His Reluctant Cinderella. Jessica Gilmore
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sighed as she got to her feet, gathering her bag and coat in her arms. ‘I already told you...’
He’d blown it. He was too tired to play the game properly. He made one last-ditch attempt. ‘I’m sorry. Let me walk you home.’
‘Why? So you can interrogate me some more?’ She shook her head, the red-gold tendrils trembling against her neck.
‘No.’ Well, only partly. ‘It’s good manners.’ In some of the places Raff had lived you always saw the girl home. Even if it was the tent next to yours.
She shot him an amused glance. ‘I think I’ll be okay.’
‘I won’t,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll lie awake all night worrying I failed in my chivalric duty. And I’ll have to go to work tomorrow all red-eyed and pale from worry and they will all think I’ve been out carousing all night. Which will be most unfair as it’s barely nine p.m.’
‘I don’t live far.’ But it wasn’t a no and she didn’t complain as he drained his drink and followed her out, noting the blush that crept over her cheeks as she said goodbye to her cousin, who pulled her close for a hug and to whisper something in her ear.
‘Where to?’ he asked as he fell into step beside her. She walked just as he’d thought she would, purposeful, long strides in her sensible low-heeled boots.
‘I live above the office.’
That wasn’t a surprise. ‘All work and no play...’ he teased. It wasn’t meant with any malice but to his surprise she stopped and turned, the light from the lamp post highlighting the colour in her cheeks.
‘Why do people think it’s a bad thing to concentrate on work?’ she asked. Raff didn’t reply; he could tell the question wasn’t really aimed at him. ‘So I work hard. I want to provide stability for my daughter. Is that such a bad thing?’
Daughter?
‘I didn’t know you were married,’ he said and wanted to recall the words as soon as he said them. This wasn’t the nineteen fifties and she wasn’t wearing a ring.
‘I’m not,’ she said coldly and resumed walking even faster than before.
Way to go, Raff, nice building of rapport, he thought wryly. You’ll get Polly’s address out of her in no time.
He cast about for a safer topic. ‘How old is she? Your daughter?’
‘Ten,’ she said shortly but he could feel her soften, see her shoulders relax slightly. ‘Her name’s Summer.’
‘Pretty.’
‘I was in a bit of a hippy stage at the time,’ she confessed. ‘Summer says she’s glad she was born then because I’d probably call her something sensible and boring now. But it suits her.’
‘Does she live with you?’
‘I know the flat’s not ideal for a child,’ she said. Why did she assume every question was a criticism? ‘But there’s a garden at my parents’ and she spends a lot of time there.’
‘I spent a lot of time with my grandparents too.’ During the school holidays it had been the only home he’d known.
‘Polly said they brought you up.’ It was a simple statement; there was no curiosity or prying behind it but it shocked him all the same. Polly was confiding in Clara, then. No wonder she hadn’t put the welcome mat out for him.
What else had his twin said?
‘Do you see a lot of Polly?’ The question was abrupt and he tried to soften it. ‘We’re not really in touch any more. I’m glad she has a friend here.’
‘We’re both busy but we catch up when we can.’ It wasn’t enough but he didn’t know how to push the issue without frightening her off.
And at least Polly had someone looking out for her. He tried again. ‘If you care for all your clients the way you look after Polly, no wonder you’re so busy.’
‘Not all of them. Some just want cleaners and gardeners, others like to outsource all their home maintenance. Or I can provide babysitters, a shopping service, interior designers. Often it’s just putting people in touch with the right services.’
‘And taking a cut?’
Clara smiled. ‘Of course. But some people need me on call twenty-four seven, to pick up dry-cleaning, pick the kids up from school, buy last-minute gifts. Whatever they need I supply.’
She sounded so calm, so utterly in control and yet she was what? Late-twenties? A couple of years younger than Raff.
‘Impressive.’ He meant it.
‘Not really.’ She sounded a little less sure. ‘None of it was really planned.’ She had slowed down, her step less decisive, nervously twisting the delicate silver bangle on her wrist round and round. ‘I had Summer and I needed to work. Oh, I know my parents would have let us live there. They wanted me to go to university but I couldn’t just offload my responsibilities onto them. There’s a lot of incomers in Hopeford, busy commuters with no time and a lot of money. I started cleaning for them and things kind of snowballed.’
She made it sound so easy but Raff was in no doubt that building her business up from cleaning services to the slick operation she ran today had taken a lot of grit and determination.
‘I’d love Summer to have a proper home.’ She sounded a little wistful. ‘A kitchen like Polly’s and a huge garden. But living above the office is practical—and it’s ours. It was a better investment than a house at this stage in our lives.’
Investment, plans. It was like an alternative universe to a man who lived out of a kitbag and changed countries more frequently than he had his hair cut.
‘This is me.’ Clara had come to a stop outside the leaded bow window. She stood at the door calm, composed. ‘Do you think you can find your way back or do I need to walk you home now?’
Her face was unreadable and there was no hint of flirtatiousness in her manner. Was she trying to be funny or was she completely serious? Raff couldn’t figure her out at all. ‘I have an excellent sense of direction,’ he assured her. ‘So...’
‘Goodnight, then.’ She offered him her hand, a quaintly old-fashioned gesture. Their eyes met, held; Raff could see uncertainty in her gaze as she stood there for one long second before she abruptly stepped back and turned, hands fumbling with her keys.
And she was gone without even one last backward glance.
Raff let out a long breath, an unexpected stab of disappointment shocking him. Fool, he told himself. You’re not here to flirt and, even if you had the time or inclination, since when were ice maidens your style? He was tired, that was all, the jet lag clouding his judgement.
He had a job to do: find Polly, get her home, return to his real life. Nothing and no one, especially not the possessor of a pair of upwardly tilted green eyes, was going to get in his way.
WHAT WAS THAT?
Clara looked up as the front door creaked, but it was only someone walking by. Old buildings and narrow pavements equalled many creaks and bangs. It was a good thing she wasn’t a nervous type.
Nor was she usually the door-watching type.
But it was getting to be a habit.
First at the pub, now today. And yesterday.
She was pathetic.
Especially as she knew only too well that Raff Rafferty hadn’t even set foot in Hopeford in the last three days. He had, she guessed, boarded the train to London on Wednesday morning along with all the rest of the commuters but, according to Sue, the woman who