Free Moth to the Flame by Sara Craven

really think Santino would stand tamely
    by while she stood him up—or appeared to, at least—in front of the
    fascinated gaze of a section of Roman high society?
    No, she would have to leave with him as she had arrived, and part
    from him when they returned to the flat with a semblance of
    insouciance.
    She bit her lip as she walked across the terrace to the table where
    he sat smoking. Why couldn't she be honest with herself, and admit
    that she wanted to spend just a little more time in his company, in
    spite of everything that he had said and the enormous gulf that
    must, perforce, yawn between them? The truth was that when they
    did part, she wanted him to think not quite as badly of her in the
    role she was playing as he did now, and that when the truth finally
    emerged, he might look back on the evening they had spent together
    with even a little regret.
    Romantic idiocy, she told herself caustically. When he does find out
    what I've done, he'll probably want to break my neck.
    He rose courteously at her approach, and held the chair for her to sit
    down again. He looked incredibly tall as he stood over her, and
    more formidable than ever, although he was smiling slightly.
    'I have ordered fresh coffee,' he said. 'What little was left in the pot
    was getting stale and bitter.'
    Juliet glanced down at the cup in front of her. She didn't really want
    any more coffee. If she drank too much of it in the evening then she
    didn't sleep properly. But then she didn't actually expect to get
    much sleep under the circumstances anyway, she thought wryly,
    and lifted the cup to her lips.
    The fresh, brew was hot, but it still had that faint bitterness Santino
    had mentioned, and she put the cup down after a tentative sip with a
    faint grimace.
    'Can we go now?' she asked. 'I'm a working girl, remember? I can't
    take too many late nights.'
    'Your looks do not seem to have suffered from them so far,' he
    commented, blowing a reflective smoke-ring.
    She flushed and drank some more coffee to mask her
    embarrassment. He sat, watching her, his eyes hooded and
    meditative.
    'I ask you one last time, Janina,' he said, and she wished, with a
    sudden pang to hear her own name on his lips and not her sister's.
    'Will you accept the money I have offered, go back to your own
    country and leave my brother in peace?'
    He sounded almost tired, she thought in surprise, perhaps even a
    little dispirited. Maybe he wasn't used to people rejecting any offers
    he decided to make them, whether on a personal or a business level.
    She swallowed some more of the coffee, then said quickly, 'I can't.
    It—it's too late. Please take my word for that.'
    Later, much later, she thought, he would know what she'd meant by
    her hurried words.
    'Your word!' he repeated, and to her dismay all the former cynicism
    and contempt had returned to his voice to wound her. Then he
    laughed shortly. 'Finish your coffee, cara , and we'll go. There's
    clearly no more to be said.'
    Juliet finished the coffee and replaced the cup in its saucer. So it
    was all over. Waiters were bowing and smiling as they left, and she
    guessed that he must have settled the bill in her absence and added
    a generous tip.
    Fate played some strange tricks, she decided as she sat beside him
    in the car and heard the engine purr into life. For one evening she
    had lived like a millionairess, only to be accused of being a
    gold-digger. That was an element that had been missing from all the
    best fairy tales, she told herself. Prince Charming had never
    accused Cinderella of being out for what she could get, nor had any
    of King Cophetua's relatives offered to buy off the beggar-maid.
    It was much easier to be Juliet Laurence, schoolteacher, she
    thought, or would she find, when it came to it, that nothing was
    going to be easy for her again? That was depressive talk, she
    criticised herself robustly. Her pathetic charade had to come to an
    end sooner or later, and it was better that it was sooner