Settling The Score
His eyes glittered with dangerous challenge. ‘So your conscience is entirely clear, is it, Romy?’
‘Oh, damn you, Dominic Dashwood!’ She could barely bring herself to look into those clever, searching silver eyes. ‘Damn you to hell!’ And as her words whipped discordantly around the room Romy wondered just what her secretary would say if she could hear her.
Or see her. Sitting weakly and pathetically on the edge of the sofa whilst glaring balefully at a man who was doing nothing more sensational than recounting facts which she had tried to keep hidden away—even from herself—for all these years.
What the hell was happening to her? Romy Salisbury was famous for her ability to remain unruffled, for refusing to be thrown—no matter how sticky the situation.
What about the time early last year, for example, when a foreign minor royal had hired her to organise an American evening for his thirty-fifth birthday and the cook and the waitress had failed to show?
Romy had cooked and served the meal entirely by herself, and the royal personage had got wind of it, insisting on coming down into the kitchen to congratulate her in person.
‘Oh, it was nothing, sir.’ Romy had blushed modestly, whilst trying out a very rusty curtsy. ‘Just hot dogs and beans and a mud-pie pudding.’
‘Though I suspect,’ the Prince had murmured, with a practised smile, ‘that even a swan fashioned out of ice would not have defeated you!’
‘I’m just grateful that you had less elaborate requirements than that, sir!’ Romy had joked, pulling a mock grimace which had told the Prince exactly what she thought of over-the-top gestures like swans made out of ice. And the twinkle in the Prince’s eye had told her that he agreed with her sentiments entirely!
After that, her workload had quadrupled overnight, giving Romy the luxury of being able to pick and choose her jobs. It really was amazing how much clout royal patronage gave you!
So, this Romy Salisbury who could chat with ease to princes—what connection did she have with the woman who was currently behaving like a beaten dog? Just because she had come across the man she had alternately dreamed of and dreaded meeting for five long years. What are you, Romy Salisbury? she asked herself. A woman or a wimp?
Her dark eyes flared with the light of battle, and Dominic’s eyes raked over her face.
‘So why?’ he suddenly demanded.
So many whys. ‘I’m not a mind-reader!’ she retorted. ‘Why what?’
‘Why did you pretend not to recognise me?’
Romy smiled and decided to brazen it out. ‘Because I dislike the idea of being manipulated, I suppose.’
‘Manipulated?’
“That’s right.’
‘Manipulated by whom?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she remonstrated tartly. ‘By you, of course. You deliberately went to the trouble of booking me under the name of one of your more obscure property companies instead of giving your real name. Presumably with the intention of shocking me when we met. What kind of reaction were you hoping for, Dominic? That I would collapse in a swoon at your feet when I came face to face with you?’
His grey eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you knew that you were about to meet me?’
‘Of course I knew!’ scoffed Romy. ‘Or did you imagine that I would just happily take a job without bothering to check it out first? My work involves me going into people’s homes—often staying there. And I’m a woman! Do you suppose for a moment that I would put myself at risk by not finding out a few details about who is employing me? I’m running a business here, Dominic, for heaven’s sake, not a knitting circle!’
He gave her a grudging look of admiration. ‘Well, well, well, Romy,’ he observed drily. ‘You seem to have acquired a little common sense over the years, at least. Pity it didn’t come five years earlier.’
His patronising comment made Romy even more angry. She drew a deep, indignant breath. ‘But even if I hadn’t known I was going to meet you, why would you naturally assume that I’d recognise you immediately? Is it so inconceivable that I would fail to do so? Do you imagine that you are such a magnificent specimen, Dominic, that you’re unforgettable? That any woman meeting you would have you branded indelibly on her memory for evermore?’
‘I would have been more than a little—surprised if you had failed to recognise me. Quite apart from the fact that I was your best man. After all, we had quite an...experience together, didn’t we?’ He gave a lazy smile which made Romy uncomfortably aware that he was recalling that erotic encounter in the lift. ‘Though I have to admit that most women tell me I have an unforgettable face.’
