Sara Craven - Promise Of The Unicorn

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Former journalist SARA CRAVENpublished her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

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TITLE PAGE Promise of the Unicorn Sara Craven www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Former journalist SARA CRAVEN published her first novel ‘Garden of Dreams’ for Mills & Boon in 1975. Apart from her writing (naturally!) her passions include reading, bridge, Italian cities, Greek islands, the French language and countryside, and her rescue Jack Russell/cross Button. She has appeared on several TV quiz shows and in 1997 became UK TV Mastermind champion. She lives near her family in Warwickshire – Shakespeare country.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

ENDPAGE Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

COPYRIGHT Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

ALL the way up in the train, Sophie had been rehearsing what she meant to say, but now that she had actually arrived—found herself enclosed in the discreetly imposing surroundings of the foyer of the Marchese bank, her mind seemed to have become a complete blank.

Not that it mattered, she thought, her mouth twisting wrily. Judging by the polite but implacable treatment she had met with at the reception desk, her journey on which so much doubt, reluctance and heart-searching had been lavished, was going to be a wasted one.

‘You wish to see Signor Angelo Marchese?’ The receptionist’s eyebrows had risen by a fraction, and her eyes had measured Sophie, taking in every detail of the expensively simple navy wool suit, and the white lawn blouse beneath it. ‘Have you an appointment?’

In spite of herself, Sophie felt a faint blush rising. How could she possibly explain to this well-groomed Gorgon the sudden impulse which had brought her here? ‘I’m afraid not,’ she managed, adding quickly as she saw the other woman’s mouth beginning to shape the negative. ‘But if you could just tell him that—that Miss Ralston is here, and would be grateful for a moment of his time.’

‘ I bet ’ Sophie’s sensitive antennae picked up from the receptionist’s silence, but the older woman merely said with cool civility, ‘I’ll tell his secretary, Miss—er Ralston, but I’m afraid I can’t promise anything. Perhaps you’d like to take a seat over there.’

My God, Sophie thought as she turned away, grabbing at her poise. She thinks I’m one of Angelo’s women. If it wasn’t so nauseating, it would almost be laughable.

She could have put her right, of course. She could have said, ‘Actually, Signor Marchese is my cousin by marriage.’ But she didn’t do so. It wasn’t a relationship she had any desire to acknowledge. For years, it seemed, she had been fighting to hold on to her own identity, to avoid being absorbed, however kindly, into the Marchese clan. Ever since, in fact, her mother, a widow with a young daughter had married John Marchese.

John was a big, ebullient, warm man, prepared to dote uncritically on his new stepdaughter. It was true to say that there had been little Sophie had ever wanted in her eighteen years that John was not happy to give her.

Except the one thing that really matters, she thought with a sigh.

She glanced surreptitiously at her watch. She’d been sitting on this admittedly comfortable sofa in a corner of the foyer for nearly forty minutes. At first she’d felt self-conscious, now, she felt invisible. She supposed this was the ploy with unwanted callers—to leave them there until they gave up and crept ignominiously away.

But, I’m damned if I will, Sophie thought, tilting her chin. I’m here now, and I’ll stay until they have to carry me out. I’m never going to get such an opportunity to see Angelo again.