Christmas Babies for the Italian
Autor
Lynne Graham
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15,1K
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12
HarlequinCHAPTER ONE
SEVASTIANO WAS ON the very brink of a satisfying sex-fest with a lissom blonde model when his mobile phone interrupted him. Usually he would’ve ignored it, but that particular ringtone had been programmed in by his sister and it was distinctive. And Annabel would never call him late at night unless something was wrong.
‘Excuse me... I have to take this,’ Sevastiano intoned, stepping back.
‘You’re joking.’ The tumbled beauty assumed a baffled resentment, her ego clearly dented by his retreat. On the other hand, getting a technology billionaire into her bed was a coup of no mean order and had to have some drawbacks. She forced an understanding smile, because women adored Sevastiano and there was a lot of competition out there.
Certainly Sevastiano Cantarelli hadn’t been standing unseen behind any door when his looks had been handed out at birth. Six feet four inches tall, he was broad of shoulder and lean and powerful in build, and the exquisite Italian designer suits he wore were perfectly tailored to his lithe, muscular frame. Olive-skinned and black-haired, he was blessed by dark deep-set eyes that gleamed like liquid bronze in the low light.
‘Annabel?’ Sevastiano probed anxiously.
Frustratingly, he couldn’t get a word of sense out of his kid sister because she was distraught, sobbing and stumbling over her explanations. He did catch the gist of the story: some huge family drama that had apparently seen her told to leave the parentally owned apartment she inhabited and deprived of her car. Could she move in with him?
Sevastiano rolled his magnificent eyes at the idea that she would even have to ask such a question. She was the only member of his English family whom he had ever cared about. He still remembered the shy and loving little girl who would slide her hand comfortingly into his when their mother was referring to him regretfully as her ‘little mistake’ or her father was shouting at him.
‘I’m sorry I have to leave...a family emergency,’ Sevastiano told the blonde without a shade of hesitation.
‘It happens...’ Donning a silky robe, the model slid off the bed to see him out.
‘Dinner tomorrow night?’ Sevastiano suggested before she could speak.
She was beautiful, but many women were beautiful and yet still none could hold Sevastiano’s mercurial interest for longer than a month and few for even that long. Courtesy, however, was as integral to his nature as his attachment to his half-sister.
In his limo being driven home, he wondered what on earth could have happened to eject Annabel from her family’s good graces, because his sister never argued with anyone. Sevastiano had left the Aiken family and social circle of his own volition and he knew he hadn’t been missed. From birth to adulthood, after all, he had been the embarrassing reminder that his mother had given birth to another man’s child. He had never belonged. He had always been an intruder, the dark changeling when everyone else around him was blonde, and a high achiever when mediocrity would have been preferred. Those harsh truths no longer bothered Sevastiano. After all, he didn’t like his snobbish, shrewish mother or his power-hungry, bullying stepfather, Sir Charles Aiken. He had even less in common with his half-brother, Devon, the pompous, extravagant heir to his stepfather’s baronetcy, but he genuinely cared about Annabel.
So what on earth could she possibly have done to enrage her family? After all, Annabel avoided conflict like the plague. She followed the rules and stayed friendly with everyone, no matter how trying their behaviour. Only when she had insisted on training in art restoration had she defied the Aiken expectations. Her mother had wanted a daughter who was a socialite and had instead been blessed with a quiet, studious young woman devoted to her museum career. What could’ve happened to distress his half-sister to such an extent? Sevastiano frowned, conceding that he had spent a great deal of time in Asia in recent months and consequently had seen much less than he usually saw of Annabel. Obviously he was out of the loop...
And once Annabel had flung herself, sobbing, into his arms at his elegant Georgian town house, confessions, recriminations and heartfelt regrets tumbling in an unstoppable flood of revelation from her tongue, Sevastiano realised that he had been so far out of the loop that he might as well have been on another planet and that the situation was much more serious than he could ever have guessed.
Annabel had fallen madly in love with a much older man and had an affair. Sevastiano was even more shocked to discover that she had met the man concerned at one of his parties: Oliver Lawson, not a friend, a business acquaintance.
Sevastiano compressed his lips with a frown. ‘But he’s—’
‘Married... I know,’ Annabel cut in, dropping her head because she was too ashamed to meet his eyes. She was a tall slender blonde with large reddened blue eyes and a drawn complexion. ‘I know that now when it’s too late. When we met he told me that he and his wife were legally separated and getting a divorce... I believed him. Why wouldn’t I have? His wife lives at their country house and never ever comes to London and there was no sign whatsoever of a woman at his apartment. Oh, Sev... I swallowed every stupid lie and excuse he gave me.’
