Читать книгу Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage - Jessica Gilmore, Sophie Pembroke - Страница 14

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF?’

‘Yes, thank you.’ Polite, cool, collected. Of course she was, just as she always was.

Clara was playing her part to perfection. His house, his life were seamlessly run by her employees while she stepped into her role as his girlfriend with grace. His employees liked her, she had charmed every business associate he had introduced her to and even his grandfather was showing signs of thawing.

But as soon as they were alone she retreated behind a shield of courtesy and efficiency. A shield he made no attempt to push aside.

It was better that way even if he did keep getting flashbacks of hot kisses, silky skin and fevered moans. After all, he usually kept his relationships short and sweet, superficial. Just not usually this short.

Or this sweet.

‘I think we’ve shown our faces long enough if you want to leave.’ Raff liked music as much as the next man but the benefit for ill and destitute musicians was a little out of his comfort zone. ‘Unless, of course, you’re enjoying it.’

The corners of her mouth tilted up, as close as she had got to a genuine smile in weeks. ‘The violinist sounds just like Summer when she’s practising,’ she whispered, her breath sweet on his cheek. ‘I had no idea I was raising a musical genius.’

‘He sounds like Mr Simpkins when I’ve forgotten his evening fish,’ Raff retorted. ‘I think they’re trying to extort money from us with menaces. Pay up or the music continues.’

‘The percussionists were good and the harpist wasn’t too bad...’ She broke off, biting her lip, laughter lurking in her eyes.

‘Until she started singing.’ Raff glared over at the harp. ‘If she isn’t some sort of banshee then that voice was genetically engineered for warfare. There’s no way those howls could be natural.’

‘Come on.’ Clara placed her hand upon his arm, just as she had done at every party, every dinner, every benefit over the last few weeks. His blood began to heat up until he was surprised his sleeve didn’t burst into flames, but he didn’t betray his discomfort by a single twinge.

‘Only if you want,’ he demurred. ‘There’s still the Cymbal Concerto to go. I’d hate for you to miss out.’

‘So considerate.’ She might look as if she were wafting along on his arm but her hand was inexorably steering him towards the open doors. ‘Successful night?’

‘When it was quiet enough to hear myself speak. Polly must be exhausted, spending her free time at these things.’ Raff routinely worked twelve-, fourteen-hour days out in the field but give him those any day over his sister’s routine of office by day, business socialising by night. ‘I would give anything for a quiet night in The Swan.’

‘Me too. You know, I thought my life was in danger of getting into a rut.’ Clara breathed in a deep sigh as they left through the double doors that led from the ornate banqueting hall into the equally ornate but much quieter and cooler vestibule. ‘But after several weeks of social events I am yearning for my sofa, a film and something really plain to eat. A jacket potato, salad, a piece of grilled chicken.’

‘That sounds amazing.’ It really did. Canapés and fancy dinners had lost any novelty after just a few days. ‘Can I join you?’

It was supposed to be a joke but he made the mistake of looking directly at her; their gazes snagged, held and colour rose over the high cheekbones. ‘It would be a rom-com,’ she warned him, looking away, her voice light.

‘My favourite.’ Right then he almost meant it; a night lazing on a sofa, something undemanding on the TV, sounded like paradise. But he could feel the phone in his pocket almost physically weighting him down stuffed as it was with commitments and appointments and functions, all as serious and important and necessary as tonight’s. ‘I might have a spare evening in, oh, about three weeks.’

Rafferty’s had to be represented, had to be seen to be there. This was where business was discussed, decided, where deals were struck. Under the sparkling lights, a glass of something expensive in one hand, a canapé in the other.

‘Actually...’ Clara sounded almost shy, tentative, completely unlike her usual assertive self ‘...I wondered if you were free tomorrow morning?’

‘On a Sunday?’ Raff didn’t even try to hide his shock. Apart from that very first week, Clara had kept Sundays sacrosanct. They were her family day, a day she was very firmly off duty.