His words stabbed at her like a knife and it took every ounce of concentration that Romy possessed not to lash out at him in a jealous fit of rage she knew she had no right to feel.
‘Oh, do they?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled arrogantly. ‘They do.’
‘Dominic Dashwood,’ Romy declared heatedly, ‘did anyone ever tell you that you are nothing but an arrogant...arrogant...?
‘Bastard?’ he supplied drily. ‘Is that the word you’re searching for? So why not come out and say it, Romy? It’s true, after all.’
Romy gave him a steady look. ‘I would have used a far more creative insult than “bastard”, thank you very much! And that sounds like a mighty big chip on your shoulder to me.’
His smile had suddenly died and now he shook his dark head with slow emphasis. ‘Not at all,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Illegitimacy no longer carries the stigma that it did when I was growing up.’
She stared at him in surprise. Surely that wasn’t a trace of vulnerability showing through the steely armour?
Romy had always defined Dominic as a black-hearted villain and seducer. But now, with the benefit of maturity, she recognised that she might have been guilty of a little over-simplification.
Had he been a victim of taunts at school? Ridiculed and derided as a child because he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket?
For the first time she lost something of her guarded expression. Her mouth softened and her lips moved into an unconscious pout as a wave of empathy washed over her.
What was it about this man, she wondered, that she should want to take him in her arms and comfort him? And after everything that had happened between them, too...
She gazed across the room at him, the sudden silence making her acutely aware of their isolation.
Her mind began to stray into forbidden territory as she allowed her eyes to drift over the magnificent thrust of his thighs, all tensile muscular perfection beneath the cambric trousers. And the thin silk shirt he wore did absolutely everything to emphasise the hard, lean abdomen and the suggestion of strength rippling in each arm.
Romy shut her eyes in despair, and when she opened them it was to find him staring at her.
‘We’d better have something to drink,’ he said abruptly. ‘You look terrible.’
‘You don’t look so wonderful yourself,’ she lied, but she found herself sinking back against the chaise lounge. Because he was right. She felt terrible. The shock of seeing him again, no doubt. And making the disappointing discovery that in five years she had built up no magic immunity against his devastating appeal.
His eyes narrowed as they raked over her slumped frame. ‘Stay there!’ he ordered curtly.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she murmured drily.
Their eyes locked for one long moment, and when he turned to leave Romy found herself watching his retreat obsessively, unable to tear her eyes away from him and yet despising her need to do so.
When Romy had met him he had been twenty-six—very bright and very ambitious. It had been easy, then, to predict that he had a golden future ahead of him. But now it was possible to see how he had managed to surpass even that early promise.
And it wasn’t so much the palatial mansion he lived in, or the expensive clothes he wore, or even the tell-tale designer watch which was designed to withstand almost anything and had a price tag to match. No, it was something much less tangible than material possessions, and yet far more valuable in its way.
For Dominic carried a quiet authority about him which combined both strength and dignity.
He was, Romy recognised, the type of man whose respect would be highly valued. And there was no doubt in her mind that he would probably accord more respect to a snail than he would to her.
And could she blame him? Could she? If she told even the most impartial observer the facts concerning their ill-fated meeting, would they not condemn her, too?
She tried to stem them, but the memories were too strong, too long suppressed for her to be able to stop them flooding back with bitter-sweet clarity.
Long-forgotten fragments of events floated free and her mind took her back to a summer’s afternoon almost exactly five years before...
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS the afternoon before her wedding, and Romy was feeling sick.
The make-up artist had just been through a trial run before tomorrow’s church service, and had put far more gunge on her face than she was used to. Romy peered in the mirror and frowned. The oodles of mascara and foundation might have made her eyes look bigger and her skin even smoother, but she looked much older. And harder, too.
So she went straight into the bathroom and scrubbed the whole lot off!
Her mother was lying on the bed in the hotel room, drinking unchilled white wine and stuffing cottonwool balls between her toes as she waited for the red varnish on her nails to dry.
She looked up as Romy entered the room, and frowned. ‘Put some make-up on!’ she ordered instantly. ‘Your face looks awful without it!’