‘Oliver may be CEO of Telford Industries, but his wife owns the business. I would say it is very unlikely that he would divorce her. Lawson must be twice your age as well!’ Sevastiano said in frank consternation. ‘His life experience made it even easier for him to take gross advantage of your trust.’
‘Age is just a number,’ Annabel mumbled heavily. ‘I feel so dirty now. I would never have got involved with him if I’d known he was still actually living with his wife. I’m not that kind of woman—I believe in fidelity and loyalty. I really loved him, Sev, but I can see now that I was a complete fool to believe his every word and promise. When I told him that I was pregnant, he tried to bully me into going for an abortion. He kept on phoning me and demanding that I do it and then he turned up at the flat to underline that he didn’t want this child and we had a huge row.’
‘You’re pregnant,’ Sevastiano murmured flatly, striving to hide his rage from her because the concept of any man trying to browbeat Annabel into an abortion outraged him, particularly a man who had already lied and cheated his way into an inappropriate relationship with her. At twenty-three, his sister was still rather naïve, very much prone to thinking the best of everyone and making excuses for those who let her down. Obviously, she should never have got involved with Lawson in the first place while he was still married, but then his sister didn’t have much experience with men outside a first-love relationship at university with a boy-next-door type.
Even so, had she ever taken a clear unbiased look at the men in her own family circle perhaps she would have been less trusting. His mother and her father weren’t faithful to each other although they were very discreet. Her brother was married and a parent but had still enjoyed a lengthy affair with another married woman. Indeed, growing up, Sevastiano had witnessed so much infidelity that he had not the slightest intention of ever getting married. What would be the point? While he retained his freedom as a single man, he had nobody else’s needs to consider and he liked his life empty of family obligations and commitments and all the complications that went with them. Annabel and his birth father were the sole exceptions to that rule. That aside, however, he would still never have treated a woman as Oliver Lawson had treated his sister.
No intelligent man with an active sex life ignored the daunting possibility of an unplanned pregnancy and Sev had never run that risk with even a moment of carelessness, a track record he was proud to recall. But if anything did go wrong, it was a man’s responsibility to behave like an adult and support the woman’s choice, regardless of his personal feelings, he reflected grimly.
‘So, I womaned up and went home and told Mama and Papa about my baby and they went crazy!’ Annabel gasped, covering her convulsed face with her hands again. ‘I expected them to be upset but they want me to have a termination as well and when I refused they told me I had to move out of the apartment and hand my car back. And that’s fine...it really is. If I’m not living the way they want me to, I can’t expect them to help me out financially.’
‘They’re trying to bully you as well,’ Sevastiano breathed tautly. ‘Nobody has the right to tell you to have a termination. I gather that you want this baby?’
‘Very much,’ Annabel confirmed with a sudden dreamy smile. ‘I don’t want Oliver any more, not since finding out that he’s a liar and a cheat, but I still very much want my baby.’
‘Having a child alone will turn your life upside down,’ Sevastiano warned her. ‘But you can depend on me. I’ll sort out another apartment for you.’
‘I don’t want to depend on anyone. I have to stand on my own feet now.’
‘You can work on that goal once you’ve got yourself straightened out,’ Sevastiano told her soothingly. ‘You’re exhausted. You should go to bed now.’
Annabel flung herself into his arms and hugged him tight. ‘I knew I could rely on you to think outside the box. You don’t care about gossip and reputations and all that stuff! Mama says I’m ruined and that no decent man will want me now.’
‘That sounds a little strange coming from a woman who married your father while carrying another man’s child,’ Sevastiano murmured grimly.
‘Oh, don’t let my stupid mess take you back down that road,’ Annabel urged unhappily. ‘This is a completely different situation...’
And so it was, Sevastiano acknowledged after his sister had gone to bed. His Italian mother, Francesca, had been on the very brink of marrying Sevastiano’s Greek father, Hallas Sarantos, when she had met Sir Charles Aiken on a pre-wedding shopping trip to London. In Annabel’s version of the story, Francesca and Sir Charles had fallen hopelessly in love, even though Sevastiano’s mother had only recently realised that she had conceived by Hallas. In Sevastiano’s version of the story, Francesca had fallen hopelessly in love with Sir Charles’s title and social standing and his stepfather had fallen equally deeply in love with Francesca’s wealth. Two very ambitious, ruthless and shallow personalities had come together to create a social power alliance. Sevastiano would have long since forgiven both his mother and his stepfather for their choices, had they not denied him the right to get to know his birth father, who had strained bone and sinew to gain access to him, only to be denied for the sake of appearances.
