Marriage by Deception (5 page)

She looked at her plate of sandwiches, decided she wasn’t as hungry as she’d thought, and went back to her study.

But by mid-afternoon she still hadn’t made any real progress on the rewrite of her book.

Maybe if I chose a different background, she thought. A different period—the Wars of the Roses, perhaps. Something that would give me a fresh perspective.

She’d need to do some research, of course, she realised with sudden relish, and a trip to the local library was infinitely more appealing than staring at a blank computer screen. Or allowing herself to become prey to any more ridiculous thoughts…

On her way down she grabbed her jacket and bag from her room, and went out, slamming the front door behind her.

As she went down her steps she looked in her bag, checking that her library card was there, so she only realised that someone was standing by her railings when she cannoned into him.

Startled, she looked up, her lips framing an apology, and stopped dead, gasping as she found herself staring at Sam Alexander.

‘What are you doing here?’ Her voice sounded husky—strained. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I went to the address on your last letter.’

‘Oh,’ she said numbly. ‘Of course. And Pam’s mother told you…’

‘Eventually she did,’ he said. ‘Although she wasn’t too pleased to hear her home had been used as a mailbox.’

‘Why did you come here?’ She was shaking, nerves stretched tautly. Shock, she told herself. And embarrassment, as she suddenly remembered what she was wearing—gardening gear and no make-up. She wailed inwardly. Because she was rattled, she went on the attack. ‘And why aren’t you at work anyway?’

‘Why aren’t you?’ he countered.

Ros resisted an impulse to smooth her hair with her fingers. She didn’t want to look good for him, for heaven’s sake. ‘I—I took a day off.’

‘And so did I. So that I could find you. Because we didn’t make any arrangement to see each other again.’ He paused. ‘In retrospect, that seemed a bad mistake.’

She lifted her chin. ‘Then I’m afraid you’ve made another one, Mr Alexander.’

‘Sam,’ he told her quietly.

‘Dinner was—nice,’ she went on. ‘But that’s all there was. And it has to stay that way.’

‘Why must it? You decided to reply to my ad.’

‘A decision I now regret—bitterly.’

‘I see,’ he said slowly. He looked past her at the house. ‘Are you married? Is that the problem?’

‘Of course not.’ Indignant colour flared in her cheeks.

‘You were so cagey about your personal details, it seemed a possibility.’ He gave her a meditative look. ‘Living with someone, then?’

‘I told you,’ she said curtly. ‘My sister. Now, will you go, please, and let us both get on with our lives?’

‘But that’s not how I want it,’ he said softly. ‘You see, I really need to find out about you, Janie. Last night was just a taste, and it made me hungry. And I’m convinced you feel the same, although you’re trying to deny it.’

‘Oh, spare me the psychobabble, please.’ Ros drew a deep breath. ‘Everyone’s entitled to have second thoughts.’

‘A word of advice, then. There’s no point in describing yourself as “Looking for Love” if you run for cover each time someone shows an interest in you.’ His face was solemn, but the turquoise eyes held a glint that the gold-rimmed glasses couldn’t disguise. ‘That contravenes the Trades Descriptions Act and involves a serious penalty.’

She’d assumed she was too tense to find anything remotely amusing in the situation, but she was wrong, she realised, as she bit back a swift, reluctant smile.

She said, ‘Which is?’

‘That you let me see you again.’

‘You’re seeing me now.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’

She said, ‘Mr Alexander—has it ever occurred to you that it takes two to make a bargain—and that I might not find you attractive?’

‘Yes, it’s occurred to me,’ he said. ‘but I’ve dismissed it.’

‘You,’ she said, ‘have an ego the size of the Millennium Dome.’

‘And also a very good memory,’ he returned pleasantly. ‘I retain this very vivid impression of how you
felt in my arms—how you reacted. And it wasn’t repulsion, Janie, so don’t fool yourself.’

She bit her lip. ‘You took me off guard, that’s all.’

‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Because those defences 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 sceptical.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But not all I want.’

‘What more is there?’ It was a dangerous question, but somehow she couldn’t resist it.

‘Perhaps—to discover everything there is to know.’ His voice was soft, almost reflective. ‘To explore you—heart, mind—and body.’

A shiver went through her, trembling along her senses, as if they were already naked together. As if his hands—his mouth—were touching her—possessing her. His body moving over hers in total mastery.

From somewhere she found the self-command to smile at him—a cool, even cynical curl of the mouth.

‘A little over-ambitious for me, I’m afraid.’

‘Fine.’ His own grin was wickedly appreciative. ‘Then I’ll settle for meeting for a drink tonight instead.’

‘Perhaps I already have a date this evening.’

‘Then we’ll fix it for some other time, when you’re free. I can wait.’

‘You don’t give up, do you?’

‘That,’ he said, ‘rather depends on my level of commitment.’

