Tycoon's Choice: Kept by the Tycoon / Taken by the Tycoon / The Tycoon's Proposal. Kathryn RossЧитать онлайн книгу.
hero-worshipped me. She was nearly three years younger than me, and I always called her my kid sister.’
‘So it was a good move?’
‘Oh, yes. The whole family treated me exactly like their own, and I was very happy with them until I went up to Oxford. My godfather died eighteen months ago and it was like losing a father…
‘But that’s enough doom and gloom—let’s talk about something else. What shall we do for the rest of the day? Would you like to—’
‘I can’t,’ she broke in desperately. On Sundays she always had lunch at the nursing home, and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening there. ‘I mean, I’m already going out.’
When she made no effort to elaborate, he asked, ‘What time do you need to start?’
‘In about an hour.’
‘Then as soon as you’ve showered and dressed, I’ll take you home.’ Though his voice was even, she knew he was vexed by her reticence, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about her mother. He was sure to ask questions that, burdened with guilt, she didn’t want to answer.
His profile cool and aloof, he drove through the Sunday streets in silence. She longed to break that silence, but could think of nothing to say.
When he drew up outside her flat and, still without speaking, helped her out, she felt a sudden panic in case this was the end.
What would she do if he simply drove away?
As though to keep her guessing, he unlocked her door and handed her back the key, before asking, ‘Are you free tomorrow evening?’
‘Yes,’ she said eagerly.
‘Then if you like, I’ll take you to see Katie and her parents. I’ve already mentioned your name to them.’
‘There’s just one thing…’ Madeleine began a shade awkwardly.
Reading her hesitation, he said, ‘You prefer to keep your private and professional lives separate?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘That’s fine by me. All they know up to now is that you’re the physiotherapist who checked me out, and we can keep it that way. I’ll pick you up at six-thirty, and afterwards we can have dinner.’
Madeleine liked Rafe’s sister and brother-in-law on sight. Over drinks on the sunny terrace of their Surrey home she learnt that Diane, with her brother’s seal-dark hair and green eyes, was a lawyer, and Stuart, a pleasant, easy-going man, worked as an architect.
They both doted on their only daughter and were over the moon when Katie took an immediate liking to Madeleine, and agreed to have further treatment.
The liking was mutual. Madeleine instantly lost her heart to the quiet, sensitive child, with her long dark hair, her big brown eyes and shy smile.
Over the next few weeks, with regular treatments, Katie’s condition improved enormously, and a strong bond developed between her and Madeleine.
Rafe was delighted for everyone’s sake, but he stayed well out of things and, though his and Madeleine’s relationship grew and blossomed, it was never mentioned.
They spent as much time with one another as possible, dancing, dining, talking, simply being together.
Several times, while the good weather held, he barbecued for them on his patio. Afterwards, safe from prying eyes, they made sweet, delectable love in the sun.
As the days and weeks passed and Madeleine got to know him better, her happiness increased. Apart from his physical attributes and his prowess as a lover, he proved to be eventempered and generous, an intelligent, stimulating companion, always sensitive to her needs.
She knew that never in her lifetime would she find another man who suited her so well, and, eternally grateful, she said many a prayer of thanks to the goddess of destiny for the miracle that had brought him into her life.
Only her visits to the nursing home cast a shadow. Rafe said nothing openly, but she knew he was ruffled by her unexplained absences. Even a little jealous of whom she might be meeting.
Each time she tried to tell him the truth guilt made the words stick in her throat, and she chickened out. But one of these days, she promised herself, she would find the courage to tell him everything.
In the meantime, though she still spent most of Sunday at the nursing home, she had changed her Saturday visit to the morning—struggling with the shopping and housework when she could—to leave the afternoon free.
That Saturday afternoon they had something very special planned. Jonathan Cass was one of her favourite artists, and Rafe had accepted an invitation to a one-day private showing of Cass’s new, and so far unseen, works.
He had arranged to pick her up at twelve-thirty so they could have lunch together before going on to the Piccadilly gallery, and she left the nursing home earlier than usual to make certain she was home in good time.
She was only just back when the phone rang.
Sounding tense, unlike himself, Rafe said, ‘Some urgent business has cropped up. Would you mind very much if I picked you up after lunch?’
‘Of course not.’
Sounding relieved, he said, ‘Then I’ll see you about two.’
It had been a damp, grey morning, and by two o’clock it was pelting down with rain.
Rafe was always on time—she had never known him to be late—and as the hands of the clock moved with maddening slowness—two-fifteen, two-thirty, a quarter to three—and he failed to arrive, she began to get anxious and jumpy.
As she stood staring blindly out into the wet, windswept square, watching the raindrops run down the windowpane like tears, she saw the ghost of his face blurry in the glass and felt a queer foreboding.
Oh, dear God, suppose something had happened to him? The panicky thought made her heart begin to race uncomfortably fast.
Don’t be a fool, she chided herself. Of course nothing had happened to him. No doubt he’d just been held up. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he phoned? It would have only taken a moment to reassure her.
After waiting until three-thirty without hearing from him she called his mobile, only to find it was switched off. In desperation she tried his flat at Denver Court, but it rang hollow and empty, until the answering machine picked up her call.
By the time five o’clock arrived, convinced that her worst fears had been realised, she was a mass of jangling nerves. She was wondering agitatedly whom she could contact, when she saw his car pull up outside. The rush of relief was so great that it made her feel giddy and light-headed.
He had his own key by now, and she stood, her knees trembling so much they would hardly support her, while he crossed the streaming pavement and let himself in. She wanted to run to him, but she could neither move nor speak.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get here any sooner.’ As he spoke he took off his coat and hung it up.
When he turned she noticed some angry-looking marks on his face, as though a cat had raked its claws down his cheek.
‘What have you done to your face?’
‘It’s just a scratch,’ he said dismissively.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, she remarked, ‘I wondered what had happened to you.’
‘I was unavoidably detained.’
She waited for some kind of explanation, but he said nothing further.
After so much anxiety, his casual dismissal of the subject caught her on the raw.
Seeing her mouth tighten, he said, ‘We can still go to the gallery this evening.’
‘It’s not that,’