Valentine Vendetta

She could practically hear his mind flipping through its backlog of female names and coming up with a definite blank. But he was either too polite or too cautious to say so. Maybe he thought she was another in the long line of willing virgins offering herself up for pleasurable sacrifice!

‘Are you a writer?’ he asked in the wary and weary tone of someone who got more than their fair share of calls from would-be authors.

‘No, I’m not.’

A sigh of relief. ‘Thank God for that!’ A note of caution returned to the deep voice. ‘So what exactly can I do for you, Fran Fisher?’

‘Actually, it’s more a case of what I can do for you, Mr. Lockhart.’

‘Oh?’

In that one word Fran heard resignation—as if he was gearing himself up to withstand a crude attempt at flirtation. Which, according to Rosie—was an occupational hazard when you happened to be Sam Lockhart.

And which meant there was nothing to be gained by playing for time. That would irritate a man like this, not intrigue him. She tried her most businesslike approach. ‘Mr. Lockhart, I understand you’re planning to hold a ball on Valentine’s Day—’

‘Are you a journalist?’ he snapped.

‘No, I’m not!’

‘Who are you, then?’

‘I told you—’

‘I don’t need you to tell me your name again! I’ve never met you before, have I?’

Well, it had taken him long enough to decide that and he still didn’t sound one hundred per cent certain! She wondered how he would react if she adopted a sultry accent and purred, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘No,’ she said stiffly. ‘You’ve never met me.’

‘Yet you know the number of my mobile?’

She was tempted to mention that he was stating the obvious, but resisted. ‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Er, your agency gave me the number.’

‘Well, they shouldn’t have!’ he snapped. ‘Certainly not to a complete stranger!’ There was silence down the line for a moment. ‘You’ve never met me and you’re not a writer,’ he mused. ‘So what exactly is your angle, Fran Fisher?’

If it hadn’t been for Rosie she probably would have hung up on him there and then. How absolutely ridiculous he sounded! Quizzing her as though she were some sort of second-rate spy and he the valuable prize within her sights! ‘My “angle”,’ she said sweetly, ‘is that I’m a professional party-planner—’

‘But unsuccessful?’ he suggested drawlingly.

‘On the contrary!’ she defended. ‘I’m extremely successful!’

‘So successful, in fact,’ he continued, ‘that you need to spend your time making cold calls to strangers in order to drum up a little business? I thought that your line of work relied solely on word-of-mouth recommendation?’

‘Yes, of course it does! Normally…’ She pulled a hideous face as she imagined him standing in the room with her. She wanted to dislike him, for Rosie’s sake—and the way he was speaking to her meant that she didn’t have to try very hard. But her dilemma lay in disliking him too much. Because if that happened, it would undoubtedly show in her attitude towards him, and then he certainly wouldn’t give her the job! ‘But I have to help things on their way. I’ve been working in Ireland, you see—’

He sounded weary. Like a man used to being bombarded with ambition. ‘And now you want to break into the market over here?’

‘Er…yes,’ she stumbled, caught off guard. No need to tell him that this was going to be a one-off! ‘Yes, I do. Actually, I’m quite well-known in Dublin. Ask anyone. And I’ve organised lots of fund-raisers—’

‘Have you really?’ he questioned, clearly not believing a word she said.

Fran bristled. ‘I expect that if I mentioned some of my clients, their names would be instantly recognizable—even to you, Mr. Lockhart,’ she told him stiffly.

‘For example?’ he shot back.

‘I did some corporate work for the Irish Film Festival a couple of years ago, and on the back of that I got quite a few private functions. Cormack Casey, the screenwriter—he recommended me—’