‘How about this, then? “Lonely in London. Is there a girl out there who’s seriously interested in love and marriage? Could it be you?”’ Her face was suddenly dreamy. ‘He sounds—sweet, don’t you think?’

‘You don’t want to know what I think.’ Ros shook her head despairingly. “‘Lonely in London”? He’s been watching too many re-runs of Sleepless in Seattle.’

‘Well, you liked it.’

‘As a film, but not to be confused with real life.’ Ros paused. ‘Janie—call Martin. Tell him you don’t want to get married this week, this month or even next year. Let him make the running, and build on what you feel for each other. I’m sure things will work out.’

‘I’d rather die,’ Janie said dramatically. ‘I refuse to be humiliated.’

‘No, you’d rather run the gauntlet of a series of nohopers,’ Ros said bitterly. ‘You could be getting into a real minefield.’

‘Don’t fuss so. I know how the system works,’ Janie said impatiently. ‘You don’t give your address or telephone number in the preliminary contact, and you arrange to meet in a public place where there are going to be plenty of other people around. Easy-peasy.’ She nodded. ‘But you could be right about the “fun-loving executive”, so I’ll go for “Lonely in London”.’

‘Janie, this is such a bad idea…’

‘But lots of people meet through personal columns. That’s what they’re for. And I think it’s an exciting idea—two complete strangers embarking on a voyage of mutual discovery. You’re a romantic novelist. Doesn’t it turn you on?’

‘Not particularly,’ Ros said grimly. ‘On old maps they used to write “Here be Dragons” on uncharted waters.’

‘Well, you’re not putting me off.’ Janie bounced to her feet again. ‘I’m going to reply to this ad right now. And I bet he gets inundated with letters. Every single woman in London will be writing to him.’

At the door, she paused. ‘You know, the trouble with you, Ros, is that you’ve been seeing that bloody bore Colin for so long that you’ve become set in concrete—just like him. You should stop writing about romance and go out and find some. Get a life before it’s too late.’

And she was gone, banging the door behind her.

Ros, caught in the slipstream of her departure, realised that she was sitting with her mouth open, and closed it quickly.

She rarely, if ever, had the last word with Janie, she thought ruefully, but that had been a blow below the belt.

She knew, of course, that Colin treated Janie with heavy tolerance, which her stepsister repaid with astonished contempt, but Janie had never attacked him openly before.

But then Colin doesn’t approve of Janie staying here while Dad and Molly are away, she acknowledged, sighing.

He’d made it clear that their personal life had to be put on hold while she was in occupation.

‘I wouldn’t feel comfortable knowing that she was sleeping in the room opposite,’ he’d said, frowning.

Ros had stared at him. ‘Surely we don’t make that much noise?’

Colin had flushed slightly. ‘It’s not that. She’s young, and far too impressionable already. We should set her a good example.’

‘I’m sure she knows the facts of life,’ Ros had said drily. ‘She could probably give us some pointers.’

But Colin had not budged. ‘We’ve plenty of time to think about ourselves,’ he’d told her, dropping a kiss on her hair.

And that was how it had remained.

Suddenly restless, Ros got up from her desk and wandered across to the window, looking down at the tiny courtyard garden beneath, which was just beginning to peep into spring flower.

Her grandmother, Venetia Blake, had planted it all, making sure there were crocuses and narcissi to brighten the early months each year. She’d added the magnolia tree, too, and trained a passion flower along one wall. And in the summer there would be roses, and tubs of scented lavender.

Apart from pruning and weeding, there was little for Ros to do, but she enjoyed working there, and, although she was a practical girl, with no belief in ghosts, there were times when she felt that Venetia’s presence was near, and was comforted by it.

She wasn’t sure why she should need comfort. Her mother had been dead for five years when her father, David Craig, had met Molly, his second wife, herself a widow with a young daughter. Molly was attractive, cheerful and uncomplicated, and the transition had been remarkably painless. And Ros had never begrudged her father his new-found happiness. But inevitably she’d felt herself overshadowed by her new stepsister. Janie was both pretty and demanding, and, like most people who expect to be spoiled, she usually got her own way too.

