Valentine Vendetta. Sharon Kendrick

Sam Lockhart and her rather dizzy reaction to him, and for that she had paid the price. It was time to withdraw in a cool and dignified manner.

      ‘Don’t be absurd, Mr. Lockhart,’ she said, forcing a cool smile. ‘I’d love a lift. Just as long as it isn’t out of your way?’

      ‘No, not at all. Come on.’

      He paused only to pick up a compact-looking briefcase in the hall and to engage in a complex locking-system for the front door. ‘The car’s out in the garage at the back,’ he said.

      His long legs covered the ground at twice the pace she was used to, but she managed to keep up with him on their way to the stable-block which had been converted to house a clutch of cars. But Sam Lockhart was obviously not a man who collected wealthy toys—for there was only one vehicle sitting there. Fran had expected something predictable—the rich man’s phallic substitute of a long, low car in screaming scarlet or devilish black.

      Instead she saw a mud-splattered four-wheel drive which had golf clubs and a tennis racket companionably jumbled around a tartan picnic rug in the back, along with a muddle of magazines and discarded sweet wrappers. An empty water bottle lay next to a pair of battered old running shoes. A large brown envelope marked Sam—Urgent! lay on the passenger seat.

      This was the car of an action-packed life, whose owner had neither the time nor the inclination to vacuum the carpet, thought Fran. It did not look like the car of a playboy, she thought with mild confusion.

      He saw her expression of surprise. ‘Excuse the state of the car.’

      ‘No, I like it,’ she said, without thinking. ‘Honestly. It’s homely.’

      He smiled. ‘Mmmm. Messy might be more accurate,’ he murmured. He moved the envelope, threw his suitcase in the back and waited until Fran had strapped herself in before starting the engine.

      His driving surprised her, too. That did not fit with the rich-man stereotype, either. No roar of accelerator or screech of brakes. His driving was safe, not showy—just like the car. Bizarrely, Fran even felt herself relaxing, until she reminded herself just who was next to her, and sat bolt upright to stare fixedly out of the window.

      But he didn’t seem to notice her frozen posture, just switched on the radio and listened to the news channel. He didn’t speak during the entire journey to the station and neither did Fran. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. Well, she could. But something simpered on the lines of, ‘I hope you didn’t get the wrong idea about me earlier’ would damn her even further in his eyes, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. Not even for Rosie. But more especially for herself. Because for some unfathomable reason, she would rather have made a fool of herself in front of anyone than in front of Sam Lockhart.

      She was desperate for the journey to end, yet her heart sank with disappointment as the car bumped across the station forecourt. I won’t ever see him again, she thought, wondering why it should matter.

      ‘Thanks for the lift.’ She owed him the brief glance, the polite smile, but was totally unprepared for the watchfulness in his blue eyes.

      ‘I don’t have your card,’ he said.

      ‘My card?’ she repeated stupidly.

      ‘Your business card.’

      She scarcely dared hope why he wanted it, just fumbled around in her handbag until she found one. ‘Here.’

      He glanced at it. ‘This is a Dublin code.’

      ‘Well, there’s my mobile number,’ she pointed. ‘You can always reach me on that.’

      ‘When are you going back to Ireland?’

      ‘I’m…not sure.’ She hadn’t decided, because her decision was based on whether he gave her the job or not. Somehow she doubted it—but she certainly wouldn’t find out by trying to read his mind. She tried not to sound either too nervous or too tentative. ‘Am I still in the running for the job, then?’

      ‘No.’ There was a pause as the word dropped like a guillotine, severing all her hopes. Poor Rosie, she thought fleetingly, until she realised that he was speaking again, but so quietly that she had to strain her ears to hear.

      ‘The job is yours.’

      ‘Pardon?’

      ‘The job is yours,’ he repeated, eyes gleaming as he enjoyed her startled reaction. ‘That is, if you still want it?’

      ‘Er, yes. I still want it,’ she answered, wondering why victory—and such unexpected victory—should taste so hollow. But she had to know. ‘But why? I mean, why are you offering it to me?’

      He frowned. ‘I wouldn’t have thought that it was particularly good psychology to sound so incredulous if someone offers you the job.’ His eyes narrowed critically. ‘It might even make some people reconsider.’

      ‘Well, I certainly didn’t give the best interview of my life,’ she told him candidly.

      ‘No, you didn’t,’ he agreed. ‘But Cormack said you were the best—’

      She gave a slow flush of pleasure. ‘Did he?’

      ‘Yeah, he did. And he’s the kind of man whose opinion people listen to—me included.’

      ‘And that’s why you’re offering me the job—because of Cormack’s say-so?’

      ‘Partly. But also because you’re a fresh face on the scene, and fresh faces bring enthusiasm. I’ve never hosted a ball before, and I want it to work.’ His blue eyes gleamed with a hard determination. ‘Really work.’

      Suddenly all her old fervour was back. The ball would be a success. She would make sure of that. Rosie’s pay-back was merely an offshoot—an insignificant little offshoot. A lesson he needed to learn which would probably benefit him in the end! And who knew, maybe one day he might even be grateful to her! ‘Oh, it’ll work, all right—I can guarantee you that, Mr. Lockhart,’ she breathed.

      ‘Sam,’ he corrected.

      ‘Sam,’ Fran repeated obediently. It felt so right to say his name. Too right. Like having one long lean leg mere inches away from hers felt right, too.

      Not since Sholto had she been so tuned in to a man’s presence. Only this seemed all wrong. This wasn’t just a knockout individual with searing blue eyes and a body which had been constructed in the dream-factory. This was the man who had robbed her best friend of her innocence.

      So why did she find herself wanting to curl up like a kitten in his lap, instead of lashing out at him with her claws?

      ‘I’ll be out of the country all week,’ he told her. ‘I’ll ring you when I get back and we’ll arrange a meet in London to discuss details and budget, that kind of thing. Okay with you?’

      ‘Sure,’ she nodded, and was just reaching over to unlock the car door when he suddenly leaned over and caught hold of her left hand and turned it over to study it closely.

      ‘No marks, I see,’ he observed, tracing her bare ring finger with the pad of his thumb.

      All she could feel was the rough warmth of his skin and the shock of the unexpected contact made every sane thought trickle out of her mind. ‘I b-beg your pardon?’

      ‘Marks. From your wedding ring.’

      ‘Who told you I was married? Cormack?’

      The blaze from his eyes was like a searchlight. ‘Yeah. Who else? You don’t wear the fact tattooed on your forehead, that’s for sure!’

      Fran shifted awkwardly on her seat. ‘Well, that’s past tense. I’m divorced now.’

      ‘So I understand. There’s a lot of it around,’ he drawled. ‘But even so…’ He let his thumb trickle slowly around the base of her finger in a gesture which to Fran seemed both highly suggestive and highly erotic and she shivered