Valentine Vendetta

‘Listen, Fran,’ he screwed his face up awkwardly. ‘I like Sam—’

‘No, Cormack!’ she cut across him furiously. ‘Stop telling me half of what I want to hear! I want the truth—plain and unvarnished—not all dressed up with praise for your friend!’

‘Okay.’ He ran his hand distractedly through the thick, black hair, making it even more untidy. ‘He told me he was angry with you after the ball. Said you’d spoilt the evening, that’s all.’

Fran nodded. Was that all? ‘That’s okay,’ she said cautiously. ‘I already knew that. Don’t worry,’ she said, and even managed a smile. ‘I’ve let him rant on for a bit and get it out of his system. We’ve made it up.’

He looked at her closely with the seasoned eye of the man whose job it was to observe the behaviour of other human beings and the question seemed to come out all on its own. ‘But that’s not all you did, is it, Fran?’

Her feeling of relief evaporated as quickly as it had arrived. ‘Are you asking me whether we had sex?’

Cormack was momentarily lost for words.

‘Are you?’

‘Er, yes—I suppose I am.’

‘And why should it worry you so much if we did?’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

Fran turned to him, her eyes full of distrust. ‘Yes, it does. You know it does, so stop saying it doesn’t! Tell me, Cormack. Please.’ And then she aimed straight for the jugular. ‘I mean, who out of the two of us do you think needs protecting most? Me—or Sam?’

Cormack hesitated only for a moment. ‘He told me that he intended to pay you back for trying to make a fool of him.’

‘And how was he going to do that?’

He sighed. ‘I kind of got the idea that he was going to exact a form of payment which might be a mutually enjoyable experience….’ His voice tailed off rather helplessly.

She gazed at him. ‘Do you mean what I think you mean, Cormack? Or are you going to spell it out for me?’

‘I took it to mean that he meant making love to you, yes.’

Had it all been a charade then? The closeness and communication she had thought existed between her and Sam. Had the sweet words and tender caresses of the night been nothing more than a sham?

She shook her head and turned away from him, not wanting Cormack to be witness to the betrayal and hurt in her eyes all over again. He had witnessed it with Sholto and Sholto had been her husband. So how come this new hurt seemed to wound her as nothing had before?

She waited until she was sure the threat of tears was at bay. ‘Can you give me a lift to the station?’ she asked him. ‘And please don’t spin me a line about hadn’t I better see Sam first!’

‘Fran—’

‘Either you will, in which case I’d like to leave right now. Or you won’t, so I’d need to call a taxi. And I’d prefer not to do that!’

There was a short silence while Cormack seemed to weigh up his options against her determination. ‘I’ll give you a lift,’ he agreed, at last. ‘If only to know that you’ve boarded the train safely. But leave Sam a note, Fran. Please.’

She was tempted to tell him that she was in no mood to make bargains. ‘Why should I?’

‘Because otherwise he’ll worry and go chasing after you and presumably, that’s not what you want.’ His eyes gleamed with a question. ‘Or is it?’

‘It’s the last thing on earth I want,’ she lied, and picked up a pen as if it were a sword. Her hands were trembling so much that she could barely write. ‘But don’t worry, Cormack,’ she vowed grimly. ‘I’ll leave him a note he’ll never forget!’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THIS time Fran didn’t go half way up a mountain to stay with her friends—she flew straight back to Dublin and stayed in her flat and waited.

And carried on waiting.

Then she tried to tell herself that she wasn’t waiting at all. But that anyone would expect Sam to come running, under the circumstances. Even though her note had told him never to darken her door again.