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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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

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 look round before she gets to the bar?

It seemed at first he’d have lost his money, but then, as she reached the entrance, he saw her hesitate and throw a swift glance over her shoulder, aimed at where he was standing.

The next second she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd inside the bar.

Rome grinned to himself, then drank the rest of his champagne, setting the empty glass down on the balustrade.

He took his mobile phone from the pocket of his tuxedo and dialled a number.

When his call was answered, he said, his voice cool and abrupt, ‘I’ve seen her. I’ll do it.’

He rang off, and went back the way he’d come, his long, lithe stride carrying him across the foyer and out into the chill darkness of the night.

Cory hadn’t wanted to come to the ball. And particularly she hadn’t wanted to come with Philip, who, she guessed, had been set up by her grandfather to bring her.

She thought, I really wish he wouldn’t do that, but her inner smile was tender. She knew that Arnold Grant only wanted the best for her. The problem was they’d never agree on what that ‘best’ was.

In Arnold’s view it was a husband, wealthy, steady and suitable, who would provide her with a splendid home and, in due course, babies.

For Cory it was a career, not even remotely connected with Grant Industries, and total independence.

Currently, she drew an over-generous salary as Arnold’s personal assistant, which meant that she organised his diary, made sure his domestic life ran smoothly, and acted as his hostess and companion at social events.

She felt a total fraud, knowing full well that all those activities could have fitted easily into her spare time, enabling her to do a job where she earned the money she was paid.

But Arnold insisted that he could not do without her, and had no hesitation in playing the old and frail card if he sensed she was near to rebellion.

Being allowed to move out of the big family house in Chelsea and rent a modest flat of her own had been a major concession it had taken her nearly a year of argument and cajolery to win.

‘How can you think of leaving?’ he’d protested pitifully. ‘You’re all I’ve got. I thought you’d be here with me for the few years I have left.’

‘Gramps, you’re a monster.’ Cory had hugged him. ‘You’re going to live for ever, and you know it.’

But although she no longer lived under his roof, he still felt he had carte blanche to meddle in her affairs.

And this evening was a case in point. He was a major contributor to the charity in question, and she was there to represent him, accompanied by a man who’d probably been blackmailed into bringing her.

Not, she decided, a pretty thought.

And so far it was all pretty much the disaster she’d expected. She and her escort had barely exchanged half a dozen words, and she’d seen the fleeting expression on his face when she’d emerged from the cloakroom.

You think this dress is bad? She’d wanted to say. You should have seen the ones I turned down. And I only bought it because I was running out of time and desperate, although I recognise a giant sack which also covered my face would have been a better choice.

But of course she’d said nothing of the kind. Just steadied her sinking heart and allowed him to take her into the ballroom.

And when Philip had dutifully asked her to dance with him she’d rewarded him by stepping on his foot. A painful process when your shoes were size sevens.

After which he’d hastily offered to get her a drink, and disappeared into the bar. That had been almost fifteen minutes ago, and it was more than time she went to look for him.

For all he knew, she thought, she could be lying on the floor, her face blackened and her tongue swollen with thirst.

She sighed under her breath. She always felt such a fool at these events. Such a fish out of water. For one thing, at five foot nine she was taller than most of the women. She was almost taller than Philip, which was another nail in the evening’s coffin. Thank God she’d worn low heels.

She was a lousy dancer, too, she acknowledged with detachment. She had no natural rhythm—or even basic co-ordination, if it came to that. If she could find no one else’s feet, she would fall over her own instead.

And she could usually manage a maximum of two minutes’ bright social chatter, before her brain went numb and her pinned-on smile began to hurt.

At this moment she could only think how much she’d rather be at home, curled up with a book and a glass of good wine.

But now she really ought to move, before people thought she’d been actually glued to the spot, and make an attempt to find her unfortunate escort.

Maybe she could plead a sudden migraine and let him off the hook altogether, she thought.

She wasn’t sure when she first became aware that someone was watching her.

Probably wondering if it was just the dress, or whether she’d genuinely been turned into a pillar of salt, she thought, glancing indifferently upwards.

And paused, conscious that her heart had given a sudden, unexpected lurch.

Because this was not the sort of man to give her even a passing look under normal circumstances.

And as their eyes met, some warning antenna began to send out frantic messages, screaming Danger.

He was immaculately dressed in conventional evening clothes, but a bandanna around his unruly mane of curling dark hair and a black patch over one eye would have suited him better.

Although that was utter nonsense, she castigated herself. He was probably a perfectly respectable lawyer or accountant. Certainly no buccaneer could afford the arm and leg tonight’s tickets had cost.

And it was time she stopped goggling like an idiot and beat a dignified retreat.

But, before she could move, he smiled and lifted the glass he was holding in a silent toast.

Cory could feel one of the agonising blushes that were the bane of her life travelling up from her toes.

All she had to do was turn her head and she would find the real recipient of all this attention standing behind her, she thought. Someone blonde and gorgeous, who knew how to wear clothes and probably how to take them off as well. Someone who could make a remark about the weather sound like an explicit sexual invitation.

I’m just in the way, she told herself.

But there was no one standing behind her. There was herself. And he was looking at her, and only her, smiling, as if he was watching. Waiting for her to do something.

Cory felt a sudden drop of sweat slide between her breasts like ice on her heated skin. Was aware of a swift flurry in her breathing.

Because she wanted to go to him. She wanted almost desperately to walk across the ballroom and up those wide marble stairs to where he was standing.

But, even more potently, she wanted him to come to her instead, and the swift, unexpected violence of that need jolted her out of her unwelcome trance and back to reality.

She thought, My God—this is crazy. And, more determinedly, I’ve got to get out of here—now…

She wheeled, and walked swiftly towards the cocktail bar and the errant Philip.

She risked a quick look over her shoulder and realised with mingled alarm and excitement that he was still there, still watching her, and still smiling.

My God, she thought again shakily. Philip might not be very exciting, or even marginally attentive, but at least he doesn’t look like a pirate on his night off.

She looked round the crowded bar and eventually spotted him, sitting at a corner table with a bunch of his cronies, and roaring with laughter.

It was paranoid to think she might be the subject of the joke. Indeed, all the evidence suggested that he’d completely forgotten about her.

So—I’m paranoid, she thought with a small mental shrug. But once bitten…

At the bar, she asked for a white wine spritzer, and was just about to take her first sip when someone touched her shoulder.

She started violently, sending half the contents of her glass sloshing over the hated silver dress, and turned, half in hope, half in dread.

‘Cory?’ It was Shelley Bennet, an old schoolfriend, who now worked full time for the charity. ‘I’ve been looking all over the place for you. I’d begun to think you’d chickened out.’

