most sensible thing she could do would be to tell the driver to turn the taxi round and take her back for another blameless evening at home.
She was just leaning forward to speak to him when the cab set off again, with a lurch that sent her sprawling back, her skirt up round her thighs.
Her particular die would seem to be cast, she thought, righting herself hurriedly and pushing her light brown bobbed hair back from her face. And it would soon all be over, anyway. She was going to have a meal in a good restaurant, and at the end of it she would make an excuse and leave, making it tactfully clear that there would be no repeat performance.
Honour on both sides would be satisfied, she told herself as she pushed open the gleaming glass doors and entered the foyer of Marcellino’s.
A waiter came to meet her. ‘Signora has a reservation?’
‘I’m meeting someone,’ she told him. ‘A Mr Alexander.’
She could have sworn his jaw dropped, but he recovered quickly, handing her jacket to some lesser soul and conducting her across the black marble floor to the bar.
It was busy and for a moment Ros hesitated as heads turned briefly to appraise her, wondering which of them was her date.
‘The table in the corner, signora.’ The waiter’s voice sounded resigned.
Ros moved forward, aware of a chair being pushed back and a man’s figure rising to its feet.
Tall, she registered immediately, and dark. But—oh, God—far from handsome. That haircut, she thought numbly. Not to mention that dreadful suit. And those glasses, too. Hell’s teeth, what have I let myself in for?
She was strongly tempted to turn on her heel and walk away—except there was something about his stance—something wary, even defensive, as if he was prepared for that very reaction—that touched a sudden chord of sympathy inside her and kept her walking forward, squaring her shoulders and pinning on a smile.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘You must be Sam Alexander—“Lonely in London”.’
‘And you’re “Looking for Love”?’ He whistled, his firm-lipped mouth relaxing into a faint smile. ‘You amaze me.’
Slowly, he picked up the single red rose that lay on the table beside him and handed it to her. ‘My calling card.’
As she took the rose their fingers brushed, and she felt an odd frisson, as if she’d accidentally encountered some static electricity, and found to her own astonishment that she was blushing.
He indicated the chair opposite. ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss…?’
‘Craig,’ she said, after a momentary hesitation. ‘Janie Craig.’
‘Janie,’ he repeated thoughtfully, and his smile deepened. ‘This is a real pleasure.’
He might look like a geek but there was nothing wrong with his voice, she thought, surprised. It was cool and resonant, with a faint underlying drawl. And he had a surprisingly attractive smile too—charming, lazy and self-deprecating at the same time, and good teeth.
But his eyes, even masked by those goofy glasses, were the most amazing thing about him. They were a vivid blue-green colour—almost like turquoise.
I might have to revise my opinion, she thought. With contact lenses, a good barber and some decent clothes, he’d be very much more than presentable.
‘May I get you a drink?’ He pointed to his own glass. ‘I’m on designer water at the moment, but all that could change.’
She hesitated. She needed to keep a clear head, but a spritzer wouldn’t do that much harm. ‘Dry white wine with soda, please.’
‘A toast,’ he said, when her drink arrived, and touched his glass to hers. ‘To our better acquaintance.’
She murmured something in response, but it wasn’t in agreement. Sam Alexander wasn’t at all what she’d expected, and she found this disturbing.
He said, ‘You’re not what I’d anticipated,’ and she jumped. Was he some kind of mind-reader?
‘Really?’ she countered lightly. ‘Is that a good thing or a bad?’
‘All good,’ he said promptly, that smile of his curling along her nerve-endings again. ‘But I didn’t have too many preconceptions to work on. You were fairly cagey about yourself in our brief correspondence.’
She played nervously with the stem of her glass. ‘Actually, answering a personal ad is something of a novelty for me.’
‘So what attracted you to mine?’
That wasn’t fair, Ros thought, nearly spilling her drink. That was much too close to the jugular for this stage in the evening, and she wasn’t prepared for it.
‘It’s not easy to say,’ she hedged.
‘Try,’ he suggested.
She bit her lip. ‘You—you sounded as if you wanted a genuine relationship—something long-term with real emotion. Not just…’
‘Not just a one-night stand,’ he supplied, as she hesitated. ‘And you realised you wanted the same thing—commitment?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I—suppose so. Although I’m not sure I analysed it like that. It was more of an impulse.’
‘Impulses can be dangerous things.’ His mouth twisted slightly. ‘I’ll have to make sure you don’t regret yours.’
He let the words hang in the air between them for a moment, then handed her a menu. ‘And the next momentous decision is—what shall we have to eat?’
She felt as if she’d been let off some kind of hook, Ros realised dizzily, diving behind the leather-bound menu as if it was her personal shield.
There was clearly more to Sam ‘Lonely in London’ Alexander than met the eye. Which was just as well, recalling her first impression.
However, sitting only a couple of feet away from him, she’d begun to notice a few anomalies. Under that badly made suit he was wearing a shirt that said ‘Jermyn Street’, and a silk tie. And that was a seriously expensive watch on his wrist, too.
In fact, instinct told her there were all kinds of things about him that didn’t quite jell…
Perhaps he was an eccentric millionaire, looking for a latter-day Cinderella—or maybe she was letting her over-active imagination run away with her.
‘The seafood’s good here,’ he commented. ‘Do you like lobster?’
‘I love it.’ Ros’s brows lifted slightly when she noted the price.
‘Then we’ll have it,’ he said promptly. ‘With a mixed salad and a bottle of Montrachet. And some smoked salmon with pasta to start, perhaps?’
Definitely a millionaire, Ros thought, masking her amusement as she murmured agreement. Well,
