Valentine Vendetta

‘Did she?’ Sam Lockhart sounded impressed.

Fran cleared her throat, sensing that this was just the right time to appeal to his greed. ‘The thing is, Mr. Lockhart—if you hire me to organise your ball for you, then I guarantee we will raise more money than you ever dreamed of.’

‘That’s fighting talk,’ Sam commented drily, then added, ‘Who told you about it, by the way?’

‘You mean the ball?’

‘No, Man landing on the moon!’ he drawled sarcastically. ‘Yes, of course I mean the ball!’

This might have been tricky if she hadn’t anticipated the question. But Rosie had said that he was vain enough and realistic enough to know that everyone in his circle and beyond, would be clamouring for an invitation.

‘Oh, no one in particular,’ she said vaguely. ‘You know what it’s like. People talk. Particularly before an event has been organised—it gives them a certain cachet if they know about a highly desirable party before it’s officially been advertised.’ She drew a deep breath and added shamelessly, ‘And believe me, Mr. Lockhart—from what I understand—this is going to be the hottest ticket in town.’

‘I hope so,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I already have someone in mind for the job, I’m afraid. Several women have already offered—’

She could imagine! ‘Amateurs?’ asked Fran sharply. ‘Or professionals?’

‘Well, all of them have organised similar functions before—’

‘You know exactly where you are with a professional,’ put in Fran smoothly.

‘Really?’ He sounded unconvinced.

It was time for a little feminine desperation. To see whether a breathy, heartfelt plea would get through to the man Rosie had described as a ‘virile robot.’ ‘Won’t you at least see me, Mr. Lockhart?’ she questioned.

‘I’m a busy man.’

‘Well, of course you are!’ She used the soothing tone of a children’s nanny, then added a little flattery for good measure. ‘Successful men always are. But could you forgive yourself if your hectic schedule meant that your ball didn’t fulfill all your expectations, simply because you wouldn’t make time to see me?’

He actually laughed at this—a bubbling, honeyed chuckle—and it was such a warm and sexy sound that Fran found herself gripping the receiver as though it might fly out of her fingers.

‘Determination is a quality I admire almost as much as self-belief,’ he mused. ‘Provided it is backed up by talent—’

‘Oh, it is!’

There was a pause. ‘Very well, Miss Fisher—I’ll give you exactly ten minutes to convince me that I’d be a fool not to employ you.’

Thank God! ‘You won’t regret it, Mr. Lockhart,’ she enthused, hoping that her voice carried no trace of insincerity. ‘Tell me where and tell me when and I’ll be there!’

‘Okay. How about this afternoon?’

‘You mean today?’

‘Well, I certainly don’t mean tomorrow,’ he purred. ‘I’m flying to Europe with one of my authors later on this evening. I can see you at home—briefly—before I leave.’

He managed to make it sound as though he was making an appointment for her at the dentist—and come to think of it, her adrenalin levels were as high as they might have been if he were a dentist! ‘In London?’ she guessed hopefully, since Rosie had already informed her that he had a flat in town and a house somewhere in the country.

‘No, in Cambridge,’ he stated.

‘Cambridge,’ she repeated faintly, her heart sinking as she thought of travelling to the flat, ploughed fields of the fens on a filthy cold November afternoon. Maybe on a fool’s mission.

‘Is getting to Cambridge going to be a problem for you, Miss Fisher?’ he questioned. ‘It’s hardly on the other side of the world, you know!’

Rule number one: a party-planner must be prepared for any eventuality! ‘Problem? None whatsoever!’ she lied cheerfully. ‘Just give me a few easy-to-understand directions and I’ll be there in time for tea!’

‘I can hardly wait,’ he said, and Fran could have sworn that he was laughing at her.

The light was already fading from the sky when the train pulled into Eversford station and the bleak, unwelcoming platform made Fran feel as though she was on the film-set of an old-fashioned murder mystery.

She knotted her scarf tightly around her neck and looked around. Sam Lockhart had told her where she could get a cab and she walked out of the station into the dreary afternoon, where a fine mist of grey rain clogged the air and slicked onto the roofs of the cars like grease.

There was no one else in the queue and the driver looked at her with interest as she told him the name of the house.