For a moment Ros looked at her own reflection in the windowpanes, reviewing critically the smooth, light brown hair, and the hazel eyes set in a quiet pale-skinned face. The unremarkable sweater and skirt.

Beige hair, beige clothes, beige life, she thought with sudden impatience. Perhaps Janie was right.

Or perhaps she always felt vaguely unsettled when the younger girl was around.

Janie was only occupying Ros’s spare bedroom because their parents were off celebrating David Craig’s early retirement with a round-the-world trip of a lifetime.

‘You will look after her, won’t you, darling?’ Molly Craig had begged anxiously. ‘Stop her doing anything really silly?’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Ros had promised, but she had an uneasy feeling that Molly would regard responding to lonely hearts ads as rather more silly.

But what could she do? She was a writer, for heaven’s sake, not a nanny—or a minder. She needed her own space, and unbroken concentration for her work. Something Janie had never understood.

Ros had studied English at university, and had written her dissertation on aspects of popular fiction. As an exercise, she’d tried writing a romantic novel set at the time of the Norman Conquest, and, urged on by her tutor, had submitted the finished script to a literary agent. No one had been more surprised than herself when her book had sold to Mercury House and she’d found herself contracted to write two more, using her mother’s name, Rosamund Blake.

Her original plans for a teaching career had been shelved, and she’d settled down with enormous relish to the life of a successful novelist. She realised with hindsight it was what she’d been born for, and that she’d never have been truly happy doing anything else.

With the exception of marrying and raising a family, she hastily amended. But, unlike Janie, she was in no particular hurry.

And nor, it seemed, was Colin, although he talked about ‘one day’ quite a lot.

She’d met him two years ago at a neighbour’s drinks party, which he’d followed up with an invitation to dinner.

He was tall and fair, with a handsome, rather ruddy face, and an air of dependability. He lived in a self-contained flat at his parents’ house in Fulham, and worked for a large firm of accountants in the city, specialising in corporate taxation. In the summer he played cricket, and when winter came he switched to rugby, with the occasional game of squash.

He led, Ros thought, a very ordered life, and she had become part of that order. Which suited her very well, she told herself.

In any case, love was different for everyone. And she certainly didn’t want to be like Janie—swinging deliriously between bliss and despondency with every new man. Nor did she want to emulate one of her heroines and be swept off her feet by a handsome rogue, even if he did have a secret heart of gold. Fiction was one thing and real life quite another, and she had no intention of getting them mixed up.

Life with Colin would be safe and secure, she knew. He’d give her few anxieties, certainly, because he didn’t have the imagination for serious mischief…

She stopped dead, appalled at the disloyalty of the thought. Janie’s doing, no doubt, she decided grimly.

But, whatever her stepsister thought, she was contented. And not just contented, but happy. Very happy indeed, she told the beige reflection with a fierce nod of her head. After all, she had a perfect house, a perfect garden, and a settled relationship. What else could she possibly need?

She wondered, as she returned to her desk, why she’d needed to be quite so vehement about it all…

Usually she found it easy to lose herself in her work, but for once concentration was proving difficult. Her mind was buzzing, going off at all kinds of tangents, and eventually she switched off her computer and went downstairs to make herself some coffee.

Her study was on the top floor of her tall, narrow house in a terrace just off the Kings Road. The bedrooms and bathroom were on the floor below, with the ground floor occupied by her sitting room and dining area. The kitchen and another bathroom were in the basement.

On the way down, she looked in on Janie, but the room was deserted and there were a number of screwed-up balls of writing paper littering the carpet.

Ros retrieved one and smoothed it out. “‘Dear Lonely in London”,’ she read, with a groan. “‘I’m also alone, and waiting to meet the right person to make my life complete. Why don’t we get together and—”’ A violent dash, heavily scored into the paper, showed that Janie had run out of inspiration and patience at the same time.

Ros sighed as she continued on her way to the basement. She could only hope that ‘Lonely in London’ would indeed be swamped by replies, so that Janie’s would go unnoticed.

