A Valentine from Harlequin: Six Degrees of Romance

Of course! Memory flooded back: Barbados, early last fall, and her last off-shore assignment for her former employer; the grand old plantation house; the well-bred murmur of guests flocking around a banquet table set on a terrace; a velvet night sky spattered with stars. John, flattering her with his attention, overwhelming her with his charm…

And this man, regarding her now with ironic amusement. Yes, she remembered him! His height and sheer physical presence had been enough to make him stand out from the crowd, even without the flock of hangers-on dogging him and inhaling his every word.

That he’d noticed her had been unexpected. She’d happened to look up from some checklist or other to find him staring at her across the room and, just for a moment, everything else—the mob of people, the noise—had melted away and it had seemed there was no one else in the world but the two of them, connected in a glance so riveting she’d hardly known how to draw her gaze away. The next morning, he’d passed her on his way to the breakfast room and complimented her on the fine job she’d done the night before.

“The banquet,” he’d said, “was a triumph. Whoever hired you deserves a medal.” His gaze had lingered on her face, drifted past her bare, sun-kissed shoulders and all the way down to her legs, then returned to dwell with unsettling intent on her lips. He’d cleared his throat, opened his mouth…and she’d been filled with a sense of expectancy, of elation.

But before he could speak again, his followers had closed ranks around him. He must, she’d decided, swallowing her disappointment as they’d spirited him away, wield a great deal of corporate clout for them to guard him so diligently.

“We met at the Jacoby Plantation,” she said now. “How could I have forgotten?”

“You had a great deal on your mind. And we never were formally introduced.” He offered his hand. “I’m Paolo Angelli, and you’re Charlie.”

“Charlotte,” she said. “Charlotte Fraser. I really don’t care for ‘Charlie.’”

His fingers closed around hers. “Charlotte Fraser.” The syllables rolled off his tongue, rich and warm as Demerara sugar left melting in the Caribbean sun. “Well, Charlotte Fraser, wait until you’ve dispatched the deplorable Mr. Weatherby before you fall apart—unless you want to leave him with the impression that you’re still carrying a torch for him?”

“Good grief, no!” She hiccupped, aghast at the idea. “That’s what makes this whole incident so absurd. If he wanted rid of me, he didn’t have to go to such extreme lengths. A simple ‘I’ve changed my mind about us’ would have sufficed. It’s not as if we were ever really engaged.”

“He never gave you a ring?”

“No. He died before things progressed that far. At least, I thought he did.”

Paolo Angelli’s gaze scoured her face. “And were you terribly grief-stricken?”

She averted her eyes and searched for the right words. She didn’t want to come across as cold and heartless, but nor did she wish to convey the wrong impression. He, though, misunderstood her hesitation, let go her hand, and stepped back.

“Forgive me,” he said, and there was no missing the reserve cloaking his voice. “I had no right to ask such a question, nor do I wish to revive memories that you obviously find painful.”

“It’s not that,” she began, anxious to set the record straight.

But he waved her to silence and nodded toward the French doors behind her. “Your not-so-dead fiance is headed back this way. Save your explanations for him.”

And with that, he melted into the shadows again.

Chapter Three

“All right, let’s get this over with!” John leaned against the balcony doors and folded his arms. “And make it fast. I don’t want to arouse Louella’s suspicions any more than I already have.”

“Louella being your latest fiancee, I assume?”

“My only fiancee, Charlie,” he snapped. “I never made it official with you.”

“Some might consider that to be a mere technicality, John. A less forgiving woman than I might even go so far as to sue you for breach of promise.”

He flushed with anger. “Don’t even think about threatening me! You’ll merely make a laughing stock of yourself and—”

“Oh, relax!” she said, disgust sour on her tongue. “You’re not worth the effort it would entail. Nor have I any more wish to prolong this meeting than you have. I’d merely like you to clarify a few things, that’s all.”

“If I must.” He buffed his fingernails on the sleeve of his dinner jacket. If body language really did speak volumes, his shouted boredom to high heaven.

Refusing to be put off, she said, “For a start, how did you persuade your friend to write and tell me you’d died?”

“There was no friend, dear.” He inspected his nails and gave them a final polish. “I wrote the letter myself.”

And clearly did so without a twinge of conscience. Was quite proud of himself, in fact. “And I suppose your ski cabin didn’t burn to the ground, either?”

“Certainly it did. I made sure of that. Overloaded the woodstove and left its door open. The place went up like a rocket in 30 minutes flat.”

Puzzled, she shook her head. “Why on earth would you take such drastic and risky measures just to end your involvement with me?”

“Oh, you really are naive, Charlie!” he sneered. “You played no part in it, at least not directly. I did it for the insurance.”

More mystified by the second, she said, “I don’t understand.”

He gave a long-suffering sigh. “I’m a high-maintenance man. The kind of lifestyle I enjoy costs money. More, I’m afraid, than I’m willing to go out and earn. When I first met you, I thought you might be the solution to my problem.”

“You thought I was well-off?”

“No, dear. I thought you were loaded. Filthy rich.”

“But why?” Astonished, she stared at him. “I never gave you reason to believe that.”

“Not in so many words, perhaps. But there you were, on a first-name basis with half the bigwigs at that conference. Consulting with titans of industry dripping with old money. Naturally, I assumed you were somebody. So I made my move before anyone else got his foot in your door. You’re not all that bad-looking, you know, especially when you do yourself up, although I have to say that dress you’re wearing tonight makes you look a bit like a black widow spider. But I’ve come across a lot worse. Being married to you would have been tolerable, if only you hadn’t turned out not to be a member of society at all, but a corporate social convener working for someone else, for Pete’s sake!”

Charlotte didn’t often lose her temper but his scorn left her foaming with rage. “Not any longer, you arrogant stoat!” she spat, sorely tempted to wipe the smug expression off his face with the back of her hand. “Unlike you, I don’t mind working for a living—and hard enough that I’m my own boss now and doing very well. But you…! You are, without question, the most despicable excuse for a man I’ve ever had the misfortune to come across. And to think I was taken in by you for even an instant!”

“Well, there you have it, dearie. I played you like a violin, and you bought every second of it. As I said before, you’re so hopelessly naive, it’s laughable.”

“Not quite as naive as you’d like to think,” she told him acidly. “At risk of denting your oversize ego, you should know that I’d already had second thoughts about continuing our association, long before your letter arrived. Unlike you, though, I prefer to be more direct, so I planned to tell you to your face when we met at Thanksgiving.”

He laughed scornfully. “So you say! But if that’s the case, how come you’re making such an issue now of a