CHAPTER SEVEN

      ‘ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF?’

      ‘Yes, thank you.’ Polite, cool, collected. Of course she was, just as she always was.

      Clara was playing her part to perfection. His house, his life were seamlessly run by her employees while she stepped into her role as his girlfriend with grace. His employees liked her, she had charmed every business associate he had introduced her to and even his grandfather was showing signs of thawing.

      But as soon as they were alone she retreated behind a shield of courtesy and efficiency. A shield he made no attempt to push aside.

      It was better that way even if he did keep getting flashbacks of hot kisses, silky skin and fevered moans. After all, he usually kept his relationships short and sweet, superficial. Just not usually this short.

      Or this sweet.

      ‘I think we’ve shown our faces long enough if you want to leave.’ Raff liked music as much as the next man but the benefit for ill and destitute musicians was a little out of his comfort zone. ‘Unless, of course, you’re enjoying it.’

      The corners of her mouth tilted up, as close as she had got to a genuine smile in weeks. ‘The violinist sounds just like Summer when she’s practising,’ she whispered, her breath sweet on his cheek. ‘I had no idea I was raising a musical genius.’

      ‘He sounds like Mr Simpkins when I’ve forgotten his evening fish,’ Raff retorted. ‘I think they’re trying to extort money from us with menaces. Pay up or the music continues.’

      ‘The percussionists were good and the harpist wasn’t too bad...’ She broke off, biting her lip, laughter lurking in her eyes.

      ‘Until she started singing.’ Raff glared over at the harp. ‘If she isn’t some sort of banshee then that voice was genetically engineered for warfare. There’s no way those howls could be natural.’

      ‘Come on.’ Clara placed her hand upon his arm, just as she had done at every party, every dinner, every benefit over the last few weeks. His blood began to heat up until he was surprised his sleeve didn’t burst into flames, but he didn’t betray his discomfort by a single twinge.

      ‘Only if you want,’ he demurred. ‘There’s still the Cymbal Concerto to go. I’d hate for you to miss out.’

      ‘So considerate.’ She might look as if she were wafting along on his arm but her hand was inexorably steering him towards the open doors. ‘Successful night?’

      ‘When it was quiet enough to hear myself speak. Polly must be exhausted, spending her free time at these things.’ Raff routinely worked twelve-, fourteen-hour days out in the field but give him those any day over his sister’s routine of office by day, business socialising by night. ‘I would give anything for a quiet night in The Swan.’

      ‘Me too. You know, I thought my life was in danger of getting into a rut.’ Clara breathed in a deep sigh as they left through the double doors that led from the ornate banqueting hall into the equally ornate but much quieter and cooler vestibule. ‘But after several weeks of social events I am yearning for my sofa, a film and something really plain to eat. A jacket potato, salad, a piece of grilled chicken.’

      ‘That sounds amazing.’ It really did. Canapés and fancy dinners had lost any novelty after just a few days. ‘Can I join you?’

      It was supposed to be a joke but he made the mistake of looking directly at her; their gazes snagged, held and colour rose over the high cheekbones. ‘It would be a rom-com,’ she warned him, looking away, her voice light.

      ‘My favourite.’ Right then he almost meant it; a night lazing on a sofa, something undemanding on the TV, sounded like paradise. But he could feel the phone in his pocket almost physically weighting him down stuffed as it was with commitments and appointments and functions, all as serious and important and necessary as tonight’s. ‘I might have a spare evening in, oh, about three weeks.’

      Rafferty’s had to be represented, had to be seen to be there. This was where business was discussed, decided, where deals were struck. Under the sparkling lights, a glass of something expensive in one hand, a canapé in the other.

      ‘Actually...’ Clara sounded almost shy, tentative, completely unlike her usual assertive self ‘...I wondered if you were free tomorrow morning?’

      ‘On a Sunday?’ Raff didn’t even try to hide his shock. Apart from that very first week, Clara had kept Sundays sacrosanct. They were her family day, a day she was very firmly off duty.

      Did that mean her daughter would be there? Raff rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly a little warm. Just because he and Clara had shared a moment didn’t mean he was ready to play at happy families. Especially as that particular moment had been well and truly brushed under the carpet.

      And although there were times when he wished it hadn’t been quite so rigorously filed under ‘let’s never mention this again’, this was a stark reminder why it had to be.

      Families, children, commitment. All very nice in principle, but tying. Even more weighty than the phone.

      ‘I know we don’t usually work on a Sunday.’ She made the statement sound like a question and Raff shrugged non-committally.

      It was chilly outside, cold enough for Clara to pull her wrap around her shoulders as they exited the building and began to make their way down the wide stone steps into the brightness of a London night. If the stars were out Raff couldn’t see them, the streetlamps and neon signs colluding to hide the night sky from the city dwellers.

      He had arranged to meet their driver on the corner of the street and steered Clara along the cobbled pavement, waiting for the inevitable comment about how much her feet hurt.

      It didn’t come. ‘I have an appointment,’ she said instead, looking down at the uneven cobbles. ‘I wondered if you would come with me. You said, a few weeks ago...’ Her voice trailed off.

      ‘Yes.’