Ignoring that, Romy sat down on the edge of her bed and studied her fingernails intently. ‘Do you—do you think every bride feels like this?’ she asked her mother tentatively.
Her mother took another swig of warm wine. ‘Like what?’
Romy swallowed as she struggled to explain her thoughts to her mother—although she supposed that there was absolutely no reason why she should suddenly succeed after all these years. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Excited, I suppose, and yet...well, afraid, too...’
Stella Salisbury, whose dissolute life was finally taking its toll on her once beautiful face, shot her daughter an acid look. ‘All I can remember is the feeling of being shackled,’ she drawled, and lit a cigarette. ‘But unfortunately there wasn’t a lot I could do about it—I was pregnant with you at the time.’
‘Mum...’ Romy sighed worriedly. ‘Do you really think you need any more to drink? There’ll be plenty at the party tonight. And you want to be sober for that, don’t you?’
‘Why?’ asked her mother, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. ‘It’s hardly likely to be the bash of the year, now, is it? Honestly, Romy, I didn’t spend all that money on your education for you to marry the first man who asked you! The Ackroyds may be a fine, old-established family—but they’re as dull as ditchwater!’
And that’s precisely why I’m marrying Mark, thought Romy as she helplessly watched her mother refilling her glass. Because he’s everything that you’re not and he wants to give me everything I’ve never had.
In a nutshell, Mark represented security. And Romy craved security with all the fervour of someone who had spent her formative years being bundled from pillar to post while her mother worked her way through a series of unsuitable boyfriends. Romy’s father had been killed in Africa when she was just a tiny baby, and she had never known a single, stabilising male influence.
‘Besides...’ Stella fixed her daughter with a sharp look ‘...there might not even be a wedding at this rate!’
Romy pushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eye. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked in alarm.
Stella shrugged. ‘Well, the best man still hasn’t arrived, has he? And it beats me why a man with Mark Ackroyd’s connections has chosen someone who nobody knows from Adam. Someone told me that he grew up on completely the wrong side of the tracks, so why on earth—’
‘Becàuse he saved Mark’s life when they were at Oxford,’ put in Romy patiently. ‘I thought I’d explained that’
‘Then why isn’t he here?’
‘He’s flying over from Hong Kong. He works there. He’ll arrive tomorrow morning. The wedding’s not until three, so there will be plenty of time.’
‘Cutting it a little fine, isn’t he? What if he’s delayed?’
Romy shrugged. ‘He won’t be.’
‘What do you mean, “He won’t be”?’
‘Just that Mark says that when Dominic says he’ll do something then we are to consider it done.’ She coughed, her nostrils filling with the smoke from her mother’s cigarette, which hung in a foul-smelling grey fog in the hotel room. ‘It’s so smoky in here!’ she spluttered, flapping her hand around in an effort to dispel it.
‘It’s a dump!’ retorted Stella, looking around the room with a grimace.
‘It is not a dump!’ protested Romy automatically.
‘Why we’re staying here I simply don’t know!’ shrilled Mrs Salisbury. ‘Not when your husband-to-be owns the biggest house in the entire county.’
Because Romy had put her foot down very firmly—that was why! She suppressed a shudder as she tried to imagine her mother and Mark’s mother sharing the same house, even for one night! ‘You get your freedom here,’ she said, looking meaningfully at the overflowing ashtray and the half-empty bottle of wine.
Though perhaps if Stella had been treated to the rather abstemious hospitality of the formidable Mrs Ackroyd, then she might have applied the brakes a bit. And subsequently have been in a better state for tonight’s party!
Romy sighed, wishing that the ceremony was already over, and it was just her and Mark.
And?
She swallowed.
It was normal to feel pre-wedding nerves, perfectly normal—she had to accept that. And Mark was so very proud of the fact that she was a virgin.
‘So many girls aren’t these days,’ he had told her fondly, planting a tender kiss on her long neck. ‘That’s why I want to keep you pure and innocent for as long as possible!’
Romy impatiently pushed another lock of hair off her suddenly hot face. ‘I’m going out for a while!’ she told her mother abruptly.
‘Out? Now? But you can’t! What about the party?’
