The Forced Marriage. Sara Craven

lunch to make a final decision between old rose and delphinium-blue for Hester’s dress.

      Unbelievable.

      And it wasn’t the drink talking either. In vino veritas hardly applied to a glass of Chardonnay apiece and a litre of mineral water.

      No, it was clear this had been brewing for some time, and, with a month to go before the wedding, Hester had decided it was time to speak her mind.

      But I really wish she hadn’t, Flora thought, biting her lip. I was perfectly content when I sat down at this table. And I’ve enough on my mind without doing a detailed analysis of my feelings for Chris, and seeing how they measure on some emotional Richter scale I never knew existed.

      I love Chris, and I know we’re going to have a good marriage—one that will last, too. And surely that matters far more than—sexual fireworks.

      She felt her mind edging gently away from that particular subject, and paused quite deliberately. Because that would also be all right once they were married, she reassured herself, and that previous fiasco would be entirely forgotten.

      She glanced at her watch and rose. Time was pressing, and she would have to take a cab to her next appointment.

      On her way out of the restaurant she remembered Hester’s parting remarks and risked a swift sideways glance at the table in question. Only to find herself looking straight into the eyes of its occupant.

      He was very dark, she registered as she looked away, her face warming with embarrassment, with curling hair worn longer than she approved of. He was also startlingly attractive, in an olive-skinned Mediterranean way. The image of an elegant high-bridged nose, sculptured cheekbones, a firm chin with a cleft in it, and a mobile mouth that quirked sensuously under her regard accompanied her out of the restaurant and into the sunlit street beyond.

      My God, she realised, half-amused, half-concerned. I could practically draw him from memory.

      And, damn you, Hes. That was something else I didn’t need.

      She stepped to the edge of the kerb and looked down the street for an approaching taxi. But there wasn’t one in sight, so she started to walk in the required direction, pausing every now and then to look back.

      She didn’t even see her assailant coming. The first hint of danger was a hand in her back, pushing her violently, and a wrench at the strap of her bag that nearly dragged it from her grasp.

      Flora felt herself go sprawling, the bag pinned underneath her, as she filled her lungs and screamed for help. On the ground, she covered her head with her hands, terrified that she was going to be punched or kicked.

      Then she heard men’s voices shouting, a squeal of brakes, and the sound of running feet.

      Flora stayed still, exactly where she was, the breath sobbing in her throat.

      She could hear someone speaking to her in husky, faintly accented English.

      ‘Are you hurt, signorina? Shall I call an ambulance for you? Can you speak?’

      ‘She may not talk, mate, but she can yell. Nearly took me eardrums out,’ said a deeper, gruffer voice. ‘Let’s see if we can get her to her feet.’

      ‘It’s all right.’ Flora raised her head dazedly and looked around her. ‘I can manage.’

      ‘I don’t think so.’ The first voice again. ‘I believe you must accept a little help, signorina.’

      Flora turned unwillingly in the speaker’s direction, to have all her worst fears confirmed.

      Seen at close range—and he was kneeling beside her so he could hardly have been any closer—the man from the restaurant was even more devastating. His mouth was set grimly now, but she could imagine how it would soften. And his eyes, she had leisure to note, were green, with tiny gold flecks. A whisper of some expensive male cologne reached her, and, suddenly keen to get out of range of its evocative scent, Flora hauled herself up on to her knees.

      ‘Ouch.’ Major mistake, she thought, wincing. She’d ripped her tights and grazed her legs when she fell. Her elbows and palms were sore too.

      ‘Come on, ducks.’ It was Voice Two. A burly arm went round her, lifting her bodily to her feet. ‘Why don’t I pop you in the cab and take you to the nearest casualty department, eh?’

      ‘Cab?’ Flora repeated. ‘I—I wanted a cab.’

      ‘Well, I could see that, and I was just pulling over when that bastard jumped you. Then this other gentleman came flying up, and the mugger legged it.’

      ‘Oh.’ Flora made herself look at the ‘other gentleman’, who stood, smiling faintly, those astonishing eyes trailing over her in a cool and disturbingly thorough assessment. ‘Well—thank you.’

      He inclined his head gravely. ‘Your bag is safe? And he took nothing else?’

      ‘He didn’t really get the chance.’ She gave him a brief, formal smile, then turned to the cabbie. ‘I need to go to Belvedere Row. I’m supposed to be meeting someone there and I’m going to be late.’

      ‘I hardly think you can keep your appointment like that,’ her rescuer intervened firmly. ‘At the least you require a clothes brush, and your cuts should also be attended to.’

      Before she could protest Flora found herself manoeuvred into the back of the cab, with the stranger taking the seat beside her.

      ‘The Mayfair Tower Hotel, please,’ he directed the driver.

      ‘I can’t go there.’ Flora shot bolt upright. ‘My appointment’s in the other direction.’

      ‘And when you are clean and tidy, another cab will take you there.’ An autocratic note could be detected in the level tone. ‘It is a business meeting? Then it is simple. You call on your cellphone and explain why you are delayed.’

      ‘So what’s it to be, love?’ the driver demanded through the partition. ‘The Mayfair Tower?’

      Flora hesitated. ‘Yes—I suppose.’

      ‘A wise decision,’ her companion applauded smoothly.

      She sent him a steely glance. ‘Do you enjoy arranging other people’s lives?’

      His answering smile warmed into a grin. ‘Only those that I have saved,’ he drawled.

      Deep within her an odd tingle stirred uneasily. She tried to withdraw unobtrusively, further into her corner of the taxi.

      ‘Isn’t that rather an exaggeration?’

      He shrugged powerful shoulders that the elegant lines of his charcoal suit accentuated rather than diminished. The top button of his pale grey silk shirt was undone, Flora noticed, and the knot of his ruby tie loosened. For the rest of him, he was about six feet tall, lean and muscular, with legs that seemed to go on for ever.

      He wasn’t merely attractive, she acknowledged unwillingly. He was seriously glamorous.

      ‘Then let’s say I spared you the inconvenience of losing your credit cards and money. To many people, that would be life and death.’

      She smiled constrainedly. ‘And my engagement ring is at the jeweller’s, so really I’ve got off lightly.’

      That was clumsily done, she apostrophised herself silently, and saw by his sardonic smile that he thought so too.

      She hurried into speech again. ‘Why the Mayfair Tower?’

      ‘I happen to be staying there.’

      There was a silence, then she said, ‘Then you must let me drop you off before I take this cab back to my flat, to clean up and change.’

      ‘You are afraid I shall make unwelcome advances to you?’ His brows lifted. ‘Allow me to reassure you. I never seduce maidens in distress—unless, of course, they insist.’

      Her