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She winced. Her nails were cutting into her hand. ‘He had to fight the entire Roman Army,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I just need to stay put. Keep my head down. Like you said. Besides, I think we’ve reached a sort of understanding.’
‘Meaning what?’
Colour touched her brow and cheeks. Meaning that she’d kissed a man she should despise. Not a peck on the cheek but a passionate, feverish kiss that even now sent scalding heat across her skin.
There was silence, and then in the background she heard a phone begin to ring.
‘Damn it! Look, I have to take this call—but do me a favour, Flossie. Think about what you’re doing and then maybe you can try and explain to me why you’re putting yourself through all this—because I really don’t understand what you think you’re achieving.’
With relief, Flora hung up. She was never a match for her brother in full ‘gown and wig’ mode, but trying to explain her actions to him would be impossible—mainly because she had no idea how to explain them to herself.
Heart racing, she lifted her bag to find her purse—and then her blood suddenly seemed to stop moving as she caught a glimpse of a familiar face, gazing out at her from between the headlines. Slowly, with a hand that shook slightly, she picked up the newspaper and gazed at Massimo Sforza’s unmistakable profile.
Except it wasn’t his face that caused her to raise her hand in front of her eyes. It was the face of the woman he was kissing. His fiancée.
Her eyes barely moved as she read the story, but her thoughts were writhing. He was engaged! She felt a rush of blood to her head. He was despicable. Revolting. And faithless. She shivered.
‘Your bedroom or mine?’
He’d actually asked her that! Worse, for one infinitesimal moment she’d actually given it some consideration.
She glanced circumspectly around the café, half expecting to see people pointing and staring at her, but everyone was chatting and eating quite normally. Folding the newspaper, she called the waiter over and ordered another coffee.
She felt dreadful. She had kissed a man who was about to get married. That poor woman! This was exactly why she liked being single. So what if she didn’t have a date on Valentine’s Day? At least there were no nasty surprises. No disappointments. No pain.
Laying down the paper, she nodded automatically as the waiter placed the coffee in front of her. And then she glared at the photograph of Massimo and quickly covered his cheating, unscrupulous features with the cup. A shadow fell across the table
‘Sugar?’
It was the waiter again. Pinning a weak smile onto her face, she looked up and shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I don’t—’
Her words died on her lips and her smile dropped from her face. Wearing a pale pink shirt that seemed only to accentuate his flagrant masculinity, Massimo Sforza was gazing down at her, his impossibly handsome face perhaps the cruellest reminder she’d ever had that beauty truly was skin-deep.
‘You don’t what?’ He slid into the empty seat beside her as waiters from either side of the café converged on their table like a pack of eager dogs waiting for a bone. Barely turning round, he rattled off his order and settled back in his chair, his blue eyes never leaving her face. ‘What is it that you don’t do?’
Ignoring his question, she sat up stiffly. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing here or how you found me,’ she croaked, ‘but I don’t remember inviting you to join me so perhaps you’d like to leave.’
He frowned. ‘Really? That’s not very friendly. You were a lot friendlier yesterday.’
His eyes gleamed maliciously, and she gripped her cup tightly. Her hand was aching with the effort of not throwing her coffee all over his infuriating face, but losing her temper in front of so many witnesses would not be a smart move. Especially as they were probably all plain clothes police officers on Massimo’s payroll.
‘Was I?’ she said, forcing herself to lift her chin and meet his glinting gaze. ‘It happens sometimes...’
He shook his head slowly, a cold smile tugging at his lips. ‘So that’s how you want to play it, is it? Grazie!’
Flora blinked as he nodded curtly to the waiter who had appeared at his side to deposit an espresso and a glass of iced water onto the table.
‘I suppose I should be grateful you aren’t pretending to have amnesia.’
She glowered at him. ‘Is that what you do, then?’ she said stiffly. ‘When you’re with your fiancée?’
He picked up his cup of coffee and drank it swiftly. ‘Absolutely,’ he said coolly. ‘As I have no memory of actually having a fiancée.’
Their eyes met—hers furious, his a clear, challenging blue.
‘Really? Does she know that?’ Gritting her teeth, Flora breathed out slowly. ‘I’m surprised you even feel the need to pretend. That would imply guilt, and you don’t feel guilt, do you? Feelings are just for little people. The sort of people you trample over to get what you want. Because that’s all that matters, isn’t it? Getting what you want.’
He stared straight at her, his gaze so focused that she felt as though her skin was melting, and then, leaning forward, he gently tugged the newspaper out from under her cup and unfolded it.
