A Valentine from Harlequin

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 situation that withered on the vine before it properly took root?”
    “Because, you insensitive clod, thanks to you, I’ve been carrying around a load of guilt that was completely unnecessary! I soon realized that two weeks of fun in the sunny Caribbean wasn’t enough on which to base any sort of relationship, but I don’t enjoy letting people down and wasn’t looking forward to having to tell you I’d changed my mind, especially since you gave the impression you were totally besotted with me.”
    “Appearances can be deceiving, Charlie.”
    “With you, they certainly can! But I didn’t know that then, and I was ashamed of the relief I felt when I learned I wouldn’t have to hurt you. Ashamed at how soon I recovered from the shocking news of your ‘death.’”
    “That’s just your pride talking,” he said imperturbably. “The truth is, you’re really eaten up with envy because I’ve found true love and you’re still looking for it. Which reminds me, Louella’s waiting. So if you’ve finished your inquisition…?”
    “Heavens, yes!” She wiped a weary hand across her eyes. “Go. Please! Before the sight of you makes me sick!”
    He complied with unflattering haste. She heard the French doors bang shut, followed within seconds from the other end of the balcony by the faint, expensive chime of cobweb-fine crystal.
    Paolo’s hand swam into her line of vision, two slender flutes of the vintage Dom Perignon she’d recommended to the Duncans suspended between his lean, elegant fingers. “Another masterful performance, Charlotte. I suggest we celebrate with a glass of our host’s very excellent champagne.”
    “You listened in again ?” Her stomach heaved unpleasantly.
    “Certainly,” he said, with a marked lack of remorse. “John Weatherby isn’t the kind of man who’s squeamish about how he goes about getting his own way. I wasn’t about to leave you to face him without proper backup if you needed it.”
    “I’m sure you meant well, but I already feel a big enough fool. I really don’t appreciate having everyone else believing it, too.”
    “I’m not ‘everyone else,’” he said, tipping the rim of his glass lightly against hers. “And just for the record, you are no fool.”
    She grimaced. “No, I’m a black widow spider.”
    Just as he had in Barbados, he examined her at leisure, from the ankle-length black silk sheath John Weatherby had dismissed so callously to the upswept coil of her dark hair. “Spider, Charlotte?” he murmured, looping a finger beneath the small diamond pendant nesting just above her breasts. “I see only a woman whose natural beauty is enhanced by the classic simplicity of her gown.”
    At his touch, a tiny current of pleasure chased down her cleavage. Suddenly parched, she took a sip from the glass of champagne. “Thank you. I needed this.”
    “Because this last performance cost you so dearly?”
    “Not at all. That was no ‘performance’ you witnessed, at least not on my part. I meant every word I said. If I seem upset, it’s merely because I’m embarrassed at how easily I was duped.”
    “You’ve nothing to be embarrassed about,” he declared. “That’s Weatherby’s department. He’s a felon, guilty of arson and fraud, to say the least, and never mind his lesser crimes. So enjoy your champagne, Charlotte, stop looking so woebegone, and tell me what it’ll take to make you feel better.”
    “Showing him who’s really emerged the winner in this fiasco!” she told him grimly.
    Something of her humiliation melted as Paolo bathed her once again in his dazzling smile. “Consider it done, cara. I already have it choreographed down to the last detail.”

Chapter Four
    Oh, Charlotte was tempted to go along with him! But although Paolo’s sympathy was soothing, she barely knew him and if she hadn’t yet learned her lesson about throwing in her lot with a stranger, she deserved all the grief she’d undoubtedly reap.
    “You’re very kind, Mr. Angelli,” she said, retreating to the far side of the nearest wrought-iron table, “but you’ve done enough. I really can’t allow you to become further involved in a mess