One Reckless Night. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ she stretched out on the bed and reached for the telephone. First she rang the Grand Vista hotel, directing them to hold her room for two more nights, then called her own answering machine to see if there were any messages.

      Her father’s voice, irritable and slightly hectoring, was on the line. ‘Zanna? Where are you? What the devil are you playing at? Call me back at once—d’you hear, my girl?’

      To hear was normally to obey, Zanna realised as she replaced the receiver. But not this evening. Maybe not even tomorrow. Just for once she was off the hook, and she intended to enjoy the sensation for as long as possible.

      There was a selection of books on the night-table, including—joy of joys—a Dick Francis she hadn’t read.

      That’s my company for the evening sorted out, she thought with satisfaction, instantly closing her mind against the sudden intrusive image of a dark, mocking face and a pair of hooded eyes.

      What on earth is the matter with me? she asked herself, in profound irritation. And couldn’t find an answer that gave her any satisfaction at all.

      By the time her dinner was served her hair was dry, and so was her underwear. She redressed herself reluctantly, longing for a change of clothes, then brushed her hair severely off her face, confining it with a ribbon in its usual style before descending to the bar.

      To her surprise she found it quite crowded, with cheerful, chattering people clearly there for pre-dance drinks. But a swift, wary glance told her that her bête noire was not among them.

      When it was her turn to be served, she ordered a dry sherry.

      ‘Trudy’s laid your table in the snug,’ the barmaid told her, carefully handing her a brimming schooner. ‘She thought it would be a bit quieter in there.’

      Zanna carried her drink through the doorway indicated. It was a small room, cosy, with high-backed settles and polished oak tables. A small fire of sweet-smelling apple logs had been kindled in the hearth, dispelling the faint chill of the evening.

      Only one table was laid for a meal, but two places had been set, with a bowl of freesias and a single candle burning in a stylish glass holder. There was, moreover, a bottle of Chablis waiting in a cooler.

      Zanna, viewing these preparations in total bewilderment, heard the door squeak open behind her—presumably to admit Mrs Sharman with her meal.

      ‘There’s been some mistake,’ she began. ‘I didn’t order any wine...’

      ‘It’s a peace-offering.’

      The voice she knew at once. Only too well. But as she swung round to face him, her expression freezing into annoyance, a surprised gasp escaped her parted lips rather than the haughty dismissal she’d been framing.

      Clean-shaven, with that dark mane of hair neatly combed, he looked almost prepossessing. His clothes— the well-fitting dark trousers, the pale grey jacket that might almost be cashmere, the classic white shirt and the silk tie in sombre jewel colours—all bore the hallmarks of Italian designer wear. And the aroma of engine oil had been exchanged for the discreet scent of a very up-market cologne.

      In fact, more than prepossessing, she realised with shock, as a strange awareness shivered along her nerve-endings. He was dangerously attractive.

      That faintly mocking grin hadn’t changed, however. And Zanna had noticed before what beautiful teeth he had.

      ‘Lost for words?’ he enquired lightly. ‘That must be a novelty.’

      ‘Well, yes.’ Zanna drew a breath. ‘I—I hardly recognized you,’ she added lamely.

      ‘Perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.’ He paused, as if choosing his words carefully, his face suddenly serious. ‘I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘I’d like to make amends.’

      She felt her heart thump painfully, as if in warning. ‘That’s really not necessary.’

      ‘You’re condemning me to eat alone in the opposite corner?’ There was a smile behind the plaintive words. ‘I was thinking of Trudy as well, you see,’ he went on beguilingly. ‘How much easier it would be for her if we shared a table.’

      Somehow he made it sound all so reasonable—so impossible to refuse.

      Without quite knowing how, Zanna found herself facing him across the freesias. And, as if at some unseen signal, Mrs Sharman bustled in with the first course.

      Their meal began with watercress soup, served with a swirl of cream. Zanna had thought she would have no appetite, but she finished every drop.

      ‘Good?’ her companion queried, with a smile across the flickering candle-flame.

      ‘Better than that.’ Zanna put down her spoon with a sigh. ‘I was expecting just fish pie.’

      ‘Not from Trudy’s kitchen. Even though it’s officially closed tonight she has her pride, and you’re a resident so must therefore be cherished.’

      ‘And what’s your excuse?’

      He shrugged. ‘I’m a lonely bachelor who has to forage for himself, so she takes pity on me once in a while.’

      If he was lonely, Zanna thought wryly, then it had to be through his own choice. Or perhaps he was simply too busy trying to maintain a small business to organise a private life as well.

      That was something she could understand. She’d acted as hostess for her father times without number, but she couldn’t remember, she thought with bewilderment, the last time she had dined à deux with a man.

      Few, if any, of the men who’d sought her company had passed muster after Sir Gerald’s rigorous vetting.

      ‘You’re my daughter, Zanna,’ her father had constantly reminded her. ‘My heiress. How can you ever be sure if it’s you they want or my money?’

      It was a lesson which had gone home, however much it might have hurt.

      But this time there was no real risk involved, she assured herself. Because the man facing her across the table had no idea who or what she was. And she firmly intended to keep it that way.

      As if picking up some unspoken cue, he said, ‘We’ve never actually introduced ourselves, have we?’

      ‘No.’ Zanna’s mind worked quickly. ‘I’m Susan,’ she announced. ‘Susan—er—Smith.’

      ‘Really?’ The firm mouth quirked slightly. ‘How unusual. And I’m Jake.’ He paused. ‘Jake—er—Brown,’ he added, with sardonic emphasis.

      Zanna felt her cheeks pinken, but she made herself meet his glance with apparent unconcern. After all, what did it matter? she comforted herself. They were ships passing in the night. Nothing more. And she had no more wish to know his real identity than to reveal her own.

      The arrival of the next course relieved the awkwardness of the moment. The fish pie more than lived up to its recommendation. Under jts creamy mashed potato and cheese topping, cod, smoked haddock and prawns jostled for precedence in a delicious creamy СКАЧАТЬ