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His crinkly-eyed comment threw her, made her feel even more of a fraud than she already felt. ‘It had a nice beginning,’ she told him quietly. ‘It was just the ending which came unstuck.’
‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully.
‘When did you speak to Cormack?’
‘After you came to see me.’ No point lying about it, or being coy. She had aroused his interest, and he couldn’t for the life of him work out why.
‘What else did he tell you about me?’
He placed his hand on his heart, oath-style. ‘I cannot betray a confidence, ma’am!’
She ran her fingertip over the rim of her wineglass, realizing that she knew very little about him—other than what Rosie had told her—and most of that had been about Rosie herself. ‘How about you?’ she asked coolly. ‘Do you have any significant other in your life?’
‘Why, will it cramp your style?’ he teased.
She treated the remark with the scorn it deserved, by ignoring it. ‘Have you?’
‘Not at the moment.’
‘But there must have been someone?’
His look was faintly incredulous. ‘Of course there has—I’m thirty-two years of age, Fran! Surely you didn’t imagine that I’d never had a serious relationship before? Do I look like some kind of loser?’
No, he didn’t. Fran pushed her barely touched chicken away from her, something niggling at her consciousness. He had a way of answering questions which didn’t add up with her image of him as serial seducer. ‘I’m sure you’ve had loads of women,’ she said lightly.
Sam frowned. ‘No, not loads. Loads makes me sound indiscriminate—and I’m just the opposite.’ His eyes glinted mockingly in her direction. ‘Very discriminate.’
‘I’m sure you are,’ she said politely.
Aware of the frosty vibes icing their way towards him, Sam wondered why he was getting the feeling that she was holding something back. ‘So what do I need to do between now and the ball?’
She was aware of the sudden edge to his voice, and wondered if she was coming over as judgmental. She beamed him a megawatt smile. ‘Just sign the cheques, Sam,’ she replied, making every effort to sound her normal enthusiastic self and not a person in serious doubt of her own judgement. ‘And turn up in your best bib and tucker on Valentine’s Day!’
CHAPTER FOUR
FRAN stepped back to inspect the marquee and sighed with a kind of guilty pleasure. It looked magnificent—there was no other word to describe it.
The place was a riot of crimson and satin—red-swathed tables decked with hearts and flowers. Crimson roses adorned every available surface and romantic garlands of dark-green ivy seductively snaked their way up the pillars.
Was it too much, she wondered, narrowing her eyes and trying to view the decor with impartiality. No. It was perfect. The sumptuous interior did her justice. And she was glad that she had followed her instincts and opted for the traditional. After all, not providing red hearts and references to love on Valentine’s Day would be a little like inviting guests for Christmas lunch and offering no tree or turkey! People would feel cheated!
There were three hours to go until the first guests were due to arrive, and so far—Fran superstitiously touched the wood of a chair back—everything was
going according to schedule.
A delicious menu was in the process of being prepared by four chefs in the service tent adjoining the marquee. Hordes of waitresses were sorting out place-names, polishing wine-glasses and putting the final finishing touches to the tables. Soon the band would arrive. Almost every invitation had been accepted with the kind of disbelieving gratitude which might have been expected of a royal summons. And there were a few surprises in store….
Fran swallowed down her irrational fears. She had persuaded Rosie that less was more. That there was no need to overdose on the revenge bit. And that Mr. Sam Lockhart needed nothing more than a gentle rebuke to make him rethink the way he treated his women. A wry reminder of just how many notches he had managed to accumulate on his belt. That was all….
She nervously smoothed her hands down the bodice of the scarlet ball gown she had hired for the evening, then wished she hadn’t. Her hands were all clammy and sweaty and it was more than just the usual pre-party nerves. To be honest, she would be glad when the evening was over. It had been hanging over her for weeks now with all the allure of an execution.
Still, Rosie had been pacified with her plan.
The DJ would play the record which Sam seduced all his women by. And one by one, some of those women would appear from the shadows and ask him to dance. Simple, effective and not too inflammatory. She hoped.
More importantly, Rosie had promised Fran that after tonight, whatever the outcome, she would get on with her life. Start living in the present instead of a bitter past or a wistful future. And cut down on the drinking.
‘Hello, Fran,’ said a soft, deep voice behind her, and as she whirled round to see Sam standing there, she gave a start of pleasure. They hadn’t met since last month, for what was supposed to be a brief get-together. But he had taken her for an old-fashioned afternoon tea in an equally old-fashioned London hotel, and it had somehow gone on much longer than she had planned.
