Valentine Vendetta

He narrowed his eyes. ‘Why do I get the distinct impression that you’re shocked?’

No, not shocked. Surprised. Because surely the type of man who ruthlessly treated women as sex objects wouldn’t really be bothered about the plight of sick children? ‘Why would I be shocked?’

‘You think I’ve chosen a worthy cause just so it reflects well on me?’

‘Now you’re sounding paranoid!’ she said nervously.

‘I’m pretty good at picking up signals. And I’m getting a heavy sense of disapproval being directed across the table towards me at the moment.’ He gave a bland, questioning smile as he poured himself a glass of wine. ‘I just haven’t worked out why.’

‘Rubbish!’ said Fran, as fervently as her conscience would allow her.

‘Is it?’ His eyes glittered. ‘Anyway,’ he put the glass back down on the table, ‘I want as many doctors and nurses there as possible.’

Fran glanced down at the green leaves of rocolla which glistened unappetizingly on the plate in front of her. When she looked up again it was to still see those perceptive eyes fixed frowningly on her.

‘Something wrong?’ he enquired.

Fran shrugged, uncomfortable with her own thoughts. ‘Well, doctors and nurses in England don’t earn very much—’

‘Don’t I know it,’ he agreed grimly.

Fran felt even more perplexed. The arch-heartbreaker was not supposed to feel sympathy for poorly paid employees of the service industry! Unless he was one of those men who was able to successfully compartmentalise his life. Just because he had an uncontrollable libido didn’t mean that he couldn’t have a soft heart, did it! Fran drew another question mark. ‘But that means we’ll have to keep ticket prices artificially low if they’re to be able to afford it, doesn’t it?’

He shook his dark head. ‘On the contrary. Hospital staff will get subsidised tickets. Only the rich will pay more!’

‘Gosh,’ breathed Fran as the waiter took her salad plate away and replaced it with a perfectly poached chicken breast. ‘You’re a real little Robin Hood, aren’t you?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Now you do sound shocked!’

‘Not many people care about financial inequality as much as you seem to!’

Sam frowned, his mind buzzing with all the mixed messages he seemed to be getting from her. He found himself wondering if she was always this prickly. And the prickliness intrigued him….

‘Well, a variety of incomes guarantees a more lively mix, doesn’t it?’ he reasoned. ‘And if you get the rich together—they seem to do nothing but compare incomes and complain about the service!’

Fran laughed nervously. Okay, so it appeared that he had something resembling a social conscience, too. Any minute now he would sprout a halo! ‘How about colours for the marquee? Any preferences?’

‘Nope.’

‘Any specific food requests?’

‘Nope.’ He shr

ugged the broad shoulders and gave her a lazy, glimmering smile. ‘That’s what I’m paying you for, honey.’

‘And my b-budget?’ she questioned, her heart slamming against her ribcage.

He mentioned a sum and sizzled her a questioning look. ‘How does that sound?’

Astute man. Fran nodded. ‘You’ve pitched it just right. Unlimited budgets inevitably mean waste—and a limited budget always shows.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘What made you decide to throw this ball in the first place?’

‘You mean I don’t seem the type?’

‘No, you don’t.’ People who threw balls tended not to be bookish recluses. And even Rosie had said it was completely out of character.

He shrugged. ‘I met one of the local heart surgeons at a party, and he told me that they could do so much more if they had more funds.’

‘And so you decided to raise some? Just like that?’