Did that mean her daughter would be there? Raff rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a little warm. Just because he and Clara had shared a moment didn’t mean he was ready to play at happy families. Especially as that particular moment had been well and truly brushed under the carpet.

And although there were times when he wished it hadn’t been quite so rigorously filed under ‘let’s never mention this again’, this was a stark reminder why it had to be.

Families, children, commitment. All very nice in principle, but tying. Even more weighty than the phone.

‘I know we don’t usually work on a Sunday.’ She made the statement sound like a question and Raff shrugged non-committally.

It was chilly outside, cold enough for Clara to pull her wrap around her shoulders as they exited the building and began to make their way down the wide stone steps into the brightness of a London night. If the stars were out Raff couldn’t see them, the streetlamps and neon signs colluding to hide the night sky from the city dwellers.

He had arranged to meet their driver on the corner of the street and steered Clara along the cobbled pavement, waiting for the inevitable comment about how much her feet hurt.

It didn’t come. ‘I have an appointment,’ she said instead, looking down at the uneven cobbles. ‘I wondered if you would come with me. You said, a few weeks ago...’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Yes.’ He frowned as he remembered. ‘Of course.’ He had said he would attend a meeting with her. Only, that was before.

People must be talking about them, about the amount of time they were spending together, about the way he picked her up almost nightly in a chauffeur-driven car—maybe it was his turn to act the graceful escort. Only, it seemed worse somehow. Her family were so close, it felt deceitful.

The thought of getting to know her family, of possibly being accepted by them, twisted his stomach. What if he liked them? Or God forbid felt at home?

‘It was the only day they offered me.’ She finally looked up, her face pale, her features standing out starkly from the almost unnatural pallor of her skin.

‘They?’

She took a deep breath, her body almost shaking. ‘Summer’s father isn’t involved. It’s his choice. I really tried.’ Raff had to take a deep breath of his own to dampen down a sudden, shocking anger. How could anyone have left her to raise a child on her own?

‘I send him photos, videos, school reports, tried to get him to Skype with her. He’s never been that interested. But a few weeks ago, the day you asked me to help you out, he emailed.’

‘He wants to see you tomorrow.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘He’s here with his father. They have money—’ She came to an abrupt stop, her throat working.

‘So do I.’

She gave him a tiny smile but he wasn’t joking. They wanted to play powerful and well connected? He was brought up to play that game.

‘Byron’s father thought that I, well, it doesn’t matter now, but we don’t have the best relationship.’ She twisted her bangle round. ‘I wanted to be strong enough to do it alone.’

Raff’s heart squeezed, painfully. It couldn’t be easy for her to ask for help. ‘Is Summer going?’

She shook her head. ‘They don’t want her there.’

‘Of course I’ll be there.’ It was just returning a favour, right? The cold, still anger that consumed him when he saw the stricken look in her eyes, heard her voice shake, watched her search for words no mother should have to say had nothing to do with his decision. It was just a favour. No big deal.

‘I’ve been dreading this,’ she confessed, the shadows under her eyes making them look even bigger than usual. ‘All I’ve ever wanted is for Byron to be part of Summer’s life. And now he’s finally here, in London, just an hour away from her, I’m terrified.’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘I don’t know why. I should be stronger than this.’

Raff stopped and turned her around to face him, tilting her chin up, making her look at him, see the truth of his words. ‘Clara, you are incredible. You raise Summer alone, you run a business, half of Hopeford relies on you one way or another. You are the strongest woman I know.’

She stared up at him, doubt in her eyes. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’ He squeezed her shoulders, ignoring the urge to pull her in a little closer.

She exhaled. ‘Thank you, I appreciate it. I really do.’

Raff knew instinctively that it wasn’t easy for her to lean on him; he was honoured, of course, that she had asked him, had confessed her fears to him. It must have hurt her to show him the vulnerable side she kept so locked away. But it was terrifying as well. Physical intimacy was one thing, emotional intimacy, honesty, secrets? Another ballgame altogether.

But she’d been let down enough already. One morning, that was all she was asking. He was capable of that at least.

