Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage. Sophie Pembroke
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might be picturesque enough to pull in tourists and Londoners looking for a lengthy if direct commute, but they were completely ill suited for work vans.
And it was easier to concentrate on the driving than it was trying to make conversation with someone who seemed to suck all the air out of the van. It had always felt so spacious before.
Unfortunately Raff didn’t seem to feel the same way. ‘How long has Polly lived here?’
Clara negotiated a particularly tight turn before answering as briefly as was polite. ‘About three years, I believe.’
He looked about him. ‘It seems quiet, not her kind of place at all.’
Clara glanced over at him. She knew that he and Polly were twins and the relationship was obvious. They both had straight, dark blond hair, although his was far more dishevelled than his sister’s usual sleek chignon, straight, almost Roman noses and well-cut mouths. But the similarity seemed only skin deep. Polly Rafferty was quiet, always working, whether at home or on her long train journey into the capital. She was reserved and polite; Clara was the closest thing she had in Hopeford to a friend.
On balance she much preferred the sister’s reservation to the brother’s easy charm and devilish grin. They were dangerous attributes, especially if you had once been susceptible to a laid-back rich boy’s style.
Clara knew all too well where that led. Nowhere she ever wanted to go again.
‘The town is increasingly popular,’ she said, carefully keeping her voice neutral. ‘It’s pretty, we have good schools and we’re on a direct train line into London.’
‘Ye—es...’ He sounded doubtful. ‘But Polly doesn’t have kids and last I saw she wasn’t that bothered about quiet either. If she wanted pretty there are plenty of places in London that fit the bill. It’s not like she’s short of money.’
His tone was disparaging and the look on his face as he stared out at the picturesque street no better. Clara gripped the steering wheel tightly. She might moan about incomers flooding the place, driving prices up and her friends out, but at least they appreciated the town.
‘You don’t have to stay here,’ she said after a moment. ‘There are plenty of hotels in London.’
His lips tightened. ‘The key to Polly’s whereabouts is here. I can feel it. Until I know where she is—and how I can get her to come home—I’m staying.’
* * *
Polly Rafferty’s house was just a short drive away from Clara’s office, a pretty cottage situated on a meandering lane leading out to the countryside. It was one of Clara’s favourite houses; many of her clients had bought the huge new builds that had sprung up on gated estates around the town, large and luxurious certainly but lacking in Hopeford charm.
‘Picturesque.’ It wasn’t a compliment, not with that twist of the mouth.
‘Isn’t it?’ she said, deliberately taking his statement at face value. ‘This is the most sought-after area in town, close to the countryside and the train station. There’s a good pub within walking distance too.’
‘All amenities,’ Raff said, looking about him, his expression one step removed from disdainful.
The condescension prickled away at her. It was odd. She had so many clients who talked down to her and her staff and it never got to her; twenty minutes in this man’s sardonic company and she was ready to scream.
Ignoring him, Clara unlocked the front door and stood back to let the tall man enter. He stood there for a second, clearly conflicted about preceding her into the house. She waited patiently, a thrill of satisfaction running through her when he finally gave in, ducking to fit his tall frame through the small door.
He was as out of place in the low-ceilinged, beamed cottage as a cat at Crufts. The house was sparingly and tastefully decorated but the designer had worked with the history rather than against it. Rich fabrics, colour and flowers predominated throughout, a sharp contrast with the casually dressed man in jeans and desert boots, an old kitbag hoisted over his shoulder.
He didn’t look much like a playboy. He looked like a weary soldier who wanted nothing more than a hot shower and a bed.
‘The bedrooms are upstairs,’ Clara said, gesturing towards the small creaky staircase that wound up to the next floor. ‘I had the main guest room made up for you. It’s the second door on the right. There’s an en-suite shower room.’
She should offer to show him up there but every nerve was screeching at her to stay downstairs, to keep her distance. Noticing the weary slant to his shoulders led to seeing the lines around his eyes, the dark hollows under them emphasising the dark navy blue, leading in turn to a disturbing awareness of the lines of his body under the rumpled T-shirt, the way his battered jeans clung to lean, muscled legs.
She squeezed her eyes shut. What was she doing ogling clients? Pull yourself together.
Maybe her mother was right: it might be time to consider dating again. Her hormones were clearly so tired of being kept under rigid control they were running amok for the most unsuitable of men.
Clara took a deep breath, feeling her nails bite into her palms as she tried to summon her habitual poise. ‘The kitchen’s through here,’ she said, marching back into the hallway and leading the way into the light spacious room that took up the entire back of the cottage. She had always envied Polly this room. It was made for a family, not for one lone workaholic who ate standing up at the counter. She didn’t look back as she continued to briskly outline the preparations she had made.
‘I stocked up with the usual order but if there is anything else you’d like write it here.’ She gestured towards the memo pad on the front of the fridge.
She turned to check if he was following and skidded to a halt, backing up a few steps as she nearly collided with his broad chest. ‘Erm, there’s a lovely courgette and feta quiche in the freezer, which will make a nice, simple dinner tonight.’ Clara could feel the telltale burn spreading across her cheeks and knew she was turning red. She backed away another step, turning her back on him once again, finding safety in the sleek chrome fridge door. ‘If you want your dinner provided then Sue, the regular cleaner, will pop a stew or a curry into the slow cooker for you but you must leave a note on the morning you require it or email the office before ten a.m.’
She was babbling. She never babbled but everything felt out of kilter. Her whole body was prickled with awareness of his nearness. She turned, smiled brightly. ‘Any questions?’
Raff’s mouth quirked. ‘Is there anything you don’t do around here?’
‘Your sister employs me to keep the house clean, the cupboards stocked, to take care of any problems. She’s a busy woman,’ she said, unnaturally defensive as she saw the disbelief in his face. ‘I offer a full housekeeping service without the inconvenience of live-in staff.’
‘She pays you to stock the fridge with quiche?’ But the smirk was playing around his mouth again. Annoyingly.
‘My father’s quiche,’ she corrected him. ‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. There’s also plenty of salad, fruit and hummus.’
‘Beer, crisps, meat?’
‘Put it on the list,’ she said, wanting to remain professional, aloof, but she could feel her mouth responding to his smile, wanting to bend upwards.
She needed to get out. Get some air and give herself a stern talking-to. ‘The pub does food if you want something different,’ she said. ‘Or there are some takeaway menus on the memo board. You’ll be fine.’
‘I usually am.’
‘Okay, then.’ She paused, made awkward by the intensity of his gaze. With an effort Clara pulled on her professional persona like a comfort blanket. ‘If you have any problems at all just get in touch.’ She held out her card.
He