Rome's Revenge. Sara Craven

he’d have lost his money, but then, as she reached the entrance, he saw her hesitate and throw a swift glance over her shoulder, aimed at where he was standing.

      The next second she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd inside the bar.

      Rome grinned to himself, then drank the rest of his champagne, setting the empty glass down on the balustrade.

      He took his mobile phone from the pocket of his tuxedo and dialled a number.

      When his call was answered, he said, his voice cool and abrupt, ‘I’ve seen her. I’ll do it.’

      He rang off, and went back the way he’d come, his long, lithe stride carrying him across the foyer and out into the chill darkness of the night.

      Cory hadn’t wanted to come to the ball. And particularly she hadn’t wanted to come with Philip, who, she guessed, had been set up by her grandfather to bring her.

      She thought, I really wish he wouldn’t do that, but her inner smile was tender. She knew that Arnold Grant only wanted the best for her. The problem was they’d never agree on what that ‘best’ was.

      In Arnold’s view it was a husband, wealthy, steady and suitable, who would provide her with a splendid home and, in due course, babies.

      For Cory it was a career, not even remotely connected with Grant Industries, and total independence.

      Currently, she drew an over-generous salary as Arnold’s personal assistant, which meant that she organised his diary, made sure his domestic life ran smoothly, and acted as his hostess and companion at social events.

      She felt a total fraud, knowing full well that all those activities could have fitted easily into her spare time, enabling her to do a job where she earned the money she was paid.

      But Arnold insisted that he could not do without her, and had no hesitation in playing the old and frail card if he sensed she was near to rebellion.

      Being allowed to move out of the big family house in Chelsea and rent a modest flat of her own had been a major concession it had taken her nearly a year of argument and cajolery to win.

      ‘How can you think of leaving?’ he’d protested pitifully. ‘You’re all I’ve got. I thought you’d be here with me for the few years I have left.’

      ‘Gramps, you’re a monster.’ Cory had hugged him. ‘You’re going to live for ever, and you know it.’

      But although she no longer lived under his roof, he still felt he had carte blanche to meddle in her affairs.

      And this evening was a case in point. He was a major contributor to the charity in question, and she was there to represent him, accompanied by a man who’d probably been blackmailed into bringing her.

      Not, she decided, a pretty thought.

      And so far it was all pretty much the disaster she’d expected. She and her escort had barely exchanged half a dozen words, and she’d seen the fleeting expression on his face when she’d emerged from the cloakroom.

      You think this dress is bad? She’d wanted to say. You should have seen the ones I turned down. And I only bought it because I was running out of time and desperate, although I recognise a giant sack which also covered my face would have been a better choice.

      But of course she’d said nothing of the kind. Just steadied her sinking heart and allowed him to take her into the ballroom.

      And when Philip had dutifully asked her to dance with him she’d rewarded him by stepping on his foot. A painful process when your shoes were size sevens.

      After which he’d hastily offered to get her a drink, and disappeared into the bar. That had been almost fifteen minutes ago, and it was more than time she went to look for him.

      For all he knew, she thought, she could be lying on the floor, her face blackened and her tongue swollen with thirst.

      She sighed under her breath. She always felt such a fool at these events. Such a fish out of water. For one thing, at five foot nine she was taller than most of the women. She was almost taller than Philip, which was another nail in the evening’s coffin. Thank God she’d worn low heels.

      She was a lousy dancer, too, she acknowledged with detachment. She had no natural rhythm—or even basic co-ordination, if it came to that. If she could find no one else’s feet, she would fall over her own instead.

      And she could usually manage a maximum of two minutes’ bright social chatter, before her brain went numb and her pinned-on smile began to hurt.

      At this moment she could only think how much she’d rather be at home, curled up with a book and a glass of good wine.

      But now she really ought to move, before people thought she’d been actually glued to the spot, and make an attempt to find her unfortunate escort.

      Maybe she could plead a sudden migraine and let him off the hook altogether, she thought.

      She wasn’t sure when she first became aware that someone was watching her.

      Probably wondering if it was just the dress, or whether she’d genuinely been turned into a pillar of salt, she thought, glancing indifferently upwards.

      And paused, conscious that her heart had given a sudden, unexpected lurch.

      Because this was not the sort of man to give her even a passing look under normal circumstances.

      And as their eyes met, some warning antenna began to send out frantic messages, screaming Danger.

      He was immaculately dressed in conventional evening clothes, but a bandanna around his unruly mane of curling dark hair and a black patch over one eye would have suited him better.

      Although that was utter nonsense, she castigated herself. He was probably a perfectly respectable lawyer or accountant. Certainly no buccaneer could afford the arm and leg tonight’s tickets had cost.

      And it was time she stopped goggling like an idiot and beat a dignified retreat.

      But, before she could move, he smiled and lifted the glass he was holding in a silent toast.

      Cory could feel one of the agonising blushes that were the bane of her life travelling up from her toes.

      All she had to do was turn her head and she would find the real recipient of all this attention standing behind her, she thought. Someone blonde and gorgeous, who knew how to wear clothes and probably how to take them off as well. Someone who could make a remark about the weather sound like an explicit sexual invitation.

      I’m just in the way, she told herself.

      But there was no one standing behind her. There was herself. And he was looking at her, and only her, smiling, as if he was watching. Waiting for her to do something.

      Cory felt a sudden drop of sweat slide between her breasts like ice on her heated skin. Was aware of a swift flurry in her breathing.

      Because she wanted to go to him. She wanted almost desperately to walk across the ballroom and up those wide marble stairs to where he was standing.

      But, even more potently, she wanted him to come to her instead, and the swift, unexpected violence of that need jolted her out of her unwelcome trance and back to reality.

      She thought, My God—this is crazy. And, more determinedly, I’ve got to get out of here—now…

      She wheeled, and walked swiftly towards the cocktail bar and the errant Philip.

      She risked a quick look over her shoulder and realised with mingled alarm and excitement that he was still there, still watching her, and still smiling.

      My God, she thought again shakily. Philip might not be very exciting, or even marginally attentive, but at least he doesn’t look like a pirate on his night off.

      She looked round the crowded bar and eventually spotted him, sitting at a corner table with a bunch of his cronies, and roaring