Cory sighed, mopping at herself with a minute lace hanky. ‘No such luck. Gramps was adamant.’

‘But surely you haven’t come on your own?’ Shelley’s frown was concerned.

‘My partner’s over there, taking a well-deserved break,’ Cory said drily. ‘I may have broken his toe.’ She hesitated. ‘Shelley, when you were in the ballroom just now, did you notice a man?’

‘Dozens,’ Shelley said promptly. ‘They tended to be dancing with women in long frocks. Strange behaviour at a ball, don’t you think?’

‘Well, this one seemed to be on his own. And he didn’t look as if dancing was a major priority.’

Ravishment, maybe, she thought, and looting, with a spot of pillage thrown in.

Shelley’s eyes glinted. ‘You interest me strangely. Where did you see him?’

‘He was up on the balcony.’ Cory gave a slight frown. ‘Usually you know exactly who’s going to be at this kind of occasion, yet he was a total stranger. I’ve never seen him before.’

‘Well, he seems to have made quite an impression,’ Shelley said with affectionate amusement. ‘You look marginally human for a change, my lamb, rather than as if you’d been carved out of stone.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Cory said with dignity.

Shelley’s eyes danced. ‘How much to look down the guest list and supply you with a name, if not a phone number?’

‘It’s not like that,’ Cory protested. ‘It’s just such a novelty to see a new face at these things.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Shelley gave her a shrewd look. ‘Was it a nice new face?’

‘No, I can’t say that. Not nice, precisely.’ Cory shook her head. Not ‘nice’ at all. ‘But—interesting.’

‘In that case I shall definitely be reviewing the guest list.’ Shelley slipped an arm through her friend’s. ‘Come on, love. Point him out to me.’

But the tall stranger had vanished. And, but for the empty champagne glass on the balustrade in front of where he’d been standing, Cory would have decided he was simply a figment of her imagination.

‘Snapped up by some predatory woman, I expect,’ Shelley said with a sigh. ‘Unless he took a good look at the evening’s entertainment potential and decided that charity begins at home.’

Actually, he was taking a good look at me, Cory thought, rather forlornly. And probably writing me off as some sad, needy reject.

Aloud, she said briskly, ‘Not a bad idea, either.’

She hailed a lurking waiter, and wrote a brief note of excuse to Philip on his order pad. ‘Would you see that Mr Hamilton gets this, please? He’s at the corner table in the cocktail bar.’

Shelley regarded her darkly. ‘Are you running out on me, too—friend?’

‘’Fraid so,’ Cory told her cheerfully. ‘I’ve put in an appearance, so my duty’s done and Gramps will be mollified.’

‘Until the next time,’ Shelley added drily. She paused. ‘And what about your escort?’

‘He’s done his duty, too.’ Cory smiled reassuringly. ‘And I’d hate to have to fight off a token pass on the way home.’

‘Maybe it wouldn’t be token,’ said Shelley. She was silent for a moment. ‘Love, you aren’t still tied up over that prat Rob, are you? You haven’t let him ruin things for anyone else you might meet?’

‘I never give him a thought,’ Cory said, resisting an impulse to cross her fingers. ‘And even if I believed in Mr Right, I can tell you now that Philip doesn’t measure up.’

Shelley’s eyes gleamed. ‘Then why not opt for some good, unclean fun with Mr Wrong?’

For a brief moment Cory remembered a raised glass, and a slanting smile, and felt her heart thump all over again.

She said lightly, ‘Not really my scene. The single life is safer.’

Shelley sighed. ‘If not positively dull. Well, go home, if you must. I’ll ring you tomorrow and we’ll fix up supper and a movie. The new Nicolas Cage looks good.’

‘I had no real objection to the old Nicholas Cage,’ said Cory. She gave Shelley a brief kiss on the cheek, and went.

The cab driver was the uncommunicative sort, which suited Cory perfectly.

She sat in the corner of the seat, feeling the tensions of the evening slowly seeping away.

She needed to be much firmer with Gramps, she told herself. Stop him arranging these dates from hell for her. Because she’d laughed off Philip’s bad manners, and ducked the situation, that didn’t mean she hadn’t found the whole thing hurtful.

He’d left her standing around looking stupid, and vulnerable to patronage by some stranger who thought he was Mr Charm.

A hanging offence in more enlightened times, she told herself, as she paid off the cab and went into her building.

One disadvantage of living alone was having no one to discuss the evening with, she thought wryly, as she hung her coat in the wardrobe.

She could always telephone her mother, currently pursuing merry widowhood in Miami, but she’d probably find Sonia absorbed in her daily bridge game. And Gramps would only want to hear that she’d had a good time, so she’d have to fabricate something before she saw him next.

Maybe I’ll get a cat, she thought. The final affirmation of spinsterhood. Which at twenty-three was ridiculous.

Perhaps I should change my name to Tina, she thought. There Is No Alternative.

She carefully removed the silver dress, and placed it over a chair. She’d have it cleaned, she decided, and send it to tonight’s charity’s second-hand shop. It would do more good there than it had while she’d been wearing it. Or had it really been wearing her?

Moot point, she thought, reaching for her moss-green velvet robe. And paused…

She rarely looked at herself in the mirror, except when she washed her face or brushed her hair, but now she found she was subjecting herself to a prolonged and critical scrutiny.

The silver-grey silk and lace undies she wore concealed very little from her searching gaze, so no false comfort there.

Her breasts were high and firm, but too small, she thought disparagingly. Everywhere else she was as flat as a board. At least her legs were long, but there were deep hollows at the base of her neck, and her shoulderblades could slice bread.

No wonder her blonde, glamorous mother, whose finely honed figure was unashamedly female, had tended to view her as if she’d given birth to a giraffe.

I’m just like Dad and Gramps, she acknowledged with a sigh. And if I’d only been a boy I’d have been glad of it.

She put on her robe and zipped it up, welcoming its warm embrace.

She dabbed cleanser on to her face, and tissued away the small amount of make-up which was all she ever wore. A touch of shadow on her lids, a glow of pink or coral on her soft mouth, and a coat of brown mascara to emphasise the curling length of the lashes that shaded her hazel eyes. Her cheekbones required no accenting.

From the neck up she wasn’t too bad, she thought judiciously. It was a shame she couldn’t float round as a disembodied head.

But she couldn’t understand why she was going in for this kind of personal assessment anyway. Unless it was Shelley’s reference to Rob, and all the unhappy memories his name still had the power to evoke.

Which is really stupid, she thought quickly. I should put it behind me. Move on. Isn’t that what we’re always being told?

But some things weren’t so easy to leave behind.

She went across her living room into her small galley-kitchen and poured milk into a pan, setting it on the hob to heat. Hot chocolate was what she needed. Comfort in a mug. Not a stony trip down memory lane.