‘Sam Lockhart’s place,’ he commented, as he switched on his meter and pulled out of the station forecourt.

‘You know it?’

‘Should do. He brings us plenty of work. Thought that’s where you’d be headed,’ he said, smiling.

Fran, who was hunting around in her handbag for a mirror, paused, mid-search. ‘Oh?’ She smiled back. ‘Can you guess where all your passengers are headed, then?’

‘No. Just his.’ The driver stopped at some red lights and grinned at her in his rear mirror. ‘If it’s someone glamorous getting off the London train, then the odds are that she wants to go out to Sam Lockhart’s place!’

Fran bristled as the driver’s giveaway remark reminded her why she was here in the first place. Poor Rosie! ‘Oh?’ She thought how indignant she sounded! ‘He has a whole stream of women arriving here, does he?’

The driver shook his head hastily. ‘Oh, no! Never more than one at a time!’ he joked. ‘And we only notice because nothing much happens around here. It’s a pretty isolated place.’

‘So I see.’ Fran looked out of the window as the buildings and lights of the town began to get more sparse and the landscape began to acquire the vast, untouched emptiness of perfectly flat countryside. It could have been boring, but she thought that it had a stark, distinctive beauty all of its own. Even so, its very bleakness did not fit in with her idea of where a sex god would live. Why had he chosen to settle out here, she wondered, when he could be raving it up in London? ‘Is it very far?’

‘Another couple of miles,’ he answered, slowing the car right down as the lane narrowed. ‘Writer, are you?’

‘Not me, I’m afraid!’ she told him cheerfully, and picked up her hand mirror to see what sort of face Sam Lockhart would be greeted by.

Unexciting was the word which immediately sprang to mind.

Her skin looked too pale, but then it always did—and the green-gold eyes could have done with a little more mascara to make the best of them. But apart from the fact that she had left in a hurry, Fran had deliberately played safe, unwilling to look as though she’d spent hours in front of the mirror in an effort to impress Sam Lockhart. Apart from the fact that it just wasn’t her style—sex gods were used to women slapping on the entire contents of their make-up bags. She knew that from living with her husband. So she would be different. Because there was one other thing she knew about that particular breed of man…they were easily bored and something different always intrigued them.

So she had contented herself with a slick of nude lipstick which simply looked like she had been licking her lips. Just enough make-up to look as though she wasn’t wearing any at all—but only a woman would be able to tell that!

‘Here we are!’ said the driver. The car slowed down and began indicating right as a high, dark hedge began to loom up beside them. Before her stretched a long drive which curved off unexpectedly to the left, and impulse made her lean over to tap the driver on the shoulder.

‘Would you mind stopping here?’ she asked.

‘It’s a long drive.’

‘I can see that. I don’t mind walking. In fact I’d rather walk. I just want to get the…feel…of the place first.’ That first gut reaction to someone’s home was invaluable. Houses and owners taken unawares told you volumes about what they were really like—and the better you knew a client, the better you would be able to judge the perfect party for their particular needs. A car drawing up outside would alert Sam Lockhart to her arrival and that would not do. She wanted to see the face of the seducer taken off guard.

Ignoring the driver’s curious expression, she paid her fare and gave him a healthy tip.

‘Thanks very much, Miss. Will you be wanting to go back to the station…tonight?’ He put the question so delicately that Fran might have laughed if she weren’t feeling so indignant on Rosie’s behalf. What was Lockhart running here, for goodness’ sake? A harem?

‘Yes, I will,’ she answered crisply. ‘But I don’t know what time that will be—so if you’d give me one of your cards I’ll ring.’

She waited until the red tail-lights of the car had retreated before setting off up the wide path, her sensible brown leather boots sending little shoals of gravel spraying in her wake.

The grounds—they were much too extensive to be called a garden—wore the muddy, leafless brown of a winter coat, but the sparse flower-beds were curved and beautifully shaped, and the trees had been imaginatively planted to stand dramatically against the huge, bare sky.

The house was old. A beautifully proportioned whitewashed villa which was perfect in its simplicity.

And it looked deserted.

Moving quietly, Fran crept forward to peer into one of the leaded windows at the front of the house, and nearly died with shock when she saw a man sitting in there, before the golden flicker of a log fire. A dark, denim-clad figure sprawled in a comfortable-looking armchair, his long legs stretched in front of him as he read from what looked like a manuscript.

