Vivien had told her. ‘I want you to rethink the whole thing. I’ve got some detailed notes for you, and a report from a colleague as well. As you see, she thinks the relationship between the hero and heroine is too low-key—too humdrum, even domesticated. Whereas a Rosamund Blake should have adventure, glamour—total romance.’ She had gestured broadly, almost sweeping a pile of paperbacks on to the floor.
‘You mean it’s—dull?’ The word had almost choked Ros.
‘Yes, but you can change that. Get rid of the sedate note that’s crept in somehow.’
‘Maybe because I’m sedate myself. Stuck in a rut of my own making,’ Ros had said with sudden bitterness, and the other woman had looked at her meditatively.
‘When’s the last time you went on a date, Ros? And I don’t mean with Colin. When’s the last time you took a risk—created your own adventure in reality and not just on the page?’
Ros had forced a smile. ‘You sound like my sister. And I doubt if I’d recognise an adventure even if it leapt out at me, waving a flag. But I’ll look at the script again and let you have my thoughts.’
She let herself into the house and climbed the stairs to her study, carrying the despised manuscript.
Everything Vivien had said had crystallised her own uneasiness about the pattern of her life.
What the hell had happened to the eager graduate who’d thought the world was her oyster? she wondered despairingly. Has the beige part of me taken over completely?
The first thing she saw was the letter in Janie’s impetuous scrawl, propped against her computer screen.
Darling Ros,
It’s worked. I knew if I gave Martin the cold shoulder he’d soon come round, and he was waiting outside the house this morning to propose. I’m so HAPPY. We’re getting married in September, and we’re going down to Dorset so that I can meet his family. I’ll E-mail the parents when I get back.
By the way, will you do me a big favour? Please call Marcellino’s and tell ‘Lonely in London’ I won’t be there. I’ve enclosed his last letter, giving his real name. You’re a sweetie.
Love…
“‘By the way”, indeed,’ Ros muttered wrathfully. ‘She has some nerve. Why can’t she do her own dirty work?’
She supposed she should be rejoicing, but in truth she felt Janie had jumped out of the frying pan into the fire. She’s too young to be marrying anyone, she thought.
Reluctantly, she unfolded the other sheet of paper and scanned the few lines it contained.
Dear Looking for Love,
I’m very much looking forward to meeting you, and seeing if my image of you fits. I wish you’d trust me with your given name, but perhaps it’s best to wait.
‘Perhaps’ is right, Ros thought. Yet his handwriting was better than she’d anticipated. He used black ink, and broad strokes of the pen, giving a forceful, incisive impression. And he’d signed it ‘Sam Alexander’.
She wished he hadn’t. She’d had no sympathy for ‘Lonely in London’, but now he had an identity, and that altered things in some inscrutable way. Because suddenly real feelings, real emotions were involved.
And tonight a real man will be turning up with his red rose, she realised, only to be told by the head waiter that he’s been dumped. And he’ll have to walk out, perfectly aware that everyone knows what’s happened. And that they’re probably laughing at him.
Supposing he’s genuine, she thought restlessly. He’s advertised for sincerity and commitment, and wound up with Janie playing games instead. And maybe—just maybe—he deserves better.
She still wasn’t sure when she made the conscious decision to go in Janie’s place. But somehow she found herself in her stepsister’s room, rooting through her wardrobe, until she found the little black dress and the shoes and thought, Why not?
There were all kinds of reasons ‘why not’. And she was still arguing with herself when she walked down the steps and hailed the cab…
Now, sitting on her sofa, the black shoes kicked off, she castigated herself bitterly for her stupidity. She’d prophesied disaster—and it had almost happened. But to herself, not Janie.
She shook her head in disbelief. How could someone who looked like that—who dressed like that—possibly have got under her skin—and in so short a time, too?
Because sexual charisma had nothing to do with surface appearance—that was how.
And Sam Alexander was vibrantly, seductively male. In fact, he was lethal.
He also had good bone structure, and a fine body—lean, hard and muscular.
And she knew how it had felt, touching hers, for that brief and tantalising moment. Recalled the sensuous brush of his mouth on her lips.
For an instant she allowed herself to remember—to wonder… Before, shocked, she dragged herself back from the edge.
She shivered convulsively, wrapping her arms round her body, and felt the sudden pressure of the rose stem against her breast.
She tore it out of her dress and dropped it on the coffee table as if it was contaminated.
‘You’re not the adventurous type,’ she said grimly. ‘Back to the real world, Rosamund.’
On her way to the stairs she passed the answer-machine, winking furiously.
‘Ros?’ Colin’s voice sounded querulous. ‘Where on earth are you? Pick up the phone if you’re there.’
For a second she hesitated then gently pressed the ‘Delete’ button.
And went on her way upstairs to bed.
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