His Reluctant Cinderella Read online

  And yet there were contradictions there. She might disapprove of the lies he was feeding his grandfather—although after the cold, hostile meeting this morning she understood them. But what was he fighting for? The right to live on his trust fund? The right not to do a day’s work?

  Clara tried to remember what exactly Polly had told her about him. Not much, which was odd in itself; they were twins after all. She said he was spoilt, that she had to work three times as hard and still didn’t receive equal recognition. That he was ‘messing around abroad somewhere’. Clara had assumed that he was travelling, partying, having fun. After twenty-four hours in his company she wasn’t so sure.

  He was arrogant and annoying and treated life as one big joke but he didn’t seem lazy, didn’t seem careless of his family’s ties and expectations. He had come running the second he’d thought Polly was in trouble and according to the nurse had spent three days and nights at his grandfather’s bedside.

  Yep, he was definitely a puzzle but, she reminded herself, he was none of her business. And none of this was real, no matter how surprisingly easy it was to forget that.

  ‘I thought you went away to escape Rafferty’s,’ she said, walking up the famous curved steps to meet him.

  ‘To escape running Rafferty’s,’ he corrected her, escorting her through the famous gilt and glass revolving doors with a light touch on her elbow.

  As soon as he took his hand away the spot he had touched felt cold. Clara had to resist the temptation to rub it, to try and get the heat back.

  They had entered a massive circular room topped with an ornate glass dome. It was the heart of Rafferty’s, an iconic image, immortalised in film, photos and books. Looking up, Clara saw the famous galleries ringing the dome, three storeys of them. Each storey took up the entire block and was filled with a myriad of desirable items: food, clothes, jewellery, books, accessories, pictures, lamps, rugs.

  Down here on the beautifully tiled ground floor the world’s leading make-up and perfume brands plied their wares, stalls set out in a semi-circle around the foot of the dome. The middle was always reserved for themed displays and, at Christmas, the giant tree that dominated the room.

  It was a wonderland. And the man standing next to her wanted to throw it all away.

  ‘It’s not that I’m not proud of Rafferty’s,’ he said, as if he could read her thoughts. ‘It was like having our very own giant playground. We could go anywhere, do anything. Polly would walk around talking to all the staff, finding out what they did and how everything worked. I’d usually be hidden away with a stash of sugary contraband in a stock cupboard somewhere.’

  ‘Sounds idyllic.’ She could see it too, a cheeky-faced blond urchin charming his way through the store.

  ‘It was,’ he sighed, a faraway look in his eye. ‘This was our real home. We held every birthday party here. I had my first kiss in this very room with Victoria Embleton-Jones. She was taller than me and a lot more sure of herself. I was in love for a whole week and then she dumped me for an older man with less sweaty hands and a car. I was devastated.’

  ‘My heart’s breaking. How old were you?’

  ‘Fourteen. It took me a whole month to get over her. I still get nervous shakes when I meet anyone called Victoria.’ His face was solemn but he couldn’t hide the gleam dancing in his eyes.

  Clara resisted the urge to snort. ‘No wonder this place is so special to you, filled with such poignant memories.’ She looked around at the bustling, chattering, spending throngs. ‘I used to come here when I was a child.’ It felt oddly like a confession. ‘Afternoon tea was always a highlight of the holidays. I felt so sophisticated.’ She sighed at the memory of delicate porcelain teapots and plates filled with cakes. Clara put a hand to her suddenly hollow stomach; it had been a long morning. ‘Is that why we’re here?’ She tried not to sound too hopeful.

  ‘It’s not time for a tea break yet, Miss Castleton.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, can’t get the staff these days. First we work and then we reward ourselves with as much cake as you can manage.’

  ‘Work?’ Heat washed over her; how had she misread the situation so badly? ‘If you need a PA I can certainly supply one.’

  ‘I have a perfectly good if rather terrifying PA. She disapproves of me almost as much as you do.’ Raff grinned at her flushed and confused denial. ‘No, it’s time we went shopping.’

