Valentine Vendetta

‘Yes, I can imagine that you must keep coming up against that kind of thing,’ he commented innocently.

Fran looked at him suspiciously. Was he making fun of her? ‘Perhaps we should talk about the ball now,’ she said primly.

He gave a wolfish smile, aware that he was finding this verbal skirmish extremely stimulating indeed. ‘But that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do for the last five minutes. You do dither, don’t you, Miss Fisher?’

‘Not normally, no—it must be the effect you’re having on me!’ Fran took a deep breath as she forced herself to ignore his sarcasm and to inject her voice with enthusiasm. ‘Anyway, Valentine’s Day is such a fantastic date for any kind of party!’ she began breezily. ‘It gives us so much scope for decorations!’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, you know…. Hearts! Flowers! Love! Romance!’

‘Aren’t you forgetting originality?’ he put in, his face deadpan.

Now he was making fun of her. Fran frowned, forgetting Rosie, forgetting everything except doing what she was good at. And she was very good at pitching for a job…. ‘Mr. Lockhart—’ She gave him a patient look. ‘Valentine’s Day is just like Christmas—’

‘It is?’

‘It certainly is. As a traditional celebration—people expect certain customs to be adhered to.’

‘They do?’

‘Of course they do!’ she enthused, really warming to her subject now. ‘Its rituals comfort and reassure—because people don’t always want to be surprised, you know. They want the predictable—’

‘How very boring,’ he murmured.

Fran cleared her throat. That sizzling little glance of his was annoyingly distracting. ‘Wrong!’ she smiled. ‘I can assure you that while what I am suggesting may not exactly be ground-breaking stuff—’

‘Mmmm?’

‘It most certainly will not be boring! You will have the very best food and wines and the most wonderful music—all served up in a setting which will quite simply take your breath away!’

His eyes rested on her thoughtfully for a moment or two, before shooting another glance at his watch. ‘Right. Well, thank you very much for your time, Miss Fisher.’

Fran stared at him in astonishment. Surely that wasn’t it? Yes, he’d said ten minutes, but he’d barely let her talk for more than thirty seconds! She glanced at her own watch. No. A man of his word. It had been ten minutes exactly. ‘You mean, that’s it?’

‘I’m afraid so. You see, it really is time that I was leaving for the airport. I can drop you off at the station on the way if you like.’

The words were as dismissive as the way he said them. So that was that. No job. No pay-back. She’d let Rosie down, but even worse, she’d let herself down, by stupidly jumping to the conclusion that he had been coming on to her. That was why he wasn’t going to give her the job. Acting naive and gauche round a man like this, as though she was still wet around the ears. Instead of a woman who had single-handedly built up a thriving business for herself out of the ruins of her failed marriage.

‘No, I’ll take a cab.’

‘Sure? It’ll be quicker by car.’ The lazy smile grew wider. ‘Or don’t you trust yourself to be alone in the car with me?’

Huh! She might be leaving without the job. She might have travelled halfway across the country on one of the filthiest days of the year. But there was no need for her to leave with him thinking that she was some kind of emotional hysteric. She had underestimated Sam Lockhart and her rather dizzy reaction to him, and for that she had paid the price. It was time to withdraw in a cool and dignified manner.

‘Don’t be absurd, Mr. Lockhart,’ she said, forcing a cool smile. ‘I’d love a lift. Just as long as it isn’t out of your way?’

‘No, not at all. Come on.’

He paused only to pick up a compact-looking briefcase in the hall and to engage in a complex locking-system for the front door. ‘The car’s out in the garage at the back,’ he said.

His long legs covered the ground at twice the pace she was used to, but she managed to keep up with him on their way to the stable-block which had been converted to house a clutch of cars. But Sam Lockhart was obviously not a man who collected wealthy toys—for there was only one vehicle sitting there. Fran had expected something predictable—the rich man’s phallic substitute of a long, low car in screaming scarlet or devilish black.

Instead she saw a mud-splattered four-wheel drive which had golf clubs and a tennis racket companionably jumbled around a tartan picnic rug in the back, along with a muddle of magazines and discarded sweet wrappers. An empty water bottle lay next to a pair of battered old running shoes. A large brown envelope marked Sam—Urgent! lay on the passenger seat.

This was the car of an action-packed life, whose owner had neither the time nor the inclination to vacuum the carpet, thought Fran. It did not look like the car of a playboy, she thought with mild confusion.

He saw her expression of surprise. ‘Excuse the state of the car.’

‘No, I like it,’ she said, without thinking. ‘Honestly. It’s homely.’

He smiled. ‘Mmmm. Messy might be more accurate,’ he murmured. He moved the envelope, threw his suitcase in the back and waited until Fran had strapped herself in before starting the engine.

His driving surprised her, too. That did not fit with the rich-man stereotype, either. No roar of accelerator or screech of brakes. His driving was safe, not showy—just like the car. Bizarrely, Fran even felt herself relaxing, until she reminded herself just who was next to her, and sat bolt upright to stare fixedly out of the window.

But he didn’t seem to notice her frozen posture, just switched on the radio and listened to the news channel. He didn’t speak during the entire journey to the station and neither did Fran. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Well, she could. But something simpered on the lines of, ‘I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea about me earlier’ would damn her even further in his eyes, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. Not even for Rosie. But more especially for herself. Because for some unfathomable reason, she would rather have made a fool of herself in front of anyone than in front of Sam Lockhart.

