Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage. Sophie PembrokeЧитать онлайн книгу.
plastered to her legs, the filthy T-shirt clinging to every curve. Raff had expected sulking or yelling, even downright refusal. He didn’t expect her to thank him.
He’d known the challenge would shake her up, had secretly enjoyed the thought of seeing prim and judgemental Clara Castleton pushed so far out of her comfort zone—turned out the joke was on him.
‘I’m glad,’ he said, aware of how inadequate his response was. ‘I thought you’d enjoy it.’
Clara smiled. A proper, full-on beam that lightened her eyes to a perfect sea green, emphasised the curve of her cheeks, the fullness of her mouth. She was dirty, bedraggled and utterly mesmerising. The breath left his body with an audible whoosh.
‘Liar,’ she said. ‘You thought I’d hate it. And you were this close...’ she held up her hand, her forefinger and thumb just a centimetre apart ‘...this close to being right.’
‘Yes.’ The blood was hammering through his veins, loud, insistent. All he could focus on was her wide mouth, the lines of her body revealed so unexpectedly by her wet clothes. What would it be like to take that step forward? To pull her close? To taste her?
Dangerous.
The word flashed through his mind. It would be dangerous; she would be dangerous. Workaholic single mothers were not his style no matter how enticing their smile. Women like Clara wanted commitment, even if they didn’t admit it.
They played by different rules and he needed to remember it—no matter how tempted he was to forget.
‘THAT WASN’T TOO BAD.’ Clara’s smile and tone were more than a little forced. At least she was trying.
Which was more than his grandfather had.
‘It was terrible.’ Raff shook his head, unsure who he was more cross with: his grandfather for being so very rude, or himself for expecting anything different.
He had expected his grandfather to be terse and angry with him; it would take more than a suspected heart attack and a week in hospital for Charles Rafferty to get over any kind of insubordination even from his favourite grandson. It was the way he had spoken to Clara that rankled most.
‘He’s not feeling well and it can’t be easy being cooped up in bed.’
Raff appreciated what Clara was trying to do but it was no good; her determined ‘little miss sunshine’ routine wasn’t going to fix this.
‘He practically accused you of being a gold-digger,’ he pointed out. ‘I shouldn’t have let him speak to you like that.’ He had been poised to walk out, stopped only by her calming hand on his arm, holding him in place, the pressure of her fingers warning him to keep still, keep quiet.
‘I wasn’t going anywhere.’ Clara stopped as they reached the hospital foyer; the marbled floor, discreet wooden reception desk and comfortable seating areas gave it the air of an exclusive hotel—if you ignored the giveaway scent of disinfectant and steamed vegetables. ‘I’ve been called worse.’ A wounded expression flashed across her face, so fleeting Raff wasn’t sure if he had imagined it.
‘Thank you.’ The words seemed inadequate. Despite his grandfather’s antipathy she had been a dignified presence by his side, not too close, not clingy but affectionate and believable. He was torn between embarrassment that she had witnessed his grandfather’s most petulant behaviour and an uncharacteristic gratitude for her silent support.
‘No problem.’ She was saying all the right things but her tone lacked conviction. ‘It’s my job after all.’
‘Come on.’ He needed to get out of here, away from the hospital, away from the toxic mixture of guilt and anger, to push it all firmly away. This was why he preferred to be abroad. He could be his own man out in the field. ‘Let’s go.’
Clara opened her mouth, about to ask where they were going, and then she slowly shut it again. At least they were in the centre of London—it might be a little damp but whatever Raff had in mind it was unlikely to involve mud.
And Raff obviously needed to blow off steam. He was keeping himself together but his jaw was clenched tight and a muscle was working in his cheek. Clara had been treated like dirt before, dismissed out of hand—but her own family had always been there to support her. She couldn’t imagine her own grandfather looking at her with such cold, disappointed eyes. Even a teen pregnancy hadn’t shaken his love and belief in her.
Polly had called Raff ‘The Golden Boy’ but it seemed to her that his exalted position came with a heavy price. No wonder he had needed to employ Clara, to take some of the pressure his demanding grandfather was heaping on as he took advantage of his illness and frailty. An unexpected sympathy reverberated through her—Raff’s need to be as far away from his family as possible was a little more understandable.
She kept pace with a silent, brooding Raff as he walked briskly through the busy streets expertly avoiding the crowds of tourists, the busy commuters and the loitering onlookers. Clara rarely visited London despite the direct rail link; if you asked her she would say she was too busy but the truth was it scared her. So noisy, so crowded, so unpredictable. The girl who once planned to travel the world was cowed by her own capital city.
But here, today, it felt different. Friendlier, more vibrant, the way it had felt when she was a teenager, down for the day to shop for clothes in Camden and hang out in Covent Garden where Maddie hoped to be talent-spotted by a model agency whilst Clara spent hours browsing in the specialist travel bookshop. Was it even still there? All her books and maps were boxed away at her parents’ house. Maybe she should retrieve some of them, show them to Summer.
‘I need to organise a nurse to look after him,’ he said, breaking the lengthy silence. ‘The hospital won’t allow him home without one. He needs to have a specialist diet too, and he is going to hate that.’ His mouth twisted. ‘At this rate it’s going to be weeks before I can talk about the company with him again.’
‘Isn’t there anyone else who can intercede? Your grandmother?’
Raff shook his head. ‘They’re separated. She’ll have a go, if I ask her to, but he’s never quite forgiven her for leaving.’
Clara knew that Polly and Raff had been raised by their grandparents but not that they had split up. She swallowed, her throat tight; it was becoming painfully apparent how little she knew of Polly’s life. They were supposed to be friends and yet she had no idea where she was or why she’d gone.
But was Clara any better? She didn’t confide either, happy to keep the conversation light, to discuss work and plans but never feelings, never anything deep. Maybe that was why they were friends, both content with the superficial intimacy, their real fears locked safely away.
‘Have they been split up long?’
‘Nearly twelve years.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘She waited until after Christmas our first year at university. Didn’t want to spoil the holidays, she said. We were just amazed she made it that long. She’d wanted out for a long time.’
‘I can’t imagine your grandfather is easy to live with.’ That was an understatement.
He huffed out a dry laugh. ‘He’s not. Poor Grandmother, from things she let slip I think she was on the verge of leaving when we came to live with them. She only stayed for Polly and me. Now she lives in central London and takes organised trips, volunteers at several museums and spends the rest of her time at the theatre or playing bridge. She’s very happy.’
‘What about your parents?’ She flushed; curiosity had got the better of her. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.’
‘That’s okay. We are meant to be dating, after all, and none of this is exactly state secrets.’ He didn’t look okay though, his eyes shadowed, his mouth drawn into a straight line. ‘My father