‘And if I say—no?’

He shrugged. ‘Then I’ll just have to hang around here in the street, looking soulful and waiting for your heart to soften. The neighbours will love it,’ he added,
glancing round. ‘We’re attracting a fair measure of attention already. Curtains are twitching.’

She saw with annoyance that he was right. She said curtly, ‘I could always take action against you for harassment.’

‘But you were the one who contacted me in the first place,’ he reminded her. ‘And you came to meet me looking like a million dollars, as the head waiter at Marcellino’s will confirm.’

‘Which is more than can be said for you,’ she countered waspishly.

But the jibe failed to needle him. Instead, he burst out laughing. ‘What can I say? Anyway, no one would blame me for being smitten and trying again. I really don’t think your harassment ploy would work—so why don’t you give in gracefully?’

His voice deepened to a persuasive drawl. ‘Come out with me, Janie, and I’ll wear a wig—use contact lenses—start buying my clothes in Bond Street. See how desperate I am to reverse your bad impression of me?’

To her intense irritation she found she wanted to laugh too, and bit down hard on her lip.

She said, ‘Mr Alexander…’

‘Sam,’ he corrected, quite gently. ‘Say it for me—please?’

‘Sam.’ She heard the huskiness in her voice and took a deep, steadying breath. ‘If we have this one drink, will you guarantee then to leave me alone?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘But I promise I’ll leave the ultimate decision in the matter entirely to you. And that I’ll accept your ruling.’

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘There’s a wine bar a couple
of streets away called The Forlorn Hope. I’ll see you there at eight.’

‘Agreed.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘And I’ll try not to read too much into your choice of venue. Until eight, then.’

‘I’ll be counting the moments,’ she tossed after him acidly.

Sam swung back. Across the expanse of pavement, their glances met—clashed with the speed of fencing foils.

‘No,’ he said, quite softly. ‘But one day—or night—very soon, you will. And there’s another promise.’

She watched him go, aware that her breathing had quickened to danger level.

She thought, I want—I need him out of my life. Permanently. And tonight I must make certain that he goes.

I
T WAS
only when he became aware that people in the Kings Road were giving him curious looks that Sam realised he was walking along wearing a broad grin.

‘Get a grip,’ he muttered to himself, as he hurriedly rearranged his features, and hailed a cab. You may have got a result, he thought, but it was too close for comfort. Which doesn’t leave much to smile about.

More than once he’d lost the prepared script completely. Found himself saying something totally unexpected again. And by doing so he’d pushed the whole situation to the edge.

He’d need to tread more carefully that evening, he thought, removing the hated glasses and thrusting them into his pocket. He couldn’t risk startling her into flight before he’d got all the material he needed for the feature.

His lips tightened as he recalled Cilla Godwin contemptuously flicking the piece he’d written back at him over her desk that morning.

‘It’s a cop-out, Hunter,’ she’d declared. ‘There’s nothing of substance there. You haven’t even touched on why she decided to go the lonely hearts route. There’s more to this one than meets the eye, and you’ve missed it. See her again, and this time find out something useful.’

And Sam, reluctantly aware that her criticism was justified for once had gritted his teeth and nodded.

It hadn’t really surprised him that tracing Janie
Craig had thrown up a complication. Perhaps all the others had used false addresses too, although he didn’t think so.

No, he decided grudgingly, Cilla was right, damn her. Janie Craig was indeed something of an enigma—an irresistible challenge to any journalist.

And tonight, he realised, frowning, would probably be his last chance to solve the puzzle she presented.

He leaned back in his corner of the taxi and reviewed what he’d got so far.

Presumably she’d believed she’d covered her tracks sufficiently well, because she’d clearly been shocked to see him there, literally on her doorstep.

And what a doorstep, he reflected, his frown deepening. An elegant terrace house in a quiet cul de sac, which she shared with her sister. She could hardly support the upkeep of a property like that out of her freelance earnings, so the sister must be the one with the money.

Older? he speculated. Unattractive and sour about it? Jealous of her younger sibling, but reliant on her too? Not wanting her to find a man, perhaps, and make a life for herself, thus forcing Janie to subterfuge?

The possibilities were endless, but he had to establish the truth. And to do that he had to get Janie Craig to trust him. Something she’d not been prepared to do so far, he conceded ruefully.

And which he wouldn’t manage by throwing down the gauntlet to her in the open street as he’d just done.

And, what was worse he’d no idea what had prompted him to challenge her in such an overtly sexual way. Any more than he knew why he’d kissed her at their first meeting—or begged her to stay…

And, not for the first time, he found himself won
dering what the hell he’d have done if she’d agreed. And unable to produce a satisfactory answer.

One drink, Ros told herself nervously. That was all she was committed to, no matter what Mr Alexander’s unbounded self-esteem might hope or believe.

