Promise Of The Unicorn. Sara Craven

want lunch. I—I’m really not hungry.’

      ‘Perhaps not, but I am.’ His tone was faintly crushing.

      ‘Yes, but you could still go to the Savoy. I could come back some other time …’ Sophie began to back towards the door.

      Angelo sighed impatiently. ‘Please don’t be foolish, Sophie. Presumably you had some important motive for seeking me out in this way. Has it suddenly become less so?’

      Sophie bit her lip. ‘No,’ she admitted stiffly. ‘Only, I didn’t mean to intrude—to interfere in your personal affairs. I’m sorry.’

      He gave a swift shrug. ‘Don’t be. Unless it is also your intention to disrupt my arrangements for this evening too?’

      She flushed. ‘Oh, no.’ She stole a look at him beneath her lashes. ‘Is the lady you’re meeting Gianetta Vanni, the dress designer? I read in the papers she was in London.’

      ‘It is,’ he said briefly. ‘But we are here to discuss some personal matters of yours, not mine.’

      Sophie’s flush deepened. That was the real Angelo, she thought. King of the cutting remark, making her feel a schoolgirl again. She wished she could tell him to go to hell.

      He glanced at the thin platinum watch on his wrist. ‘Lunch will be a few minutes. Perhaps you would like an aperitivo—something to calm your ruffled temper, and give you courage perhaps,’ he added sardonically.

      Sophie opened her eyes wide. ‘Do I need courage?’ she asked, deciding it was safer to overlook the remark about her temper.

      The dark face was enigmatic suddenly. ‘That, cara, will depend probably on the magnitude of the problem you wish to discuss with me. So—will you have a sherry, perhaps, or a martini?’

      ‘Sherry would be fine.’ Sophie sent him an angelic smile. ‘Do you know this is the first time you’ve ever offered me a drink. Is it an acknowledgement that you regard me as an adult at last?’

      His mouth twisted. ‘No—merely that I recognise that in the eyes of the law at least, you are now old enough to be given alcohol—no more. Don’t hope for too much from me, Sophie,’ he added acidly.

      Rage made her dumb as he crossed to an antique cabinet and extracted a decanter and two crystal glasses. The sherry was pale gold and very dry, and Sophie could cheerfully have thrown it all over him, but her reasons for seeking him out, allied with the certainty that he would undoubtedly retaliate if she did any such thing, stayed her hand. And, oddly enough, the sherry did seem to have a calming effect, its caress like velvet against the taut muscles of her throat.

      As she sipped it and began slowly to look around her, and take in her surroundings, she was able to see that although it was a large room, it was far more businesslike and less luxurious than any of her previous imaginings about the Marchese bank had suggested. Not that she’d ever expended much thought on the subject, she hastily reminded herself, but it had always seemed natural to picture Angelo against a background of opulent marble halls.

      But the only real sign of opulence in the room was the chair on which she herself was now seated. It was low, made from some pale hide, deeply cushioned, and designed, she realised to put anyone who used it at an actual physical disadvantage, staring up at the huge desk which dominated the room, and the dominating man who sat behind it.

      As their glances met, he sent her a faint smile, and lifted his glass in salute. ‘Well, Sophie?’

      He wanted to know why she had come, and she didn’t know what to say, or where to begin.

      ‘Is this where you put people when they want a loan?’ she asked at last, trying for brightness and playing for time.

      ‘Sometimes.’ The dark brows lifted mockingly. ‘I hope you don’t want to ask for a loan, Sophie.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ she said hastily, thanking her stars that it was true. She looked round her again, avoiding his gaze. ‘What a fantastic building this is. Of course, I’ve never been here before.’

      ‘But that,’ Angelo reminded her silkily. ‘Is entirely through your own choice. I seem to remember when it was once suggested, you told me that all commerce was disgusting but bankers were the worst of all, because they were predators. Or had you forgotten?’

      No, she hadn’t forgotten. The memory still made her cheeks burn, particularly as she’d chosen a family dinner party for her outburst. It had been sparked off by a letter from a friend, Rosemary, blotched with tears to say that she wouldn’t be returning to school the following term, because her father’s company was in financial trouble. Rosemary had not had a complete grasp of what had happened, but it seemed clear her father was being made bankrupt, and they would lose nearly everything they possessed.

      The letter had upset Sophie, and she’d tried to discuss it with her mother, but Barbara, abstracted over her guests, had said, ‘Later, darling.’

      During the dinner, she’d been quiet, thinking of Rosemary, and her family, and the trouble which had come to them, and when she’d come out of her reverie, it was to find careers were being discussed, and that she was suddenly the focus of attention, with John proposing not too seriously that she might find an opening in the Marchese bank.

      She’d looked past him and seen Angelo—seen the slightly derisive smile which twisted his mouth as he listened, and had exploded, the natural tension he inspired in her combining lethally with the anguish she felt for Rosemary. She had heard her voice storming into the startled silence, saying stupid, unforgivable things that she was totally unable to prevent, cringing from them, from the shock on John and Barbara’s faces, and from the contempt in Angelo’s eyes.

      How typical of him to remind her, she thought stormily.

      She said evenly, ‘Are you still blaming me for something I said when I was a child?’

      ‘Implying that you are now a woman?’ Angelo’s mouth curled.

      He watched her react, as his tiny shaft struck home, then went on, ‘And a woman who wants something. That’s a dangerous combination, Sophie.’

      She remained silent. Nothing about this interview was going as planned. The determination which had prompted her to seek it had vanished, and only the difficulties remained.

      ‘We established, I think, that you did not wish to choose banking as a career,’ the smooth voice went on. ‘What have you decided to do with your life?’

      She hesitated. Now was the time to tell him. He’d provided her with the perfect opening, but still she prevaricated. ‘I’m starting a secretarial course in the autumn.’ She tried a smile. ‘I can’t go on living at home forever, although I’ve enjoyed this year. John felt that I’d been away so much at school that it was time I got to know them both all over again.’

      ‘You don’t have to explain the situation to me.’ He was lounging in his chair, watching her, his face giving nothing away. ‘And shall you enjoy being a secretary?’

      Sophie shrugged. ‘It’s an—adequate way of making a living,’ she returned.

      ‘And is that really so vital? You are now a rich man’s daughter, do not forget.’

      ‘Oh, there’s no danger of that. After all, you’ll always be there to remind me, won’t you?’

      He smiled lazily, ‘Of course.’ He paused, as a respectful knock at the door heralded lunch. ‘Shall we go in?’

      Sophie took a deep breath and struggled out of the chair, ignoring the helping hand he offered her. She felt oddly light-headed as she stood up. She’d been a fool to have that sherry on an empty stomach, she reproached herself as she allowed herself to be conducted out of the office and along the carpeted corridor to the directors’ dining room.

      It was a quite a small room, the oak-panelled walls imposing an extra intimacy. A table had been set for them beside the window, with its view