* * *

As they approached the hotel Clara’s demeanour subtly changed, as if she were going into battle. There was little outward sign of her stress although her grip tightened on his arm. Her face was utterly calm as if she were going to any business meeting, her hair had been ruthlessly tamed and coiled back in a neat bun, not one curly tendril allowed to fall about her face. It made her eyes look even bigger, emphasised the catlike curve of her cheek; Raff thought she looked vulnerable, a child playing dress up.

She had dressed for battle too, sleek and purposeful in a grey suit.

But Raff could feel the faint tremors running through her body. Her lips were colourless under her lip gloss.

The Drewes were staying at one of the most exclusive hotels in London, an old Georgian town house discreetly tucked away in a square in Marylebone. It was an interesting choice. Not overtly glitzy but it suggested old money, power and taste.

Raff was looking forward to this. He knew all about old money, power and taste. Bring it on.

Clara was all purpose now, marching up the stone steps and through the double doors, turning with no hesitation towards the hotel’s sunny dining room.

‘Clara.’ Both men rose to their feet; although they both wore smiles the brown eyes were alike—cold and assessing.

‘Byron, Mr Drewe.’ She shook hands in turn, strangely formal considering one of these men was the father of her child. ‘This is Raff.’ She didn’t qualify their relationship. Good girl, Raff thought, keep them guessing. ‘Raff, this is Byron and his father, Archibald Drewe.’

Raff reached over to shake hands in his turn, unable to resist making his own handshake as strong and powerful as he could. So this was Summer’s father, this tall, handsome man, whose smile didn’t reach his eyes and who wore his privilege with ease.

‘Please, sit down.’ The elder Drewe looked very similar to his son, the dark hair almost fully grey and the tanned face more wrinkled but with a steely determination behind the affable façade.

Raff pulled out Clara’s chair for her, a statement of intent.

‘It’s been a while,’ she said to Byron. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

‘You look great.’ The other man was looking at her with open admiration. ‘Haven’t changed a bit even if you have changed the sarong for a suit.’

He had seen Clara in a sarong. The hot jealousy that burned through Raff at Byron Drewe’s words shocked him. Of course he had seen Clara in a sarong—and a lot less too. He was her ex-lover, the father of her child. At some point Clara had been enamoured enough with this guy to have a baby with him.

And at some point he had allowed her to come home, alone. To raise their child alone.

The jealousy ebbed away, replaced with cold dislike and even colder contempt. ‘I am trying to persuade her to link her business with mine. But you know Clara.’ He smiled at her. ‘She has to be in control. Even a name like Rafferty’s doesn’t reassure her!’

‘Rafferty’s?’ The older man’s eyes were now assessing Raff. ‘Impressive.’

The contempt deepened. Now they knew who he was his stock had gone up. Raff hated that.

‘What do you do now, Clara?’ Should Byron Drewe be smiling at her in that intimate way? Raff allowed himself a brief, self-indulgent fantasy of leaning across the table and planting one perfect punch on that perfect nose.

‘I run a concierge service.’

‘Half of Hopeford couldn’t manage without her, including me,’ Raff said.

‘How interesting.’ The older Mr Drewe couldn’t sound less interested. Maybe it was his nose that Raff should fantasise about punching.

‘It keeps me busy.’ If Clara had heard the snub she wasn’t reacting. ‘And it’s thriving. Between work and Summer I don’t have much free time.’

Raff bit back a smile as he mentally applauded. Nicely done, Clara. Remind them why we’re here, ignore their put-downs and make sure they realise you’re doing them a favour.

She didn’t need him to step in at all. He might as well help himself to the coffee and sit back and enjoy the show.

‘And how is Summer?’

Surely Summer’s own grandfather shouldn’t pronounce her name in that slightly doubtful way, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was right.

Or maybe he just didn’t like the name. Clara could scrape her hair back and put on a suit but she knew full well that Archibald Drewe still thought of her a teenage hippy with long hair, tie-dye dresses and a happy-go-lucky attitude who had named her daughter accordingly.