When her drink was ready, she lit the gas fire and curled up in her big armchair, her hands cupped round the beaker, her gaze fixed on the small blue flames leaping above the mock coals.

One day, she thought, she’d have a huge log fire in a hearth big enough to roast an ox.

In fact, if she wanted, she could have one next week. One word to Gramps, and mansions with suitable fireplaces would be laid open for her inspection.

Only, she didn’t want.

She’d found out quite early in life that as the sole heiress to the Grant building empire the word was hers for the asking. That her grandfather was ready to gratify any whim she expressed. Which was why she’d learned to guard every word, and ask for as little as possible.

And this flat, with its one bedroom and tiny bathroom, was quite adequate for her present needs, she thought, looking round her with quiet satisfaction.

The property company who owned it had raised no objection to her getting rid of the elderly fitted carpets and having the floorboards sanded and polished to a gleaming honey shine.

She’d painted the walls a deep rich cream, and bought a big, comfortable sofa and matching chair covered in a corded olive-green fabric.

She’d made a dining area, with a round, glass-topped table supported by a cream pedestal and a pair of slender high-backed chairs, and created an office space with a neat corner desk which she’d assembled herself from a pack during one long, fraught evening, and which held her laptop, her phone and a fax machine.

Not that she worked at home a great deal. She’d been determined from the first that the flat would be her sanctuary, and that she would leave Grant Industries behind each time she closed her door.

Although she could never really be free of it for long, she acknowledged with a smothered sigh.

But she used her home computer mainly to follow share dealings on the Internet—an interest she’d acquired during her time with Rob, and the only one to survive their traumatic break-up. A hobby, she thought, that she could pursue alone.

It had never been her parents’ intention for her to be an only child. Cory had been born two years after their marriage, and it had been expected that other babies would follow in due course.

But there had seemed no real hurry. Ian and Sonia Grant had liked to live in the fast lane, and their partying had been legendary. Sonia had been a professional tennis player in her single days, and Ian’s passion, apart from his wife and baby, had been rally driving.

Sonia had been playing in an invitation tournament in California when a burst tyre had caused Ian’s car to spin off a forest road and crash, killing him instantly.

Sonia had tried to assuage her grief by re-embarking on the tennis circuit, and for a few years Cory had travelled with her mother in a regime of constantly changing nannies and hotel suites.

Arnold Grant had finally intervened, insisting that the little girl come back to Britain to be educated and live a more settled life, and Cory’s childhood had then been divided between her grandparents’ large house in Chelsea and their Suffolk home, which she’d much preferred.

Sonia had eventually remarried, her second husband being American industrialist Morton Traske, and after his death from a heart attack she’d taken up permanent residence in Florida.

Cory had an open invitation to join her, but her mother’s country-club lifestyle had never held any appeal for her. And she suspected that Sonia, who was determinedly keeping the years at bay, found her a secret embarrassment anyway.

Their relationship was affectionate, but detached, and Cory found herself regarding Sonia very much as a wayward older sister. Most of the mothering in her life had been supplied by her grandmother.

Beth Grant had been a serenely beautiful woman, confident in the love of her husband and family. The loss of her son had clouded her hazel eyes and added lines of sadness to the corners of her mouth, but she had given herself whole-heartedly to the rearing of his small daughter, and Cory had worshipped her.

However, it hadn’t taken long for Cory to realise there was another shadow over her grandmother’s happiness, or to understand its nature.

The feud, she thought wearily. The damn feud. Still alive even after all these years.

It had been the only time she’d known her grandparents to quarrel. Seen tears of anger in Beth Grant’s eyes and heard her voice raised in protest.

‘This can’t go on,’ she’d railed. ‘It’s monstrous—farcical. You’re like children, scoring off each other. Except it’s more dangerous than that. For God’s sake, stop it—stop it now…’

Her grandfather’s answering rumble had been fierce. ‘He started it, Bethy, and you know it. So tell him to give it up. Tell him to stop trying to destroy me. To undermine my business—overthrow my companies.’

Arnold Grant had smiled grimly. ‘Because it hasn’t worked, and it never will. Because I won’t allow it. Anything he does to me will be done back to him. And he’ll be the one to call a truce in the end—not me.’

‘The end?’ his wife had echoed bitterly. ‘What kind of truce can there be when you’re trying to annihilate each other?’

She’d suddenly seen Cory, standing in the doorway, and had hustled her away, chiding gently.

‘Gran,’ Cory had asked that night, when Beth had come to tuck her into bed, ‘who’s Matt Sansom?’

‘Someone who doesn’t matter,’ Beth had said firmly. ‘Not to me, and, I hope, never to you. Now, go to sleep, and forget all about it.’

Wise counsel, Cory thought, grimacing, but sadly impossible to follow. And, since her grandmother’s death six years before, the enmity between the two men seemed even more entrenched and relentless.

Only last week her grandfather had been gloating because he’d been able to filch a prime piece of real estate which Sansom Industries had been negotiating for from under their very noses.

‘But you don’t even want that site,’ Cory had protested. ‘What will you do with it?’

‘Sell it back to the bastards,’ Arnold had returned with a grim smile. ‘Through some intermediary. And at a fat profit. And there isn’t a damned thing that old devil can do about it. Because he needs it. He’s already deeply committed to the project.’

‘So he’ll be looking for revenge?’ Cory had asked drily.

Arnold had sat back in his chair. ‘He can try,’ he’d said with satisfaction. ‘But I’ll be waiting for him.’

And so it went on, Cory thought wearily. Move and counter-move. One dirty trick answered by another. And who could say what damage was being done to their respective multi-million empires while these two ruthless old men pursued their endless, pointless vendetta? It was a chilling thought, but maybe they wouldn’t be content until one of them had been the death of the other.

And then there wouldn’t be anyone to carry on this senseless feuding.

Cory herself had always steadfastly refused to get involved, and Matt Sansom’s only heir was the unmarried daughter who kept house for him. There’d been a younger daughter, too, but she’d walked out over thirty years ago and completely disappeared. Rumour said that Matt Sansom had never allowed her name to be mentioned again, and in this case, Cory thought wryly, rumour was probably right.

Her grandfather’s enemy was a powerful hater.

She shivered suddenly, and got up from her chair.

In her bedroom, she tossed her robe on to a chair and unhooked her bra. And paused as she glimpsed herself in the mirror, half naked in the shadows of the lamplit room.

She thought with amazement, But that’s what he was doing—the man on the balcony—undressing me with his eyes. Looking at me as if I was bare…

And felt, with shock, her nipples harden, and her body clench in a swift excitement that she could neither control nor pardon…

For a moment she stood motionless, then with a little cry she snatched up her white cotton nightdress and dragged it over her head.

