His Reluctant Cinderella
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Jessica Gilmore
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Chapter One
‘IF YOU TELL ME where my sister is, I’ll give you ten thousand pounds.’
The down-turned head in front of him lifted slowly and Raff found himself coolly assessed by a pair of the greenest eyes he had ever seen, their slight upward tilt irresistibly feline, the effect heightened by high, slanting cheekbones and a pointed chin.
If this lady had a tail, it would definitely be swishing slowly. A warning sign.
He’d never been that good at heeding warnings. He liked to see them more as a challenge.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was as cold as her stare. Maybe he should have tried charm before hard cash, but somehow Raff doubted that even his patented charm would work on this cool cat.
Her dismissal should have annoyed him, he was used to people snapping to attention when he needed them, but he had to admit he was intrigued. He smiled, slow and warm. ‘Clara Castleton?’
There was no answering upturn of her full mouth as she nodded at the name tag, displayed neatly on the modern oak desk. ‘As you can see. But I don’t believe you introduced yourself?’
‘I don’t believe I did.’ Raff hooked the wooden chair out from opposite her desk and slid into it. He knew his six-foot-two frame could be intimidating, used it to his advantage sometimes, but for some reason, standing before her incredibly neat desk, he was irresistibly reminded of being summoned to the headmaster’s office.
Although that was where any resemblance to his long-suffering former headmaster ended despite her severely cut suit—her strawberry-blonde hair might be ruthlessly scraped back but it looked as if it was all there and she lacked the terrifying bushy eyebrows. Hers were rather neat lines, adding a flourish to what really was a remarkably pretty face, although the hair, the discreet make-up and the suit were all designed to hide the fact. Interesting. Raff filed that fact away for future use. He sensed he was going to need all the weapons he could get.
He leant back in his chair, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Castor Rafferty, but you can call me Raff. I believe you know my sister.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes flickered away from his searching expression. ‘I was expecting you a couple of days ago.’
‘I’ve been busy dropping everything and rushing back to England. So, are you going to tell me where Polly is?’
Clara Castleton shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t tell you if I knew,’ she said. ‘But I don’t.’
Raff narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe her, didn’t want to believe her. Because if she was telling the truth he was at an utter dead end. ‘Come now, Clara. I can call you Clara, can’t I? This short and simple email...’ he held up his phone with the email displayed. Not that he needed to be reminded what it said; he knew it off by heart ‘...tells me quite clearly that in an emergency my sister can be contacted via Clara of Castleton’s Concierge Consultancy. Nice alliteration by the way.’
She took the phone and read the message, those intriguing eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Sorry, I have an email address, nothing more.’
‘I’ve tried emailing a couple of times.’ Try ten. Or twenty. ‘Maybe she’ll read it if it comes from you,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘My original offer still stands.’
‘Keep your money, Mr Rafferty.’ Her voice was positively icy now. Raff was already finding the anaemic English spring chilly; her tone brought the temperature down another few degrees. ‘Your sister has taken care of my fees. She asked me to help settle you in, to continue to make sure the house is cared for. This I can do, it’s what I do. But unless there is a real emergency I won’t be sending any emails.’
It was a clear dismissal—and it rankled, far more than it should do. Time for a change of tactic; he needed to get this right so Polly would be back where she belonged, managing Rafferty’s, the iconic department store founded by their great-grandfather.
And he would be back in the field where he belonged. He’d barely had a chance to unpack, to assess what was needed, how to play his own small yet vital part in stopping the humanitarian crisis unfolding before him from becoming a full-blown disaster, when he’d received Polly’s email ordering him home.
Typical of his family, to think their petty affairs were worth more than thousands of lives. And yet here he was.
Raff looked around the neat, organised room for inspiration. Such a contrast from his last office: a tent on the outskirts of the camp. Even the office before that, situated in an actual building, had been a small room, almost a cupboard, piled high with crates, paperwork and supplies. He couldn’t imagine having all this space to himself.
Occupying the corner at the end of the quaint high street, Clara’s office took up the entire ground floor of a former terraced shop, the original lead-paned bow windows now veiled with blinds, the iron sign holder above the front door empty, replaced by a neat plaque set in the wall.
Outside looked like a still from a film set in Ye Olde England but the inside was a sharp modern contrast. The large room was painted white with only bright-framed photographs to alleviate the starkness, although through the French doors at the back Raff could see a paved courtyard filled with flowering tubs and a small iron table and chairs, a lone hint of homeliness.
Clara’s very large and very tidy desk was near the back by the far wall, facing out across the room. Two inviting sofas clustered by the front window surrounding a coffee table heaped with glossy lifestyle magazines. The whole room was discreet, tasteful and gave him no clue whatsoever to its owner’s personality.
Maybe it was time to try the charm after all.
Raff leaned forward confidingly. ‘I’m worried about Polly,’ he said. ‘It’s so out of character for her to disappear like this. What if she’s ill? I just want to know that she’s all right.’ He allowed a hint of a rueful smile to appear.
The look on Clara’s face oozed disapproval. Yep, she was still giving out the whole ‘disappointed headmaster’ vibe. ‘Mr Rafferty, you and I both know that your sister hasn’t just disappeared. She’s gone on holiday after making sure that both her job and home are taken care of. There really is no mystery.
‘It may be a little out of character.’ Was that doubt creeping into her voice? ‘I haven’t known her to take even a long weekend before—but that’s probably exactly why she needs this break. Besides, isn’t it your company too?’
Unfortunately. ‘Just what has my sister said to you?’
A faint flush crept over the high cheekbones. ‘I don’t understand.’
Oh, she understood all right.
‘She didn’t use the words irresponsible or lazy?’ Polly’s email might have been short but it had been to the point. Her point of view. As always, they differed on that.