She was desperate for the journey to end, yet her heart sank with disappointment as the car bumped across the station forecourt. I won’t ever see him again, she thought, wondering why it should matter.

‘Thanks for the lift.’ She owed him the brief glance, the polite smile, but was totally unprepared for the watchfulness in his blue eyes.

‘I don’t have your card,’ he said.

‘My card?’ she repeated stupidly.

‘Your business card.’

She scarcely dared hope why he wanted it, just fumbled around in her handbag until she found one. ‘Here.’

He glanced at it. ‘This is a Dublin code.’

‘Well, there’s my mobile number,’ she pointed. ‘You can always reach me on that.’

‘When are you going back to Ireland?’

‘I’m…not sure.’ She hadn’t decided, because her decision was based on whether he gave her the job or not. Somehow she doubted it—but she certainly wouldn’t find out by trying to read his mind. She tried not to sound either too nervous or too tentative. ‘Am I still in the running for the job, then?’

‘No.’ There was a pause as the word dropped like a guillotine, severing all her hopes. Poor Rosie, she thought fleetingly, until she realised that he was speaking again, but so quietly that she had to strain her ears to hear.

‘The job is yours.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The job is yours,’ he repeated, eyes gleaming as he enjoyed her startled reaction. ‘That is, if you still want it?’

‘Er, yes. I still want it,’ she answered, wondering why victory—and such unexpected victory—should taste so hollow. But she had to know. ‘But why? I mean, why are you offering it to me?’

He frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that it was particularly good psychology to sound so incredulous if someone offers you the job.’ His eyes narrowed critically. ‘It might even make some people reconsider.’

‘Well, I certainly didn’t give the best interview of my life,’ she told him candidly.

‘No, you didn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But Cormack said you were the best—’

She gave a slow flush of pleasure. ‘Did he?’

‘Yeah, he did. And he’s the kind of man whose opinion people listen to—me included.’

‘And that’s why you’re offering me the job—because of Cormack’s say-so?’

‘Partly. But also because you’re a fresh face on the scene, and fresh faces bring enthusiasm. I’ve never hosted a ball before, and I want it to work.’ His blue eyes gleamed with a hard determination. ‘Really work.’

Suddenly all her old fervour was back. The ball would be a success. She would make sure of that. Rosie’s pay-back was merely an offshoot—an insignificant little offshoot. A lesson he needed to learn which would probably benefit him in the end! And who knew, maybe one day he might even be grateful to her! ‘Oh, it’ll work, all right—I can guarantee you that, Mr. Lockhart,’ she breathed.

‘Sam,’ he corrected.

‘Sam,’ Fran repeated obediently. It felt so right to say his name. Too right. Like having one long lean leg mere inches away from hers felt right, too.

Not since Sholto had she been so tuned in to a man’s presence. Only this seemed all wrong. This wasn’t just a knockout individual with searing blue eyes and a body which had been constructed in the dream-factory. This was the man who had robbed her best friend of her innocence.

So why did she find herself wanting to curl up like a kitten in his lap, instead of lashing out at him with her claws?

‘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

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!’

She studied the finger that Sam had so softly circled, and swallowed. ‘You know, maybe this is the opportunity I need to make the break and get out of Ireland—’

‘I thought you loved it!’

‘I do. Just that Dublin is such a small city—’

‘And you keep running into Sholto and his new girlfriend, I suppose?’

Fran forced a smile. ‘Something like that.’ She stood up decisively. ‘Got any bleach?’

‘Bleach?’ Rosie blinked. ‘You aren’t planning to go blond, are you?’ she asked in horror.

Fran’s smile widened of its own accord. ‘Not that kind of bleach, stupid! I meant the kind that cleans floors!’

‘Oh, that!’ said Rosie gloomily, and went off to find some.

By the time Sam Lockhart rang her a week later, Fran had established a London base she could use whenever she needed. One of her mother’s many cousins was visiting her daughter in Australia for the winter, leaving a high-ceilinged flat vacant in Hampstead village—in a road which was apparently a burglar’s paradise.

‘She’d be delighted to have you keeping your eye on the place,’ Fran’s mother had said. ‘But I’d like to see you myself, darling. When are you coming up to Scotland?’

Fran prodded a neglected-looking plant which was badly in need of a gallon or two of water, and frowned. ‘I promise I’ll be there for Christmas.’

‘What—not until then?’

‘Mum, it’s only weeks away.’ Fran kept her voice patient.

‘Is Rosie any better?’

‘A bit. Still misses this man Sam Lockhart.’

‘Didn’t that all finish ages ago?’

‘Uh-huh. I guess some broken hearts just take longer to heal than others.’ But Fran deliberately omitted to mention the fact that Sam was one of her new clients. The information would be bound to set her mother thinking, and for some strange reason Fran was convinced that she would try to talk her out of getting involved in some kind of vendetta.

There was a long and loaded pause followed by a question which was studiedly casual. ‘So how’s Sholto?’

The pause from Fran’s end was equally loaded. ‘How should I know, Mum? I don’t have anything to do with Sholto anymore. Why would I, when we’re divorced now? Apparently, he’s got a new girlfriend—’

‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me—’

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