Free Marriage by Deception by Sara Craven Page B

bedroom curtains. She propped herself up on one elbow, pushing her hair back from her face and wondering what had woken her.
    A peal on the doorbell, followed by some determined knocking, answered that.
    ‘Who on earth can it be at this hour?’ she asked herself crossly as she swung out of bed, reaching for her robe. Then she caught sight of the clock on her bedside table and yelped. It was almost mid-morning. And she’d known nothing about it. She’d still be deeply and dreamlessly asleep but for her morning caller.
    ‘I’m coming,’ she shouted, as she launched herself downstairs, kicking the morning mail out of the way and fumbling to unbolt her door.
    She was confronted by a mass of colour. Red roses, she registered, stunned. And at least two dozen of them.
    ‘Miss Craig?’ The delivery girl wore a pink uniform, to match the small florist’s van waiting at the kerb, and a professional smile. ‘Enjoy your flowers. There’s a message attached.’
    Ros, her arms full of roses, shut the door and bent, with difficulty, to retrieve her letters from the mat. She carried the whole shooting match into her sitting room and curled up on the sofa, reaching for the tiny envelope attached to the Cellophane.
    Sam’s black handwriting filled the card. ‘Your first rose looked lonely. I thought it needed friends, and we need each other. I’ll pick you up for brunch at eleven on Sunday morning.’
    Not so much an invitation as a command, Ros thought with exasperation. And what did he mean about her ‘first rose’ anyway? It had gone from the coffee table, so it must have been thrown away yesterday morning when the room was cleaned—mustn’t it?
    But she remembered the way Sam had paused in the doorway last night, and her gaze took the path his had done—straight across the room.
    The rose, alive and well, in a narrow crystal vase, now occupied pride of place on her mantelpiece.
    ‘Oh, God,’ Ros said wearily. ‘Manuela.’
    Her Spanish cleaner was round, and smiling, and incurably romantic. To her, a red rose was something to be cherished, particularly if she suspected it came from an admirer.
    And now Sam thinks that I kept it, she thought ruefully. Oh, hell .
    She put the bouquet down on the coffee table while she opened her other post. As well as the usual junk mail there was a letter from her accountants, reminding her of the paperwork they’d need to complete her tax return, and a postcard from Sydney from Molly and her father, who were clearly having the time of their lives. She was still smiling as she opened the final envelope, which bore the logo of her publishers, and her smile widened into a grin of delight as she unfolded the sheet of headed paper and saw what Vivien had written.
    As you know, each year Life Today magazine offers a series of writing awards, and I heard yesterday that The Hired Sword has been named the Popular Novel of the Year. I’m so thrilled for you, Ros, and you richly deserve it. I do hope you’ll break your rule about public appearances, and pick up the award yourself at next month’s ceremony.
    ‘Try and stop me,’ Ros said exultantly. Then paused, as it occurred to her that the resultant publicity would mean that her cover would be blown for ever, and there could be no more Janie…
    But there can’t be anyway, she reminded herself with a touch of grimness. Because the real Janie comes back tomorrow night. And even if she didn’t, all this pretence still has to stop.
    Last night had been—exciting, but also dangerous, and she’d taken quite enough risks. Brunch was safe, of course—a popular pastime for Sundays in the city—and there would be no alcohol involved—but when it was over she would tell him she couldn’t see him again. And she would produce some good and cogent reason why this had to be—although she couldn’t think of one off-hand.
    I’ve got all day, she thought, and frowned a little. But why have I? Why am I not seeing Sam until tomorrow?
    Which was