In the kitchen she found the debris of Janie’s own coffee-making, along with the remains of a hastily made sandwich and a note which read, ‘Gone to Pam’s’.

Ros’s lips tightened as she started clearing up. Pam was a former school buddy of Janie’s, and equally volatile. No wise counsels would be prevailing there.

Well, I can’t worry about it any more, she thought. My whole working day has been disrupted as it is.

Nor would she be able to work that evening, because she was going out to dinner with Colin. Which was something to look forward to, she reminded herself swiftly. So why did she suddenly feel so depressed?

‘Darling, is something the matter? You’ve hardly eaten a thing.’

Ros started guiltily, and put down the fork she’d been using to push a piece of meat round her plate.

‘I’m fine, really.’ She smiled with an effort. ‘Just not very hungry.’

‘Well, I know it couldn’t be the food,’ said Colin. ‘This must be the only place in London where you can still get decent, honest cooking at realistic prices.’

Ros stifled a sigh. Just for once, she mused, it might be nice to eat something wildly exotic at astronomical prices. But Colin didn’t like foreign food, or seafood, to which he was allergic, or garlic. Especially not garlic.

Which was why they came to this restaurant each week and had steak, sauté potatoes, and a green salad without dressing. Not forgetting a bottle of house red.

‘I hope you’re not dieting,’ he went on with mock severity. ‘You know I like a girl to have a healthy appetite.’

Whenever he said that, Ros thought, wincing, she had a vision of herself with bulging thighs and cheeks stuffed like a hamster’s.

‘Colin,’ she said suddenly. ‘Do you think I’m dull?’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’ He put down his knife and fork and stared at her. ‘I wouldn’t be here if I thought that.’

‘But if you saw me across a roomful of people would you come to me? Push them all aside to get to me because you couldn’t stay away?’

‘Well, naturally,’ he said uncomfortably. ‘You’re my angel. My one and only. You know that.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Ros bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry. I just have a lot on my mind at the moment.’

Colin snorted. ‘Don’t tell me. It’s that girl causing problems again, I suppose?’

‘She doesn’t mean to,’ Ros defended. ‘She’s just a bit thrown at the moment because she’s split with Martin and—’

‘Well, that’s a lucky escape for Martin.’ Colin gave a short laugh. ‘And I hope a lesson for Janie. Maybe she won’t rush headlong into her next relationship.’

‘On the contrary,’ Ros said, needled. ‘She spent the entire afternoon replying to an ad in the Clarion’s personal column. “Lonely in London”, he calls himself,’ she added.

‘She’s mad,’ Colin said. ‘Out of her tree. And what are you thinking of to allow it?’

‘She’s over twenty-one,’ Ros reminded him levelly. ‘How can I stop her? And it doesn’t have to be a disaster,’ she went on, Colin’s disapproval making her contrary for some reason. ‘A lot of people must find happiness through those ads, or there wouldn’t be so many of them.’

‘Dear God, Ros, pull yourself together. This isn’t one of your damned stupid books.’

His words died into a frozen silence. Ros put down her glass, aware that her hand was trembling.

She said quietly, ‘So that’s what you think of my work. I’d often wondered.’

‘Well, it’s hardly Booker Prize stuff, angel. You’ve said so yourself.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily mean I want to hear it from anyone else.’

‘Come on, Ros.’ He looked like a small boy who’d been slapped—something she’d always found endearing in the past. ‘It was just a slip of the tongue. I didn’t really mean it. Janie makes me so irritated…’

‘Oddly enough, she feels the same about you.’ Ros leaned back in her chair, giving him a steady look.

‘Indeed?’ he said stiffly. ‘I fail to see why.’

‘Well don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘From now on I’ll keep her vagaries strictly to myself.’

‘But I want you to feel you can confide in me,’ he protested. ‘I’m there for you, Ros. You know that.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m booked to go with the lads on a rugby tour next week, but I’ll cancel it if you want. If I can help with Janie.’

Ros smiled involuntarily. ‘I appreciate the sacrifice, but it isn’t necessary. I think the two of you are better apart. And the rugby tour will do you good.’

