The Innocent's One-Night Confession: The Innocent's One-Night Confession / Hired to Wear the Sheikh's Ring. Sara Craven
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‘Alanna.’
‘So now we are at least fifty per cent respectable,’ he said. ‘The rest can wait.’
As he signalled to the cab that had suddenly appeared from nowhere, it occurred to her that by no stretch of the imagination could she accept that solitary dining would ever play a major role in his life.
From the moment she’d seen him, she’d recognised that he was a seriously attractive man on a scale marking as dangerous, at the same time registering an exhilarating awareness that her blood seemed to be flowing more quickly. That her senses had somehow become more finely tuned.
Knowing at the same time that by accepting his invitation, she could be making a disastrous leap from a hot frying pan into a raging inferno.
A view reinforced by the sight of Jeffrey Winton emerging from SolBooks and glaring venomously in her direction. Proof, if proof were needed, that he was unlikely to be a good loser, she thought, her stomach churning with renewed alarm, as she shrank into her corner of the cab.
Which Zan noticed as he took his seat beside her.
‘What’s the matter?’
She said shakily, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not very hungry. I—I’d like to go home, please.’
‘Do you live with your family?’
‘No, I have a flat.’ An absurdly upbeat way, she thought, to describe one room with a kitchen alcove, and a shared bathroom.
‘Which you share?’
‘Well—no.’
He nodded. ‘Then I think our original plan is best.’ His tone was matter-of-fact. ‘You’ve had an unpleasant experience but some food and company will help put it behind you. Solitary brooding will not.’
‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she flashed back. ‘You don’t stand to lose your job over this evening’s fiasco. Jeffrey Winton is a huge bestseller. If he spins some yarn about me, guess who will be believed?’
He frowned. ‘I could speak to your boss. Tell him what I saw. He seems a guy who would listen to reason.’
But my boss is a woman. She has to consider the bottom line... The words were trembling on her lips, but she swallowed them unspoken.
Zan, she realised, must think she worked at SolBooks, and, on the whole, that seemed preferable to launching into complicated explanations about her junior role at Hawkseye. Or any other personal detail, for that matter.
And she felt too weary to go on arguing about dinner. For one thing, the planned soup and jacket potato no longer held the slightest appeal for her. And he was trying to be kind, so she could at least be civil in return for an hour or so.
Besides, she owed him—didn’t she?
After that—well, they would be ships that passed in the night. Nothing more, she decided, staring out of the window at the brightly lit shops—which suddenly seemed oddly blurred.
And realised to her horror that she was crying, quietly and unstoppably.
She heard Zandor say something under his breath, and found herself drawn towards him. She gave herself up the astonishing comfort of being cradled in his arms, her head against his shoulder. Of breathing the warm scent of his skin and the faint but heady fragrance of his cologne. And, not least, the sheer practicality of having an immaculate linen handkerchief pushed into her hand.
‘He was so vile.’ She sobbed the words into his expensive tailoring. ‘If you hadn’t been there—if you hadn’t come back...’
‘Hush,’ he whispered, his hand gently and rhythmically stroking her hair. ‘It’s over. You’re safe now.’
And she’d believed him, she thought. Had cried herself out while he held her, then sat up awkwardly, reducing his handkerchief to a sodden lump as she blotted her eyes and blew her nose.
‘I feel so stupid,’ she said huskily.
‘There’s no need.’ He pushed a strand of damp hair back from her forehead and she felt the brush of his fingers resonate through every inch of her skin.
At the same time she realised the cab was coming to a halt and, as Zandor paid the driver, found herself standing outside an imposing facade announcing itself as the Metro-Imperial Hotel, with a uniformed commissionaire holding open a pair of elegant glass doors.
As they crossed the expanse of marble-tiled foyer towards a bank of lifts, Alanna hung back.
‘Why are we here?’
‘To have dinner.’ He urged her forward gently, his hand under her elbow. ‘I didn’t have time to book a table anywhere else. But the food is good.’
And then she was in the lift, which was rising smoothly and swiftly past floor after floor until it reached the very top.
‘Is this the restaurant?’
‘No, the penthouse. I stay here when I’m in London.’ He unlocked the door straight ahead of them with his key card and ushered her into a sitting room, all pale golden wood and ivory leather sofas with enough space to accommodate her bedsit twice over and then some.
He pointed to a door on the far wall. ‘You might want to freshen up. Go through there and you’ll find the bathroom’s directly opposite.’ He paused. ‘Do you like pasta?’
‘Well—yes,’ she admitted uncertainly.
‘Good.’ He smiled at her. ‘Then that’s what we’ll have.’
‘Through there’ was, of course, the bedroom, also huge and with a bed vast enough for several kings plus an emperor, Alanna thought as she headed for the bathroom, the imperial note being continued in the deep purple quilted bedspread.
Apart from a two-tier wooden stand bearing an opulent leather suitcase, open and neatly packed, the bed was the only visible piece of furniture, so presumably the wardrobes and chests of drawers were concealed behind the room’s elegant cream panelling.
The bathroom with its walk-in shower and sunken tub was lavishly supplied with soft towels and toiletries, and one glance in the mirror above the twin marble washbasins at her red-eyed, tear-stained reflection revealed to Alanna how essential the freshening up process was and why a public restaurant might not have been her companion’s immediate choice.
Or his second, she discovered, when, all signs of her recent distress removed and her makeup discreetly renewed, she returned to the sitting room and found a waiter laying places for two at a table beside the long windows while another was busy with a gold-foiled bottle and an ice bucket.
Zandor was lounging on a sofa, jacket removed, tie loosened, and the top buttons of his shirt unfastened. His attention was fixed frowningly on the laptop on the low table in front of him, but he closed it at her approach and smiled up at her.
‘Did that help?’
‘Amazingly so.’ She sat down beside him, but at a discreet distance, and took another longer look around her. ‘This is—palatial.’
He shrugged. ‘It does the job while I’m in London. Right now, I seem to spend most of my time on aircraft. Tomorrow I’m heading off to the States.’
Which explained the waiting suitcase.
‘You enjoy travelling?’
‘It doesn’t worry me.’ His mouth twisted. ‘But then I’ve always been regarded as having gipsy blood.’
‘How—exciting.’ She’d almost said ‘romantic’ but stopped herself just in time.
He said drily, ‘Except it’s never been intended as a compliment.’
She was wondering how to respond to this when she was diverted by the waiter’s arrival with two flutes of pale wine, fizzing with bubbles.
‘Champagne?’