Eligible bachelor.
Sarah came to a standstill in the middle of the car park,
her fist tightening around the envelope in her hand.
She had to find an eligible bachelor. As an item in
a scavenger hunt.
Since she'd conspicuously failed to find one of those in
real life, her chances of success tonight seemed slim.
Beyond the rows of shiny Mercedes and BMWs parked outside
Oxfordshire's trendiest dining pub, the fields and streams
and woodland coppices she had grown up amongst lay golden
and peaceful in the low summer sun. She gazed out across
them, the envelope still clutched in her hand as adrenaline
fizzed through her bloodstream and her mind raced.
She didn't have to go in there; didn't have to take part in
this stupid scavenger hunt for her sister's hen weekend;
didn't have to be the butt of everyone's jokes all the
time—Sarah, nearly thirty and on the shelf. No, she
knew these fields like the back of her hand, and could
remember loads of good hiding places.
Thrusting a hand through her tangled curls, she sighed.
Hiding up a tree might be considerably more appealing than
going into a pub and having to find an eligible bachelor,
but at the age of twenty-nine it was slightly less socially
acceptable. And she couldn't really spend the rest of her
life hiding. Everyone said she had to get back out there and
face it all again, for Lottie's sake. Children needed two
parents, didn't they? Girls needed fathers. Sooner or later
she should at least try to find someone to fill the rather
sudden vacancy left by Rupert.
The prospect made her feel cold inside.
Later. Definitely later, rather than sooner. Right now she
was going to—
The doors to the bar opened and a group of city types
spilled out, laughing and slapping each other on the back in
an excess of beery camaraderie. They barely glanced at her
as they walked past, but almost as an afterthought the last
one dutifully held the door open for her.
Hell. There was no way she could not go in now. They'd think
she was some kind of weirdo whose idea of a good night out
was hanging around in a pub car park. Stammering her thanks,
she slipped into the dim interior of the bar, shoving the
envelope into the back pocket of her jeans with a shaking hand.
In the years since she'd moved away from Oxfordshire The
Rose and Crown had transformed itself from a tiny rural pub
with swirly-patterned carpets and faded hunting prints on
the nicotine-stained walls to a temple of good taste, with
reclaimed-oak floors, exposed brickwork and a background
soundtrack of achingly trendy 'mood music' obviously
intended to help the clientele of stockbrokers and
barristers feel instantly 'chilled out'.
It made Sarah feel instantly on edge. And about ninety years
old.
She was about to turn round and walk straight out again when
some latent sense of pride stopped her. It was ridiculous,
she thought impatiently; she was used to doing things on her
own. She put up shelves on her own. She did her income-tax
form without help. She brought up her daughter completely
singlehandedly. She could surely walk into a bar and get
herself a drink.
Murmuring apologies, she slipped through the press of bodies
into a space by the bar and glanced nervously around. The
doors were open onto the terrace and she could see Angelica
and her friends gathered round a big table in the centre. It
would have been impossible to miss them. Even in this place,
theirs was easily the noisiest, most glamorous group and was
clearly attracting the attention of every single male within
eyeing-up distance. They were all wearing T-shirts provided
by Angelica's chief bridesmaid, a gazelle-like girl called
Fenella, who worked in PR and who was also responsible for
the scavenger-hunt idea. The T-shirts had 'Angelica's final
fling' emblazoned across the front in pink letters, and
Fenella had only had them made in a size 'small'.
Sarah tugged at hers surreptitiously, desperately trying to
make it cover the strip of bare flesh above the waistband of
her too-tight jeans. Perhaps if she'd actually stuck to her
New Year diet she'd be out there now, laughing, tossing back
cocktails and shiny hair and collecting eligible bachelors
with the best of them. Hell, if she was a stone lighter
perhaps she wouldn't even need an eligible bachelor because
maybe then Rupert wouldn't have felt the need to get engaged
to a glacial blonde Systems Analyst called Julia. But too
many nights spent on the sofa while Lottie was asleep, with
nothing but a bottle of cheap wine and the biscuit tin for
company, had meant she'd failed to lose even a couple of pounds.
She'd definitely try extra-hard between now and the wedding,
she vowed silently, trying to make her way to the bar. It
was taking place in the ruined farmhouse Angelica and Hugh
had bought in Tuscany and were currently having lavishly
done up, and Sarah had a sudden mental image of Angelica's
friends floating around the newly landscaped garden in their
delicious little silken dresses, while she lurked in the
kitchen, covering her bulk with an apron.
