Promise Of The Unicorn. Sara Craven

      Promise of the Unicorn

      Sara Craven

       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

       TITLE PAGE

       ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       ENDPAGE

       COPYRIGHT

       CHAPTER ONE

      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