Valentine Vendetta

‘I’ll be out of the country all week,’ he told her. ‘I’ll ring you when I get back and we’ll arrange a meet in London to discuss details and budget, that kind of thing. Okay with you?’

‘Sure,’ she nodded, and was just reaching over to unlock the car door when he suddenly leaned over and caught hold of her left hand and turned it over to study it closely.

‘No marks, I see,’ he observed, tracing her bare ring finger with the pad of his thumb.

All she could feel was the rough warmth of his skin and the shock of the unexpected contact made every sane thought trickle out of her mind. ‘I b-beg your pardon?’

‘Marks. From your wedding ring.’

‘Who told you I was married? Cormack?’

The blaze from his eyes was like a searchlight. ‘Yeah. Who else? You don’t wear the fact tattooed on your forehead, that’s for sure!’

Fran shifted awkwardly on her seat. ‘Well, that’s past tense. I’m divorced now.’

‘So I understand. There’s a lot of it around,’ he drawled. ‘But even so…’ He let his thumb trickle slowly around the base of her finger in a gesture which to Fran seemed both highly suggestive and highly erotic and she shivered despite the warmth of the car. ‘Wedding rings always leave their mark—one way or the other.’

This was getting too close for comfort. Fran tore her hand away from his and pushed open the car door, her breath coming hot and thick in her throat. ‘I’ll see you when you get back from Europe,’ she croaked.

CHAPTER THREE (#u734ad934-79b3-55f1-81cc-b961b1e656cf)

FRAN rang the doorbell and moments later a blurry-eyed Rosie peered out from behind the safety chain.

‘Wassa time?’ she mumbled.

Fran frowned and stared at her friend in horror and amazement. ‘Five o’clock. Rosie, have you been drinking?’

Rosie swallowed back a hiccup and then beamed. ‘I jus’…jus’ ha’ a small one. I was nervous, see. Knowing that you were meeting Sam.’ Her eyes focussed at last. ‘Did you? Meet him?’

‘I did.’

‘And?’

Fran shivered. It had been a long and boring journey back on the train which had stopped at about a hundred stations between Eversford and London. She was cold and she was tired and frankly, not at all sure that she was doing the right thing in trying to teach Rosie’s ex-lover a lesson. From her brief meeting with him, he had not seemed the ideal candidate to have the wool pulled over his eyes. She was going to have to be very careful….

‘Rosie, do we have to have this conversation on the doorstep?’

‘Oh! Sorry! Come in!’ Rosie unhooked the chain and Fran followed her into the flat which seemed to have had nothing done to it in the way of housework since she had been there the day before yesterday. She wrinkled her nose. How stale it smelt.

Rosie turned to her eagerly. ‘So! Did you get the job?’

Again, Fran felt the oddest shiver of apprehension. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘Oh, joy of joys!’ gurgled Rosie. ‘Well done! Let’s go and have a drink to celebrate!’

‘Haven’t you had enough?’

Rosie looked at her sharply. ‘Maybe I have,’ she shrugged. ‘But that doesn’t stop you, does it?’

‘No, I’m fine. I had tea on the train. I just want to take the weight off my feet.’

Fran waited until they were both settled in the sitting room where dirty cups and glasses littered the coffee table, before she said anything.

‘The place could do with a bit of a clean-up, you know, Rosie.’

Rosie pulled a face. ‘Bet you didn’t say that to Sam! He’s nearly as untidy as me! God, I used to despair of the way he dropped his shirts on the bedroom floor!’

It was a statement which told how intimate they had been, and Fran clenched her teeth as she tried to block out the image of Sam Lockhart peeling the clothes from that impressive body of his. Surely she wasn’t jealous? Not of Rosie? But maybe it was that which made her plump for a home truth rather than sparing Rosie’s feelings any longer. ‘He may be untidy,’ she agreed sternly. ‘But at least his house is clean.’

Rosie, who was in the process of rubbing her finger at a sticky brown ring left by a sherry glass, looked up abruptly. ‘Are you saying my flat is dirty?’

‘I’m saying it could do with an airing,’ said Fran diplomatically. ‘And a bit of a blitz.’

Rosie nodded with the distracted air of someone who wasn’t really listening. ‘Tell me what Sam said first. Tell me what you thought of him.’

Fran chose her next words even more carefully. ‘He’s certainly very good-looking. I can see why you fell for him.’

Rosie squinted. ‘C’mon, Fran. You can do better than that. What did you really think of him?’

Tricky. ‘Well, he wasn’t what I was expecting,’ she said slowly.

‘Mmmm? What were you expecting then?’

Fran wriggled her shoulders as she tried to put it into words. ‘The way you described him, I thought he’d be kind of…obvious. You know. Mr. Smarm. But he wasn’t. He was…’ Now she really couldn’t go on. Being honest was one thing, but not if it had the effect of wounding the very person you were supposed to be helping. And if Fran told Rosie the truth—that she had been more attracted to him than any man since Sholto—then wouldn’t that make her look foolish? And an appalling judge of character?

‘Sexy?’ enquired Rosie.

Fran winced. It would not have been her first word of choice. ‘I suppose so.’

‘That’s because he is. Very. Fran, I didn’t have any real experience of men before I met Sam—but believe me when I tell you that he is just dynamite in bed—’

‘Rosie! I don’t want to know!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because other people’s sex lives should remain private, that’s why!’ Except that she wasn’t being completely truthful. It was more that she couldn’t bear to think of Sam Lockhart being intimate with anyone—and the reasons for that were confusing the hell out of her. ‘Change the subject, Rosie!’ she growled. ‘Or I’ll wash my hands of the whole idea!’

‘Okay, okay—keep your hair on!’ Rosie slanted her a glance from beneath the heavy fringe which flopped into her eyes. ‘So what’s happening about the ball?’

‘He’s ringing me when he gets back from Europe. That’s when we’ll discuss all the details. You know, the budget, the venue—’ she yawned. ‘That kind of thing.’

‘And the guest list?’

‘That’s right. Most of the planning I can organise by phone from Dublin, but I’m going to need a temporary base in London.’

‘Stay here with me!’ said Rosie impulsively.

Fran shook her head. She suspected that a few years down the line, sharing a flat might test their friendship to breaking point. ‘How can I, Rosie?’ she asked gently. ‘You live here. And Sam knows you live here, doesn’t he? I know it’s unlikely, but imagine if he saw me coming out of your flat. It would rather give the game away, wouldn’t it? No, I’ll ring my mother up—she’s got loads of rich friends and relatives. One of them might just be planning a winter holiday in the sun. I could do with a few weeks off—and I’m the world’s best house-sitter!’