A Rich Man's Touch. Anne Mather
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stared at him. ‘You’ve been following us?’
‘Not me, no,’ said Gabriel reluctantly, releasing her arm and sagging back in his seat, as if the effort of restraining her had exhausted him. ‘Now I suppose you’ll accuse me of stalking you?’
Rachel didn’t know what to say. The panic that had appeared so abruptly had given way to a curious sense of anticipation, and although she knew she ought to be angry with him, there was something about his sudden capitulation that was oddly appealing.
‘Why?’ she asked helplessly. ‘Why are you doing this?’
‘I wish to God I knew,’ he said in response, a mocking twist to his mouth. ‘Believe me, I’m not in the habit of pursuing my son’s ex-girlfriends. And, although I was curious about you, I had no intention of making a nuisance of myself.’
‘You haven’t…’ Rachel spoke impulsively and then wished she hadn’t. ‘I mean—I didn’t say that.’
‘But you probably thought it, hmm?’
Rachel shrugged. ‘I don’t understand what you—what you want of me.’
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is it so inconceivable that I might find your company enjoyable?’
‘Frankly, yes.’ Rachel was honest.
‘Because you think I’m too old to have a sexual relationship?’
A sexual relationship!
Rachel swallowed, too shocked to offer a rational defence. Falling back on platitudes, she murmured, ‘You’re not old.’
‘I wish I could believe you meant that.’ He paused. ‘How old are you, Rachel? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? I can give you twenty years at least.’
‘I’m twenty-eight,’ said Rachel shortly. ‘Andrew is three years younger than me.’
‘And I’m seventeen years older.’ He arched a dark brow. ‘Twenty years! Seventeen! It’s still an awfully long time, isn’t it?’
‘Who are you trying to convince?’ she asked, forced to argue with him, and then flushed at the familiarity in her tone. ‘I’m sorry. But you did ask.’
‘Hey, don’t apologise.’ Gabriel was unconcerned. ‘I’m encouraged that you feel able to relax with me.’ He lifted his beer to his lips, watching her the whole time. Then, after putting it down again, he added, ‘I like it.’
Rachel felt totally out of her depth. ‘You know, I really do have to go,’ she said at last, glancing at her watch. ‘There’s a bus that leaves in exactly five minutes—’
‘I’ve said I’ll take you home,’ Gabriel reminded her. ‘Please. Let me. I want to.’
Rachel’s limbs melted. It was all too easy to imagine him using those same words in an entirely different context—an entirely sexual context, she acknowledged unsteadily—and it was incredibly difficult to remember that this man was—could be—her enemy.
‘It’s not necessary,’ she began, but he was already out of the booth and offering her his hand to help her to her feet.
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he said, the expression in his eyes telling her that he knew exactly why she’d pretended not to see his gesture. ‘Shall we go?’
AN ENORMOUS bouquet of flowers was delivered to the café the following morning. It contained roses and irises, freesias and carnations, and many other species Rachel couldn’t identify. Stephanie thought that some of the more exotic blooms were orchids, but Rachel was simply overwhelmed by the size and beauty of the bouquet.
There was a card attached but, as if he was aware that his gift would be contentious enough, Gabriel had merely signed his initials and left her to explain why he’d sent them.
‘You mean, you actually went out with him last night and you weren’t going to say anything?’ Stephanie asked accusingly, when her friend was obliged to explain that she had seen Gabriel Webb again.
‘It wasn’t that important,’ Rachel protested, cradling the bouquet defensively. ‘We had a drink together after I closed the café. That was all.’
‘All?’ Stephanie shook her head. ‘But surely you knew that I’d find out sooner or later? Your mother’s bound to mention it.’
‘Mum doesn’t know,’ admitted Rachel reluctantly. ‘I—I had him drop me at the end of Maple Avenue.’
Stephanie’s jaw dropped. ‘Why?’
‘Why do you think?’ Rachel cast her eyes around, looking for vases in which she could arrange the flowers. ‘To avoid another confrontation, of course.’ She paused. ‘Are you going to tell her?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’ Stephanie was indignant.
‘You told her how many times Gabriel had come into the café,’ Rachel reminded her, and the other woman snorted.
‘So it’s Gabriel now, is it? And as far as telling your mother about him coming here is concerned, I didn’t know it was a secret.’
‘It’s not.’ Rachel shook her head a little guiltily now, aware that she had used Gabriel’s name far too easily. Even though she insisted on calling him Mr Webb to his face, it was obvious that deep down she didn’t think of him that way and the knowledge was disturbing. She supposed she ought to tell her mother the truth about why she and Andrew had split up, and thus clear Gabriel’s name in that respect. But wasn’t that admitting that she thought there was something between them? She sighed as she looked at Stephanie. ‘I—I don’t know what to do about it; why he keeps coming here.’
Stephanie gave her a disbelieving look. ‘Why do you think?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Oh, come on, Rachel, you’re not that naïve.’ Her friend was impatient now. ‘He’s obviously attracted to you. Don’t look at me like that. What other reason could there be?’
Rachel turned away, unwilling to pursue that any further, and, glancing up at the shelves, she said tersely, ‘Um—where did we put those vases we used at Christmas?’
‘Don’t ask me.’ Stephanie was equally terse in her response. ‘Why don’t you send the flowers to a hospital instead? That way you’ll not have to worry about your mother asking where they came from.’
‘Oh, God!’ Rachel groaned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ She looked regretfully down at the flowers in her arms. ‘Do you think I should?’
‘I think you should do what you want to do,’ declared Stephanie, her tone gentling. ‘Rach, there’s no law that says you shouldn’t go out with Gabriel Webb if you want to. He’s free and so are you. Okay, so he’s probably old enough to be your father. So what? It’s nothing to stress about.’
‘He’s seventeen years older than I am,’ said Rachel quietly, and Stephanie arched a speculative brow.
‘So you got around to ages, did you? Not such a casual conversation, after all.’
‘Stop it.’ Rachel sighed. ‘Oh, Steph, do you think he feels—well, sorry for me?’
‘Sorry for you?’ Stephanie blinked. ‘Why should he feel sorry for you?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rachel shifted a little awkwardly. ‘I suppose because he’s used to dealing with much more glamorous women than me.’
‘Stop fishing.’ Stephanie laughed. ‘You know as well as I do that you’re just as good-looking now as you were when you married Larry.’
‘Which