ages ago now,’ gulped Rosie vaguely. ‘Months and months. Longer, even. Over two years,’ she admitted at last.
‘Two years?’ Fran blinked. ‘But surely you should be getting over it by now?’
‘Why?’ Rosie sniffed. ‘How long did it take you to get over the breakup of your marriage to Sholto?’
‘Oh, no.’ Fran shook her head. ‘We’re here to talk about you, not me. Surely you haven’t been like this since it ended?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t—but my life has never been the same since Sam. He brought me bad luck. I haven’t been able to settle into another job or another relationship. And now I’ve heard….’ Her voice tailed off into silence.
Fran hoped to high heaven that this man Sam hadn’t done something like announcing his engagement to someone else. That would be hard. Though maybe a brutal demonstration of his love for someone else might be just the cure that Rosie actually needed. ‘Heard what?’ she asked.
‘He’s planning to throw a ball. Which is totally out of character!’
Which immediately told Fran that he must be rich. And well connected. ‘And?’
‘It’s a Valentine’s Day Ball. And I want to be invited,’ said Rosie fiercely.
‘Well, you might be. Don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t. But I would, wouldn’t I—if you were organizing it! You’d make sure of that!’ Rosie’s eyes took on a hopeful gleam.
Fran shook her head as she saw which way the conversation was heading. ‘Oh, no!’
‘Fran, it’s your job! That’s what you do for a living, you plan people’s parties for them.’
‘Yes, you’re right, I do. But it’s also my livelihood, Rosie, and I have my reputation to think of. Huge, high-profile society balls aren’t really my thing. And I don’t just go around using these events to settle grudges for friends—however much I love them. Staging some kind of Valentine vendetta! Which I presume is what you want me to do. Or is it just an invitation you’re after? You want to dress to kill and then knock his socks off, is that it?’
‘Maybe.’
Fran gave a wistful smile. ‘It won’t work, you know. It never does. If this man Sam has fallen out of love with you—then nothing you can say or do will bring him back. Nothing,’ she emphasised flatly. ‘That’s life, I’m afraid.’
Rosie bit down on her lip. ‘But he never was in love with me.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Fran’s eyes softened. ‘Well, in that case I’m very sorry, hon,’ she said gently. ‘What can I say?’
Rosie took a mouthful of Fran’s discarded cocktail, then looked up, her eyes two fierce burning stars in her face. ‘I was just another virgin for Sam to seduce,’ she said dully. ‘To pick up and discard once he’d had what he wanted!’
Something primitive cracked like an old bone inside Fran’s head. She remembered their schoolgirl dreams about men and rice and white dresses and knew she should not be shocked at what Rosie had just told her—certainly not in this day and age, and yet she was shocked. Deeply. ‘He took your virginity?’ she said slowly. ‘Did he know?’
‘Yes, of course he knew.’ Rosie gave a cynical laugh. ‘I saved it, Fran. I saved my virginity for the man I loved.’
But he didn’t love you back, Fran thought, flexing her hands on the table, unconsciously mirroring the movement of a fat, ginger cat who lay sprawled across one corner of the bar. ‘And in spite of not loving you—he took the most precious thing you had to offer?’
‘That’s right,’ sniffed Rosie. ‘And I wasn’t the only one!’
‘You mean there were others?’
‘Hundreds!’
‘Hundreds?’
‘Well, tens anyway. Loads!’ Rosie spat the word out. ‘Women who adored him. Women he didn’t give tup-pence for! Women who were all too easy to trick into his bed!’
‘You’re kidding!’
‘I wish I was!’
Fran stared down at the silver gleam of the high-tech table, and thought of rich Sam Lockhart luring decent, hard-working girls like Rosie into his bed. A powerful man abusing that power to seduce innocent young women.
When she eventually lifted her golden-brown head to meet her friend’s eyes, her own were deadly serious. She remembered the scrapes that Rosie had managed to land herself in at school, scrapes that Fran had somehow always got her out of. But this was different. Was it her place to help, even if she could?
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked at last.
Rosie didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Nothing too major,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m not asking you to break any laws for me, Fran.’
‘What then?’
‘Just pay him back.’
FRAN’S fingers hovered uncertainly over the push-button telephone and she smiled at the irony of her situation. She was actually shaking. Shaking. She who was frightened of no man or no thing, was trembling like a schoolgirl at the thought of ringing Sam Lockhart.
Five minutes earlier she had already tapped the numbers out before hanging up immediately in a panic. Then thought how absolutely stupid that was! What if he had one of those sophisticated telephones which told him exactly who had called? He was probably used to lovesick women dialling the number and then changing their minds and hanging up. Did she want to arouse his suspicions by doing the same?
She punched the numbers out again, and listened to the ringing tone, certain that some minion would answer his mobile phone for him.
‘Hel-lo?’ The deep, velvety voice ringing down the line was as unexpected as it was irresistible. It had to be him—minions didn’t sound like sex gods—and Fran had to frown with concentration to keep her voice steady.
‘Sam Lockhart?’ she said.
‘Speaking.’
She drew a deep breath. ‘Mr. Lockhart, you don’t know me—’
‘Not unless you decide to tell me your name, I don’t,’ he agreed softly.
Mistake number one. Ring someone up to try and drum up their business, and then manage to sound as unprofessional as possible! ‘It’s Fran,’ she said quickly. ‘Fran Fisher.’
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.