She had been that girl once, but it was a long time ago.

‘She’s good.’ Clara pulled out her tablet. ‘I have pictures.’

‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’

Time stopped for a long moment, the blood freezing in her veins. How could he dismiss her daughter, his own flesh and blood, in that cold, cavalier way?

‘She has your hair, your eyes.’ She looked directly at Byron, willing him to stand up for her, for his daughter, for once in his pampered life. ‘If you ever look at the pictures I send you you’ll know that.’

‘I look.’ He had the grace to sound ashamed. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘She is, but she is also smart and kind and very funny. You’d like her.’

He shifted in his seat, evidently uncomfortable. Beside her Raff was leaning back, ostensibly totally at his ease, sipping a cup of coffee. But the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw told her that he was utterly alert, following every word, every intonation.

Every put-down.

Her hands tightened on her cup; it had been like a game of chicken, leaving asking him along to the last possible moment, kidding herself that she might be able to do this alone. Afraid that his presence might make the whole, nasty situation even more humiliating. She’d thought she’d be ashamed, for him to see this side of her. The dismissed, ‘unwanted single mother’ side. But having him next to her filled her with the strength she needed to battle on. After all, he had his demons too.

She reached over and laid her hand on his forearm, squeezing very slightly, letting his warmth fill her as she lifted her head and stared evenly at her daughter’s father.

‘I haven’t told her you’re here but I hope you have got time to meet her.’ She wanted to keep it businesslike but she couldn’t help babbling a little, trying to sell her daughter to the one person who shouldn’t need the pitch, the one person who should be in regardless.

‘She has a picture of you in her room and I tell her lots of stories about you and about Sydney. She helps me put the photos together every Christmas, chooses the pictures she wants to send you. She would love to meet you.’

‘Clara, I...’ Was that pity in his eyes or shame? Either way it wasn’t what she wanted to see.

‘It’s just, while you’re here...’

‘I’m getting married.’

Clara stared at Byron blankly. This was why they wanted to see her? Did they think she’d be upset after ten years of silence and neglect, that she was so pathetic she still harboured hopes that they would be a family?

The ego of him.

Raff moved his arm so that his hand lay over hers, lacing his fingers through her fingers, a tacit show of support. She should be annoyed at this overt display of ownership but relief tingled through her instead. ‘That’s great,’ she said, injecting as much sincerity into her voice as she could. ‘Congratulations, I hope you’ll be very happy.’

‘He’s marrying Julia Greenwood.’

Archibald Drewe obviously expected this to mean something.

‘Great!’

‘She’s heiress to a media empire,’ he told her, his voice oozing contempt for her obvious ignorance. ‘This is a brilliant match for Byron, and for our business.’

Much better than a penniless English teenager. She’d known she was never good enough for Byron’s family. Once it would have hurt that he had allowed them to influence their future. Now she simply didn’t care.

As long as it didn’t affect her daughter.

‘We want you to sign this.’ Archibald Drewe slid a sheaf of papers over the table. Aha, this was the real reason for the meeting. Business, the family way.

‘What is it?’ Clara made no move to take it.

‘Byron is about to join together two great businesses, and any children he and Julia will have...’ the emphasis here was intentional ‘...will inherit a very influential business indeed. We don’t want anything from Byron’s past to jeopardise his future.’

Anything? They meant anyone.

Beside her Raff was rigid, his hand heavy on hers, fingers digging in, almost painfully.

‘And what does this have to do with me?’

‘I want to make it quite clear...’ Archibald Drewe leant forward; obviously the kid gloves were off ‘...that your daughter has no claim on me, my son or our business. No claim at all. However...’ his smile was as insincere as his eyes were hard ‘...we are not unfeeling. It’s not the girl’s fault her beginnings were so unorthodox.’

Raff’s arm twitched under hers, the only sign he was alive. Otherwise he was completely still. She couldn’t look at him, afraid of what might be in his face. She didn’t need his anger and she really couldn’t handle pity right now.