She came to within nose-pressing distance of the window and her movement must have caught his attention, for he looked up from his reading and his dark-featured face registered no emotion whatsoever at seeing her standing there. Not surprise or fright or irritation. Not even a mild curiosity.

Then he pointed a rather dismissive finger in the direction of the front of the house and mimed, ‘the door’s open.’

And started reading again!

How very rude, she thought! Especially when she’d travelled all this way to see him! Fran crunched her way over to the front door, pushed it open and stepped inside, narrowing her eyes with surprise as she looked around.

It wasn’t what she had expected.

On the wooden floor lay mud-covered wellington boots, a gardening catalogue, a pair of secateurs and a battered old panama hat. Waterproof coats and jackets were heaped on the coat stand and a variety of different coloured umbrellas stood in an untidy stack behind the front door. The walls were deep and scarlet and womblike and welcoming.

So where were the wall-to-wall mirrors and the shaggy fur rugs where he made lots of love to lots of different women?

It felt like coming home, she thought, with an unwelcome jolt. And it shouldn’t, she told herself fiercely. This was the house of the man who was responsible for Rosie’s heartache—not the house of her dreams!

She turned and walked along a narrow corridor which led to the study and stood framed in the doorway with the light behind her.

He looked up, all unshaven and ruffled, as if he’d just got out of bed. Or hadn’t been to bed. ‘Hi,’ he said, and yawned. ‘You must be Fran Fisher.’

His eyes were the most incredible shade of deep blue, she noticed—night-dark and piercing and remarkable enough to eclipse even the rugged symmetry of his face. With the jeans went untidy, slightly too-long hair, making him more rock-star than literary agent.

Yes, Fran thought, her heart pounding like a mad thing. No wonder Rosie had fallen so badly. He looked exactly like a sex god! ‘And you must be Sam Lockhart,’ she gulped.

He shot a brief glance at his wristwatch and she found herself thinking that she had never seen a man so at ease in his own skin as this one.

‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘That’s me!’

‘Nice of you to come to the door and meet me!’

‘If you can’t manage to navigate your way from the front door to the study, then I think you’re in the wrong job, honey.’ He yawned again. ‘Come in and sit down.’

Fran gazed around the room. ‘Where?’

Sam conceded that she did have a point. Just about every available surface was given over to manuscripts of varying thicknesses. Some had even overflowed from his desk to form small paper towers on the Persian rug.

‘Don’t you ever clear up after you?’ she asked, before she had time to think about whether or not it was a wise question.

‘If you tidy manuscripts away, you lose them,’ he shrugged, as he rescued the telephone from underneath a shoal of papers. ‘At least if they’re staring you in the face you can’t hide away from the fact that you need to get around to reading them sometime!’

The blue eyes glanced rather absently around the study. ‘Though maybe it is a little cluttered in here. The sitting room is just along there.’ He pointed towards a low door at the far end of the room. ‘Why don’t you trot along and wait for me in there. Make yourself comfortable. I’m expecting a call any minute, but I shan’t be long.’

‘Please don’t rush on my account,’ she gritted, irritated at being told to trot along—as if she was some kind of pit-pony!

This drew a sardonic smile. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t.’

The first thing Fran decided when she walked into Sam Lockhart’s sitting room, was that there was no woman living in the house with him—or if there was, then she must be a very passive and insipid woman because the place had masculinity stamped indelibly all over it. Deep, bold colours and substantial furniture.

Fran was used to being in strangers’ houses; it was part of her job. She knew how much a home environment could tell you about a person, and over the years she had become an expert at reading the signs of domestic bliss.

Or turmoil.

The room had all the untidy informality of truly bachelor territory. For a start he seemed to be incapable of throwing away a single newspaper—since she could see Sunday supplements dating back from the previous month, and beyond. And there were enough books heaped on a low table and on the floor surrounding it for him to consider opening his own personal library! She crouched briefly to scan some of the titles and was alarmed to see that they shared some of the same taste in authors. Disturbing.

She rose to her feet and carried on looking. There were no photos scattered anywhere, but that didn’t really surprise her. Women were the ones who put photos in a room—reminders of great family occasions like engagements and weddings and christenings. Which were also a mark of possession and ownership—marks that men seemed to need less than woman.

