Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage. Sophie Pembroke
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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 usually cleaned the Rafferty house, he hadn’t been back since. His bed was unrumpled, no dishes had been used, no laundry left. Either he was extraordinarily tidy, so tidy even Sue’s legendary forensic skills couldn’t find any trace of him, or he was staying in London.
This was all Maddie’s fault. If she hadn’t pulled her aside, told her to invite him in for coffee. ‘It’s not always a euphemism,’ she’d said, mischief glinting in those green eyes so like Clara’s own. Only brighter, livelier, flirtier. ‘Not unless you want it to be...’
Of course she didn’t. And coffee at that time of night was irresponsible anyway—inviting someone in for a cup of peppermint tea was probably never misconstrued. She could have done that. But did she want to? Want that tall, confident man in her flat? Even for one innocent cup of hot herbal beverage?
Because there was one moment when he had looked down at her and her breath had caught in her throat, every nerve end pulsing with an anticipation she hadn’t felt in years. If she had stepped forward rather than backwards, if he had put his hands on her shoulders, angled his mouth down to hers, what would she have done?
Clara slumped forward. This all proved that she had taken the whole not-dating, stability-for-Summer thing just a tiny bit too far. If she had allowed her mother to set her up, just occasionally, for dinner and drinks with one of the many eligible men she had suggested over the years, then one measly hour in the pub, one small drink, wouldn’t have thrown her so decidedly off kilter.
Raff Rafferty had been a tiny drop of water after a long drought. It didn’t mean he was the right kind of water but just one taste had reminded her of what she was missing. What it felt like to have an attractive man’s attention focused solely on her.
Even