It will do us both good, was the secret, unbidden thought that came to her.

He looked faintly relieved, and handed her the dessert menu. ‘I suppose you’ll have your usual crème caramel?’

‘No,’ she said crisply. ‘Tonight I’m having the Amaretto soufflé with clotted cream.’

He laughed indulgently. ‘Living dangerously, darling?’

‘Yes,’ Ros said slowly. ‘I think maybe I will. From now on.’

‘Well, don’t change too much.’ He lowered his voice intimately. ‘Because I happen to think you’re perfect just as you are.’

‘How strange,’ she said. ‘Because I bore myself rigid.’

She smiled angelically into his astonished eyes. ‘I’d like brandy with my coffee tonight, please. And, Colin, make it a double.’

The days that followed were peaceful enough. Ros saw little of Janie, who was either working or at Pam’s house, but nothing more had been said about ‘Lonely in London’, so she could only hope that the younger girl had thought again.

Colin departed on his rugby tour, still expressing his concern, and promising to phone her each evening.

‘There’s really no need,’ she’d protested, a touch wearily. ‘We’re not joined at the hip.’

We’re not even engaged, the small, annoying voice in her head had added.

‘And I think we could both do with some space,’ she’d gone on carefully. ‘To help us get things into perspective.’

‘Good riddance,’ was Janie’s comment when she heard he’d departed. ‘So, while the cat’s away, is the mouse going to play?’

‘The mouse,’ Ros said drily, ‘is going to work. I’m behind schedule with the book.’

‘You mean you’re going to stay cooped up in that office all the time?’ Janie was incredulous.

‘It’s my coop, and I like it,’ Ros returned. ‘But I am going out later—to get my hair cut.’ She laughed at Janie’s disgusted look. ‘Face it, love. You’re the party girl, and I’m the sobering influence.’

Janie gave her a long, slow stare. ‘You mean if a genie came out of a bottle and granted you three wishes there’s nothing about your life you’d change?’ She shook her head. ‘That’s so sad. You should seize your opportunities—like me.’

‘By replying to dodgy newspaper ads, no doubt,’ Ros said acidly. ‘Have you had a reply yet?’

‘No,’ Janie said cheerfully. ‘But I will.’ She glanced at her watch and gasped. ‘Crumbs, I’m due in the West End in half an hour. I must fly.’ And she was gone, in a waft of expensive perfume.

Ros turned back to her computer screen, but found she was thinking about Janie’s three wishes rather than her story.

More disturbingly, she was questioning whether any of the wishes would relate to Colin.

A year ago I’d have had no doubts, she thought sombrely. And Colin is still practical, reliable and kind—all the things I liked when we met. And attractive too, she added, a mite defensively.

He hasn’t changed, she thought. It’s me. I feel as if there’s nothing more about him to learn. That there are no surprises left. And I didn’t even know I wanted to be surprised.

It was the same with the house, she realised, shocked. She hadn’t needed to do a thing to it. It looked and felt exactly the same as it had when Venetia Blake was alive, apart from some redecoration. But that had been her choice, she reminded herself.

She found herself remembering what the will had said. ‘To my beloved granddaughter, Rosamund, my house in Gilshaw Street, and its contents, in the hope that she will use them properly.’

I hope I’ve done so, she thought. I love the house, and the garden. So why do I feel so unsettled?

And why am I so thankful that Colin’s miles away in the north of England?

I’m lucky to have this house, she told herself fiercely. And lucky to have Colin, too. He’s a good man—a nice man. And I’m an ungrateful cow.

Janie bounced into the kitchen that evening, triumphantly waving a letter. ‘It’s “Lonely in London”,’ she said excitedly. ‘He wants to meet me.’

‘I didn’t know you’d had any mail today.’

‘Actually I used Pam’s address,’ Janie said airily. ‘Covering my tracks until I’ve checked him out. Good idea, eh?’

‘Wonderful,’ Ros said with heavy irony. ‘And here’s an even better one—put that letter straight in the bin.’

Janie tossed her head. ‘Nonsense. We’re getting together at Marcellino’s on Thursday evening and he’s going to be carrying a red rose. Isn’t that adorable?’