And during the time it took to consume a single glass of wine she would make it abundantly clear that she never wanted to set eyes on him again, and that she would not hesitate to take legal action if he persisted.

And not even he could find her message ambivalent this time.

The whole sorry mess could so easily have been avoided if only—
if only
—she’d stayed quietly at home and minded her own business.

Instead she’d pranced off to meet him, dressed to the nines and sending out all kinds of misleading signals.

That black dress would be going to the nearly-new shop as soon as she’d had it cleaned, she decided grimly, and those shoes with it. She’d tell Janie there’d been some kind of accident, and reimburse her for them.

It was unnerving that Sam Alexander now knew where she lived. And she’d had to apologise abjectly to Pam’s mother, who’d left a furious message on the answering machine, when she’d come back from the library.

And to think I complained that I was in a rut, she thought wearily. Welcome back dull normality.

Except that she didn’t really mean it. And it was too late, anyway. Because her life had already changed quite incontrovertibly.

And, in some strange, confused way, she knew that even if she had the power to do it she would not change it back.

She was tempted to show up that evening in sweatshirt and leggings again, but eventually swapped them for the conservative choice of a navy pleated skirt topped by a round-necked cream sweater. She looped a silk scarf in shades of crimson, gold and blue round her throat, and slid her feet into simple navy loafers.

She confined her make-up to moisturiser, mascara on her long lashes, and a touch of muted coral on her lips.

Neat and tidy, but definitely not seductive, she thought, taking a last critical look at herself.

She’d seriously considered following Janie’s example, and packing a bag and disappearing for the weekend. But she guessed it would be pointless, and that in all probability she’d find him camped on her doorstep when she returned.

No, she would have to be brave and take her medicine.

She would be cool and firm, she told herself, as she set off on the short walk to the wine bar.

It was already crowded, and for a moment she thought he wasn’t there, and felt her stomach lurch in what she instantly labelled relief. Because it felt dangerously like disappointment and that wasn’t—couldn’t be possible…

And then she heard a voice call ‘Janie’ above the hubbub of voices and laughter, and saw someone on his feet beside a table in the corner.

For a moment she thought she must have been mistaken, and misheard the name, because this man was a stranger.

Then she saw him smile, and realised it was indeed Sam Alexander.

But he’s not wearing his glasses, she thought, as she threaded her way towards him through the busy room, her own mouth curving in reluctant response as she reached the table.

Little wonder she’d hardly recognised him, she thought, her brows lifting as she took in the unmistakably Italian cut of his charcoal pants, and the paler grey jacket he was wearing over a black rollneck sweater in what seemed to be cashmere.

She said a little breathlessly as she took her seat, ‘You weren’t kidding about Bond Street.’

‘Their Oxfam branch,’ he said promptly. ‘Never let me down yet.’

Ros choked on a giggle. ‘What happened to your glasses?’

‘I left them at home. You made it clear I wouldn’t have a menu to read, so I’m relying on you to decipher the wine list for me and stop me falling over the furniture.’

‘It’s a deal.’ She shook her head. ‘But you’ve let me down badly over the wig.’

‘I looked like Mel Gibson in one, and George Clooney in the other. It didn’t seem fair to expose you to that level of temptation.’ He put up a hand and touched his hair. ‘And this will grow out, I swear it.’

‘But not,’ she said, ‘during the course of a solitary drink.’

‘You never know,’ he said. ‘There could be a marked improvement by closing time.’

But by then I shall be long gone.
She thought the words but did not say them aloud.

A waiter came hurrying up to the table, carrying an
ice bucket which contained, Ros saw, a bottle of Bollinger and two chilled flutes.

Sam said, ‘I ordered in advance. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Well—no,’ Ros said slowly. ‘But why champagne? This isn’t exactly a celebration.’

He shrugged. ‘You said one drink. I wanted it to be—special.’

‘It’s that all right.’ She watched the waiter fill the flutes, and accepted the one she was handed. ‘So what do we drink to?’ she asked lightly. ‘Ships that pass in the night?’

He said quietly, ‘Let’s start with—friendship.’ And touched his glass to hers. ‘Although we should really drink to you. You look—terrific.’

She gave a small, constrained laugh. ‘That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses.’

‘I can see well enough,’ he said. The turquoise eyes travelled slowly over her. ‘Terrific—and very different to last night—and this afternoon. How many women are you, Janie Craig?’

Embarrassed, she drank some champagne. It was cold and dry, and the bubbles seemed to burst in her mouth. Colin had never liked it, she found herself remembering. He complained it gave him indigestion. Something that seemed to belong to another lifetime—another age…

‘I was going to write down a list of questions for you,’ he said. ‘So I wouldn’t forget anything, or waste the short time we have together.’

‘What sort of questions?’