She said aloud, her voice firm and cool, ‘He’s a stranger, Cory. You’ll never see him again. And, anyway, didn’t you learn your lesson with Rob—you pathetic, gullible idiot? Now, go to bed and sleep.’

But that was easier said than done. Because when she closed her eyes, the dark stranger was there waiting for her, pursuing her through one brief disturbing dream to the next.

And when she woke in the early dawn there were tears on her face.

CHAPTER TWO

ROME walked into his suite and slammed the door behind him.

For a moment he leaned back against its solid panels, eyes closed, while he silently called himself every bad name he knew in English, before switching to Italian and starting again.

But the word that cropped up most often was ‘fool’.

The whisky he’d ordered earlier had been sent up, he noted with grim pleasure. He crossed to the side table, pouring a generous measure into a cut-glass tumbler and adding a splash of spring water.

He opened the big sliding doors and moved out on to the narrow terrace, staring with unseeing eyes over the city as he swallowed some of the excellent single malt in his glass. He put up a hand to his throat, impatiently tugging his black tie loose, ignoring the dank autumnal chill in the air.

He said quietly, almost conversationally, ‘I should never have come here.’

But then what choice did he have, when the Italian banks, once so helpful, had shrugged regretful shoulders and declined to loan him the money he needed to revitalise his vines and restore the crumbling house that overlooked them?

And for that, he thought bitterly, he had Graziella to thank. She’d sworn she’d make him sorry, and she’d succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.

He’d intended his trip to London to be a flying visit, and totally private. He’d planned to stay just long enough to negotiate the loan he needed, then leave immediately, without advertising his presence.

But he’d underestimated his grandfather, and the effectiveness of his information network, he realised, his mouth twisting wryly.

He’d barely checked in to his hotel before the summons had come. And couched in terms he hadn’t been able to refuse.

But he couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. His mother had been quite explicit.

‘Sooner or later he’ll want to meet you, and you should go to him because you’re his only grandchild. But don’t accept any favours from him, caro, because there’s always a payback. Always.’

Yet he still hadn’t seen the trap that had been baited for him.

He’d been caught off guard, of course. Because Matthew Sansom had come to him first. Had simply appeared one day at Montedoro right out of the blue.

Rome had been shaken to find himself staring at an older version of himself. The mane of hair was white, and the blue eyes were faded, but the likeness was undeniable, and not lost on Matt Sansom either.

The shaggy brows had drawn together in a swift glare of disbelief, then he’d recovered. ‘So—you’re Sarah’s bastard.’

Rome inclined his head. ‘And you’re the man who tried to stop me being born,’ he countered.

There was a smouldering silence, then a short bark of laughter. ‘Yes,’ said Matt Sansom. ‘But perhaps that was a mistake.’

He swung round and looked down over the terraces of vines. ‘So this is where my daughter spent her last years.’ He sounded angry, almost contemptuous, but there was a note of something like regret there, too.

He stayed two nights at Montedoro, touring the vigneto and asking shrewd questions about its operation, and paying a visit to the local churchyard where Sarah was buried beside her husband, Steve d’Angelo.

‘You have his name,’ Matt said abruptly as they drove back to the villa. ‘Was he your father?’

‘No, he adopted me.’

The pale eyes glittered at Rome. ‘Card-sharp, wasn’t he?’

‘He was a professional gambler.’ Rome was becoming accustomed to his grandfather’s abrasive style of questioning. ‘He was also a brilliant, instinctive card player, who competed for high stakes and usually won.’

‘And you followed in his footsteps for a while?’

Rome shrugged. ‘I’d watched him since I was a boy. He taught me a lot. But my heart was never in it, as his was.’

‘But you won?’

‘Yes.’

Matt peered through the window of the limousine with a critical air. ‘Your stepfather didn’t invest much of his own winnings in the family estate.’

‘It came to Steve on the death of his cousin. He’d never expected to inherit, and it was already run down.’

‘And now you’ve taken it on.’ That bark of laughter again. ‘Maybe you’re more of a gambler than you think, boy.’ He paused. ‘Did your mother ever speak about your real father?’

‘No,’ Rome said levelly. ‘Never. I got the impression it wasn’t important to her.’

‘Not important?’ The growl was like distant thunder. ‘She brings disgrace on herself and her family, and it doesn’t matter?’

Just for a moment Rome caught a glimpse of the harsh, unforgiving tyrant his mother had run away from.

‘She was young,’ he said, his own voice steely. ‘She made a mistake. She didn’t have to do penance for the rest of her life.’

Matt grunted, and relapsed into a brooding silence.

That was the only real conversation they’d had on personal subjects, Rome recalled. They’d seemed to tacitly agree there were too many no-go areas.

His grandfather had sampled the wine from Rome’s first few vintages with the appreciation of a connoisseur, drawing him out on the subject, getting him to talk about his plans for the vigneto, his need to buy new vats for the cantina and replace the elderly oaken casks with stainless steel.

Looking back, Rome could see how much he’d given away, in his own enthusiasm. Understood how Matt Sansom had deliberately relaxed the tension between them, revealing an interested, even sympathetic side to his nature.

The offer of a low-cost loan to finance these improvements had been made almost casually. And the fact that it wasn’t a gift—that it was a serious deal, one businessman to another, with a realistic repayment programme—had lured Rome into the trap.

It had only been later, after the deal had been agreed and his grandfather had departed, that he’d begun to have doubts.

But it was finance he needed, and repayments he could afford, he’d thought. And it would be a definite one-off. Once the last instalment had been paid, he would look for future loans from more conventional sources.

He remembered a night in Paris when both Steve and himself had emerged heavy winners from a private poker game which had been scheduled to last a week. The other players had been quietly spoken and beautifully dressed, and the air of power round the table had been almost tangible, and definitely menacing.

‘Are we going back?’ he’d asked eagerly, but Steve had shaken his head.

‘Never return to a pool where tigers come to drink,’ he’d told him, and they’d caught the next plane back to Italy.

It was a piece of advice that had lingered. But Rome had told himself that his grandfather’s loan was a justifiable risk. The first and last visit to the tigers’ pool.

Over the past two years communication between them had been brief, and usually by letter.

Rome had assumed that it would remain that way.

So the curt demand for his presence had been an unwelcome surprise.

Matt Sansom lived just outside London, in a house hidden behind a high stone wall and masked by clustering trees.

‘Disney meets Frankenstein’ had been Sarah d’Angelo’s description of her childhood home, and, recovering from his first glimpse of the greystone, creeper-hung mansion, its bulk increased by the crenellated turrets at each end, Rome had found the description apt.

