Marriage by Deception (2 page)

‘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 mo
ment. 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.

R
OS
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 per
fect 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.