Sara Craven - Marriage By Deception

“I retain this very vivid impression of how you felt in my arms—how you reacted,” Sam replied. “And it wasn’t repulsion, so don’t fool yourself.”

Ros bit her lip. “You caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“Excellent, because those defenses of yours are a big problem for anyone trying to get to know you—to become your friend.”

“Which is naturally what you want.” Her tone was sharply skeptical.

“Yes,” he said. “But it’s not all I want. Perhaps I want to discover everything there is to know—to explore you, heart, mind…and body.”

SARA CRAVEN was born in south Devon, England, and grew up surrounded by books, in a house by the sea. After leaving grammar school she worked as a local journalist, covering everything from flower shows to murders. She started writing for Harlequin in 1975. Apart from writing, her passions include films, cooking, music and eating in good restaurants. She now lives in Somerset, England.

Sara Craven has appeared as a contestant on the British Channel Four game show Fifteen to One, and is also the latest (and last ever) winner of the 1997 Mastermind of Great Britain championship.

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Endpage

SHE was late. Ten minutes late.

Sam checked his watch, frowned, and poured some more mineral water into his glass.

Perhaps she’d chickened out altogether. Well, he thought with a mental shrug, he couldn’t entirely blame her. A list of the places he’d rather be tonight would run to several pages, plus footnotes.

He’d give her until eight-thirty, he decided abruptly, and if she hadn’t shown by then, he’d go home. After all, there were plenty of others on his schedule—and she hadn’t even been one of his choices for the short list either.

‘Lonely in London’, the ad in the Daily Clarion’s personal column had read. ‘Is there a girl out there who’s seriously interested in love and marriage? Could it be you?’ And a box number.

As bait, it was well-nigh irresistible, and the replies had flooded in.

He didn’t have a name for tonight’s lady. Her letter had merely been signed ‘Looking for Love’.

She’d been picked because she’d described herself as a beauty executive, and seemed younger than most of the others. And, he suspected, because her envelope bore a Chelsea postmark.

Which was why he was waiting here in the upmarket Marcellino’s, rather than some more ordinary trattoria or wine bar.

He glanced restlessly towards the door out of the restaurant, flinching inwardly as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall opposite. The cheap suit he was wearing was shining enthusiastically under the lights, his dark curling hair had been cut short and flattened on top with gel, so that it stuck out awkwardly at the sides, and gold-rimmed glasses adorned his nose.

I look, he thought, a total nerd—only not as good.

For a moment, the head waiter had hesitated over allowing him in. He’d seen it in the man’s eyes. It was something that had never happened to him before, and he would make damned sure it never happened again when all this was over, he vowed grimly. When his life eventually returned to normality.

If it ever did, he amended, his mouth tightening. If he ever managed to escape from this mess of his own creation.

As for his intended companion for the evening—if and when she turned up, she would probably take one look at him and run out screaming.

He drank some more mineral water, repressing a grimace. What he really needed was a large Scotch, or some other form of Dutch courage. But the rules of engagement for tonight were strict. And he needed all his wits about him.

He looked at his watch again. Fifteen more minutes, he thought, and then I’m out of here. And they can’t pass quickly enough.

Rosamund Craig sat tensely in the corner of her cab. They seemed to have moved about fifty yards in the past fifteen minutes, and now the traffic ahead was blocked solid yet again.

I should have set off earlier, she thought. Except that I had no intention of coming at all. There was no need. All I had to do was pick up the phone and it would all have been sorted. End of story.

Now, here I am in a crawling cab with a galloping meter, going to meet a complete stranger. The whole thing is crazy. I’m crazy.

And the dress she was wearing was part of the madness, she thought, furtively adjusting the brief Lycra skirt. Usually she avoided black, and trendy styles. Taupe was good—and beige—and grey in classic lines. Discreet elegance had always been her trademark. Not clinging mini-dresses and scarlet jackets.

And these heels on her strappy sandals were ridiculous too. She’d probably end the evening with a sprained ankle.

Although that could be the least of her problems, she reminded herself without pleasure. And the most sensible thing she could do would be to tell the driver to turn the taxi round and take her back for another blameless evening at home.

She was just leaning forward to speak to him when the cab set off again, with a lurch that sent her sprawling back, her skirt up round her thighs.

Her particular die would seem to be cast, she thought, righting herself hurriedly and pushing her light brown bobbed hair back from her face. And it would soon all be over, anyway. She was going to have a meal in a good restaurant, and at the end of it she would make an excuse and leave, making it tactfully clear that there would be no repeat performance.

Honour on both sides would be satisfied, she told herself as she pushed open the gleaming glass doors and entered the foyer of Marcellino’s.

A waiter came to meet her. ‘Signora has a reservation?’

‘I’m meeting someone,’ she told him. ‘A Mr Alexander.’

She could have sworn his jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly, handing her jacket to some lesser soul and conducting her across the black marble floor to the bar.

It was busy and for a moment Ros hesitated as heads turned briefly to appraise her, wondering which of them was her date.

‘The table in the corner, signora.’ The waiter’s voice sounded resigned.

Ros moved forward, aware of a chair being pushed back and a man’s figure rising to its feet.

Tall, she registered immediately, and dark. But—oh, God—far from handsome. That haircut, she thought numbly. Not to mention that dreadful suit. And those glasses, too. Hell’s teeth, what have I let myself in for?

She was strongly tempted to turn on her heel and walk away—except there was something about his stance—something wary, even defensive, as if he was prepared for that very reaction—that touched a sudden chord of sympathy inside her and kept her walking forward, squaring her shoulders and pinning on a smile.