The Heiress's Secret Baby Page 5

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was still figuring it out when Clara emailed me telling me to come home. So, don’t think I’m not glad to see you but why are you here? Did you miss Mr Simpkins?’

  ‘My shirts don’t look the same without a covering of ginger fur,’ he agreed. ‘Polly, there’s something I need to tell you.’ He turned his beer bottle round and round, his gaze fixed on it. ‘I’m not going to be working in the field any more. I’ve accepted a job at the headquarters of Doctors Everywhere instead and I’m moving here, to Hopeford.’

  Polly stared. ‘But you love your job. Why on earth would you change it? And you’re moving here? Hang on!’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Do you want to move back in? I’m not running a doss centre for young executive males who are quite capable of finding their own places, you know.’

  ‘For who?’ His face cleared. ‘Oh, Gabe? He’s still here? How are you getting on with him?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head, unwilling to discuss her absent houseguest. ‘No changing the subject. What’s going on?’

  Raff took a deep breath. ‘You’re not the only one who’s been working things out recently. I have to admit I was pissed when you left with no word—I hotfooted it straight here, convinced that Clara knew where you were. I was determined to get it out of her, drag you back and get on with my life.’

  ‘She didn’t. I didn’t even really know what my plans were.’

  His mouth twisted into a smile. ‘I know that now but things were a bit hostile for a while.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it’s only been a few months since I met her, that there was a time I didn’t know her. Thing is, Pol, meeting Clara changed everything. I’m engaged. That’s why I’m staying in the UK, that’s why I’m moving to Hopeford. I’m marrying Clara.’

  * * *

  ‘Bonsoir?’

  Polly should get off the sofa, should open her laptop, look as if she were working.

  But she couldn’t. Her appetite for the game, the competition had gone.

  ‘Hi.’ She looked up wearily as Gabe walked into the room. He was so tall his head nearly brushed the beams on the low ceiling.

  ‘Nice run?’ she continued. Small talk was good; it was easy. It stopped her having to think.

  ‘Oui.’ He stretched, seemingly unaware that his T-shirt was riding up and exposing an inch of flat, toned abdomen. ‘A quick ten kilometres. It ruins the buzz though, getting the train after. I might try biking back to Hopeford one evening. What is it? Just fifty kilometres?’

  ‘Just,’ she echoed.

  Gabe looked at her curiously. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, no.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘I don’t really know. Raff’s engaged.’

  ‘Your brother? That’s amazing. We should celebrate.’

  ‘We should,’ she agreed.

  The dark eyes turned to her, their expression keen. ‘You’re not happy?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Polly defended herself and then sighed. ‘I am,’ she repeated. ‘It’s just he’s moving here, to Hopeford. He’s marrying my closest friend and joining the board at Rafferty’s.’

  She shook her head. ‘I feel like I am being a total cow,’ she admitted. ‘It’s just, I have spent my whole life competing against him—and he wins without even taking part.

  ‘And now...’ she looked down at her hands ‘...now he’s moving to my town, will be on the board of my company and is marrying the one person I can confide in. It feels like there’s nowhere I am just me, not Raff’s twin sister.’

  The silence stretched out between them.

  ‘I have three sisters,’ he said after a while. ‘I’m the youngest. It can be hard to find your place.’

  Polly looked over at him. ‘Is that why you’re here? Not working at the vineyard?’

  ‘Partly. And because I needed to prove some things to myself.’ He walked over to Mr Simpkins, who was lying on the cushion-covered window seat set into the wall on the far side of the chimney breast.

  Gabe should have been an incongruous presence in the white-walled, book-lined sitting room, the soft furnishings and details were so feminine, so English country cottage. He was too young, too indisputably French, too tall, too male for the low-beamed, cosy room. And yet he looked utterly at home reaching over to run one hand down Mr Simpkins’ spine.

  He was wearing jeans, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his pallor emphasised by the deep shadows under his dark eyes and the black stubble covering his jaw. He worked so late each night, rising at dawn to fit in yet another session in the gym—and the lack of sleep showed.