The room seemed to have got very cold. She knew how Archibald Drewe felt about her; he had made it completely clear ten years ago. She hadn’t expected time to soften him; only money and influence could do that.

But, fool that she was, she hadn’t expected him to try and wipe his granddaughter out of the family history books.

‘We will send no more annual cheques and you will stop with the photos and emails. Julia does not know of your daughter’s existence and neither Byron or I wish her to know. If you sign this contract, however, I will give you a one-off payment of one million pounds sterling in complete settlement of your daughter’s claim.’

Raff had met people like the Drewes far too many times; with them it always came down to money. What a cold existence they must lead.

‘What does the contract say?’ Clara’s voice was completely still but she was gripping his hand as if he were the only thing anchoring her.

‘It says your daughter has no claim now or in the future on our money or any of our business interests. It also states clearly that she may make no attempts to contact Byron or any member of his family.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s a good offer, Clara.’ At least Byron didn’t try to meet her eye. Coward.

He had promised himself that he wouldn’t intercede but it was no good. How dared they treat Clara like this? ‘I’ll get my lawyer to have a look at it. Clara isn’t signing anything today.’ Raff made no attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Clara pushed the contract away and rose to her feet. ‘I won’t sign away my daughter’s right to contact her father or siblings although don’t worry, Byron, I’ll do my best to talk her out of it. I would hate for her to be humiliated the way I have been today.’

She was amazing. Calm, clear, holding her anger at bay. But it was costing her; he could hear the strain in her voice, see it in the tense way she stood. What if she hadn’t asked him to be there, had had to face these two men alone? It wasn’t that she couldn’t defend herself. She obviously could. No damsel in distress, this lady. But she shouldn’t have to.

She should never have been put into this position. They thought their money and influence gave them the right to treat people like dirt. They were everything he despised.

Raff stood up, taking Clara’s hand in his as she continued, her eyes as cold as her voice, but he could feel her hand shaking slightly as she held herself together. ‘I won’t promise not to send you yearly updates—you don’t have to open them but she is your daughter and the least you can do is acknowledge that she exists. As for the money, keep it. I work hard and I provide for her. I always have. I’ve put every cheque you sent away for her future and that’s where it stays. I don’t need anything from you, Byron, not any more, and I certainly don’t need anything from you, Mr Drewe.’

The older man’s face was choleric. ‘Now don’t be so hasty...’

‘If you change your mind, if you want to meet her, then you know where I am. Ready, Raff?’

‘Ready.’ He got to his feet and nodded at the two men. ‘I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure but I was brought up to be honest.’

* * *

It wasn’t until they got outside that Clara realised that she was shaking, every nerve jangling, every muscle trembling.

‘Come on.’ Raff’s eyes were still blazing. ‘You’ve had a shock and you need something to eat. And if I stay anywhere near here I will march back in there and tell them exactly what I think of them.’

‘They wouldn’t care.’ She wasn’t just shaking, she was cold to the bone. Clara wrapped her arms around herself trying to get some heat into her frozen limbs.

‘I’d feel better though.’ He shot her a concerned glance. ‘Come here.’ He pulled Clara into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her close. ‘You’re like ice.’

She had tried so hard to avoid his touch since that afternoon, since she had let down her guard, but the memory of his touch was seared onto her nerve endings and her treacherous body sank thankfully against him.

‘Let’s get a taxi. We can go to Rafferty’s, get you fed.’

‘No, honestly.’ Clara wasn’t ready to face the world yet. ‘Let’s just walk. I need some air.’

‘Whatever you want.’ But he didn’t let go of her, not fully, capturing her hands in his, keeping her close as they walked. ‘I am going to insist on tea full of sugar though. I work in a medical capacity, remember? I am fully qualified to prescribe hot, sweet drinks.’

Clara knew that if she spoke, just one word, she’d start to cry. And she didn’t know if she would ever be able to stop. So she simply nodded and allowed him to continue to hold her hands as they ambled slowly through the grey streets.