Fenella passed her now, on the way back from the bar with a
handful of multicoloured drinks sprouting umbrellas and
cherries. She eyed Sarah with cool amusement. 'There you
are! We'd almost given up on you. What are you drinking?'
'Oh—er—I'm just going to have a dry white wine,'
said Sarah. She should really opt for a slimline tonic, but
hell, she needed something to get her through the rest of
the evening.
Fenella laughed—throwing her head back and producing a
rich, throaty sound that had every man in the vicinity
craning round to look. 'Nice try, but I don't think so. Look
in your envelope—it's the next challenge,' she
smirked, sliding through the crowd towards the door.
With her heart sinking faster than the Titanic,
Sarah slid the envelope from her pocket and pulled out
the next instruction.
She gave a moan of dismay.
The beautiful, lithe youth behind the bar flickered a glance
in her direction and gave a barely perceptible jerk of his
head, which she took as a grudging invitation to order. Her
heart was hammering uncomfortably against her ribs and she
could feel the heat begin to rise to her cheeks as she
opened her mouth.
'I'd like a Screaming Orgasm, please.'
The voice that came from her dry throat was low and cracked,
but sadly not in a good way. The youth lifted a scornful
eyebrow.
'A what?'
'A Screaming Orgasm,' Sarah repeated miserably. She could
feel the press of bodies behind her as other people jostled
for a place at the bar. Her cheeks were burning now, and
there was an uncomfortable prickling sensation rippling down
the back of her neck, as if she was being watched. Which, of
course, she was, she thought despairingly. Every one of
Angelica's friends had temporarily suspended their own
professional flirtation operations and was peering in
through the open doors, suppressing their collective mirth.
Well, at least they were finding this amusing. The
youth flicked back his blond fringe and regarded her with
dead eyes. 'What's one of those?' he said tonelessly.
'I don't know.' Sarah raised her chin and smiled sweetly,
masking her growing desperation. 'I've never had one.'
'Never had a Screaming Orgasm? Then please, allow me…'
The voice came from just behind her, close to her ear, and
was a million miles from the hearty, public-school bray of
The Rose and Crown's usual clientele. As deep and rich as
oak-aged cognac, it was infused with an accent Sarah
couldn't immediately place, and the slightest tang of dry
amusement.
Her head whipped round. In the crush at the bar it was
impossible to get a proper look at the man who had spoken.
He was standing close behind her and was so tall that her
eyes were on a level with the open neck of his shirt, the
triangle of olive skin at his throat.
She felt an unfamiliar lurch in the pit of her stomach as he
leaned forward in one fluid movement, towering over her as
he spoke to the youth behind the bar.
'One shot each of vodka, Kahlua, Amaretto…'
His voice really was something else. Italian. She could tell
by the way he said Amaretto', as if it were an intimate
promise. Her nipples sprang to life beneath the tiny T-shirt.
God, what was she doing? Sarah Halliday didn't let strange
men buy her cocktails in pubs. She was a grown woman with a
five-year-old daughter and the stretch marks to prove it.
She'd been madly in love with the same man for nearly seven
years. Lusting after strangers in bars wasn't her style.
'Thanks for your help,' she mumbled, 'but I can get this
myself.'
She glanced up at him again and felt her chest tighten. The
evening sun was coming from behind him but Sarah had an
impression of dark hair, angular features, a strong jaw
shadowed with several days of stubble. The exact opposite of
Rupert's English, golden-boy good looks, she thought with a
shiver. Compelling rather than handsome.
And then he turned and looked back at her.
It felt as if he'd reached out and pulled her into the
warmth of his body. His narrowed eyes were so dark that even
this close she couldn't see where the irises ended and the
pupils began, and they travelled over her face lazily for a
second before slipping downwards.
'I'd like to get it for you.'
He said it simply, emotionlessly, as a statement of fact,
but there was something about his voice that made the blood
throb in her ears, her chest, her too-tight jeans.
'No, really, I can…'
With shaking hands she opened her purse and peered inside,
but the chemical reaction that had just taken place in the
region of her knickers was making it difficult to see
clearly or think straight.
Apart from a handful of small change her purse was virtually
empty, and with a rush of dismay she remembered handing over
her last five-pound note to Lottie for the swear box.