She picked up a beautifully worked tapestry cushion which was lying on the chair, and was so busy examining it that she didn’t hear him come into the room. It was only when she turned around to find herself being studied intently by a pair of dark-blue eyes that Fran realised he was standing watching her.

Still holding onto the cushion, she blinked. As well as taking the phone call, he must have washed his face and swiftly shaved the blue-black blur of shadow away from the square chin. And run a comb through the dark tangle of his hair. He had put a dark sweater on too, and the soft navy cashmere clung to the definition of broad shoulders.

Suddenly, his blue eyes looked even bluer, so that their soft brilliance seemed to cut right through you, like a sword. Oh, my goodness, she thought weakly, he really is gorgeous. Fran clutched the cushion against her chest, like a breastplate, and saw him frown.

‘Planning to take that home with you?’ he queried softly.

Fran stared down at the cushion in her hands. On one side the single word Sam was embroidered, in a heart-shaped frame made of tiny scarlet flowers. On the other side was an intricately crafted message which said, A love given can never be taken away.

‘This is beautiful,’ she said politely, wondering who the maker of the cushion was. Someone who obviously adored him. ‘Absolutely beautiful.’

So why did his face close up so that it looked all shuttered and cold?

‘Yes,’ he said repressively. ‘It is.’

Part of her job was asking questions; making connections. If she saw something she liked she tried to find out where it came from, because you never knew when you might want one just like it. ‘Do you mind me asking where you got it from?’

His eyes narrowed and Fran was surprised by the sudden appearance of pain which briefly hardened their appearance from blue to bruise. So he could be hurt, could he?

‘Yes, I do mind! I told you that I had a plane to catch,’ he said coldly. ‘Yet you seem to want to spend what little time we have discussing soft furnishings.’

Feeling slightly fazed at the criticism, Fran quickly put the cushion back down on the sofa and looked at him expectantly. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said lightly. ‘Force of habit.’

He didn’t even acknowledge the apology. ‘Why don’t we just get down to business.’

Standing there, with her sheepskin coat making her feel distinctly overdressed, Fran felt hot and out-of-place and very slightly foolish. He could have done with a crash course in common courtesy, she thought. ‘Mind if I take my coat off first?’

‘Feel free.’

She noticed that he didn’t attempt to help her remove the heavy, fur-lined garment and was irritated with herself for even caring. He was a future client—hopefully—not somebody she would be taking home to meet her mother!

She draped the coat over the arm of a chair and stood in front of him, feeling slightly awkward, and not in the least bit confident. So now what did she do? She found herself wondering what was going on behind those dark eyes of his. And what he saw when he looked at her in that curiously intent way of his.

Her clothes were practical and comfortable, in that order—it went with the job. Very short skirts which meant you couldn’t bend over without inhibition were out. So were spindly and unsafe heels designed to make legs look longer. But although Fran was a little curvier than she would have ideally liked, she was also tall enough to carry off most clothes with style. Today, her brown woollen skirt skimmed her leather-booted ankles and the warm, cream sweater cleverly concealed the thermal vest which lay beneath.

She glanced at him to see if there was any kind of reaction to her appearance, but Sam Lockhart’s expression remained as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa. Now why did that bother her? Because the arch-philanderer didn’t think she warranted a second look? For heaven’s sake, woman, she told herself—you’re here to avenge some broken hearts—not join their ranks!

‘So are you going to sit down?’ he murmured. ‘I’d prefer to stretch my legs before my flight, but there’s no reason why the interview should be uncomfortable for you, is there?’

‘Er, no, I’ll stay standing,’ she stumbled. ‘W-what interview?’

‘The interview which helps me decide whether to give you the job or not.’ A mocking look. ‘What else did you think this was going to be? A tea party? I have to decide whether I want you to work for me and you have to decide whether or not you could bear to.’ Another mocking look. ‘Or did you think the job would be yours the moment I stared into those great big golden-green eyes of yours?’

Fran blinked with astonishment. So, beneath that cool exterior he had been noticing the way she looked! ‘No, of course I didn’t!’ she retorted, feeling slightly reassured that he had started to flirt with her. It kind of reinforced what Rosie had told her to expect. ‘I’m a professional through and through and I’d never use sex appeal to sell myself!’