‘If you like a man who thinks in clichés,’ Ros returned coolly. She paused. ‘What about Martin?’

Janie shrugged. ‘He’s called on my mobile a couple of times. He wants us to meet.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That I was getting my life in place and wanted no distraction.’ Janie gave a cat-like smile. ‘He was hanging round outside the store tonight, but I dodged him.’

‘I just hope you know what you’re doing.’

‘I know exactly. Now all I have to do is write back to “Lonely in London” telling him I’ll see him at eight—and pick out what to wear. I’ve decided to go on being “Looking for Love” until we’ve had our date.’ She paused for breath, and took a long, surprised look at Ros. ‘Hey—what have you done to your hair?’

‘I said I was having it cut.’ Ros touched it self-consciously. But it hadn’t stopped at a trim. There’d been something about the way the stylist had said, ‘Your usual, Miss Craig?’ that had touched a nerve.

‘No,’ she’d said. ‘I’d like something totally different.’ And had emerged, dazed, two hours later, with her hair deftly layered and highlighted.

‘It’s really cool. I love it.’ Janie whistled admiringly. ‘There’s hope for you yet, Ros.’

She vanished upstairs, and Ros began peeling the vegetables for dinner with a heavy frown.

This is all bad news, she thought. Janie may be using an alias, but Pam’s address is real, and in an upmarket area. And I’m ready to bet that old ‘Lonely’ would prefer to target someone from the more exclusive parts of London.

This is not a game. It could have serious implications. But, apart from locking her in her room next Thursday, how can I stop her?

Janie threw herself headlong into the preparations for her blind date. She spent a lot of time at Pam’s, coming back to Gilshaw Street only to deposit large boutique carrier bags. When she was at home she was having long, whispered telephone conversations, punctuated by giggles.

There was another communication from the wretched ‘Lonely’, which Janie read aloud in triumph over breakfast. It seemed her letter had jumped out from the rest, and convinced him they had a lot in common.

A likely story, thought Ros, sinking her teeth into a slice of toast as if it was his throat.

But when Thursday came Janie’s shenanigans were not top of her list of priorities. She’d sent off the first few chapters of her book to her publisher, and had been asked to call at their offices to discuss ‘a few points’ with her editor.

She returned, stunned.

‘Frankly, it lacks spark,’ Vivien had told her. ‘I want you to rethink the whole thing. I’ve got some detailed notes for you, and a report from a colleague as well. As you see, she thinks the relationship between the hero and heroine is too low-key—too humdrum, even domesticated. Whereas a Rosamund Blake should have adventure, glamour—total romance.’ She had gestured broadly, almost sweeping a pile of paperbacks on to the floor.

‘You mean it’s—dull?’ The word had almost choked Ros.

‘Yes, but you can change that. Get rid of the sedate note that’s crept in somehow.’

‘Maybe because I’m sedate myself. Stuck in a rut of my own making,’ Ros had said with sudden bitterness, and the other woman had looked at her meditatively.

‘When’s the last time you went on a date, Ros? And I don’t mean with Colin. When’s the last time you took a risk—created your own adventure in reality and not just on the page?’

Ros had forced a smile. ‘You sound like my sister. And I doubt if I’d recognise an adventure even if it leapt out at me, waving a flag. But I’ll look at the script again and let you have my thoughts.’

She let herself into the house and climbed the stairs to her study, carrying the despised manuscript.

Everything Vivien had said had crystallised her own uneasiness about the pattern of her life.

What the hell had happened to the eager graduate who’d thought the world was her oyster? she wondered despairingly. Has the beige part of me taken over completely?

The first thing she saw was the letter in Janie’s impetuous scrawl, propped against her computer screen.

Darling Ros,

It’s worked. I knew if I gave Martin the cold shoulder he’d soon come round, and he was waiting outside the house this morning to propose. I’m so HAPPY. We’re getting married in September, and we’re going down to Dorset so that I can meet his family. I’ll E-mail the parents when I get back.