‘The party isn’t for hours,’ answered Romy, with an oddly detached kind of calm. ‘And I’m afraid I’ll have little stomach for it if I sit around here watching you get steadily sozzled. So why don’t you order up some black coffee, Mum, and try to get a little sleep?’
Barely registering her mother’s amazement at the fact that she had answered her back, Romy left the hotel room without a backward glance.
She hesitated outside the door, not quite sure where she intended going. A walk, perhaps. Yes, that was it! A walk in the brilliant July sunshine—that might help her shake off this curiously unsettled mood. Besides, there was nothing else for her to do except fill in the empty hours.
Everything was ready and waiting for the Big Day. The white tulle dress was hanging in the wardrobe swathed in thick plastic. The white satin shoes were lined up neatly below, and frothy little flounces of white lace underwear lay in neat, snowy piles.
Romy automatically quickened her step as she walked towards the smaller lift at the end of the tenth-floor corridor, instinctively avoiding the main lift. Lots of the wedding guests were also staying at the hotel and she didn’t want to run into any of them. Because for some reason Romy couldn’t face talking, not to anyone, not just now...
She pressed the button and waited, and presently the lift doors jerked open and she stepped inside, pressed the button for the ground floor and it began its descent.
On the seventh floor the doors opened and a man entered, a man so drop-dead gorgeous that Romy actually blinked distractedly as she stared at him.
He stared right back—so intently and with such a piercing expression in a pair of exceptional silver-grey eyes that all Romy’s usual defences crumbled, and she was left feeling curiously exposed and vulnerable.
Hastily she started studying the carpet with the kind of avid interest she usually reserved for the gossip column in her favourite newspaper!
But, try as she might to concentrate on the swirly red and gold pattern, she found herself unable to stop observing him from out of the corner of her eye, even though she pretended not to.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and was impressively tall, with hair which was as dark as coal. He had powerfully built shoulders and his skin was lightly tanned, so that it made a flattering contrast against the pale linen suit he wore.
But it was his face which was truly remarkable—angular and hypnotic, its hard, flat planes casting intriguing shadows. The mouth was a contradiction, in that it had full, curved lines which hinted at an experience Romy did not dare dwell on, but already there was a hard, cynical twist in place. And that was surprising in one so young, she thought fleetingly.
He looked up and caught her peeping, and his grey eyes flicked over her with unashamed interest. He gave a brief, knowing smile, before turning his attention back to the folded-up copy of the financial paper he was carrying.
Romy couldn’t concentrate. Or, rather, she could—but on one thing and one thing alone.
That man!
As the lift continued its descent she found herself so acutely aware of his presence that it was almost painful. But then he was an exceptionally good-looking man, she reasoned, and her reaction was perfectly natural. Just because she was getting married the next day, that did not mean that she would never find another man attractive!
Nevertheless, she found herself praying that the lift would quickly reach its destination.
It did—but it was not the one she had been counting on! In between floors five and six it made a sickening kind of screeching noise and then juddered to a deafeningly silent halt.
Nervously, Romy lifted her hand and started jabbing at the button several times, but the lift remained stubbornly stuck, and when she dared to look up at the man it was to find him observing her, a wry smile on his lips making her quickly revise her earlier opinion of him. Not exceptionally good-looking, she concluded, but outrageously good-looking!
‘And you thought that this kind of thing only happened in films, didn’t you?’ he said.
Romy didn’t answer, just continued to punch away at the lift button with a desperation she did not quite like to analyse.
‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he observed, in that same deep and drawling voice, ‘bashing the thing is likely to do more harm than good!’
‘Then what do you suggest I do?’ she snapped back.
He raised a lazy black brow. ‘You could try pressing the alarm button,’ he suggested.
Now why hadn’t she thought of that?
Feeling more than a bit of a fool, Romy did just that, disappointed and yet not surprised when nothing happened.
He moved forward and began studying the buttons, pressing each one experimentally at first and then trying different combinations, like someone struggling to find the right password on a strange computer. But, no matter what he did, the lift remained stubbornly still.