‘The kind that it usually takes days—weeks—months to answer. The basic things—do you prefer dogs to cats? Is spring your favourite season, or is it
autumn? What music makes you cry? All the small details that make up the complete picture.’ The turquoise met hers steadily. ‘And that people find out about each other when they have all the time in the world.’

Ros forced a smile, her fingers playing nervously with the stem of her flute. ‘And things that we don’t need to know—under the circumstances.’

‘So, let’s cut to the chase instead.’ He leaned forward. ‘It’s clear you’re not seriously seeking a relationship, so why did you answer my ad—and why did you come to meet me?’

Ros hesitated, suddenly aware that she was strongly tempted to tell him the truth. But if she did, she argued inwardly, it would only lead to more and more complicated explanations, and recriminations—and what good could it possibly do anyway, when they were never going to see each other again?

On the other hand, she didn’t want to lie either…

‘Replying to the ad was someone else’s idea,’ she said, choosing her words with care. ‘And once the meeting had been set up, I felt—obliged to go through with it.’

He said softly, ‘So it was all down to your sense of duty.’ There was an odd note in his voice which she couldn’t quite interpret. It was almost like anger, but she didn’t think it could be that, because he was smiling at her.

‘But I suppose it serves me right for asking.’ He paused. ‘Are you seeing someone else?’

She hadn’t expected that, and was jolted into candour. ‘I was—but it’s over.’

‘And you used me to get rid of him—or was I simply to celebrate your new liberation?’

‘Perhaps both—maybe neither,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t thinking that clearly.’ She hesitated. ‘But I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. In fact that was the last thing I intended…’

‘Well, don’t worry about it.’ His voice was silky. ‘I expect I’ll recover.’ He refilled her glass. ‘So, tell me about your sister.’

Ros jumped, spilling some of her wine on to the marble table-top. ‘What do you want to know?’ she asked defensively, mopping up with a paper napkin.

‘She seems to have a fairly profound effect on you,’ Sam said, his brows lifting as he watched. ‘Is she your only living relative?’

Ros shook her head. ‘My parents are abroad at the moment.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘And you’re house-sitting for them.’

‘I’m taking care of things while they’re away,’ Ros agreed carefully.

Well, that explained the expensive house, thought Sam. It also meant she was still guarding her real address…

He said, amused, ‘You’re like one of those Russian dolls. Or an onion. Each time I think I’ve found you, there’s another layer.’

Her mouth curved. ‘I don’t care for the comparison, but I think on the whole I prefer the doll. Onions make you cry.’

‘Indeed they do,’ he said. He gave her a thoughtful look. ‘And I suspect, Miss Janie Craig, that you could break someone’s heart quite easily.’

Ros studied the bubbles in her champagne. ‘Now you’re being absurd,’ she said crisply.

‘It always happens when I’m hungry.’ He pointed to a blackboard advertising the dishes of the day. ‘I’m
having spaghetti carbonara. Are you going to join me?’

‘We agreed—just a drink.’ Ros remembered her abortive sandwich lunch, and her stomach clenched in longing.

‘I’ll let you slurp your spaghetti.’ He shrugged. ‘Or you can always go back to your lonely microwave. It’s your choice.’

‘Very well,’ she said, adding stiffly, ‘But I’m paying for my own meal.’

‘That will keep me in my place,’ he murmured, signalling to the waiter.

‘And another thing,’ Ros said, when their order, including herb bread and a bottle of Orvieto Classico, had been given. ‘If you aren’t wearing your glasses, how did you know that was spaghetti carbonara on the menu?’

Sam shrugged, cursing himself silently. ‘In a place like this, it’s practically standard,’ he countered.

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose so.’

There were too many contradictions in this man, she thought, and they intrigued her. Or rather they intrigued the writer in her, she corrected herself hastily. And she could put the evening to good use by listening and observing.

‘Have you always worn glasses?’ she continued brightly.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It happened very recently.’

‘I suppose it’s working with numbers all day.’ Ros sighed. ‘I expect using a computer is just as bad. I shall have to be careful.’

‘You use a computer to sell beauty products?’ Sam stared at her.

‘Not exactly.’ Ros gave an awkward laugh, aware
that she’d flushed guiltily. That was too much champagne on an empty stomach making her careless, she reproached herself. ‘Just for—ordering—and sales reports. That kind of thing,’ she improvised swiftly.

‘Then I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he returned drily. ‘I think your eyes will be safe for a long time yet.’

She gave a constrained smile, and stared down at her glass.

‘But I can’t say the same for your nervous system,’ Sam went on. He reached across the table and took her hand lightly, his fingers exploring the delicate tracery of veins in her wrist.

‘Your pulse is going like a trip-hammer,’ he observed, frowningly. ‘For someone who spends her life dealing with the public, you’re incredibly tense. Are you like this with all the men you meet, or is it just me?’