  Polly watched the long, lean fingers’ firm caress as her cat flattened himself in suppliant pleasure and felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach, a sudden insistent ache of desire as her nerve endings remembered the way his hand had settled in the curve of her waist, those same fingers moving up along her body, making her purr almost as loudly as Mr Simpkins.

  ‘Is that why you went away?’ he asked, all his attention seemingly on the writhing cat. ‘Because of your brother?’

  Polly flushed, partly in shame at having to admit her own second-class status to a relative stranger—and half in embarrassment at her reaction to the slow, sure strokes from Gabe’s capable-looking hands.

  ‘Partly,’ she admitted. ‘I had to get away, learn who I was without Rafferty’s.’

  ‘And did you?’ He looked directly at her then, his eyes almost black and impossibly dark. ‘Learn who you are?’

  Polly thought back. To blisters and high altitudes. To the simple joy of a shower after a five-day trek. To long twilight walks on the beach. To lying back and watching the stars, the balmy breeze warm on her bare skin. To the lack of responsibility. To taking risks.

  It had been fun but ultimately meaningless.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I saw some amazing things, did amazing things and I had fun. But there was nothing to find out. Without Rafferty’s I don’t have anything...I’m no one.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ His voice was low, intimate.

  ‘It is,’ she argued. ‘But Raff? He is utterly and completely himself. I think I’ve always envied that. And now he has Clara—which is great, she’s lovely and I’m sure they’ll be very happy. But my brother and best friend getting married? It leaves me with no one.’

  She heard her words echo as she said them and flushed. ‘I am the most selfish beast, ignore me, Gabe. I’m tired and fluey and having a pathetic moment. It’ll pass!’

  He regarded her quietly. ‘And you don’t eat,’ he said after a while. ‘Come on, I’ll cook.’

  * * *

  Polly was still protesting as Gabe rummaged through the fridge, trying to find something he could make into a meal a Frenchman could be proud of. It might have to be a simple omelette, he decided, pulling the eggs out of the fridge along with a courgette, some cheese and the end of some chorizo.

  ‘You really don’t have to cook for me,’ she said. ‘I’m quite happy with some bread and cheese.’

  ‘Do you ever cook?’ He looked at the gleaming range cooker, the beautiful copper saucepans hanging from their hooks looking as blemish free as the day they were bought.

  ‘I butter bread and slice cheese. Occasionally I shred a lettuce.’

  ‘That is some variety.’

  ‘I know.’

  He continued to chop onions as she watched.

  ‘So you’re a business whizz-kid, a gourmet chef, a triathlete. Is there anything you can’t do?’

  ‘I’ve never backpacked.’

  ‘Didn’t fancy the dirt and blisters?’

  ‘I didn’t have the time.’ Gabe scraped the onions into the pan and tipped it expertly so they were evenly covered in oil. ‘I went to university late and had a lot of time to make up. No chance to slack off.’

&
nbsp; Polly was sitting at the counter, her chin propped in her hands. ‘Is that why you set yourself such a punishing schedule now?’

  Was it? All Gabe knew was that once you’d spent a year confined to bed, without the strength to get a glass of water, watching your classmates grow up without you, that once you knew just what losing someone meant then you had to make the most of every single second.

  ‘You can sleep when you’re dead,’ he said. It was all too true; he’d thought about that long enough.

  Now he just wanted to live every moment.

  Polly continued to watch as he whisked the eggs. ‘What do your parents think? Of you working away? Did they expect you to work with them?’

  Ouch, that was direct. ‘They found it hard to adjust.’ He poured the eggs into the pan with a flourish. ‘They wanted me to go to university nearby, stay in Provence. When I said I was going to Boston they were hurt. But they got over it.’

  On the surface at least. The very worst part of being ill had been the despair in his parents’ faces whenever they thought he wasn’t watching. Or the forced positivity when they knew he was. It made it hard to say no to them.

  ‘You’re the son and heir.’ There was no hiding the bitterness in her words. ‘Of course they expect a lot.’