A quiet grey-haired woman in an anonymous navy dress had answered the door to him.

‘Rome,’ she said, a warm, sweet smile lighting her tired eyes. ‘Sarah’s son. How wonderful. I didn’t believe we’d ever meet.’ She reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘I’m your aunt Kit.’

Rome returned her embrace, guiltily aware he’d assume she was the housekeeper.

He said, ‘I didn’t believe I’d ever be invited here either. I thought my existence was too much of a blot on the family honour.’

He was waiting for her to tell him that his grandfather’s bark was worse than his bite, but the expected reassurance didn’t come.

Instead, she said, ‘He’s waiting for you. I’ll take you up to him.

‘He’s resting,’ she added over her shoulder, as she led the way up the wide Turkey-carpeted staircase and turned left on to a galleried landing. ‘He’s been unwell. I was afraid it was his heart, but the doctor’s diagnosed stress.’

If the house looked like a film set, then Matt Sansom’s bedroom emphasised the impression. It was stiflingly hot and airless. The carpet was crimson, and so were the drapes, while the vast bed was built on a raised dais. And in the centre of it, propped up by pillows, was Matt himself.

Like some damned levee at eighteenth-century Versailles, Rome thought, amused, then met the full force of his grandfather’s glare and realised this was no laughing matter.

He said, ‘Good evening, Grandfather. I hope you’re feeling better.’

Matt grunted and looked past him. ‘Go downstairs, Kit,’ he directed abruptly. ‘You’re not needed here.’

Rome swung around. ‘Aunt Kit,’ he said pleasantly, ‘I hope you can make time for a talk before I leave.’

She nodded, darting an apprehensive glance at her father, then slipped from the room.

‘You can bring us some coffee in half an hour,’ Matt called after her as she closed the door.

Rome’s brows lifted. ‘Is that my aunt’s job?’

‘It is tonight. I’ve given the staff the evening off.’ Matt gave him a measuring look. ‘And you’re very quick to claim family relationships.’

‘Are you saying we’re not related?’ Rome asked levelly.

‘No. I’ve decided to acknowledge your existence. But in my own time, and in my own way.’

‘Am I supposed to be grateful?’

‘No,’ said Matt. ‘You’re expected to do as you’re told.’ He gestured at the carafe and glass on his night table. ‘Pour me some water, boy.’

‘As we’re dispensing with common courtesy, may I tell you to go to hell, before I walk out?’ Rome, tight-lipped, filled the glass and handed it to the old man.

‘No,’ Matt said. ‘Because you can’t afford to.’ He allowed Rome to assimilate that, then nodded. ‘Now, pull up that chair and listen to what I have to say.’ He drank some water, pulling a peevish face. ‘What do you know of Arnold Grant?’

Rome paused. ‘I know that you’ve been lifelong business rivals and personal enemies,’ he said quietly. ‘My mother said that the feuding between you had poisoned life in this house for years. That’s one of the reasons she—left.’

‘Then she was a fool. She should have stayed—helped me fight him instead of disgracing herself.’ He reached under his pillows and pulled out a folder. He extracted a magazine clipping and thrust it at Rome. ‘Here he is.’

Rome gave the photograph an expressionless look. He saw a tall thin man with iron-grey hair, flanked by two prominent politicians.

He said, ‘What of it?’

‘I’ll tell you precisely what.’ Matt thumped the bed with his fist. ‘He came at me again recently. I was negotiating for some land for a shopping development. I’d had plans drawn up, paid for test drilling and consultancy fees—and he did a secret deal—stole it from under my nose. Cost me hundreds of thousands of pounds, and not for the first time either. But, by God, it will be the last. Because I’m going for him, and this time it’s personal.’

Rome was alarmed at the passion vibrating in the older man’s voice. At the veins standing out on his forehead.

He said quietly, ‘Someone once said the best revenge was to live well. Have you thought of that?’

‘I intend to live well.’ Matt’s eyes glittered. ‘After I’ve dealt Arnold Grant a blow he’ll never recover from. And this is where you come in.’ He paused. ‘He has two weak spots—and one of them’s in that photo. See the girl standing on the end?’

Rome gave the cutting a frowning glance. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s his only granddaughter. She’s not much in the way of looks but he thinks the sun shines out of her, and it’s through her that I’m going to bring him down.’ He paused. ‘With your help.’

Rome put the cutting down, and rose. He said, grimly, ‘Let’s hold it right there. I don’t know what you’re contemplating, and I don’t want to.’

‘Always supposing you have a choice.’ Matt leaned back against his pillows. ‘Now, stay where you are and listen. You’re going to meet this girl, and you’re going to persuade her to marry you. I don’t care how.’

For a moment Rome stared at him, then he said quietly and coldly, ‘I’m not sure if this is a serious proposition, or a sick joke. If it’s the first, the answer’s no, and if the second, I’m not even marginally amused.’

‘Oh, I mean it,’ Matt said. ‘And you’ll do it. If you know what’s good for you. Now sit down.’

The threat was unequivocal, and Rome felt tension grating across every nerve.

He thought, This is crazy. I have to reason with him…

Resuming his seat, he looked back steadily at his grandfather. ‘I make wine. I don’t take part in feuds. And I’m not interested in involvement with some unknown girl. There are plenty of tame studs for hire out there who’ll fulfil your requirements. They might even enjoy it. I wouldn’t.’

‘You make wine,’ Matt Sansom said softly, ‘only while you still have a vineyard. If I called in my loan, you’d have to sell up. And believe that I’ll do exactly what I need to.’

‘But you can’t.’ Rome stared at him, horrified. ‘I’ve made every payment…’

‘But I’m having a cash-flow problem—I’ve just lost out on a big deal and have to recoup my losses.’ Matt allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction. ‘And think of the consequences,’ he added. ‘Your workers will be out of jobs, your house will crumble into ruins, and you’ll be picking a living from the casinos again. Is that what you want?’

Rome said, between his teeth, ‘No.’

‘Then be sensible. You’ll have no problem with the Grant girl. There’s no regular man in her life. She’ll fall into your hand like a ripe apple from a tree.’ He laughed hoarsely. ‘She was engaged at one point, but threw her unfortunate fiancé, over a fortnight before the wedding. Nearly broke him up, I gather. You’ll understand that, I dare say,’ he added, darting Rome a lightning glance.

Rome was suddenly rigid. He said icily, ‘You have done your homework.’

‘Knowledge is power. And Arnie Grant doesn’t know I have a grandson—which is his second weakness.’

Rome shook his head in disbelief. He said, ‘You actually expect me to marry this girl—whatever her name is?’