‘You must think I’m a fool,’ she said finally. They had continued to wander aimlessly until they had reached Regent’s Park. Raff had bought them both hot drinks from a kiosk and they walked along the tree-lined paths in silence.

Raff looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t think anything of the sort. Why?’

‘Byron.’

He huffed out a laugh. ‘If you judged me on my taste in women when I was eighteen your opinion of me would be very low indeed.’

But Clara didn’t want absolution. The humiliation cut so deep. ‘I thought I was so worldly. I had travelled thousands of miles alone, with a ticket I had saved up for. I had amazing A-level results. I had it all. I was an idiot. An immature idiot.’

She risked looking into his face, poised to see contempt or, worse, pity, but all she saw was warm understanding. ‘I didn’t really date at school. I was so focused on my future, on leaving Hopeford. So when I met Byron...’ She shook her head. ‘We were in Bali, staying in the same hostel. He was two years older and seemed so mature. I had no idea he was from a wealthy family. He didn’t act like it. It was his suggestion we share a house in Sydney and save to go travelling together. It was his own little rebellion against his father’s plans.’

‘We all have those.’ His mouth twisted.

‘At least yours involves saving people’s lives.’ She wasn’t ready for absolution. ‘Byron was just playing. But I didn’t see it. I fell for him completely. When I found out I was pregnant I was really happy. I thought we really had a future, travelling the world with a baby. God, I was so naïve.’ She stopped and scuffed her foot along the floor, as unsettled as a teenager on her very first date. ‘Thank you.’

Raff raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What for?’

‘For standing by me, for allowing me to handle it.’

‘Well,’ he confessed, ‘that wasn’t easy. I don’t usually resort to violence but I had to sit on my hands to keep from throttling Byron’s father when he offered you the money.’

‘Why do men keep offering me money? First you and now him. Why do some people think that throwing money at things—at me—solves their problems?’

To her horror Clara could hear that her voice was shaking and feel the lump in her throat was growing. Keep it together, Clara, she told herself, but there were times when will power wasn’t enough.

Clara blinked, hard, but it was too late as the threatened tears spilled out in an undignified cascade. She knuckled her eyes furiously, as if she could force them back.

‘Because we’re fools?’ Raff took her hand in his, his fingers drawing caressing circles on her palm. It wasn’t the first time he had touched her today but this wasn’t comforting; the slow, lazy touch sent shivers shooting up her arm.

‘No, don’t.’ She pulled her treacherous hand away. ‘You don’t have to be nice to me. This is all a pretence, isn’t it?’ The only person she could ask to stand by her wasn’t really in her life at all. How pathetic was that?

Her throat ached with the effort of keeping back the sobs threatening to erupt in a noisy, undignified mess, the tears continuing to escape as Raff took hold of her, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look him in the eyes.

‘Not all of it,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘It’s not all pretence, Clara. Is it? I know we haven’t talked about it, try and pretend it didn’t happen, but it felt pretty real to me.’

‘That was just sex.’ Easy to say but she knew her tone lacked conviction. There was no such thing as just sex for Clara; she hadn’t trusted anyone enough to get close enough for ‘just sex’ since Byron. Just this man, standing right here, looking down at her with the kind of mixture of concern and heat that could take a girl’s breath away.

‘I’m on your side, Clara. I’m here for you, whatever you need, whatever you want.’

Hope sprang up, unwanted, pathetic, needy; she pushed it ruthlessly away. ‘For as long as we have a deal, right?’ Was that sarcastic voice really hers?

‘For as long as it takes, as long as you need me.’ His hands tightened on her shoulders, his eyes dark, intense as if he could bore the truth of his words into her.

And, oh, how she wanted to believe him. She didn’t mean to move but somehow she was moving forward, allowing herself to lean in, rest her head against the broad shoulders, allowing those strong arms to encircle her, pull her close as the desperate sobs finally overwhelmed her, muffled against his jacket. And he didn’t move, just held her tight, let her cry it all out. For as long as she needed to.