Lottie's policy on swearing was draconian and—since
she'd introduced a system of fines—extremely
lucrative. Clearly her killer business instinct had come
from Rupert. The frustrations of the scavenger hunt this
afternoon had cost Sarah dearly.
Now she looked up in panic and met the deadpan stare of the
barman.
'Nine pounds fifty,' he said flatly.
Nine pounds fifty? She'd ordered a drink, not a
three-course meal—she and Lottie could live for a week
on that. Faint with horror, she looked down into her purse
again while her numb brain raced. When she raised her head
again it was to see the stranger hand a note over to the
blond youth and pick up the ridiculous drink.
He moved away from the bar, and the crowd through which
she'd had to fight a passage fell away for him, like the Red
Sea before Moses. Unthinkingly she found herself following
him, and couldn't help her gaze from lingering on the
breadth of his shoulders beneath the faded blue shirt he
wore. He seemed to dwarf every other man in the packed room.
He stopped in the doorway to the terrace and held out the
drink to her. It was white and frothy, like a milkshake. A
very expensive milkshake.
'Your first Screaming Orgasm. I hope you enjoy it.'
His face was expressionless, his tone dutifully courteous,
but as she took the glass from him their fingers touched and
Sarah felt electricity crackle up her arm.
She snatched her hand away so sharply that some of the
cocktail splashed onto her wrist. 'I doubt it,' she snapped.
The stranger's dark eyebrows rose in sardonic enquiry.
'Oh, God, I'm so sorry,' Sarah said, horrified by her own
crassness. 'That sounds so ungrateful after you paid for it.
It's just that it's not a drink I'd usually choose, but I'm
sure it'll be delicious.' And account for about three days'
calorie allowance, she thought, taking a large gulp and
forcing herself to look appreciative. 'Mmm…lovely.'
His eyes held her, dark and steady. 'Why did you ask for it
if it's not your kind of thing?'
Sarah gave a half-hearted smile. 'I have nothing against
screaming orgasms in theory, but,' she held up the envelope,
'it's a scavenger hunt. You have to collect different items
on a list. It's my sister's hen weekend, you see…'
Half-sister. She probably should have explained. Right
now he was no doubt wondering which one of the beautiful
thoroughbred babes out there she could possibly share a full
set of genes with.
'So I gathered.' He glanced down at her T-shirt and then out
into the warm evening, where Angelica and Fenella and their
friends had collected a veritable crowd of eligible
bachelors and were cavorting conspicuously with them. 'You
don't seem to be enjoying it quite as much as the others.'
'Oh, no, I'm having a great time.' Sarah made a big effort
to sound convincing. One of Angelica's friends was a
holistic counsellor and had told her at lunchtime that she
had a 'negative aura'. She took another mouthful of the
disgusting cocktail and tried not to gag.
Gently he took the glass from her and put it on the table
behind them. 'You are one of the worst actresses that I've
come across in a long time.'
'Thanks,' she mumbled. 'There goes my promising career as a
Hollywood screen goddess.'
'Believe me, it was a compliment.'
She looked up quickly, wondering if he was teasing her, but
his expression was utterly serious. For a moment their eyes
locked. The bolt of pure, stinging desire that shot through
her took her completely by surprise and she felt the blood
surge up to her face.
'So what else is on your list of things to find?' he asked.
'I don't know yet.' She tore her gaze away from his and
looked down at the envelope in her hand. 'It's all in here.
As you get each item you open up the next envelope.'
'How many have you got so far?'
'One.'
His long, downturned mouth quirked into half a smile, but
Sarah noticed that it didn't chase the shadows from his
eyes. 'The drink was the first?'
'Actually it was the second. But I gave up on the first.'
'Which was?'
She shook her head, deliberately letting her hair fall over
her face. 'It's not important.'
His fingers closed around the envelope in her hand and
gently he took it from her. For a second she tried to snatch
it back but he was too strong for her and she looked away in
embarrassment as he unfolded the paper and read what was
written there.
She looked past him into the blue summer evening. Out on the
terrace, Fenella was watching her, and Sarah saw her nudge
Angelica and smirk as she nodded in Sarah's direction.
'Dio mio,' said the man beside her, his husky
Italian voice tinged with distaste. 'You have to
"collect" an eligible bachelor?'
'Yes. Not exactly my forte.'Angrily Sarah turned away from
the curious glances from the terrace and gave a short,
bitter laugh. 'I don't suppose you're one, are you?'