‘She’s called Cory,’ Matt said. Something flickered in his eyes, then vanished. ‘It’s a family name. But she’s known as the Ice Maiden, because she freezes men off. And you won’t marry her,’ he added with a wheezing laugh. ‘Because when Arnie Grant discovers your real identity—that you’re my grandson and illegitimate at that—he’ll move heaven and earth to stop it. To get rid of you from her life.

‘That’s why a hired stud won’t do. It has to be you. Because Arnie Grant will want you to go away—to disappear before the truth comes out and turns him into a laughing stock, together with his precious child. And he’ll pay you to do just that.

‘But he’ll know that I know,’ he added gloatingly. ‘That I set him up—and he’ll have to live with that humiliation for the rest of his life. It will finish him.’

He nodded. ‘You’ll be able to name your own price, and whatever he offers you, I’ll match. And you can consider the loan paid off, too.’

‘I could do that anyway,’ Rome flashed. ‘I came over here looking for finance. I can repay you from my new borrowing. I don’t need your dirty bargain.’

‘Ah,’ Matt said softly. ‘But you may find that money’s not as readily available to you as you thought. That you’re not considered a good risk. In fact, I’d offer generous odds that your luck—and your credit—have run out.’

Rome rose and walked out to the window. Afternoon was fading into evening, and a breeze was stirring the rain-soaked shrubs in the garden below.

He thought of the thick autumn sunlight falling on Montedoro, the rich gleam of the earth and the pungent scents of the cantina, and felt a bleakness invade his very soul.

The vineyard had become his life. Its workers were his people. He was not prepared to let them go to the wall.

He said without looking around, ‘So, you’ve poisoned the wells for me. Did you do the same in Italy?’

‘I didn’t have to. A man called Paolo Cresti did it for me. He thinks you’re having an affair with his wife.’

Rome swung back to face him. ‘That’s a lie,’ he said coldly. ‘I haven’t set eyes on her since her marriage.’

Matt’s smile was thin. ‘That’s not what she’s let her husband believe. You should have remembered the old saying—hell have no fury like a woman scorned.’

Rome stared at him bitterly. ‘I should have remembered much more than that,’ he said. He walked back to the bed and picked up the cutting. ‘Has it occurred to you that this girl may not find me attractive?’

‘Plenty of women have, by all accounts. Why should she be an exception?’

‘And I may not fancy her,’ Rome reminded him levelly.

‘But you’ll fancy the money you’ll get from old Grant.’ Matt leered at him. ‘Just keep thinking of that. And keep your eyes shut, if you have to.’

Rome’s mouth twisted in disgust. He looked down at the photograph. ‘This tells me nothing. I need to see her properly before I decide.’

‘I can’t argue with that.’ Matt handed him an elaborately embossed card from the folder. ‘A ticket in your name for a charity ball at the Park Royal Hotel tomorrow night. She’ll be there. He won’t. You can look her over at your leisure.’

There was a tap at the bedroom door, and Kit Sansom appeared with a tray of coffee.

‘We shan’t need that,’ her father said. ‘Because Rome is leaving. He’s got some serious thinking to do.’ His smile was almost malicious. ‘Haven’t you—boy?’

Rome hadn’t spent all the intervening time thinking, however. He’d attempted to make contact with some of the financial contacts on his list, but without success, no one wanted to know him, he realised bitterly. Matt Sansom had done his work well.

And now, for Montedoro’s sake, he was committed to the next phase of this war of attrition between two megalomaniac old men.

He groaned, and tossed down the rest of his whisky. If ever he’d needed to get roaring, blazing drunk, it was tonight.

As he walked back inside to refill his glass, someone knocked at the door of his suite. A porter faced him.

‘Package for you, sir. Brought round by special messenger.’ He accepted Rome’s tip, and vanished.

Frowning, Rome slit open the bulky envelope. He realised immediately that he was looking at a complete dossier on Cory Grant—where she lived, how she spent her spare time, where she shopped, her favourite restaurants. Even the scent she used.

No detail too trivial to be excluded, he acknowledged sardonically.

But it was chillingly thorough. Matt must have been planning this for a long time, he thought. And the screwed-up land deal was just an excuse.

He poured himself another whisky, stretched out on the bed and began to read.

‘You made me look a complete idiot,’ said Philip. ‘Walking out like that.’

Indignation added a squeak to his voice, Cory thought dispassionately. And who needed a man who squeaked?

She kept her tone matter-of-fact. ‘I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.’

‘Oh, come off it, Cory. I told you—I ran into some old friends—lost track of time rather. And I’m sorry if you felt neglected.’ He paused. ‘But I’ll make it up to you.’ His voice became chummy, almost intimate. ‘Why don’t we have dinner? I promise I’ll give you my undivided attention.’

Cory gave her cordless phone receiver a look of blank disbelief.

She said politely, ‘I don’t think so, thanks. We don’t have enough in common.’ Except, she thought, that your father is one of Gramps’s main sub-contractors, and you realise you may have rocked the boat.

‘Look, Cory.’ He sounded hectoring again. ‘I’ve apologised. I don’t know what else you want me to say.’

‘Goodbye would do quite well.’

‘Oh, very amusing. Know something, Cory? It’s time you got off that high horse of yours and came down to earth, or you’re going to end up a sad old maid. Because I don’t know what you want from a man. And I suspect you don’t know either.’

She said, ‘It’s quite simple, Philip. I want kindness. And you just don’t qualify.’

She replaced her receiver, cutting off his spluttering reply.

She should have let her answering machine take the call, she thought. She simply wasn’t up to dealing with Philip’s efforts at self-justification after her disturbed night.

And she wasn’t up to dealing with the reasons for the disturbed night either.

With a sigh, she went into her tiny kitchen, poured orange juice, set coffee to percolate and slotted bread into the toaster.

Gramps would be next, she thought, eager to know how the evening had gone, and she’d make up a kindly fib to satisfy him.

Only it wasn’t her grandfather who rang almost at once, but Shelley.

‘Cory—are you there? Pick the phone up. I have news.’

Cory hesitated, frowning slightly.

Her ‘hello’ was guarded, but Shelley didn’t notice.

‘I’ve found your mysterious stranger,’ she reported happily. ‘I did a quick check, and he bought one of the last tickets. His name’s Rome d’Angelo. So, the ball’s in your court now.’

‘I don’t see how.’

Shelley made an impatient noise. ‘Come on, babe. You won’t find many men with that name to the square acre. I’d start with directory enquiries.’

‘Perhaps—if I wanted to find him,’ Cory agreed, her lips twitching in spite of herself.

‘I thought he’d made a big impression.’

‘But not one I necessarily wish to repeat.’ God, Cory thought, I sound positively Victorian. She hurried into speech again. ‘Thanks for trying, Shelley, but I’ve made a major decision. If I get involved again, I want someone kind and caring, not sex on legs.’

