November Harlequin Presents 2(128)

‘I am surprised you gave up your very lucrative modelling career,’ he mused. ‘What went wrong? Europe too small to contain the both of us?’

‘It seemed a good time to come back to England.’ Francesca raised her chin stubbornly, refusing to let him push her into a corner. ‘I’d saved enough money to buy a small place of my own and I fancied a change of job.’ Their eyes tangled and she felt hot and faint and agonisingly aware of the powerful effect he still had on her. ‘It’s no bigger a life change than the one you’ve made,’ she continued. ‘You’ve moved to London and become engaged. I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet her and I don’t suppose I will now, but good luck for the future.’ Her mouth smiled politely but her eyes remained misty with a frantic desire to get away from his presence.

‘And you? Not involved with anyone?’

Francesca thought of Jack, who would be wondering how the meeting was coming along, and her momentary hesitation answered his question. It was an answer he didn’t care for and Angelo felt base, primitive jealousy rip through him like a knife.

‘But of course, you would be,’ he said smoothly. ‘A beautiful woman like yourself.’

‘There’s no need to compliment me, Angelo,’ she said sharply. ‘You hate me. Which is why I can’t understand what we’re doing here, pretending to make small talk.’

‘Hate? There is no mileage in hate. It’s a counterproductive emotion.’ He realised that his glass was empty and resisted the temptation to order another drink. Apart from the stupidity of drinking at this early hour, there was also the small technicality of a certain high-level dinner engagement later that evening. Which he was in danger of reaching late if he didn’t make a move soon. He settled back into his chair and beckoned the waitress across. To hell with it. Another whisky and soda would be okay but he better make it a light one.

‘So indulge my curiosity and tell me about him. After all, you know all about my personal status.’

‘There’s no one.’ Poor Jack. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t like being labelled as no one, not least because she had known him since her early teens, but she didn’t want to start walking down the road of little lies. Although, did it matter any more? Once she left this place she would never see Angelo Falcone again. She certainly wouldn’t be getting the plum job for which she had come so prepared. The wad of recipes she had painstakingly selected to bring with her were still sitting in her capacious bag, making a mockery of her high hopes.

‘Ah, Francesca.’ He raised his glass to his mouth and sipped carefully. ‘You may have lied to me about your name—’

‘I didn’t lie to you! Millband is my mother’s name and Ellie was always my first name. I didn’t conjure the name Francesca Hayley out of thin air!’ One little truth.

‘But you’re lying now. Who is he? Do you think I care?’

Of course he didn’t care! Nor did she. On that very last evening he had told her that they were ships that crossed in the night. Now they were ships sailing different oceans. They no longer had any impact on one another.

‘His name is Jack,’ she offered with a little shrug. ‘He works with me. We set up the catering business together, if you must know.’ She stared down into the unappealing glass of water and then reluctantly took a small sip. It had been cold forty minutes ago. Now it was metallic and tepid.

‘Jack. And how did you meet him? An ex-model also seeking to expand his horizons?’

For the first time since she had sat down, Francesca smiled with genuine amusement. Jack might have once upon a time been the sought-after boy in town, in the way that bad boys often were to teenage girls, but an ex-model? She thought of his shaved head and the embarrassing tattoos on his back and grinned. She couldn’t help it. Then she laughed. That warm, rich, full-bodied laugh that was so infectious.

‘I think he would be insulted if you called him that! Well, that would be after I’d picked him up from the ground in shock at the description!’

It was that laugh that did it. Took him back through the years, took him back to that place where he had been captive to her irreverent ebullience. She had certainly never tiptoed around him. More ran circles around him.

‘No ex-model?’ Angelo smiled at her with cold indifference. ‘What, then? A businessman? Someone in a two-piece suit and a bowler hat?’

‘Your Italian ancestry’s showing, Angelo. Men these days don’t wear bowler hats.’ And people shouldn’t find their past creeping up on them stealthily like a thief in the night. ‘I really think it’s time I left,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry. This has been a shock…’