A Rich Man's Touch. Anne Mather
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I think those were my favourite things.’
‘Do you like strawberry milkshakes, too?’ asked Hannah, wide-eyed. ‘They’re my very favourite drinks. Only Mummy says that having a milkshake as well as a banana split will spoil my supper.’
‘Well, I guess Mummy knows best—’
‘Eat your ice cream, Hannah.’ Mrs Redfern had evidently had enough of this interruption to their routine. She looked at Gabriel. ‘I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than waste time talking to a six-year-old, Mr Webb. As Rachel told you, the café’s closed. It was my fault. I forgot to lock the door.’
Gabriel got to his feet. ‘No problem,’ he said easily, his eyes moving from the older woman’s tight closed face to Rachel’s embarrassed one. ‘You’ve got a very pretty daughter, Rachel,’ he appended. ‘I envy you.’
Rachel’s lips parted. She didn’t know what to say. Or, at least, she knew what she ought to say, what her mother was expecting her to say, but she couldn’t do it.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured instead, conscious of him in a way that was totally personal, totally inappropriate. ‘I’m sorry about—about the sign.’
‘Yeah.’
He held her gaze for a moment longer than was necessary and Rachel felt as if the world around her had shifted on its axis. Then, with a murmured word of farewell for Hannah and a polite nod in Mrs Redfern’s direction, he started towards the door.
Rachel hesitated only briefly before going after him. She had to lock the door, she defended herself, but she could tell from her mother’s expression that she wasn’t deceived. Mrs Redfern looked as if she knew exactly what her daughter was thinking, and Rachel wished she wasn’t so transparent.
It was still raining, heavily, and Gabriel halted in the doorway. ‘Do you have transport?’ he asked, his eyes on her averted face, and Rachel quickly nodded.
‘Oh, yes,’ she assured him, wondering what he would have done if she’d said no. ‘Um—do you?’
It was a stupid question and she knew it. The Webbs owned a fleet of cars. They employed a chauffeur, for heaven’s sake. He would think she was a complete idiot for asking.
But instead of answering her, he asked her a question. ‘What would you do if I said no?’
Rachel’s breath caught in her throat. ‘I don’t know.’ She moistened her lips. ‘Offer to call you a taxi, I suppose.’
‘Ah.’ His mouth took on a sardonic curve. ‘I imagine it would be awkward if you suggested anything else.’
Rachel’s hand sought an unruly strand of her honey-streaked brown hair and tucked it behind her ear. Then, ‘Like what?’ she asked rather breathlessly, and he smiled.
‘Well, it’s obvious I’d not be your mother’s favourite choice of travelling companion,’ he remarked drily. ‘That is, if you were thinking of offering me a lift home.’ He paused. ‘Which, of course, you’re not.’
Rachel straightened her spine. ‘I think you’re teasing me, Mr Webb. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted journey—’
‘It wasn’t a wasted journey,’ he contradicted her softly. ‘It gave me the opportunity to meet your charming little daughter.’
‘And why would you want to meet Han—my daughter?’ asked Rachel tensely, aware that her mother was getting more and more irritated with this exchange. With good reason, she acknowledged wryly. She should have avoided any attempt to prolong this conversation.
‘I didn’t say it was my prime objective,’ he retorted now, turning up his collar against the rain and contemplating the weather with resignation. ‘Meeting Hannah was a bonus.’
Rachel stared at him then. In profile, his face had a harsh beauty despite its strength. Narrow cheekbones hollowed beneath heavy lids and his lean mouth had a sensual appeal. His appearance disturbed her and she knew again that unwelcome twinge of panic at the realisation. She didn’t want to feel the emotions he aroused inside her.
‘I think you’d better go, Mr Webb,’ she said stiffly, scared she might betray herself in some way, and flinched when he turned his narrow-eyed gaze upon her.
‘Call me Gabriel—or Gabe, if you’d prefer it,’ he said, his eyes on her mouth. Then, before she could object, he added, ‘There’s my car,’ and strode purposefully across the street to get into the back of a silver-grey Mercedes that had been idling in the ‘No Parking’ area. He raised his hand as the car drove away but Rachel didn’t respond. She was still trying to come to terms with the fact that it was she he had wanted to see.
‘HAVE you seen that man again?’
It was Sunday evening and Rachel was in the process of bathing her daughter. Hannah loved being in the tub, and although Rachel knew it was wishful thinking, she sometimes thought the little girl actually moved her legs in the soapy water.
Mrs Redfern had come to stand in the bathroom doorway and Rachel glanced briefly over her shoulder. She and her mother and Hannah shared this house in Maple Avenue, which had been the Redferns’ family home for the past twenty-five years. Her father had died over ten years ago, and when Larry had been killed in the car accident that had paralysed their daughter it had seemed sensible for Rachel to move back in with her mother. The house was big enough to accommodate a family, goodness knew, and Rachel had never regretted her decision.
Without her mother to look after Hannah she could never have returned to college or gone into business for herself. She wouldn’t have had the security she enjoyed now without the older woman’s help, and she felt instantly guilty for the resentment that swelled inside her at her mother’s words. Mrs Redfern had said little about Gabriel Webb since she’d offered her opinion of his character after he’d left the caféon that Thursday afternoon, but Rachel realised she had been waiting for her to refer to him again.
‘What man?’ asked Hannah at once, ever alert to any gossip, and Rachel gave her mother a telling look.
‘No one you know,’ she said shortly, justifying the lie to herself. Then, with another warning glance in her mother’s direction, ‘No, I haven’t. Have you?’
Mrs Redfern’s lips pursed. ‘There’s no need to take that attitude, Rachel. It was a perfectly reasonable question. But, if you insist on burying your head in the sand—’
‘Why would you bury your head in the sand, Mummy?’ Hannah was puzzled. ‘Does Grandma mean at the seaside?’
‘Something like that,’ said Rachel shortly, soaping the sponge and applying it rather aggressively to the little girl’s shoulders. Hannah protested, and Rachel was instantly contrite. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ she exclaimed. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
‘Well, I think the truth is that you were,’ retorted Mrs Redfern tersely, going out of the bathroom and slamming the door behind her, and Rachel expelled a weary breath.
That was all she needed: for her mother to get it into her head that she was interested in Gabriel Webb. It was ridiculous! Ludicrous! He was Andrew’s father, for God’s sake! He had to be at least twenty years older than she was.
‘Is Grandma cross?’
Hannah’s anxious question reminded her that she had a sensitive child to deal with, and Rachel quickly rescued her expression. ‘Grandma’s not cross with you,’ she assured the little girl with a bright smile. ‘Now, come on. Let me lift you onto the seat and we’ll shower you off.’
It was comparatively easy to divert Hannah’s attention, but later that evening Rachel was forced to face her mother’s censure again. With her daughter safely tucked up in bed there was no third party