The Price of Retribution. Sara Craven
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more lipstick or at least freshened her scent.
He, on the other hand, looked unruffled and elegant in a dark suit and crimson silk tie.
This is my golden opportunity, she thought. Another one may never come my way and I’ll have simply wasted the last weeks of my life. I’ve rehearsed this scenario so many times, yet suddenly, ridiculously, I can’t think what to say. What to do.
He said abruptly, ‘You look tired. When did you last eat?’
‘I had lunch.’ That should have been a come-on, but all she sounded was defensive.
‘Then I’ll take you out for some food, and a drink. There’s a little Italian place I use that stays open till all hours.’
‘No—please. I’m fine.’ Dear God, this was a Rubicon moment but her brain didn’t seem to be working properly. She rallied. ‘I really can’t put you to so much trouble.’
He shrugged. ‘You’re not.’ His tone was laconic. ‘If you like, consider it a reward for loyalty above and beyond the call of duty.’ He paused. ‘So, shall we go?’
And she heard herself say, in a voice she hardly recognised, ‘In that case—yes—please.’
CHAPTER THREE
THIS was what she had wanted, had tried so unavailingly to plan for, Tarn realised with a kind of wonderment as she walked beside him down the lamplit street. Yet now it had so unexpectedly fallen into her lap, every instinct she possessed was telling her to run away. Fast.
As they approached the kerb, she stumbled slightly and his hand shot out and took her arm.
‘Be careful,’ he cautioned as he steadied her, the warmth and firmness of his clasp seeming to penetrate the fabric of her jacket.
She muttered a word of thanks, longing to wrench herself free but not daring to, furious at her own clumsiness and bitterly aware of the harsh inner tensions which had caused it. Conscious too that, in spite of her dislike of him, her skin was tingling at his touch.
Oh, I’ll be careful, she thought, the breath catching in her throat. My God, I will!
They crossed a road, then another, before walking the fifty odd yards down a side street to the Trattoria Giuliana.
It was busy, the hum of laughter and conversation quietly relaxed and delectable smells of herbs and garlic pervading the atmosphere. Caz was warmly greeted by the smiling proprietor and they were immediately shown to a corner table, where two glasses of prosecco were placed in front of them.
To her shame, Tarn realised her mouth was watering.
Caz raised his glass. ‘Salute.’
She returned the toast haltingly, glad when menus soon followed and she could focus on something other than the man watching her with frank intensity across the table.
Get a grip, she castigated herself, as she scanned the listed dishes. If he finds you attractive, make the most of it. If he was anyone else, you’d be relishing the situation and wondering how soon you could begin to flirt a little.
And all this talk of him avoiding office entanglements is just garbage. Evie wasn’t a one-off. He’s making that perfectly clear right now.
But if he’s to suffer as much as he deserves, then you need him to be more than simply attracted to you. He has to want you so badly that it’s like a sickness with him. A sickness for which you will never provide the cure.
And you’re used to keeping men at arms’ length. You’ve been doing it since adolescence. You can manage it again for as long as it’s necessary.
Besides, he’s the boss and you’re just a lowly handmaid toiling on one of the Brandon Organisation’s many publications, so you have every excuse for maintaining a respectful distance. But, it’s also time to move from awkward to friendly.
She sighed lightly and looked at him her eyes smiling under her sweep of lashes. ‘I seem to be spoiled for choice. As you eat here regularly, what can you recommend?’
He returned her smile. ‘If you don’t object to veal, the Saltimbocca Romagna is usually excellent.’
‘I have no real hang-ups about food,’ she said. ‘I’ll have it, with the gnocchi to start.’
‘And I’ll have the same, but begin with the wild mushroom risotto.’
He gave the order, and they agreed on a bottle of Friulano to go with it.
‘So,’ he said when the waiter had departed, leaving bowls of olive oil and chunks of bread to dip into them on the table.
‘You seem to be enjoying your work on All Your Own. How do you rate it as a magazine?’
Tarn thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘I’d say it hits most of its targets.’
‘It certainly used to,’ he said drily. ‘However, the previous editor was keen on attracting a much younger readership.’ He drank some prosecco. ‘The numbers took a dive as a result.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So that’s why I’ve been re-writing Annetta’s story. It was intended for the youth market.’
‘Re-writing?’ His brows lifted. ‘Is that within an assistant’s remit?’
‘Anything would have been an improvement on the original submission,’ Tarn said, mentally kicking herself. ‘But Lisa will naturally do the final draft.’
‘I wasn’t being critical. I’m seriously impressed.’ He pushed a bowl of herb-flavoured oil closer to her. ‘Try this with some bread. You look ready to fade away with hunger.’
His caring side, thought Tarn, fighting down cold fury as she tasted and made appreciative noises. And it was certainly a lovely restaurant, its tables far enough apart for privacy and set with snowy cloths, gleaming silver and crystal. But its air of quiet luxury was enhanced by a good atmosphere, and later arrivals than themselves were being accorded the same friendly welcome.
I wonder if this was where he brought Evie—that first time, she thought. If he also suggested to her what she might order. Asked if she was enjoying her work.
And Evie would have lapped it up. Unused to places like this, she would have gazed around her, getting more excited by the minute. Unable to believe how lucky she was to be in this glamorous restaurant with this equally glamorous man.
Everything about him spoke money—the exquisite tailoring, the expensive shirt, the plain platinum wristwatch. And all this, allied to the aura of power he carried so effortlessly, added up to a lethal combination.
She was like a lamb to the slaughter, Tarn thought bitterly. And he’s probably used the same first date script with me as he did with her—learned by heart and used to decide whether the girl rates a follow-up rendezvous.
And I have to make it imperative for him to see me again—and not just by accident next time, but because he can’t keep away.
He said reflectively, ‘Tarn. That’s a very lovely name—and unusual too.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A little too much so, I used to think. There can’t be many girls called after a mountain lake, so naturally, when I went to school, I got re-christened “Drippy”.’
His brows lifted. ‘Anyone less so I’ve yet to meet. What did you do?’
‘Nothing.’ Tarn shrugged. ‘Just pretended I hadn’t heard and didn’t care. But the name stuck and followed me from year to year. I hoped they’d get tired of the joke but they didn’t.’
He pulled a face. ‘Kids can be monsters. Have you ever told your parents what they put you through and extracted a grovelling apology?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I never did.’ And paused. ‘Anyway, where did Caz come from?’