By the way, will you do me a big favour? Please call Marcellino’s and tell ‘Lonely in London’ I won’t be there. I’ve enclosed his last letter, giving his real name. You’re a sweetie.

Love…

“‘By the way”, indeed,’ Ros muttered wrathfully. ‘She has some nerve. Why can’t she do her own dirty work?’

She supposed she should be rejoicing, but in truth she felt Janie had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. She’s too young to be marrying anyone, she thought.

Reluctantly, she unfolded the other sheet of paper and scanned the few lines it contained.

Dear Looking for Love,

I’m very much looking forward to meeting you, and seeing if my image of you fits. I wish you’d trust me with your given name, but perhaps it’s best to wait.

‘Perhaps’ is right, Ros thought. Yet his handwriting was better than she’d anticipated. He used black ink, and broad strokes of the pen, giving a forceful, incisive impression. And he’d signed it ‘Sam Alexander’.

She wished he hadn’t. She’d had no sympathy for ‘Lonely in London’, but now he had an identity, and that altered things in some inscrutable way. Because suddenly real feelings, real emotions were involved.

And tonight a real man will be turning up with his red rose, she realised, only to be told by the head waiter that he’s been dumped. And he’ll have to walk out, perfectly aware that everyone knows what’s happened. And that they’re probably laughing at him.

Supposing he’s genuine, she thought restlessly. He’s advertised for sincerity and commitment, and wound up with Janie playing games instead. And maybe—just maybe—he deserves better.

She still wasn’t sure when she made the conscious decision to go in Janie’s place. But somehow she found herself in her stepsister’s room, rooting through her wardrobe, until she found the little black dress and the shoes and thought, Why not?

There were all kinds of reasons ‘why not’. And she was still arguing with herself when she walked down the steps and hailed the cab…

Now, sitting on her sofa, the black shoes kicked off, she castigated herself bitterly for her stupidity. She’d prophesied disaster—and it had almost happened. But to herself, not Janie.

She shook her head in disbelief. How could someone who looked like that—who dressed like that—possibly have got under her skin—and in so short a time, too?

Because sexual charisma had nothing to do with surface appearance—that was how.

And Sam Alexander was vibrantly, seductively male. In fact, he was lethal.

He also had good bone structure, and a fine body—lean, hard and muscular.

And she knew how it had felt, touching hers, for that brief and tantalising moment. Recalled the sensuous brush of his mouth on her lips.

For an instant she allowed herself to remember—to wonder… Before, shocked, she dragged herself back from the edge.

She shivered convulsively, wrapping her arms round her body, and felt the sudden pressure of the rose stem against her breast.

She tore it out of her dress and dropped it on the coffee table as if it was contaminated.

‘You’re not the adventurous type,’ she said grimly. ‘Back to the real world, Rosamund.’

On her way to the stairs she passed the answer-machine, winking furiously.

‘Ros?’ Colin’s voice sounded querulous. ‘Where on earth are you? Pick up the phone if you’re there.’

For a second she hesitated then gently pressed the ‘Delete’ button.

And went on her way upstairs to bed.

CHAPTER THREE

SAM stood watching Janie’s slim, black-clad figure retreat. He was aware of an overwhelming impulse to go after her—to say or do something that would stop her vanishing.

But you blew that when you kissed her, you bloody idiot, he told himself savagely as he resumed his seat, signalling to the waiter to bring more coffee.

He still couldn’t understand why he’d done it. She wasn’t even his type, for God’s sake. And he’d broken a major rule, too.

But he’d wanted to do something to crack that cool, lady-like demeanour she’d been showing him all evening, he thought with exasperation, and find out what she was really like. Because he was damned sure the past two hours had told him nothing. That this particular encounter had bombed.

He’d had it too easy up to then, he thought broodingly. The others had been more than ready to tell him everything he wanted to know after just the gentlest of probing.

That was what loneliness did to you, he told himself without satisfaction. It made you vulnerable to even the most cursory interest.

But not Janie Craig, however. She’d simply returned the ball to his feet. And, unlike the others, she hadn’t given the impression that the evening mattered. Less still that she hoped it would lead somewhere.