What had happened to Annabel, however, was unforgivable in Sevastiano’s estimation. A much older married man had taken advantage of his half-sister and had then tried to intimidate her into having a termination against her will, a termination that would have neatly disposed of the evidence of their affair. And Oliver Lawson would pay for his sins, Sevastiano promised himself angrily as he contacted a top-flight private investigator to request a no-holds-barred examination of the other man’s life, because everyone had secrets, secrets they wanted to keep from the light of day. Sevastiano would dig deep to find Oliver’s secrets and work out where he was most vulnerable. He was pretty certain that Lawson had not the smallest suspicion that Annabel was Sevastiano’s half-sister, because he was a connection that the Aiken family never acknowledged.
The man, however, had seriously miscalculated when he chose to deceive and hurt the younger woman. At some stage of his existence, such a self-indulgent man would have made a mistake with someone else and Sevastiano would uncover that mistake and use it against his target in revenge. Sevastiano cared for very few people but he cared very deeply for his only sister, who had been the one bright spot of loving consolation in his miserable childhood. As long as he was alive neither she nor her child would ever want for anything but, first and foremost, Oliver Lawson had to be punished...
Humming under her breath, Amy rearranged the small shelf of Christmas gifts in the tiny shop area of the animal rescue charity/veterinary surgery where she worked. The display made her smile because she loved the festive season, from the crunch of autumn leaves and the chill in the air that warned of winter’s approach to the glorious sparkle and cheer of the department-store windows she sometimes browsed in central London.
She had a child’s love of Christmas because she had never got to enjoy the event while she was growing up. There had been no cards, no gifts, no fancy foods or even festive television allowed in her home because her mother had hated the season and had refused to celebrate it in even the smallest way. It had been at Christmas that the love of Lorraine Taylor’s life had walked out on her, abandoning her to the life of a single parent, and she had never got over that disillusionment. She had always refused to tell her daughter who her father was, and the devastating row that Amy had caused when she was thirteen by demanding to know her father’s identity and refusing to back down had traumatised both mother and daughter.
‘He didn’t want you! He didn’t want to know!’ Lorraine had finally screamed at her. ‘In fact, he wanted me to get rid of you and when I refused he left me. It’s all your fault. If you hadn’t been born, he’d never have left me...or even if you’d been a boy, a son, he might have been more interested. As it was, in his eyes, we were just a burden he didn’t need!’
After that confrontation, Amy’s already strained relationship with her mother had grown steadily worse. She had started hanging out with the wrong crowd at school. She had stopped studying and had got into trouble, failing her exams and ultimately wrecking her educational prospects. She had hung out with the kids who despised swots, had begun staying out late, playing truant, skipping her assignments and lying about her whereabouts. It had been childish stuff, nothing cruel or criminal, but her mother had been so enraged when the school had demanded she come in to discuss her wayward daughter’s behaviour that she had washed her hands of her child. Amy had ended up in foster care until a kindly neighbour and friend had offered her a home if she was willing to follow rules again.
It had taken several years for Amy to recover from that unhappy period when she had gone off the rails and she had never lived with her mother again. Lorraine Taylor had died suddenly when her daughter was eighteen and only afterwards had Amy discovered that the father who had abandoned them both had been supporting them all along. Although they had never lived anywhere expensive and her mother had never worked, Lorraine had still contrived to go on cruises every year and, while she had resented spending anything at all on her daughter, she had always had sufficient funds to provide herself with an extensive wardrobe. In fact, Amy had been stunned by the amount of money her mother had had to live on throughout the years of her childhood but none of that cash had been spent on her. That financial support had ended with Lorraine’s death and the solicitor concerned had reiterated that Amy’s birth father wanted no contact with his child and wished to remain anonymous.
Aimee, she had been named at birth... Beloved, Amy recalled with rueful amusement, but, in truth, she had not been wanted by either parent. Perhaps her mother had thought the name was romantic; perhaps when she had named her daughter she had still harboured the hope that her child’s father might return to her.
