Romance Of A Lifetime. Кэрол Мортимер

I'll have a glass of champagne,’ he accepted smoothly.

      Too smooth. Too slick. Too damned self-assured. And his look of satisfaction at having her apparently comply with his wishes was almost too much for her to bear.

      ‘Certainly.’ Beth gave a gracious inclination of her head before moving lightly through the groups of people that had now joined them.

      Despite their rush outside there were still several people who had arrived at the bar ahead of them, and it took some minutes to buy the champagne and make her way back to the man's side, all the more determined in her resolve to have nothing to do with him as she took in his arrogant expression.

      She handed him the glass. ‘I hope you enjoy it.’ Her expression was one of cool disdain as she turned away.

      ‘Where's your own drink?’ The man frowned as he realised she was about to leave.

      Her brows rose coolly as she glanced back at him. ‘I didn't say anything about having a drink myself.’ Satisfaction at having turned his manipulation back on him darkened her eyes to emerald. ‘Excuse me,’ she nodded abruptly.

      ‘Cheers.’ He held his glass up in acknowledgement of her victory, his eyes dark with admiration.

      Beth knew with certainty that not too many people managed to achieve any sort of victory over this man!

      Unfortunately, despite the obvious pleasure her action over the champagne had given her, it had probably been the worst thing she could have done with this type of man. She had probably just managed to make herself even more of a challenge to him …

      Due to technical difficulties with the set for the fourth and final act the third interval was an even longer one than any of the previous ones. Beth avoided going back to her seat during this time, although she was sure the man who was proving such a pest to her had more finesse than to actually lie in wait for her there.

      She was right; his seat was noticeably empty when she finally did return, although she was very much aware of the movement behind her a few minutes later when he did resume his seat. She didn't need to turn around to confirm it was him, could literally feel the warmth of his gaze on her neck as he looked at her.

      Maybe if she hadn't been so overwhelmed at the end of the performance, so enthralled with the poignancy of the final act of the opera that she was loath to move, she might have escaped the theatre without further incident. But as she had been, and she was, she was literally a sitting target for his forceful determination.

      By the time she realised that, the damned man had once more taken charge of her without so much as a word being spoken, and she was politely but firmly being hurtled through the crowd of milling people who, now that the performance was over, were eager to leave the amphitheatre. They had been an appreciative audience during the last four hours but now that the opera was over it was as if the magnitude of it all had made them realise a need to get on with their lives.

      ‘Will you stop doing this?’ Beth came to an abrupt halt, unconcerned by the people who accidentally knocked into her in the process, wrenching her arm out of his grasp. ‘I do not appreciate this habit you have of—of manhandling me!’ She rubbed the touch of his hand off her arm, her eyes glaring her displeasure.

      He held up his hands defensively. ‘I just thought it—–'

      ‘I really don't care what you thought, Mr …?’ She looked at him pointedly, her mouth firm as she made him remember the fact that they hadn't even been introduced.

      ‘Craven,’ he supplied softly. ‘Marcus Craven.'

      Why was he looking at her like that, as if she should know the name? If that were the case she was afraid she had to disappoint him; the name wasn't in the least familiar to her. Not that she would have given him the satisfaction of acknowledging it even if it had been!

      ‘Well, Mr Craven,’ she continued coldly, ‘whatever you may have thought to the contrary, I do not appreciate being dragged about by you like a sack of potatoes that—–'

      ‘Nothing like a sack of potatoes,’ he cut in mockingly, his gaze on her appreciative.

      Beth met that gaze unflinchingly, determined to show him that she wasn't in the least impressed by him or anything he had done tonight. ‘Whatever you may have thought. I was, Mr Craven,’ she said in a controlled voice, ‘I have found your behaviour this evening very offensive.’ She sighed. ‘I politely refused your offer of a drink, refusals you completely ignored, incidentally,’ she snapped, ‘only to find myself taken over by you in a way that was as unnecessary as it was arrogant. Now if you will excuse me—once again!—the evening is at an end and I wish to return to my hotel.'

      ‘No,’ he said evenly.

      Already in the process of making her dignified exit after what she had believed to be a complete set-down, Beth was instantly halted in her tracks, turning slowly back to Marcus Craven. ‘What do you mean, no?’ she repeated dazedly.

      ‘I mean, no, I don't excuse you,’ he returned coolly. ‘I recognised a fellow—Brit,’ he mockingly amended the earlier assumption he had made that had irritated her so much, ‘in a foreign land, thought it would be nice if you took pity on me and we could spend a little time together, the sound of a friendly voice and all that. But if you would rather be unfriendly there isn't a lot I can do to change that, is there?’ He shrugged.

      As a performance aimed at making her feel guilty it ranked pretty high. In terms of actually succeeding in doing that it failed miserably, was completely wasted on her. ‘Nice’ wasn't a word she would ever have associated with this man, in any context whatsoever; she felt sure it was a word he had rarely, if ever, used before. As for him needing the pity he was trying to arouse in her …!

      No one looked as if he needed pity less—the man was the epitome of success. He certainly didn't need to seek her out, could have women at his side day and night without any effort at all. A possible language barrier wouldn't make any difference to that at all; this man exuded power, and that was enough of an attraction for a lot of women. It would always have the opposite effect on her.

      Always …

      ‘Quite,’ she bit out tersely, nodding dismissively before pointedly walking past him, her head held high, daring him to apprehend her once again.

      There was no hand grasping her arm, no sarcastic or cajoling comment that invoked a response, and yet Beth could feel that steely gaze on her back for the whole length of the foyer, sensed it even as she walked up the steps and out of the amphitheatre, knew he was following her, quite a distance behind her, but following none the less.

      She would have liked to have strolled along as the other people were doing; the square looking quite beautiful now that it was lit up by the street lamps and cafés, the amphitheatre itself something to behold from this angle, most of the outside walls being intact as well. It seemed hard to believe that the amphitheatre had been built in the first century AD; the history it must have witnessed was incredible.

      And Beth would have liked time to ponder on that history, to take time while still in these magnificent surroundings to think of the spectacle she had witnessed herself within its walls this evening. Instead she fled as if she were being pursued.

      Resentment burned within her at the need to hurry past the strolling people, hating this feeling of being hounded back to her hotel.

      But hounded was exactly how she felt!

       CHAPTER TWO

      ‘IT'S impossible not to feel the romance of the place, isn't it?'

      All Beth's good humour, her feelings of relaxed well-being, left her in an instant, deserted her at the first sound of that all-too-familiar voice. A voice that she wished she weren't becoming familiar with at all!

      She had spent a disturbed and restless night. Not through any fault of the hotel she was staying