Promise Of The Unicorn

Promise Of The Unicorn
Sara Craven

Mills & Boon proudly presents THE SARA CRAVEN COLLECTION. Sara’s powerful and passionate romances have captivated and thrilled readers all over the world for five decades making her an international bestseller.He'd promised her her heart's desireFor years Sophie had avoided being absorbed–however kindly–by the powerful Marchese family. Now she had to swallow pride and misgivings alike to help finance Mark's business so that they could be married.It was time to collect on the promise her stepcousin, Angelo, had given her along with the Marchese glass unicorn. And being a man of his word, Angelo pledged, "You shall have whatever you desire–that is, if you know what you want."Now her talisman–protector of virgins–was back in Angelo's hands. And the power of the unicorn worked both ways!

Promise of the Unicorn

Sara Craven

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

COVER (#u4456b15d-6f15-56fe-97f0-b1b6208c452d)

TITLE PAGE (#uea8b1858-46f1-52d9-825b-0674cf7dd776)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR (#ub32cb16d-a255-54fe-9278-b6f0ef754539)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

ENDPAGE (#litres_trial_promo)

COPYRIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE (#ud549eeb0-2777-547e-816f-72bce343d45e)

ALL the way up in the train, Sophie had been rehearsing what she meant to say, but now that she had actually arrived—found herself enclosed in the discreetly imposing surroundings of the foyer of the Marchese bank, her mind seemed to have become a complete blank.

Not that it mattered, she thought, her mouth twisting wrily. Judging by the polite but implacable treatment she had met with at the reception desk, her journey on which so much doubt, reluctance and heart-searching had been lavished, was going to be a wasted one.

‘You wish to see Signor Angelo Marchese?’ The receptionist’s eyebrows had risen by a fraction, and her eyes had measured Sophie, taking in every detail of the expensively simple navy wool suit, and the white lawn blouse beneath it. ‘Have you an appointment?’

In spite of herself, Sophie felt a faint blush rising. How could she possibly explain to this well-groomed Gorgon the sudden impulse which had brought her here? ‘I’m afraid not,’ she managed, adding quickly as she saw the other woman’s mouth beginning to shape the negative. ‘But if you could just tell him that—that Miss Ralston is here, and would be grateful for a moment of his time.’

‘I bet’ Sophie’s sensitive antennae picked up from the receptionist’s silence, but the older woman merely said with cool civility, ‘I’ll tell his secretary, Miss—er Ralston, but I’m afraid I can’t promise anything. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat over there.’

My God, Sophie thought as she turned away, grabbing at her poise. She thinks I’m one of Angelo’s women. If it wasn’t so nauseating, it would almost be laughable.

She could have put her right, of course. She could have said, ‘Actually, Signor Marchese is my cousin by marriage.’ But she didn’t do so. It wasn’t a relationship she had any desire to acknowledge. For years, it seemed, she had been fighting to hold on to her own identity, to avoid being absorbed, however kindly, into the Marchese clan. Ever since, in fact, her mother, a widow with a young daughter had married John Marchese.

John was a big, ebullient, warm man, prepared to dote uncritically on his new stepdaughter. It was true to say that there had been little Sophie had ever wanted in her eighteen years that John was not happy to give her.

Except the one thing that really matters, she thought with a sigh.

She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. She’d been sitting on this admittedly comfortable sofa in a corner of the foyer for nearly forty minutes. At first she’d felt self-conscious, now, she felt invisible. She supposed this was the ploy with unwanted callers—to leave them there until they gave up and crept ignominiously away.

But, I’m damned if I will, Sophie thought, tilting her chin. I’m here now, and I’ll stay until they have to carry me out. I’m never going to get such an opportunity to see Angelo again.

As the youngest ever chairman of the Marchese bank, Angelo spent a lot of his time jetting between the various capital cities of the world, and it was London’s turn to suffer one of his periodic descents.

Even so, Sophie had not seriously considered seeking him out until she’d heard her stepfather mention casually over dinner the night before that he himself would be away from the bank for the entire day, attending some financial conference in the Midlands. It had really seemed to Sophie as if fate was giving her a nudge, and so she’d swallowed pride and misgivings alike, and caught the first train to London after breakfast.