Even so, it wasn’t in Amy’s nature to dwell on those negatives. Cordy, the kindly neighbour who had taken her in and soothed her hurts, had taught her that she had to move on from her misfortunes and mistakes and work hard if she wanted a decent future. At a young age, Amy had wandered into the animal shelter next door to the block of flats where she and her mother lived and had stayed on to see the inmates, soon becoming a regular visitor. Cordelia Anderson had been the veterinary surgeon who ran the surgery/rescue charity, a straight-talking, single older woman, who had devoted her life to taking care of injured animals and those who were surplus to requirements. She had nursed the animals back to health, rehoming them where she could.
She had taken in Amy when she was at her lowest ebb, persuading the unhappy girl to pick up her studies again, and had even tried to mend the broken relationship between Amy and her mother but, sadly, Lorraine Taylor had been quite content not to have the burden of a teenager in her life. When Amy had finally attained the exams she had once failed, Cordy had taken her on as a veterinary nurse apprentice at the surgery. Tragically, Cordy had died the year before and Amy had been devastated by the suddenness of her demise. Amy was still doing vocational training as an apprentice for Cordy’s veterinary surgeon partner, Harold, and praying that she could complete her course before Harold retired.
Since Cordy’s death Amy’s home had become a converted storeroom above the surgery because Cordy’s house had had to be sold, the proceeds going to her nephew. Amy used the shower facility in the surgery downstairs and cooked on a mini oven in her room, while acting as caretaker for the shelter at night. But making ends meet had become an increasing problem for her because she was on a low salary and was now responsible for covering her own living expenses. To supplement her income, she had taken a job as a waitress in a café nearby and worked shifts there when she wasn’t required at the surgery.
The café, decorated in the style of an American diner, enjoyed a clientele from the office buildings that surrounded it and was often busy, but the following day when Amy turned up for her shift it was almost deserted because the rain was bouncing off the pavements outside.
‘If this weather keeps up, either you or Gemma can go home,’ the owner, Denise, told her with brisk practicality. ‘I don’t need two waitresses here with no customers.’
Amy tried not to wince and just nodded, knowing that Gemma, a single parent, was as in need of her pay as she was. Days off didn’t settle the bills or the cost of travelling on the bus and home again without earnings to cover the expense. But that was the fatal flaw in casual labour, she acknowledged ruefully—it didn’t promise either regular shifts or a steady income. A job dependent on the vagaries of the weather or the number of customers was, at the very least, unreliable. Still, she reminded herself doggedly, it wouldn’t be the first or last time that she spent a week eating instant noodles because paying her electric bill or buying new scrubs to work in was more important.
‘Gemma’s not due in until the lunch shift so maybe business will have picked up by then,’ Denise told her consolingly.
As she spoke the door flew open and a man appeared, a very tall and broad-shouldered dark-haired guy with raindrops spattering the pale raincoat he wore over a business suit. He took a seat in the corner and Amy got her first good look at him and fell still. She didn’t usually stare at men but he was so drop-dead, utterly beautiful that she allowed herself a second glance, expecting to pick up a flaw, a too large nose, a heavy jawline, something, anything to make him less than perfect because nobody, absolutely nobody aside of airbrushed magazine models and movie stars, could possibly be that perfect in real life.
But he was, from his high sculpted cheekbones to his classic nose and wide, sensually full mouth. A trace of dark stubble shadowed his carved jaw, emphasising his perfect mouth and eyes as dark and golden as melted molasses. Luxuriant blue-black hair, worn a little longer than was conservative, framed his lean, darkly handsome features and then Amy unfroze as she felt the visual assault of those brilliant dark eyes locking to her and he signalled her with a graceful brown hand.
Of course he was signalling her. He was in a café and she was a flipping waitress! The scarlet heat of intense embarrassment invaded what felt like her entire body, burning her up inside and out with the most overpowering awareness she had felt since she was an ungainly teenager. Almost clumsily she moved forward, horribly conscious of her stupid frilly uniform for the first time ever, and asked how she could help him.
‘A black coffee, please,’ he murmured, the faint fluid edge of a liquid foreign accent curling round the syllables in his dark deep voice.
‘Anything else?’ Amy settled the menu down in front of him with a hand that trembled slightly.
‘I’m not hungry enough for a meal.’
‘Something sweet?’ Amy proffered shakily, indicating the cake cabinet behind her.
