Shameful Secret, Shotgun Wedding

Кендрик Шэрон

Every inch of the place was packed. Beneath a swirl of paper streamers, people were swaying and singing along to a song about wishing it could be Christmas every day—which had been played every year since Cassie could remember. And, given the current decibel level and crush of bodies, it was not a sentiment she currently agreed with.

The queue to get to the bar was five-deep and heaven only knew where Gavin and the others were. Could she face battling her way through the crowds to sit nursing a mediocre glass of warm white wine for the rest of the evening and shouting to make herself heard above the noise?

No, she could not. With a decisiveness which surprised her, she turned and walked out of the pub again—her feet taking her straight back to the flat while a preposterous idea grew in her mind.

Only, maybe it was not so preposterous at all. He had given her his phone number, hadn’t he? Told her to call him—and she had a good reason to call him, even if you discounted the fact that he was the most exciting thing to ever happen to her.

Letting herself into the apartment with a fast-beating heart and grateful for the quietness, Cassie punched out his number with a trembling finger before she could change her mind. She could hear the phone ringing and ringing. Maybe he was one of those people who screened their calls and, since he didn’t recognise the number, wasn’t going to bother answering. She was just about to hang up when she heard a click—and then that distinctive velvety, accented voice sounded in her ear.

‘Pronto. Giancarlo Vellutini.’

‘Giancarlo?’ She swallowed down her nerves. ‘It’s me…Cassie.’

‘Chi?’ There was a pause. ‘Who?’

This was humiliating. He didn’t remember. Of course he didn’t remember. He’d spoken to her for about five minutes and given her his business card on a whim. Cassie would have hung up there and then if it hadn’t been for the candles which were still sitting on the side, wrapped in glittery gold and claret paper. ‘Cassandra Summers. I work at Hudson’s department store. We met today—do you remember? You bought some—’

‘S`i, s`i, senz’altro—scusi, scusi.’ His voice dipped effortlessly into English. ‘Cassandra Summers with the amazing eyes. How could I possibly forget?’

Cassie swallowed as nerves began to assail her. Don’t back him into a corner. Show that you have a legitimate reason to ring him in case he’s looking for an out. ‘Actually, I’m ringing up because you forgot your candles?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘You bought six very expensive c-candles and you didn’t take them with you.’

His long legs sprawling in front of him as he reclined in a squashy leather sofa, Giancarlo looked up at the huge canvas which dominated the wall above the blazing log fire, and gave a slow smile. ‘So I did. And that’s the only reason you’re ringing me, is it?’

‘Well, I…’ Flustered now, Cassie didn’t know how to respond. Did she tell him that maybe she’d been a bit too hasty in turning him down—and that dinner sounded wonderful—or would that make her sound like some sort of desperado?

‘Or maybe you’ve changed your mind about having dinner with me?’ he prompted silkily.

Just say yes…he isn’t planning to kidnap you and send you to the ends of the earth. Just say yes! ‘That would be very…nice,’ said Cassie blandly.

Giancarlo gave a soft laugh. Nice wasn’t what he had in mind. Nothing near ‘nice’, in fact. Something dark, erotic and horizontal was closer to the mark—he knew that and he suspected that deep down she knew that, too. Because nobody could deny the sparks which had flown between them today—sparks hot enough to make him act on impulse, to chat up the kind of woman he would never have met at a dinner party.

And yet, in a way, he had preferred her a little more when she’d lifted her chin and fixed him with those violet eyes and proudly said she was doing something else tonight. Wasn’t it slightly disappointing that she’d rung and become just like all the others—joining the endless line of women who wanted him and didn’t mind showing him how much? In a few short moments she’d gone from goddess to doormat and he’d known enough of those in his time. His mouth flattened. Wouldn’t it have excited him if he’d had to do the chasing for once—instead of the inevitability of yet another luscious creature falling into his bed because he had snapped his fingers?

Still, he shouldn’t knock it. At least, not until he’d tried it.

‘So what time shall I expect you?’ he murmured.

‘Expect me?’ Cassie squeaked. ‘You mean have dinner with you tonight?’

‘Of course. What did you mean? Unless you have eaten already?’

‘Well, no—but it’s…’ Cassie glanced down at the bright pink waterproof watch which encircled her slender wrist. ‘It’s getting on for nine o’clock!”

‘So?’

‘Well, isn’t that…?’ Something stopped her from expounding her mother’s theory that food lay heavy on your stomach if it was consumed too late in the evening. He didn’t seem the kind of man who would be interested in that kind of information. ‘A bit late to eat?’

‘Not at all. In Spain, they eat at eleven.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

‘You’ve never been to Spain?’

‘Never.’

‘Then maybe I shall take you there one day,’ he murmured. ‘We could drink Rioja under some of the starriest skies in the world and eat tapas with our fingers. But in the meantime—why don’t you get in a cab and come over here and we’ll see what we can find in my cupboard? Where do you live?’

‘Greenford.’

‘Near Park Lane?’

‘No, no—that’s Green Park,’ she corrected, because it was a common mistake. As if she could ever afford to live anywhere near Park Lane! ‘I’m miles out,’ she forged on. ‘Even with a fast car I couldn’t possibly get there much before ten and—no matter what they do in Spain—that really is too late for dinner. Especially when I have to get up early for work tomorrow.’

It wasn’t too late for what he had in mind but even Giancarlo wouldn’t dream of issuing such a blatant invitation unless he had a woman in his arms and was kissing her into dreamy submission. He stifled a sigh—because this now seemed to be escalating into something other than an impromptu dinner with the inevitable conclusion he’d had in mind. The last thing he wanted was hassle. He didn’t do hassle—and certainly not from women. Maybe it wasn’t meant to happen after all.