  His mouth curved into a wry smile. ‘Son? Oui. Heir? That remains to be seen. Celine is studying vineyard management in New Zealand and Claire is doing a very good job of opening the chateau up to guests and tourists while presenting them with a perfect trio of grandchildren.’

  ‘Three!’ She straightened up, pulling her hair back into a knot as she did so. He watched, fascinated, as she gathered up the silky golden strands and twisted them ruthlessly, tucking the end under. It wouldn’t take much to make it spill free. Just one touch.

  ‘Three in three years,’ he confirmed. ‘And Natalie is expecting her second. She takes care of all the advertising and marketing. So you see I have some formidable rivals for the vineyard. If I wanted it that is.’

  ‘Isn’t it funny? You and Raff could have it all on a plate. And you don’t even want it.’

  ‘We still have to work,’ he argued. ‘No one I work with cares what my parents do. Raff had to work his way up at Doctors Everywhere. It’s exactly the same. Pass me a plate, will you?’

  Polly got up and took two plates off the dresser, handing them over. Gabe shredded some lettuce and added a couple of tomatoes before cutting the omelette in half and sliding it onto a plate.

  ‘Voilà,’ he said, sliding it towards her.

  ‘Thanks, Gabe, this looks great.’ Her hair was coming loose and she gathered it up again, beginning the familiar twisting motion as she re-knotted it, before picking up her fork.

  ‘I have worked at Rafferty’s since I was legally allowed to get a job. Before that I spent every moment there.’ Her voice was wistful, filled with love.

  Gabe pictured the iconic store, its large dome and art deco façade dominating the expensive London street on which it was situated. It was always busy, exuding wealth and glamour and style. Exciting and as restless as its patrons, prowling in search of the bag, the outfit, the décor that would make them unique, special. It was easy to see why she loved it.

  But then his mind turned to the chateau, to the acres and acres of vines, the scent of lavender and the scarlet flash of poppies. The old grey building, covered in ivy. He loved the buzz of retail but had to admit that no shop, no matter how magical, could match his home. The look in her eyes, the note in her voice spoke of the same deep connection.

  ‘It’s your home,’ he said.

  ‘Yes!’ Polly pointed her fork at him. ‘That’s it. But only temporarily. It was made very clear to me that I could work there but it was never going to be mine. Grandfather even wanted me to study History of Art instead of business, not that I took any notice of him.’

  So much dwelling on the past; if Gabe had done that he would still be in Provence, weeping in the graveyard. ‘But now look at you. In charge of the whole store.’

  Polly took a bite of the omelette, her face thoughtful. ‘I told you I went away to find myself. The truth is I had no choice. Grandfather came to see me three months ago and told me he was signing Rafferty’s over to Raff.’ She laughed but there was no humour in the sound.

  ‘My ex had just got engaged and Grandfather was concerned for me, or so he said. He thought I was leaving it too late, “letting the good ones get away”.’ She swallowed. ‘He said it was for my own good—I should concentrate on marriage, have children before it’s too late.’

  ‘That was unkind.’

  ‘It hurt me.’ It obviously still did, her voice and her face full of pain. ‘So I left my job, my home and I went away to try and work out who I was without Rafferty’s. But then Raff walked away, for good this time, and I came back.’

  She looked at Gabe, a gleam of speculation in her eyes. ‘I have to admit I was thrown when I got back to find you already in place. At first I thought Grandfather was trying to replace Raff, but now?’ She shook her head, once more dislodging the precarious knot of hair. ‘I wonder what kind of game he’s playing.’

  ‘Maybe, he just knows I’m good at my job.’

  ‘Oh, that will be part of it,’ she agreed. ‘But with Raff engaged I’ll bet there’s something else. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s played matchmaker. You’ve got to admit it’s convenient, working together, living together.’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘And I thought it was an over-ambitious developer tunnelling under my building. Your grandfather must have some extraordinary powers.’

  ‘You have no idea,’ Polly said darkly. ‘He’s pretty unscrupulous.’ She shook her head. ‘He just can’t stop interfering.’