And much good it had done her, she thought crossly. She might as well have stayed quietly at home, and relied on trying to snatch a private moment with Angelo when he attended her parents’ wedding anniversary party in a few days time.

Except that would probably have been harder than trying to get to him here, she knew. Wherever Angelo visited, he was invariably the guest of honour, and there would be many people ahead of her in the queue to monopolise his attention, even for a few minutes.

Under normal circumstances, Sophie would have crossed streets to keep out of Angelo’s way. At their first meeting nine years ago at her parents’ wedding, she’d been frankly in awe of this tall, rather aloof young man with his aquiline features and hooded eyes. The Marchese bank had been lending money to the whole of Europe since the days of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and Sophie had no difficulty in translating Angelo into silks and velvets, with a pearl in his ear and a dagger in his hand, she thought vengefully.

And then, for a while, her view of him had changed, after the day he’d arrived unexpectedly at their country house at Bishops Wharton and found her crying on the terrace steps.

She couldn’t even remember at this distance what her tears had been about. Probably her mother had sensibly put paid to some particularly blatant piece of spoiling on John’s part, and she was bewailing the fact. And then suddenly Angelo was sitting beside her, regardless of moss, or dust or dead leaves, his arm round her, his voice calling her ‘mia cara’ and asking what the matter was.

As if it was yesterday, she could remember the silky glide of his sleeve under her cheek as he comforted her, that indefinable air of arrogant command she had sensed subdued for once, as she sobbed out some halting explanation. Remembered, too, the faint scent of his cologne, a subtle musky fragrance he still used, although these days she took care not to get too close, and which had clung to the immaculate white handkerchief he had used to dry her tears.

If he’d been secretly amused by the desolate picture she presented, at least he’d kept it to himself. His usually cool drawl had been oddly gentle as he’d soothed her, telling her there was nothing in her world worth the shedding of a single tear, and that in a day or two she would have forgotten all about it. She’d sat in the circle of his arm, almost mesmerised by the sound of his voice, until at last, worn out with emotion, she’d fallen asleep.

And then, a few days later, a package had arrived addressed to her, and when she’d removed the layers of padded wrapping, she’d discovered to her delight a small glass unicorn, and a note.

She was a Marchese now, Angelo had written, and the unicorn was part of the Marchese family crest. In addition, it was a pledge between them. If Sophie would promise not to cry anymore over trifles, then, one day, when she found something she wanted with all her heart, she could return the unicorn to him, and he would help get it for her, if he could.

Barbara Marchese had disregarded the note, but her brows had risen when she looked at the unicorn Sophie held so proudly. ‘John—it’s Venetian glass, and terribly old. Is Angelo mad? Sophie will break it.’

‘I don’t think so.’ John Marchese had fondly stroked his stepdaughter’s fair hair. ‘Will you, Sophie?’

Mutely, she’d shaken her head. Nor had she. She’d treasured the unicorn, and Angelo had become her god. She’d hero-worshipped him openly, trying vainly to think of something she wanted enough to fulfil the terms of their bargain, because it was so much like a fairy tale, and she wanted the magic to happen there and then.

But gradually, as the years passed, her attitude had changed again, as she began to perceive Angelo not as hero, but as a man, powerful, incredibly attractive and sexually charismatic, and started to make sense of the items she read in gossip columns about him.

She supposed she’d been unutterably naïve, but she’d been at boarding school a couple of years before she finally realised from the frank remarks of some of the senior girls exactly what Angelo’s relationship was with these ‘constant companions’ who appeared and disappeared in his life with such monotonous regularity. And it had been a shock to find that her prince—her fairy godfather—was in fact avidly fancied by many of her contemporaries.

‘Lucky Sophie,’ Camilla Liddell had gloated. She was older than Sophie would ever be, with sleepy knowing eyes. ‘Does beautiful cousin Angelo let little Sophie sit on his knee and cuddle him?’ She’d smiled maliciously at Sophie’s sudden flush, and added some suggestions which had made her skin crawl with disgust.