Or see her. Sitting weakly and pathetically on the edge of the sofa whilst glaring balefully at a man who was doing nothing more sensational than recounting facts which she had tried to keep hidden away—even from herself—for all these years.
What the hell was happening to her? Romy Salisbury was famous for her ability to remain unruffled, for refusing to be thrown—no matter how sticky the situation.
What about the time early last year, for example, when a foreign minor royal had hired her to organise an American evening for his thirty-fifth birthday and the cook and the waitress had failed to show?
Romy had cooked and served the meal entirely by herself, and the royal personage had got wind of it, insisting on coming down into the kitchen to congratulate her in person.
‘Oh, it was nothing, sir.’ Romy had blushed modestly, whilst trying out a very rusty curtsy. ‘Just hot dogs and beans and a mud-pie pudding.’
‘Though I suspect,’ the Prince had murmured, with a practised smile, ‘that even a swan fashioned out of ice would not have defeated you!’
‘I’m just grateful that you had less elaborate requirements than that, sir!’ Romy had joked, pulling a mock grimace which had told the Prince exactly what she thought of over-the-top gestures like swans made out of ice. And the twinkle in the Prince’s eye had told her that he agreed with her sentiments entirely!
After that, her workload had quadrupled overnight, giving Romy the luxury of being able to pick and choose her jobs. It really was amazing how much clout royal patronage gave you!
So, this Romy Salisbury who could chat with ease to princes—what connection did she have with the woman who was currently behaving like a beaten dog? Just because she had come across the man she had alternately dreamed of and dreaded meeting for five long years. What are you, Romy Salisbury? she asked herself. A woman or a wimp?
Her dark eyes flared with the light of battle, and Dominic’s eyes raked over her face.
‘So why?’ he suddenly demanded.
So many whys. ‘I’m not a mind-reader!’ she retorted. ‘Why what?’
‘Why did you pretend not to recognise me?’
Romy smiled and decided to brazen it out. ‘Because I dislike the idea of being manipulated, I suppose.’
‘Manipulated?’
“That’s right.’
‘Manipulated by whom?’
‘Don’t sound so surprised,’ she remonstrated tartly. ‘By you, of course. You deliberately went to the trouble of booking me under the name of one of your more obscure property companies instead of giving your real name. Presumably with the intention of shocking me when we met. What kind of reaction were you hoping for, Dominic? That I would collapse in a swoon at your feet when I came face to face with you?’
His grey eyes narrowed. ‘You mean you knew that you were about to meet me?’
‘Of course I knew!’ scoffed Romy. ‘Or did you imagine that I would just happily take a job without bothering to check it out first? My work involves me going into people’s homes—often staying there. And I’m a woman! Do you suppose for a moment that I would put myself at risk by not finding out a few details about who is employing me? I’m running a business here, Dominic, for heaven’s sake, not a knitting circle!’
He gave her a grudging look of admiration. ‘Well, well, well, Romy,’ he observed drily. ‘You seem to have acquired a little common sense over the years, at least. Pity it didn’t come five years earlier.’
His patronising comment made Romy even more angry. She drew a deep, indignant breath. ‘But even if I hadn’t known I was going to meet you, why would you naturally assume that I’d recognise you immediately? Is it so inconceivable that I would fail to do so? Do you imagine that you are such a magnificent specimen, Dominic, that you’re unforgettable? That any woman meeting you would have you branded indelibly on her memory for evermore?’
‘I would have been more than a little—surprised if you had failed to recognise me. Quite apart from the fact that I was your best man. After all, we had quite an...experience together, didn’t we?’ He gave a lazy smile which made Romy uncomfortably aware that he was recalling that erotic encounter in the lift. ‘Though I have to admit that most women tell me I have an unforgettable face.’
His words stabbed at her like a knife and it took every ounce of concentration that Romy possessed not to lash out at him in a jealous fit of rage she knew she had no right to feel.
‘Oh, do they?’
‘Yes.’ He smiled arrogantly. ‘They do.’
‘Dominic Dashwood,’ Romy declared heatedly, ‘did anyone ever tell you that you are nothing but an arrogant...arrogant...?
‘Bastard?’ he supplied drily. ‘Is that the word you’re searching for? So why not come out and say it, Romy? It’s true, after all.’
Romy gave him a steady look. ‘I would have used a far more creative insult than “bastard”, thank you very much! And that sounds like a mighty big chip on your shoulder to me.’
His smile had suddenly died and now he shook his dark head with slow emphasis. ‘Not at all,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Illegitimacy no longer carries the stigma that it did when I was growing up.’
She stared at him in surprise. Surely that wasn’t a trace of vulnerability showing through the steely armour?
Romy had always defined Dominic as a black-hearted villain and seducer. But now, with the benefit of maturity, she recognised that she might have been guilty of a little over-simplification.
Had he been a victim of taunts at school? Ridiculed and derided as a child because he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket?
For the first time she lost something of her guarded expression. Her mouth softened and her lips moved into an unconscious pout as a wave of empathy washed over her.
What was it about this man, she wondered, that she should want to take him in her arms and comfort him? And after everything that had happened between them, too...
She gazed across the room at him, the sudden silence making her acutely aware of their isolation.
Her mind began to stray into forbidden territory as she allowed her eyes to drift over the magnificent thrust of his thighs, all tensile muscular perfection beneath the cambric trousers. And the thin silk shirt he wore did absolutely everything to emphasise the hard, lean abdomen and the suggestion of strength rippling in each arm.
Romy shut her eyes in despair, and when she opened them it was to find him staring at her.
‘We’d better have something to drink,’ he said abruptly. ‘You look terrible.’
‘You don’t look so wonderful yourself,’ she lied, but she found herself sinking back against the chaise lounge. Because he was right. She felt terrible. The shock of seeing him again, no doubt. And making the disappointing discovery that in five years she had built up no magic immunity against his devastating appeal.
His eyes narrowed as they raked over her slumped frame. ‘Stay there!’ he ordered curtly.
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ she murmured drily.
Their eyes locked for one long moment, and when he turned to leave Romy found herself watching his retreat obsessively, unable to tear her eyes away from him and yet despising her need to do so.
When Romy had met him he had been twenty-six—very bright and very ambitious. It had been easy, then, to predict that he had a golden future ahead of him. But now it was possible to see how he had managed to surpass even that early promise.
And it wasn’t so much the palatial