‘You could have both. Isn’t this guy worth a second look?’

‘I doubt if he was worth the first one,’ Cory said drily. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’m a hopeless case.’

‘No,’ Shelley said. ‘You just think you are. So, if you’re not going man-hunting, what do you plan for your day?’

‘I’m doing the domestic thing.’ Cory narrowed her eyes to stare at a ray of watery sun filtering through the window. ‘And I may go over to the health club for a swim later.’

‘Well, take care,’ Shelley advised caustically. ‘Too much excitement can be bad for you. I’ll call you next week.’ And she rang off.

As Cory replaced her own handset, it occurred to her that the unknown Rome d’Angelo was almost certainly that kind of excitement. Bad for you.

And best forgotten, she told herself dismissively.

The health club was rarely very busy on Saturday mornings, and today was no exception. Cory found she had the pool virtually to herself. She had always loved swimming, finding her own grace and co-ordination when she was in the water, and she could feel the tensions floating out of her as she cut through the water.

Afterwards she relaxed on one of the comfortable padded benches set back around the pool, and read some of the book she’d brought with her, but to her annoyance she found her concentration fragmenting.

In spite of herself, she kept thinking of the previous evening, and that brief, disturbing glimpse she’d had of Rome d’Angelo.

She found herself trying the name over in her mind, silently cursing Shelley as she did so.

I really didn’t need to know his identity, she thought. He was easier to keep at bay when he was an anonymous stranger.

Although she’d been aware of a connection between them, as powerful as an electric current.

Suddenly, shockingly, she felt her body stir with excitement, as if she’d been touched. As if her mouth had been kissed, and her breast stroked gently to pleasure. Beneath the cling of her Lycra swimsuit her nipples were hardening to a piercing intensity, her body moistening in longing.

Cory sat up, pushing her hair back from her face.

It’s time I took a shower, she thought, her mouth twisting. And maybe I should make it a cold one.

The changing rooms on the floor above were reached by lift. The women’s section was beautifully equipped, with mounds of fluffy towels, gels and body lotions and other toiletries, hairdriers, and a selection of all the popular fragrances in tester bottles for the clients to try.

Cory didn’t linger today as she usually did. She showered swiftly, then dressed in her usual weekend uniform of jeans and a plain white tee shirt.

She’d have some lunch at the salad bar on the ground floor before it got busy, she decided, as she shrugged on her leather jacket and picked up her tote bag. She was on her way out when she swung round, went back to the vanity unit, and sprayed her throat and wrists with some of her favourite ‘Dune’.

And why not? she demanded silently as she made for the wide central stairway.

She was two thirds of the way down, head bent, moving fast, when she suddenly felt her warning antennae switch to full alert, and glanced up, startled.

She saw him at once, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her.

Recognition was instant, sending her pulses into over-drive.

She felt her lips frame his name, then stiffened in sudden, almost violent negation. Because he couldn’t be here—he couldn’t be…

Her foot caught the moulded edge of the step, and she stumbled. As she fell, she grabbed at the rail and managed to check her headlong descent, but she couldn’t prevent herself sliding down the last half-dozen steps on her hip, and landing in an untidy huddle at his feet.

She lay for a moment, winded, hearing a buzz of comment, aware of shocked faces looking down at her. Of one face in particular, dark and coolly attractive, with vivid blue eyes fringed by long lashes, a high-bridged nose, and a mouth redeemed from harshness by the sensuous curve of its lower lip.

She realized too that he was kneeling beside her, and she was lying across his knees, his arm supporting her.

His voice was low and resonant with a faint accent she could not place.

‘Don’t try to move. Are you hurt?’

‘No.’ The denial was swift, almost fierce, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position. ‘I’m fine—really. It was just a stupid accident.’

She was going to have the mother of all bruises on her hip, but she’d deal with that tomorrow. At the moment, her main concern was getting out of the club with what little remained of her dignity.

But his hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to stay where she was.

‘Maybe I should take you to the nearest casualty room—get you checked over.’

‘There’s no need for that. No damage has been done.’ She hunched away from him. She felt dazed, her body tingling, but instinct told her that had more to do with his hand on her shoulder than the tumble she’d just taken.

‘Then perhaps you’d take me instead.’ His face was dead-pan, but there was a glint in those amazing eyes. ‘I’m not used to having girls fall at my feet, and shock can be dangerous.’

‘Oh, really?’ Cory glared at him as she hauled herself painfully upright. ‘Now, I’d say you’d spent your adult life stepping over recumbent women.’

Oh, God, she thought, appalled. What am I doing? I can’t believe I just said that.

His brows lifted. ‘Appearances,’ he said softly, ‘can be deceptive. Something I also need to remember,’ he added quietly as he, too, got to his feet.

Cory was almost glad to see one of the physiotherapists hurrying towards them. She answered his concerned questions, declined having her ankle examined, and agreed to fill out an accident report.

‘But later.’ Rome d’Angelo took her arm, and apparent control of the situation. ‘Now the lady needs something to drink.’

Cory hung back, trying not to wince. She was altogether more shaken than she’d realised, but the fall was only partly responsible.

Now she needed to get away before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

She said, controlling the quiver in her voice, ‘I’m really all right. There’s no need for you to concern yourself any more.’

‘But I am concerned,’ he said softly, as the crowd began to melt away. ‘You threw yourself, and I caught you. And I’m not prepared to put you down yet. So, are you going to walk to the coffee shop with me—or do I have to carry you?’

Cory heard herself say, ‘I’ll walk.’ And hardly recognised her own voice.

CHAPTER THREE

THIS is lunacy, thought Cory, and I should run out of here and have myself committed immediately.

But she couldn’t. For one thing, she was too sore to run anywhere. For another, her wallet and keys were in her tote bag, which Rome d’Angelo must have rescued after her fall and which was now hanging from one muscular shoulder as he waited at the counter in the coffee shop.

So, she said, perforce, to stay where she was, perched in rigid discomfort on one of the pretty wrought-iron chairs at the corner table he’d taken her to.

Round one to him, it seemed.

And all she had to do now was ensure there wasn’t a round two.

Because every instinct she possessed was warning her yet again that this was a man to avoid. That he was danger in its rawest sense.

Anyone with a year-round tan and eyes like the Mediterranean was out of her league anyway, she reminded herself drily. But the peril that Rome d’Angelo represented went far deeper than mere physical attraction.

It’s as if I know him, she thought restlessly. As if I’ve always known him…

She felt it in her blood. Sensed it buried deep in her bones. And it scared her.

I’ll drink my coffee, thank him politely, and get the hell out of here, she thought. That’s the best—the safest way to handle this.

