November Harlequin Presents 2(169)

‘If it’s all right, I’ll just call a taxi,’ she whispered, fishing in the bag for her mobile phone.

‘No need for that. I’ll give you a lift back. Like I said, no hard feelings.’ He even managed a smile and for Francesca that was worse because it was so very impersonal.

He drove her back to her house in unbroken silence. The temptation to tell him what was going on was overpowering, but hard on the heels of temptation came the icy blast of reality—the position she would be putting him in, the consequences he would be forced to deal with.

The silent drive finally came to an end and he turned to her. ‘Good luck with your catering business, Francesca. I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you.’

‘There’s no need…’

‘Call it for services rendered.’ It was a cheap shot but the tip of the iceberg when it came to what he was feeling. Yes, he had been the one to do the discarding and, no, it felt no better now than it had three years ago when the shoe had been on the other foot. He could see from her face that the dart had hit bull’s-eye and loathed himself for delivering it. Too late now, and he wasn’t going to apologise anyway.

‘That’s…below the belt.’

‘It’s the unvarnished truth.’ He shrugged.

‘I’m sorry.’ She took a deep breath and weathered the shuttered, dark face impassively staring back at her. ‘I didn’t think that it would end this way.’

‘Apologies accepted, although we both enjoyed the ride so none are due.’

‘I don’t think I’ll be staying on in London.’ She gave a high, brittle laugh.

‘No?’ He sounded mildly, but only mildly, interested. ‘Don’t feel obliged to leave on account of me.’

Francesca nodded. Conversation had dried up. Angelo was making no attempt to extend himself beyond the formalities of answering her questions. There was the faintest semblance of boredom on his beautiful face.

Her notions about passion fizzling out conveniently, leaving her cleansed and free to move on with her life, had been a terrible illusion, and her selfishness in agreeing to sleep with him for the gratification it gave her now seemed a terminally grave misjudgement.

Angelo watched as she walked up towards her front door. He didn’t wait to see her go in. By the time Francesca had reached her sitting room and collapsed into one of the sofas, he was already three blocks away from her house and heading out of London. At this time of night the roads were empty. Once on the motorway, he revved the powerful car and ate up the miles to nowhere.

Not that the purposeless three-hour drive managed to do much for his state of mind.

Nor, for that matter, did the ensuing two weeks of working like a beast. He buried himself in work, pushing himself to the limits, knowing that people were looking at him oddly and wondering what the hell was going on. He had no desire to fill any of them in. In fact, there was a certain amount of perverse satisfaction to be had from noting the way his staff scurried out of his way when they saw him coming. They sensed his black mood and made sure to avoid it whenever they could. Just as well. It was as he was preparing to leave on the Friday that his mobile rang. Without any identifying name popping up for him to ascertain who the caller was, he very nearly let it ring. He had plans for the evening which included too much whisky for his own good, but in the end curiosity got the better of him.

He recognised the voice before the caller identified himself and he felt every nerve in his body tense.

‘What do you want?’ He steamrollered his way through the opening apologetic platitudes, getting straight to the point. He flicked back his wrist and wondered what Jack was doing calling him after ten on a Friday. If the man thought that he could scramble a few favours from him on the back of Francesca’s affair then he could think again.

‘I know you’re a very busy man, Mr Falcone…’

‘Yes. I am. So you’ll excuse me when I tell you to get to the point.’

‘Could we meet, mate?’

‘What for?’ Silence greeted his direct question. ‘Has Francesca put you up to this? Because if she thinks that I’m going to be a soft touch for money because we happened to sleep together, then you can run along and tell her from me that she’s barking up the wrong tree.’

‘Els doesn’t know that I’m calling you. In fact, I think there’s a good chance she’d kill me if she did.’

Against his will, Angelo was intrigued. It was weak but what harm was there in meeting the man? If money was the root of the phone call, whatever the packaging, then wasn’t it best to make it perfectly clear from the word go that none would be forthcoming?