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Authors: Sara Craven
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meal.’
‘That will keep me in my place,’ he murmured, signalling to the waiter.
‘And another thing,’ Ros said, when their order, including herb bread and a bottle of Orvieto Classico, had been given. ‘If you aren’t wearing your glasses, how did you know that was spaghetti carbonara on the menu?’
Sam shrugged, cursing himself silently. ‘In a place like this, it’s practically standard,’ he countered.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose so.’
There were too many contradictions in this man, she thought, and they intrigued her. Or rather they intrigued the writer in her, she corrected herself hastily. And she could put the evening to good use by listening and observing.
‘Have you always worn glasses?’ she continued brightly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It happened very recently.’
‘I suppose it’s working with numbers all day.’ Ros sighed. ‘I expect using a computer is just as bad. I shall have to be careful.’
‘You use a computer to sell beauty products?’ Sam stared at her.
‘Not exactly.’ Ros gave an awkward laugh, awarethat she’d flushed guiltily. That was too much champagne on an empty stomach making her careless, she reproached herself. ‘Just for—ordering—and sales reports. That kind of thing,’ she improvised swiftly.
‘Then I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he returned drily. ‘I think your eyes will be safe for a long time yet.’
She gave a constrained smile, and stared down at her glass.
‘But I can’t say the same for your nervous system,’ Sam went on. He reached across the table and took her hand lightly, his fingers exploring the delicate tracery of veins in her wrist.
‘Your pulse is going like a trip-hammer,’ he observed, frowningly. ‘For someone who spends her life dealing with the public, you’re incredibly tense. Are you like this with all the men you meet, or is it just me?’
All the men? she thought. Apart from a couple of totally casual relationships at university, there’d only been Colin…
She withdrew her hand from his grasp, clasping both of them tightly in her lap. ‘I told you—I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Then let’s change the scenario,’ he said. ‘Let’s pretend we did it the conventional way—that I saw you in a department store at one of your promotions, chatted you up, and arranged to meet you later. Would that make you feel more relaxed?’
‘I—I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps…’
‘Then that’s what happened.’ His smile coaxed her. ‘Forget everything else. This is just Sam and Janie, meeting for a drink and a meal, and examining the possibilities. No pressure.’
She lifted her head and looked at him, seeing how the laughter lines had deepened beside his firm mouth. She realised with sudden piercing clarity how much she wanted to touch them. How she longed to experience the entire warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. To learn with slow intimacy the bone and muscle that made him. To know him with completion and delight.
And she felt dismay and exhilaration go to war inside her.
She said, breathlessly, ‘Is that what you’ve said to all the others?’
The turquoise eyes looked directly into hers. His voice was quiet. ‘What others?’
A silence seemed to enclose them—a small, precious bubble of quiet holding the moment safe.
A voice inside her whispered, Whatever happens—however long I live—whoever I spend my life with— I shall remember this.
And then the waiter came hurrying up with the platter of bread and the wine, and there was the fuss of cutlery and fresh glasses, and she was able to lean back in her chair and control her breathing, quieten the slam of her heart against her ribcage.
She thought, He said ‘let’s pretend’—and I will. I’ll be Janie, and take the risk. Go where it leads—whatever the cost…
The Orvieto was clean and cold against her dry throat, and she swallowed it gratefully. ‘That’s so good.’
‘Have you
‘That will keep me in my place,’ he murmured, signalling to the waiter.
‘And another thing,’ Ros said, when their order, including herb bread and a bottle of Orvieto Classico, had been given. ‘If you aren’t wearing your glasses, how did you know that was spaghetti carbonara on the menu?’
Sam shrugged, cursing himself silently. ‘In a place like this, it’s practically standard,’ he countered.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘I suppose so.’
There were too many contradictions in this man, she thought, and they intrigued her. Or rather they intrigued the writer in her, she corrected herself hastily. And she could put the evening to good use by listening and observing.
‘Have you always worn glasses?’ she continued brightly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘It happened very recently.’
‘I suppose it’s working with numbers all day.’ Ros sighed. ‘I expect using a computer is just as bad. I shall have to be careful.’
‘You use a computer to sell beauty products?’ Sam stared at her.
‘Not exactly.’ Ros gave an awkward laugh, awarethat she’d flushed guiltily. That was too much champagne on an empty stomach making her careless, she reproached herself. ‘Just for—ordering—and sales reports. That kind of thing,’ she improvised swiftly.
‘Then I wouldn’t worry too much,’ he returned drily. ‘I think your eyes will be safe for a long time yet.’
She gave a constrained smile, and stared down at her glass.
‘But I can’t say the same for your nervous system,’ Sam went on. He reached across the table and took her hand lightly, his fingers exploring the delicate tracery of veins in her wrist.
‘Your pulse is going like a trip-hammer,’ he observed, frowningly. ‘For someone who spends her life dealing with the public, you’re incredibly tense. Are you like this with all the men you meet, or is it just me?’
All the men? she thought. Apart from a couple of totally casual relationships at university, there’d only been Colin…
She withdrew her hand from his grasp, clasping both of them tightly in her lap. ‘I told you—I’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘Then let’s change the scenario,’ he said. ‘Let’s pretend we did it the conventional way—that I saw you in a department store at one of your promotions, chatted you up, and arranged to meet you later. Would that make you feel more relaxed?’
‘I—I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps…’
‘Then that’s what happened.’ His smile coaxed her. ‘Forget everything else. This is just Sam and Janie, meeting for a drink and a meal, and examining the possibilities. No pressure.’
She lifted her head and looked at him, seeing how the laughter lines had deepened beside his firm mouth. She realised with sudden piercing clarity how much she wanted to touch them. How she longed to experience the entire warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. To learn with slow intimacy the bone and muscle that made him. To know him with completion and delight.
And she felt dismay and exhilaration go to war inside her.
She said, breathlessly, ‘Is that what you’ve said to all the others?’
The turquoise eyes looked directly into hers. His voice was quiet. ‘What others?’
A silence seemed to enclose them—a small, precious bubble of quiet holding the moment safe.
A voice inside her whispered, Whatever happens—however long I live—whoever I spend my life with— I shall remember this.
And then the waiter came hurrying up with the platter of bread and the wine, and there was the fuss of cutlery and fresh glasses, and she was able to lean back in her chair and control her breathing, quieten the slam of her heart against her ribcage.
She thought, He said ‘let’s pretend’—and I will. I’ll be Janie, and take the risk. Go where it leads—whatever the cost…
The Orvieto was clean and cold against her dry throat, and she swallowed it gratefully. ‘That’s so good.’
‘Have you
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