The man frowned. ‘Could be the electrics, I suppose, as the alarm isn’t working either,’ he commented thoughtfully. ‘Although we still have light, so maybe the mechanism is on a completely different circuit.’
For some reason, his calm assurance infuriated her. And so did the fact that she couldn’t understand a word he was saying!
‘Is that all you can say?’ she demanded, her voice rising with every word. ‘Standing there wittering on about electrics when we’re stuck in this lift--alone!’
‘Not alone. Together,’ he corrected her, and gave her a narrow-eyed look. ‘And if you continue to get hysterical—’
‘I am not getting hysterical!’
‘Yes, you are!’ he chided gently.
‘I’ll get hysterical if I want to!’ she yelled. ‘Who wouldn’t get hysterical if they were stuck in a lift with a complete stranger?’
He gave a lazy smile, the corners of his mouth turning up in a way which suddenly made Romy’s heart thunder as it had never thundered before. ‘Do I make you nervous, then?’ he queried wickedly.
‘Yes, you jolly well do! And I’m certainly not going to accept this false imprisonment lying down!’
It was the worst thing she could have said, and the answering glint of light in his grey eyes made her fervently wish that she could rephrase that last statement!
‘What a pity,’ he murmured.
‘In fact, I’m going to yell for help!’ she announced wildly, saying anything—anything—to stop him looking at her in that way... She glared at him challengingly.
‘Be my guest,’ he drawled, and carelessly loosened the tie of cornflower silk which was knotted around his throat. ‘Yell to your heart’s content, sweetheart!’
Sticking her mouth as close to the door as possible, Romy shouted, ‘Help!’ at the top of her voice, and listened as the word echoed its way down the silent lift shaft. She drew in a deep breath for another attempt. ‘Help!’ But again her shout simply echoed into nothingness, and the lack of response made Romy’s heart race with real fear.
‘Why don’t you yell for help?’ she challenged.
‘Because there’s no one out there to hear us,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘It’s a little-used lift. We would do much better to wait until we hear someone banging around, and then yell!’
‘And what if we never get out?’ she babbled, moving forward and clutching onto his lapels with white-knuckled fingers, her voice rising to a high, brittle note which threatened to crack. She buckled against him. ‘What if We die of thirst, or starve to death?’
‘We won’t,’ he soothed, and almost absently stroked the blonde hair which was now resting against his chest. ‘We’ll be just fine.’
She quickly dropped her hands from where they were busy creasing the linen of his lapels! ‘No, we won’t! We’ll be stuck here for ever! I just know we will! I—’
He lifted her chin with his forefinger so that she could not escape that blazing, stormy gaze. ‘The classic remedy for hysteria is a slap to the face.’ He cut across her words with a frown which gradually gave way to a slow, careful smile. ‘But I’m not inclined to do that. For a start, it’s such a beautiful face...’
The softness in his deep voice instantly and magically diffused all the terror she felt. A beautiful face? Romy went pink with pleasure at the compliment, and then immediately started thinking how pathetic she must look! And should he really be saying something like that to an engaged woman?
But when she threw a covert glance down at her left hand she discovered that she had left her engagement ring lying on the dressing table in the hotel room. There was no outward symbol to show the world she was spoken for. So she had better start acting like a mature woman who was about to be married!
Fixing her most intelligent look on her face, she drew a deep, calming breath and said steadily, ‘And how do you propose we get out of here?’
He stared down at her intently, his face and body suddenly tense. His eyes were cold and grey, Romy noted with a shiver—as hard and as glittering as a blade of steel.
Romy instantly became aware that all normal sounds had been deadened—muffled by the pulses which thundered in her head. Her line of vision had contracted to one small area, and she found that all she could see were the firm, sensual curves of his mouth.
He seemed to move fractionally towards her, and for one heart-stopping moment she actually thought that he was about to bend that dark, gorgeous head to kiss her—and found that she was holding her breath, waiting and anticipating his next move.
Then suddenly he laughed, and shifted his weight rather awkwardly, as though he was uncomfortable. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have any immediate solution. So we’ll just have to wait. Sooner or later someone is bound to notice that one of us is missing or that the lift is firmly stuck between floors.’