But perhaps there was something he could salvage from the wreck. Something that would enable him to finish with this assignment and do some real work again.

If he was ever allowed to.

His mouth twisted bitterly. Six weeks ago he’d been lying in the back of a Jeep, covered in stinking blankets and protected by cartons of food and medical supplies, escaping from a Central African republic and the government troops who’d objected to his coverage of their civil war.

He’d come back to London, exhausted and sickened by what he’d had to see and report on, but secure in the knowledge of a job well done, knowing that his dispatches from Mzruba had made front-page news, under his photograph and by-line, day after day in the Echo. Expecting his due reward in the shape of the foreign news editorship that he’d been promised before he went.

His editor Alec Norton had taken one look at him and ordered him away on extended leave.

‘Somewhere quiet, boy,’ he’d rumbled, and tossed a card across the desk. ‘This is a place that Mary and I use up in the Yorkshire Dales—the Rowcliffe Inn—soft beds, good food, and peace. I recommend it. Put yourself back together, and then we’ll talk.’

Sam had gone up to Rowcliffe, a cluster of grey stone houses around a church, and walked and eaten and slept until the nightmares had begun to recede. The weather had been mixed—all four seasons in one day sometimes—but the cold, clean air had driven the stench of blood, disease and death out of his lungs.

He’d explored the two antique shops that Rowcliffe boasted, eaten home-made curd tart in the small tea-rooms, and visited the surprisingly up-to-date print works of the local paper, the Rowcliffe Examiner. He’d been beginning to wonder how he could ever tear himself away when a message had come for him from a friend on the Echo newsdesk via the hotel’s fax. ‘Houston, we have a problem.’

One telephone call later, his career had lain in ruins about him. Because Alex Norton was in hospital, recovering from a heart attack, and the Echo had a new editor—a woman called Cilla Godwin, whom Sam himself had once christened Godzilla.

She was far from unattractive. In her early forties, she had a cloud of mahogany-coloured hair, a full-lipped mouth, and a head-turning figure. Sam’s nickname referred to her reputation as an arch-predator, cutting a swathe of destruction through one newspaper office after another, inflicting change where it wasn’t needed, and getting rid of those who disagreed with her policies.

He’d no doubt she knew about her nickname, and who’d devised it. When it came to backstabbing, the newsroom at the Echo made the Borgias look like amateurs.

But he’d committed a far worse sin than that. During her stint as the Echo’s Features Editor she’d made a heavy pass at Sam, after an office party, and he’d turned her down. He’d tried to be gentle—to let her walk away with her pride intact—but she hadn’t been fooled, and he’d seen her eyes turn hard and cold, like pebbles, and known he had an enemy.

And now she was the Echo’s boss, with the power to hire and fire.

He’d come back to London to find his foreign news job had been given to someone with half his experience, and that he was on ‘temporary reassignment’ to Features, which was about the most humiliating demotion he could have envisaged. Cilla had told him herself, relishing every moment of it. She had never been magnanimous in victory.

It was virtual dismissal, of course. She planned to make his life such a misery that he’d be glad to resign. But Sam had no intention of playing her game. He had company shares, and belonged to the joint profit scheme, all of which he would forfeit if he simply walked out.

When he left, he meant to have another job to go to and a negotiated settlement with the Echo. Nothing less would do.

‘Lonely in London’ had been all her own idea, of course. It was to be, she’d told him, her eyes glinting with malice, ‘an in-depth investigation of the women who replied to the personal columns’.

Sam had looked back blankly at her. ‘It’s hardly a new idea,’ he’d objected.

‘Then it’s up to you to make it new,’ she said sharply. ‘We want real human interest material—tear-jerking stuff. You’ll have to get close to them—explore their hopes, their dreams, even their fantasies.’

Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. They’ve put themselves on the line already by replying. They won’t want to discuss their reasons with a journalist.’

Cilla sighed. ‘You don’t get it, do you? As far as these women are concerned you’re the real thing. A man searching for real love. You’ll get them to trust you—and you’ll get them to talk.’

Sam said quietly, ‘You have to be joking.’

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