‘I think you might be all the sweet I could handle right now. But, sì, something sweet... You choose for me,’ he urged sibilantly.
Amy wheeled away, her face still burning, wondering what he had meant about her being sweet. She probably looked like a sweet in the pink frilly collared dress and apron she had to wear to work at the café. Denise made the coffee and watched her choose a cake from the cabinet.
‘A case of insta-love or whatever you young ones call it these days?’ her employer teased.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you stopped dead to look at him and he hasn’t taken his eyes off you once since he came in. Go ahead and flirt. It’ll give me something to watch.’
‘I don’t flirt with customers,’ Amy said tightly.
‘I’m almost fifty and I’d flirt with him, given half the encouragement he’s giving you,’ Denise said drily.
Sevastiano watched Oliver Lawson’s daughter with keen attention. She didn’t match his expectations of a former rebellious adolescent who had ended up in foster care: he had expected more attitude, a harder visible edge than she seemed to possess. She looked almost alarmingly innocent but that, he told himself, was probably a front. He had his plan, a simple plan, and to make it work he needed Amy Taylor to play a starring role.
Yet what he hadn’t counted on was the bolt of pure masculine lust that had gripped him the instant he laid eyes on his quarry and saw the name tag, ‘Amy’, on her uniform. She was tiny and curvy with silky golden hair swept up in a long ponytail, little tendrils framing her heart-shaped face, and the most extraordinary eyes, a real living doll. He didn’t think he had ever seen that shade of eyes before, a remarkable violet-blue that glowed against her porcelain skin. There had been no photo of Amy Taylor in the file and he had not expected her to be a beauty, but she was. It would make it easier for him, he told himself, because he wouldn’t be faking desire for her.
For the merest split second, Sev’s conscience twanged. He was going to take an ordinary girl out of her element and give her a whirl and in no other circumstances would he have considered such a move. While the world might consider him a player, he only played with women who knew the score. But he would show Amy a good time and give her a break from her dreary workaday world, he told himself impatiently, exasperated by that instant of doubt. She would enjoy herself. A young woman of twenty-two didn’t look for much more than fun from a man. It was not as though he intended to have sex with her—no, he would not be taking the illusion that far, because he wasn’t quite that cruel—but he would be using her as a weapon against the father she had never met.
‘May I treat you to a cup of coffee?’ Sev asked as she approached him with his coffee.
‘Go ahead,’ Denise encouraged Amy, putting her on the spot when she would have politely turned the request down.
After all, Amy didn’t really ‘do’ men in any sense. Even when she was a teenager, dating had been a nerve-racking disappointment. She didn’t like being grabbed or mauled by men who were virtual strangers, and had soon realised that the overly large bust and generous behind she possessed, combined with her small frame, generally attracted the wrong sort of male attention and attitude. She wasn’t the type to jump into bed on a first date either but that seemed to be the expectation from most men she met. After a couple of distressing experiences with men who didn’t like taking no for an answer, her rosy dream of finding a man of her own, a best friend and lover combined, had died. As a rule, she avoided noticing flirtatious signals and kept her life simple, as she saw it, because she was perfectly happy without a man. Indeed, she literally didn’t have a space in her busy work schedule for one.
His dark scrutiny felt intense as she slid behind the table to sit opposite and she ducked her head, murmuring awkwardly, ‘This is not something I do... I mean, sit down with customers.’
Dio mio, she was shy, Sev registered in wonderment, inclined to view her as though she belonged on an endangered species list. ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he urged with greater warmth, seeking to instil confidence and trust.
Colliding with gorgeous liquid-bronze eyes enhanced by inky black lashes, Amy felt butterflies break loose in her tummy and her mouth ran bone dry. Denise slid her favourite coffee onto the table and quietly retreated back behind the counter like a woman unexpectedly finding herself watching a live soap opera. ‘I like animals more than people,’ she heard herself confide, and inwardly winced at that opening sally tripping off her paralysed tongue.
‘As do I. What sort of animals? I like horses.’
‘I’m fondest of dogs although I like cats as well. I’m training to be a veterinary nurse. It’s an apprenticeship and between the surgery and the rehoming charity that runs from the same base and working here, I don’t have much time for other interests. What’s your name?’ she heard herself ask breathlessly.
And it wasn’t even a little surprising, she acknowledged, that she was finding it a challenge to catch her breath that close to such a spectacular guy.