  ‘You are just speculating. Besides, what does it matter? He can play all he wants.’ Gabe made an effort to speak calmly but his heart was thudding so loudly he was surprised the kitchen wasn’t shaking. Marriage? Children? If Charles Rafferty was looking at Gabe to fulfil his dynastic dreams he had a long, long wait ahead. ‘We don’t have to join in. Not on his terms.’

  Light, fun and short-lived. That was all he wanted, all he could cope with. Polly Rafferty was many impressive things but were light and fun part of her enticing package? She hid it well if so.

  But getting under her skin was fun. He was pretty sure, by the way her gaze lingered on his mouth, by the sudden flush that highlighted her cheeks occasionally, that she hadn’t forgotten about that kiss.

  And he certainly hadn’t—not for want of trying.

  ‘Of course we don’t.’ She sounded more like her usual self. ‘I’ve never allowed myself to follow the path Grandfather thinks suitable. I’m not going to start now he has finally retired. I’m still so tired, I’m probably imagining things. You’re not my type at all. Even Grandfather must see that.’

  This was where a wise man would stay silent. ‘I’m not?’

  The soft words caught her, echoing round and around her head.

  ‘Of course not, you’re an exercise-mad smoothie drinker who flirts inappropriately with half my staff.’ Polly tried to keep her voice light but she could feel inappropriate heat rushing to her cheeks, a sweet insistent ache pulsing in her chest, reverberating all the way down to the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to look at him yet somehow she had turned, caught in his dark gaze. ‘Not to mention that we work together.’

  Had he leaned in closer? The dark eyes were even more intent than usual, black pools she was drawn to, the kind of bottomless depths girls could drown in. ‘I won’t tell if you don’t.’

  ‘Tell what?’ But her tone lacked conviction even to herself. ‘Gabe, I...’ Polly wasn’t entirely sure what she had been planning to say, whether she was going to lean in, close the distance between them and pull him in close—or turn away and tell him to grow up and stop with the inn
uendoes. She knew the sensible choice, the logical choice and yet she hesitated.

  But the kitchen seemed to have shrunk, the space suddenly, suffocatingly small, the air so stuffy she could hardly breathe, the tumult in her stomach churning. She gasped for a breath, realising her mistake too late, pushing her stool back and running for the downstairs cloakroom horrifyingly aware that she wasn’t going to make it.

  * * *

  ‘I am so humiliated.’ Polly leant forward until her forehead touched the kitchen counter, grateful for the coolness of the granite. ‘Thank you for taking care of me.’

  That wasn’t quite enough but she didn’t want to articulate all the reasons for her gratitude. The gentle way he had rubbed her back, held her hair back from her face, waited with her until the last spasm had passed. ‘You’re good with sick people.’ She looked up and smiled but he didn’t return her admittedly pathetic attempt, his eyes filled with an unexpected pain.

  ‘I have some experience.’ His face was unreadable but his voice was gentle.

  ‘I wasn’t drunk.’ Bad enough that it had happened; it would be far worse if he thought she was some kind of lush.

  ‘You hadn’t eaten. Even one glass could have that effect.’ He looked at the glass she had poured earlier.

  ‘I didn’t even have one sip,’ she protested. ‘Just the smell made me feel ill. I must have picked up some kind of bug.’

  He put a hand on her shoulder, just that one light touch sending shivers down her spine. ‘You should eat something now, some crackers maybe.’

  ‘No.’ Not crackers. Her body was very insistent. ‘I need...’ She paused, thought. She was a little hungry, now the churning had stopped. ‘Hang on.’ She pushed herself to her feet and walked over to the stone pantry.

  Polly opened the door that led to the old-fashioned, walk-in cold room and looked at the shelves that lined the walls, at the marble meat shelf at the far end.

  ‘I know they’re here somewhere. I saw them just the other day. I would never buy them. They must be Raff’s, vile things. Aha!’ Her hand closed triumphantly on a cardboard box. ‘Got you.’