The flush deepened. Not so cool after all. The colour gave her warmth, emphasising the curve of her cheek, the lushly dark lashes veiling those incredible eyes. An unexpected jolt of pure attraction shot through him. Before she had been like a marble statue, nice to look at but offputtingly chilly. This hint of vulnerability gave her dimensions. Unwanted, unneeded dimensions. He wasn’t here to flirt. With any luck he’d hardly be here at all.
‘Our communication was purely business,’ but she couldn’t meet his eye. ‘Now, I do happen to have a half-hour free right now. Is this a convenient time for me to show you the house?’
No, Raff wanted to snap. No, actually it wasn’t convenient. None of this was. Not Polly’s most uncharacteristic disappearance, nor her SOS ordering him home right now. She couldn’t expect him to drop everything and step in so she could go on some extended holiday.
Even though he hadn’t been home in over four years. He pushed the thought away. He wasn’t needed here, not as he was out in the field. Besides, his absence had given Polly the opportunity she had wanted; the two circumstances were entirely different.
Which made this whole disappearing act even odder. If he allowed himself to stop feeling irritated he might start getting worried.
‘Mr Rafferty?’
‘Raff,’ he corrected her. ‘Mr Rafferty makes me think I’m back at school.’
Or even worse back in the boardroom, sitting round a ridiculously large table listening to never-ending presentations and impenetrable jargon, itching to get up, stop talking and do.
‘Raff,’ she said after a reluctant pause. He liked the sound of his name on her tongue. Crisp and cool like a smooth lager on a hot summer’s day. ‘Is now a convenient time?’
Not really but Polly had backed him into a hole and until he had a chance to work out what had happened he didn’t have much choice.
He was still joint Vice CEO of Rafferty’s, after all. Someone had to take over the reins, stop Grandfather working himself into an early grave; in Polly’s absence that person had to be him.
She had planned it well. The contrary streak in Raff wanted to ensure she didn’t get her way. To walk away from her home, her company. Show her he couldn’t be manipulated.
But of course he couldn’t. Despite everything Polly was his twin—and pulling a stunt like this was completely out of character. Polly didn’t just quit; she was the hardest worker he knew. The sooner he found out what had happened and fixed it, the sooner they could both return to their lives.
And he was sure that the woman in front of him could help him, if he could just find a way to make her crack, like a ripe and rather inviting nut.
‘Okay, then, Clara Castleton,’ he said. ‘Lead the way.’
* * *
‘Is there something wrong?’
Clara knew she sounded cold. Raff Rafferty might have turned on the charm but she preferred to keep a professional distance, especially when her new client owned an easy smile and a devilish glint in blue, blue eyes.
And a disconcerting way of looking at her as if he could see straight through her barriers, as if the suit didn’t fool him at all. Her skin fizzed with awareness of his intense gaze—or with irritation at his high-handed ways.
Either way he was dangerous. The sooner she settled him in and got out, the better.
The tall blond man wasn’t actually her client but his sister had made sure Clara was fully briefed. The Golden Boy, apple of his grandfather’s eye. Clara knew men like Raff Rafferty all too well. It wasn’t a type she admired at all. Not any more.
Look at him now, leaning against her van, a smirk playing on those finely sculpted lips.
‘This yours?’
Clara held up the keys. ‘Why?’
His eyes swept assessingly over the large, practical van, her logo and contact details tastefully picked out on the side. ‘I imagined you driving something a little more elegant.’
Clara took a breath, an unexpected flutter in her stomach at the idea of something elegant, that she was featuring in his imagination at all. She pushed the thought resolutely away.
‘Save your imaginings,’ she said. ‘The van is practical.’
‘It’s practical all right.’
His lips were pressed together; Clara had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her. ‘I’m sure it’s not your usual style,’ she said as evenly as she could. ‘If you’d rather walk I can meet you there.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m not fussy.’
‘Great.’ She was sure that her attempted smile looked more like a grimace. She should make him sit in the back amongst the cleaning supplies and tools. See how fussy he was then.
At least, Clara reflected as she pulled the van out into the narrow main road that ran through the town, he hadn’t offered to drive. Some men found it hard to be driven by a woman, especially in a large van like this. Raff was the very definition of relaxed, leaning back in his seat, lean jean-clad legs outstretched.
Practical it might be, but the large van always felt out of place on Hopeford’s narrow windy streets. It took all Clara’s skills and concentration to negotiate the small roads. The overhanging houses and cobbled pavements 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 reached out slowly and plucked it out of her hand, his fingers slightly brushing against hers as he did so. She jerked her hand away as if burnt, the heat shocking her. She swallowed back a gasp with an effort, hoping she hadn’t given away her discomfort.
‘I’ll do that.’ He was looking right into her eyes as he said it.
‘Good.’ Damn, she sounded breathless. ‘That’s everything. Have a nice evening.’
Clara began to back out of the kitchen, not wanting to be the one to break the eye contact. It was as if he had a hypnotic effect on her, breaking through her usual calm, ruffling the feathers she kept so carefully smoothed down.
‘Ouch.’ Something underfoot tripped her up and she put a hand out to steady herself, her eyes wrenched from his.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, thanks.’ Steadier in more ways than one, relieved to be free of his gaze. She looked down at the trip hazard, confused by the large hessian mouse. ‘Oh, how could I forget? Mr Simpkins’ usual routine is biscuits first thing in the morning and more biscuits and some fish in the evening. He has his own cupboard under the sink.’
‘Mr Simpkins?’ He sounded apprehensive.
‘The man of the house.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘I do hope you like cats.’
And surprisingly cheered up by the horrified look on his face, Clara swivelled and walked away.
