Sara Craven - Promise Of The Unicorn

‘Er, no.’ Sophie had to tread warily again. Mark’s actual suggestion had been far more direct and basic. ‘The guy’s loaded, sweetie. Couldn’t you persuade him to lend you the money?’ A suggestion she had flinched from. It had only been afterwards that she’d remembered the glass unicorn, and wondered if it might be a way out of their difficulties. ‘Actually, it was all my own doing. Mark hasn’t the least idea that I intended to approach you.’

‘And presumably, if he had known of your intentions, he would have moved heaven and earth to stop you.’

She hated that undertone of sarcasm. ‘Why should he?’

Angelo shrugged. ‘Perhaps—because I am not noted for offering favours. And perhaps because he might be frightened I might take—advantage of you.’

There was another silence, and Sophie’s discomfort deepened. Mark had frowned when she’d tried to explain about her fraught relationship with Angelo.

‘For heaven’s sake, Sophie,’ Mark had exclaimed impatiently. ‘Don’t you know you can’t afford to upset men in his position. If you’d played your cards right, you could have had him eating out of your hand by now. He’s not exactly immune to beautiful girls, you know.’

Snapping her attention back to the present, she said quickly, ‘I don’t suppose it even crossed his mind. Mark trusts me implicitly.’

‘He sounds a paragon,’ Angelo murmured. ‘I shall be interested to see who has managed to awaken such a passion of devotion in you, if nothing else.’

Sophie set down her coffee cup with an indignant rattle. ‘What do you mean by that?’

He smiled faintly, his eyes lingering in the wide eyes, then down to the vulnerable curve of her mouth. ‘That in spite of your protests, you are still very much a child, Sophie, and that marriage is a drastic way to achieve maturity. Why don’t you enjoy your first love for what it is, and forget marriage for a while?’

Sophie bit her lip as she rose to her feet, reaching for her jacket. ‘That’s exactly the sort of cynical remark I’d expect from you. I hope you’re not suggesting that I should follow your example, and have one affaire after another.’

‘On the contrary.’ Angelo had risen too. He was standing, his head thrown back slightly, watching her, his face speculative. ‘But I hope in turn that you have not fallen in love with this young man because he is the first one to have kissed you. That is hardly a sound basis for matrimony.’

Sophie’s face burned as she struggled into her jacket. ‘That’s none of your business.’

He said flatly, ‘You have made it my business.’ He walked round the table towards her. ‘And the least I can do, Sophie mia , is provide you with grounds for comparison.’

She wanted to run, but the chair was behind her, blocking her way, and as she tried to thrust it from her path, Angelo reached her, his long arms pulling her effortlessly against him.

She said hoarsely, ‘Don’t you dare to …’ but the remainder of her words were lost beneath the pressure of his mouth on hers.

He was very strong, some part of her brain acknowledged numbly. Under the elegant suit, his body was like whipcord, and the kiss should have been hard too. But it wasn’t. Instead his lips were warm and devastatingly sensuous as they explored her own, coaxing them apart to provide him with a more intimate access to her mouth.

Her mind was repeating ‘No’ over and over again, but her mouth was surrendering, her body melting against his, here in this sunlit cage of a room.

He wasn’t even holding her any more. His hands were caressing her instead, stroking the nape of her neck under the smooth fall of her hair, tracing the curve of her spine beneath her jacket, his fingers scorching her flesh through the thin material of her blouse.

She could have stepped back away from him, only she didn’t, because suddenly she wanted the kiss to go on. And she knew too that she wanted him to go on touching her too. That she wanted to know how his hands would feel on her bare skin.

Sanity returned like a drenching with cold water, shattering the sensual dream world which had so insidiously enfolded and enticed her. She wrenched herself free, a hand going instinctively to cover the aroused fullness of her parted lips.

A voice she hardly recognised as her own, said, ‘You had no right to do that.’

He shrugged, his eyes bright and merciless as they studied her. ‘What right did I need? You are not this Mark’s wife, Sophie, not yet.’

She said unsteadily, ‘But I will be. And if I tell him what you’ve done …’

‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘But you won’t tell him, will you, cara ? Or, if you do, you won’t tell the whole truth. Just as you didn’t share the secret of the unicorn with him.’

His shrewdness appalled her. She flung back her head. ‘I would never lie to Mark.’

His brows rose. ‘So—what will you tell him? That it began with a kiss, and ended with both of us wanting more—much more.’ He added softly.

Colour flared in her face. She said thickly. ‘You’re disgusting.’

‘I’m honest,’ he said cynically. ‘But you, mia cara , are a little hypocrite, denying the responses of your own body.’ He took a step towards her, his smile deepening. ‘Shall I prove it to you?’

She recoiled, almost stumbling in her haste. ‘Don’t touch me.’

He halted. The dark eyes met hers, holding them effortlessly in thrall, and to her dismay she felt a shock of totally physical desire shiver through her body. He didn’t have to touch, or even speak. The invitation was there in the way he was looking at her, and it would be easy, so fatally easy to cross the brief space which separated them, and answer that invitation with her lips, and her body.

She closed her eyes, blotting him out, rejecting him with her mind, a shudder of self disgust quivering through her.

But at least she was back in control again, and her eyes opened, unleashing at him all the scorn she could muster. She said quietly, ‘You’re despicable, and I wish with all my heart that I’d never come here.’

‘Ah, but you did,’ he said softly. ‘And the bargain between us still stands, Sophie mia .’

She said violently, ‘Well, I want no further part of it,’ and, turning, walked away out of the room and away from him, wishing that her dignity would allow her to run.

By the time the train pulled in to Bishops Wharton, Sophie was almost able to convince herself that she’d been drunk. There was no other explanation for her behaviour. She’d had that sherry, and then he’d kept topping up her glass with wine, and she wished she knew a word bad enough to call him.

She went straight round to Market Street. Miss Langton was in the shop, and she gave Sophie an indifferent nod as the shop bell tinkled.

‘He’s in the flat,’ she advised briefly. ‘Go on up.’

As Sophie obeyed, she wondered about Mark’s relationship with his aunt. As far as she could gather, each was the only relative the other had, yet there didn’t seem to be a great deal of mutual affection. And when she’d tentatively asked Mark if his aunt couldn’t lend him the money for the Jefferson partnership, he’d stared at her as if she was crazy.

‘Aunt Edwina?’ He’d laughed. ‘Darling, that glorified junk shop of hers doesn’t provide that kind of income.’

Sophie didn’t argue, but she wondered whether Mark wasn’t too dismissive of his aunt’s business. The shop was always attractive and well-stocked, and Miss Langton appeared to have a shrewd knowledge of the value of each and every item.

Mark was stretched out on the sofa, watching television, but he sat up eagerly as Sophie came in.