Rome's Revenge. Sara Craven

not one I necessarily wish to repeat.’ God, Cory thought, I sound positively Victorian. She hurried into speech again. ‘Thanks for trying, Shelley, but I’ve made a major decision. If I get involved again, I want someone kind and caring, not sex on legs.’

      ‘You could have both. Isn’t this guy worth a second look?’

      ‘I doubt if he was worth the first one,’ Cory said drily. ‘I’m sorry, love. I’m a hopeless case.’

      ‘No,’ Shelley said. ‘You just think you are. So, if you’re not going man-hunting, what do you plan for your day?’

      ‘I’m doing the domestic thing.’ Cory narrowed her eyes to stare at a ray of watery sun filtering through the window. ‘And I may go over to the health club for a swim later.’

      ‘Well, take care,’ Shelley advised caustically. ‘Too much excitement can be bad for you. I’ll call you next week.’ And she rang off.

      As Cory replaced her own handset, it occurred to her that the unknown Rome d’Angelo was almost certainly that kind of excitement. Bad for you.

      And best forgotten, she told herself dismissively.

      The health club was rarely very busy on Saturday mornings, and today was no exception. Cory found she had the pool virtually to herself. She had always loved swimming, finding her own grace and co-ordination when she was in the water, and she could feel the tensions floating out of her as she cut through the water.

      Afterwards she relaxed on one of the comfortable padded benches set back around the pool, and read some of the book she’d brought with her, but to her annoyance she found her concentration fragmenting.

      In spite of herself, she kept thinking of the previous evening, and that brief, disturbing glimpse she’d had of Rome d’Angelo.

      She found herself trying the name over in her mind, silently cursing Shelley as she did so.

      I really didn’t need to know his identity, she thought. He was easier to keep at bay when he was an anonymous stranger.

      Although she’d been aware of a connection between them, as powerful as an electric current.

      Suddenly, shockingly, she felt her body stir with excitement, as if she’d been touched. As if her mouth had been kissed, and her breast stroked gently to pleasure. Beneath the cling of her Lycra swimsuit her nipples were hardening to a piercing intensity, her body moistening in longing.

      Cory sat up, pushing her hair back from her face.

      It’s time I took a shower, she thought, her mouth twisting. And maybe I should make it a cold one.

      The changing rooms on the floor above were reached by lift. The women’s section was beautifully equipped, with mounds of fluffy towels, gels and body lotions and other toiletries, hairdriers, and a selection of all the popular fragrances in tester bottles for the clients to try.

      Cory didn’t linger today as she usually did. She showered swiftly, then dressed in her usual weekend uniform of jeans and a plain white tee shirt.

      She’d have some lunch at the salad bar on the ground floor before it got busy, she decided, as she shrugged on her leather jacket and picked up her tote bag. She was on her way out when she swung round, went back to the vanity unit, and sprayed her throat and wrists with some of her favourite ‘Dune’.

      And why not? she demanded silently as she made for the wide central stairway.

      She was two thirds of the way down, head bent, moving fast, when she suddenly felt her warning antennae switch to full alert, and glanced up, startled.

      She saw him at once, standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at her.

      Recognition was instant, sending her pulses into over-drive.

      She felt her lips frame his name, then stiffened in sudden, almost violent negation. Because he couldn’t be here—he couldn’t be…

      Her foot caught the moulded edge of the step, and she stumbled. As she fell, she grabbed at the rail and managed to check her headlong descent, but she couldn’t prevent herself sliding down the last half-dozen steps on her hip, and landing in an untidy huddle at his feet.

      She lay for a moment, winded, hearing a buzz of comment, aware of shocked faces looking down at her. Of one face in particular, dark and coolly attractive, with vivid blue eyes fringed by long lashes, a high-bridged nose, and a mouth redeemed from harshness by the sensuous curve of its lower lip.

      She realized too that he was kneeling beside her, and she was lying across his knees, his arm supporting her.

      His voice was low and resonant with a faint accent she could not place.

      ‘Don’t try to move. Are you hurt?’

      ‘No.’ The denial was swift, almost fierce, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position. ‘I’m fine—really. It was just a stupid accident.’

      She was going to have the mother of all bruises on her hip, but she’d deal with that tomorrow. At the moment, her main concern was getting out of the club with what little remained of her dignity.

      But his hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to stay where she was.

      ‘Maybe I should take you to the nearest casualty room—get you checked over.’

      ‘There’s no need for that. No damage has been done.’ She hunched away from him. She felt dazed, her body tingling, but instinct told her that had more to do with his hand on her shoulder than the tumble she’d just taken.

      ‘Then perhaps you’d take me instead.’ His face was dead-pan, but there was a glint in those amazing eyes. ‘I’m not used to having girls fall at my feet, and shock can be dangerous.’

      ‘Oh, really?’ Cory glared at him as she hauled herself painfully upright. ‘Now, I’d say you’d spent your adult life stepping over recumbent women.’

      Oh, God, she thought, appalled. What am I doing? I can’t believe I just said that.

      His brows lifted. ‘Appearances,’ he said softly, ‘can be deceptive. Something I also need to remember,’ he added quietly as he, too, got to his feet.

      Cory was almost glad to see one of the physiotherapists hurrying towards them. She answered his concerned questions, declined having her ankle examined, and agreed to fill out an accident report.

      ‘But later.’ Rome d’Angelo took her arm, and apparent control of the situation. ‘Now the lady needs something to drink.’

      Cory hung back, trying not to wince. She was altogether more shaken than she’d realised, but the fall was only partly responsible.

      Now she needed to get away before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

      She said, controlling the quiver in her voice, ‘I’m really all right. There’s no need for you to concern yourself any more.’

      ‘But I am concerned,’ he said softly, as the crowd began to melt away. ‘You threw yourself, and I caught you. And I’m not prepared to put you down yet. So, are you going to walk to the coffee shop with me—or do I have to carry you?’

      Cory heard herself say, ‘I’ll walk.’ And hardly recognised her own voice.

      CHAPTER THREE

      THIS is lunacy, thought Cory, and I should run out of here and have myself committed immediately.

      But she couldn’t. For one thing, she was too sore to run anywhere. For another, her wallet and keys were in her tote bag, which Rome d’Angelo must have rescued after her fall and which was now hanging from one muscular shoulder as he waited at the counter in the coffee shop.

      So, she said, perforce, to stay where she was, perched in rigid discomfort on one of the pretty wrought-iron chairs at the corner table he’d taken her to.