‘Sev, short for Sevastiano. It’s Italian,’ he told her, frantically wondering how on earth to make her relax in his company because nothing he usually said or did with other women seemed to work on her. Accustomed to women who came on to him simply if he smiled, Sev was in foreign territory because when he had tried to compliment her earlier by calling her sweet, she had visibly closed down and backed away, more intimidated by his interest than anything else.
‘I thought I heard a bit of accent...er...not that it’s that noticeable or anything,’ Amy hastened to add, afraid she shouldn’t have commented in that line, fearful it was rude.
‘So, you work for an animal rescue charity. That’s interesting. I’m looking for a dog,’ Sev informed her lazily, setting that last fear to rest. ‘I would like to have a pet.’
Amy’s heart-shaped face lit up and shone as though he had announced he could walk on water. The violet eyes sparkled and for the first time she lifted her head and awarded her whole attention to him. ‘What a coincidence!’ she exclaimed without any shade of irony.
In fact, looking directly into those wide open expressive violet eyes, Sev didn’t think she would be capable of sarcasm. On some level that gentle sincerity reminded him of Annabel, but he shoved that thought out of his head as soon as it appeared. She seemed to be a nice, if possibly naïve, young woman, so naturally he was a little out of his comfort zone, but he wasn’t planning to harm her in any way...was he? Through him, she would discover the identity of her father and possibly even pick up a little more gloss—nothing damaging about those developments, he assured himself smoothly.
‘A very convenient one though,’ Sev commented. ‘Presumably you know all the dogs currently in the shelter?’
‘Well, first and foremost, there’s Hopper, who’s getting old and only has three legs,’ Amy told him, reddening from inner discomfiture because she adored Hopper and didn’t want anyone else to take him home, which was selfish, as she often told herself.
‘Oh, yes... I could—’ she began with animation, until the sound of the door opening and the voices of new customers sent her head twisting round and she rose in haste to do her job. ‘Sorry, I have to work,’ she told him apologetically.
Sev sat over his coffee for several minutes, oddly content, he discovered in surprise, to watch her darting about serving people. She was fast on her feet and quick to smile, exceedingly cute even to his cynical appraisal and noticeably evasive when other men tried to chat to her. And every so often her bright gaze would dart back in his direction, as if to reassure herself that he was still around, before swiftly retreating again. Sì, she was hooked, Sev recognised with all the skill of a wolf. She was way too young for him, of course. And when the truth came out, as it certainly would at her father’s country house party, she would be shocked...or maybe not, he reasoned carelessly. Maybe she didn’t much care who her absent father was; she could hardly have much invested in the idea of a man she had never met.
To be fair to her, he would compensate her in some way afterwards, he decided abruptly. He would not simply use her, he would reward her for her unintentional assistance. Satisfied by that decision, every concern laid to rest because, when it came to the female sex, Sev believed that sufficient money or a very generous gift could assuage any ill or offence caused, he pushed his coffee cup away and slowly rose to his full height, approaching the counter to settle his bill.
Amy landed at the counter to hand over an order almost simultaneously and, although he was not at all vain, Sev didn’t think it was a coincidence. ‘Sorry, we were interrupted. Where is the shelter you work at? Perhaps you could organise a visit for me,’ he suggested.
The violet eyes lit up and glowed and Sev, who rarely smiled, smiled and absolutely dazzled her. She hovered, momentarily in a daze, and blinked up at him, muttering the name and street the shelter was on, information that he naturally already knew but had had to request to maintain his pretence.
‘This evening, perhaps,’ Sev added, seeing no reason to waste time with the party only a couple of weeks away.
‘Er...y-yes,’ Amy stammered in a near whisper. ‘I’ll be back at the shelter between four and six. I could show you the dogs and see if there is one who suits.’
‘See you then,’ Sev completed, turning on his heel to head for the exit.
‘I told you he was interested,’ Denise hissed over the counter after passing the food order back to the kitchen.
‘Yeah,’ Amy muttered ruefully. ‘In acquiring a dog, not a girlfriend. A guy like that wouldn’t go for someone like me.’
‘I think you’re wrong,’ Denise carolled.
But Amy didn’t argue because she knew she was right. She didn’t have what it would take to attract a man of that calibre, neither the looks nor the stylish sophistication. Indeed, she thought it was absolutely typical that she had finally met a man who did attract her, only to discover that he was more interested in acquiring a pet. A man who was interested would simply have asked for her phone number, wouldn’t he?