She was by no means the only one aware of his presence, she realised. From all over the room glances were being directed at him, and questions whispered. And all from women. She could almost feel the frisson.

But then, she certainly couldn’t deny his eye-catching potential, she acknowledged unwillingly.

He was even taller than she’d originally thought, topping her by at least five inches. Lean hips and long legs were emphasised by close-fitting faded denims, and he wore a collarless white shirt, open at the throat. A charcoal jacket that looked like cashmere was slung over one shoulder, along with her tote bag.

He looked relaxed, casual—and powerfully in control.

And she, on the other hand, must be the only woman in the room with damp hair and not a trace of make-up. Which, as she hastily reminded herself, really couldn’t matter less…

Pull yourself together, she castigated herself silently.

She saw him returning and moved uneasily, and unwisely, suppressing a yelp as she did so.

‘Arnica,’ he said, as he put the cups down on the table.

‘Really?’ Her brow lifted. ‘I thought it was café latte.’

‘It comes in tablet or cream form,’ he went on, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘It will bring out the bruising.’

‘I think that’s already escaped,’ Cory admitted, wincing. She eyed him as he took his seat. ‘You know a lot about herbal medicine?’

‘No.’ He smiled at her, his gaze drifting with deliberate sensuousness from her eyes, to her mouth, and down to her small breasts, untrammelled under the cling of the ancient tee shirt, and then back to meet her startled glance. ‘My expertise lies in other areas.’

Cory, heart thumping erratically, hastily picked up her cup and sipped.

‘Yuck.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘This has sugar in it.’

‘The recognised treatment for shock.’ Rome nodded. ‘A hot, sweet drink.’

‘I fell down a couple of steps,’ she said. ‘I’m sore, but hardly shocked.’

‘Ah,’ he said softly. ‘But you didn’t see your face just before you fell.’ He paused, allowing her a moment to digest that. ‘How did you enjoy the ball?’

Pointless to pretend she hadn’t noticed him, or didn’t recognise him, Cory realised, smouldering.

She managed a casual shrug. ‘Not very much. I didn’t stay long.’

‘What a coincidence,’ he said softly. ‘Clearly, we feel the same about such events.’

‘Then why buy a ticket?’

‘Because it was in such a good cause. I found it impossible to resist.’ He drank some of his own coffee. ‘Don’t you like dancing?’

‘I don’t think it likes me,’ she said ruefully. ‘I have this tendency to stand on peoples’ feet, and no natural rhythm.’

‘I doubt that.’ Rome leaned back in his chair, the blue eyes faintly mocking. ‘I think you just haven’t found the right partner.’

There was a brief, seething silence, and Cory’s skin prickled as if someone’s fingertips had brushed softly across her pulse-points.

She hurried into speech. ‘Talking of coincidences, what are you doing here?’

‘I came to look over the facilities.’

‘You live in the area?’ The question escaped before she could prevent it.

‘I plan to.’ He smiled at her. ‘I hope that won’t be a problem for you.’

Cory stiffened. ‘Why should it?’

‘My appearance seems to have a dire effect on you.’

‘Nothing of the kind,’ she returned with studied coolness. ‘Don’t read too much into a moment’s clumsiness. I’m famous for it. And London’s a big place,’ she added. ‘We’re unlikely to meet again.’

‘On the contrary,’ he said softly. ‘We’re bound to have at least one more encounter. Don’t you know that everything happens in threes?’

Cory said shortly, ‘Well, I’m not superstitious.’ And crossed her fingers under cover of the table. She hesitated. ‘Are you planning to take out a membership here?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’ His blue gaze flickered over her again. ‘Although, admittedly, it seems to have everything I want.’

‘And separate days for men and women,’ Cory commented pointedly, aware that her mouth had gone suddenly dry.

‘Except for weekends, when families are encouraged to use the place.’ His tone was silky.

Cory played with the spoon in her saucer. ‘And is that what you plan to do? Bring your family?’

His brows lifted. ‘One day, perhaps,’ he drawled. ‘When I have a family.’ He paused again. ‘I’m Rome d’Angelo, but perhaps you know that already,’ he added casually.

Cory choked over a mouthful of coffee, and put her cup down with something of a slam.

‘Isn’t that rather an arrogant assumption?’ she demanded with hauteur.

He grinned at her, unabashed. ‘And isn’t that a defence rather than a reply?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cory said, feeling one of those hated blushes beginning to warm her face. Oh, no, she appealed silently. Please, no.

He said, ‘Now it’s your turn.’

‘To do what?’ Fall over again, send the table crashing, spill my coffee everywhere?

‘To tell me your name.’

She said with sudden crispness, ‘I’m grateful for your help, Mr d’Angelo, but that doesn’t make us friends.’

‘I’d settle for acquaintances?’ he suggested.

‘Not even that.’ Cory shook her head with determination. ‘Ships that pass in the night.’

‘But we didn’t pass. We collided.’ He leaned forward suddenly, and, in spite of herself, Cory flinched. ‘Tell me something,’ he invited huskily. ‘If I’d come down to the ballroom last night, and asked you to dance—what would you have said?’

She didn’t look at him, but stared down at the table as, for a few seconds, her mind ran wild with speculation, dangerous fantasies jostling her like last night’s dreams.

Then she forced a shrug, only to wish she hadn’t as her bruises kicked back. ‘How about, “Thank you—but I’m here with someone.”?’

Rome’s mouth twisted. ‘He seemed to be doing a great job.’

‘That’s none of your business,’ Cory fought back. ‘Will you please accept, Mr d’Angelo, that I don’t need a saviour, or a Prince Charming either.’

‘And your circle of friends is complete, too.’ He was smiling faintly, but those incredible eyes glinted with challenge. ‘So what is left, I wonder? Which of your needs is not being catered for?’

Cory’s face was burning again, but with anger rather than embarrassment. She said, ‘My life is perfectly satisfactory, thank you.’

He was unperturbed by the snap in her voice. ‘No room for improvement anywhere?’

‘I have simple tastes.’

‘Yet you wear Christian Dior,’ he said. ‘You’re more complicated than you think.’

Suddenly breathless, Cory reached down for her tote bag, jerking it towards her. Then rose. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she said. ‘And for the character analysis. I hope you don’t do it for a living. Goodbye, Mr d’Angelo.’

He got to his feet, too. His smile held real charm. ‘Until next time—Miss Grant.’

She’d almost reached the door when she realised what he’d said, and swung round, lips parting in a gasp of angry disbelief.

But Rome d’Angelo wasn’t there. He must have used the exit that led straight to the street, she realised in frustration.

Her mouth tightened. So, he liked to play games. Well, she had no intention of joining in—or of rising to any more of his bait.

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