‘Not consciously, perhaps?’ he challenged softly. ‘But most women use their sex quite ruthlessly—in my experience.’

‘And that’s extensive, is it?’ she challenged in return.

‘That depends on your definition of extensive,’ came the silky reply. ‘But I would advise against making assumptions like that about a man you’ve only just met.’

There was nothing to be gained by irritating him, and clearly she was irritating him. Very much. ‘Sorry,’ she backtracked hastily.

‘So can I see your portfolio?’ he asked.

‘My…portfolio?’

‘You do have a portfolio showing me examples of your work?’

‘Of course I do,’ she said. She just hadn’t been planning on using it…‘But unfortunately I had to leave it with a client in Ireland. Anyway, word-of-mouth is the best recommendation—and the only way you can assess my work is to speak to some of the people who’ve hired me in the past.’

‘I already did.’

She shouldn’t have been surprised. But she was. ‘Who?’

‘Cormack Casey. His was the only name you gave me. Fortunately he’s the kind of man I trust.’

Fran blinked. On the phone he had said that he knew Cormack, but the warmth in his voice suggested a deeper relationship than mere acquaintanceship. ‘You mean you’re friends?’

‘Yes, we are. What’s the matter?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘You sound surprised?’

Well, she was. Because Cormack, for all his good looks and sex appeal, was fiercely loyal to his wife, Triss. A one-woman man. A man with morals. So how come he was matey with the arch-heartbreaker Sam Lockhart?

‘What did Cormack tell you about me?’

‘That you were good.’ There was a pause. ‘Very good.’

‘Now you sound surprised!’ she observed.

He shrugged. ‘People who are good don’t usually have to go out looking for business. Not in your line of work. Cormack was a little taken aback when I told him you’d rung me. In fact, he found it difficult to believe.’

Fran felt the first prickle of apprehension. ‘D-did he?’

‘Mmmm. He said it was completely out of character. Said you were cool and sought-after and he couldn’t imagine you ever touting for trade.’ He emphasised the words with a brief, black-hearted smile.

It was an offensive way to put it and Fran prayed that she wouldn’t start blushing. And not to be disconcerted by the intense question in those blue eyes. Maybe not looking at him was the only way to guarantee that.

‘So why start now?’ he mused.

‘Well, I’ve been working in Ireland,’ she defended, swallowing down her anxiety. ‘No one knows me here in England—and I needed to do something. Something big to get me established over here.’

‘And working for me will do that?’

She met his gaze reluctantly, feeling the erratic pumping of her heart in response. Did he have this effect on anyone with two X chromosomes in their body, she wondered? ‘You know it will,’ she answered bluntly.

There was a brief hooding of his eyes as he nodded, as if acknowledging her honesty. If only he knew, Fran thought, with the slightest shimmer of guilt. Until she remembered Rosie’s tear-stained face. And her damning list of just how many hearts he had broken along the way. Sam Lockhart deserved everything he was about to get! That is, if she got the job….

‘So my Valentine ball will put you firmly on the map?’ he observed.

Fran nodded.

‘That’s what I can do for you,’ he mused, and his voice was a soft caress which whispered temptingly at her senses. ‘Which leaves me wondering what I’ll get from you in return?’

It was blatant. Flagrant. Outrageous. Fran’s hand hovered above and then clutched onto her pearl necklace, her fingers sliding over the slippery surface of the lustrous jewels. Rosie had said he was rampant—but she had been expecting a little more finesse than that. ‘W-what exactly did you have in mind?’ she demanded hoarsely.

He frowned, and his gaze seemed to scorch her skin as he searched her face. He seemed to be keeping a straight face with some difficulty as he observed her reaction. ‘This is purely a business transaction, Miss Fisher,’ he reminded her wryly. ‘Not a sexual one.’

Fran’s face went scarlet. ‘I wasn’t suggesting for a moment—’

‘Oh, yes, you were,’ he contradicted softly. ‘It was written all over your face. And your body.’ His voice lowered. ‘I’m flattered.’

‘Well, don’t be!’ she snapped. ‘Maybe I did jump to the wrong conclusion, but women have to be on their guard against innuendo. Against men coming on strong.’