  ‘Shopping? I do grocery shopping, as you know, presents as well, but I contract out personal shopping and interior designing...’ She was babbling again but couldn’t seem to stop.

  ‘Look around, Clara. You’re in the world’s most famous department store. I could click my fingers and summon a personal shopper for almost anything you could imagine. No, we are going to get you some clothes.’

  She gaped at him. ‘I have clothes!’

  Raff looked her over, sweeping her up and down assessingly. Clara had to fight every individual muscle to make it stay still; the urge to cover herself protectively, shield herself from those keen eyes, was almost overwhelming.

  ‘You have suits,’ he said finally. ‘Sharp, businesslike suits. Which is great for the office but no use when you’re with me. You have jeans and T-shirts and you have a few pretty dresses like the one you are wearing. That’s all fine but none of that will do for black-tie dos, for cocktail parties or any of the other dull but apparently necessary events Polly wastes her free time at.’

  ‘Cocktail parties?’ The nearest Clara got to a cocktail party was trying to decide between red or white wine at Sunday lunch. ‘I didn’t expect...’

  ‘I told you it would be time consuming.’ His gaze was steely now. ‘I also said I would pay you handsomely and make it worth your while in any way necessary. Unfortunately Rafferty’s needs to be present at these events. Grandfather can’t and Polly won’t, until I track her down and beg her to come home. So it’s down to me.’

  He looked as if he would rather be sitting alone with Mr Simpkins.

  ‘But you, Clara Castleton, are both my secret weapon and my shield. Your very presence will hopefully steer conversation away from dull topics like where I have been and what my plans are whilst simultaneously saving me from match-making mothers and their eager daughters. For that you need clothes. And luckily for you I am temporarily running an establishment that supplies pretty much any outfit you desire.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ She eyed him suspiciously. ‘Have you been sneaking through my things?’ Raff’s assessment of her wardrobe had been depressingly close to the mark.

  Raff took another step closer and took her arm, the touch sending a jolt of electricity shooting up, settling at the base of her stomach, his proximity making every nerve buzz. ‘I don’t need to. I started working here when I was fourteen and spent at least six months in every department.’ He shot her an amused grin. ‘I was very successful in ladies’ wear.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ she muttered.

  ‘So if you’re ready...’ he ignored the interruption ‘...let’s shop.’

  * * *

  ‘You will make someone a very good husband one day.’ Clara eyed the rail of clothes that Raff and Susannah, the personal shopper he had co-opted to help them, had picked out. ‘Forget the name and fortune, any man who can shop like you will be snapped up.’

  Raff leant back against the wall. In a stark contrast to the opulence of the outer store the private changing rooms, exclusively for the use of those rich or lucky enough to secure the services of a personal shopper, were a study in sleek minimalism. The walls were a steely grey, the sofas chic, uncomfortable-looking studies in white and black; in this environment the clothes were the stars.

  ‘It’s a good thing one of us showed some interest,’ he said. ‘Poor Susannah certainly earned her commission today. I don’t think she’s ever met anyone who dislikes clothes as much as you do.’


  Clara bit just as he knew she would. ‘I like clothes well enough,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m just not into fancy clothes or fancy designers or fancy prices.’

  Raff suppressed a smile. He might be playing fairy godfather but this Cinderella wasn’t at all interested. She’d probably be far more comfortable cleaning the hearth and making the pumpkin into pies than going to the ball.

  ‘Or fancy shoes...’ he said provocatively.

  ‘If feet were supposed to be that elevated...’ Clara began.

  ‘Then our bone structure would be quite different,’ he finished. ‘I know, you told me at least three times and poor Susannah twenty. Normally women weep with gratitude after she supplies them with shoes, not lecture her about osteology. Come on, Cinders, enjoy the glass slippers.’

  ‘Cinderella probably almost broke her neck rushing down those stairs in just one shoe.’

  She wasn’t giving an inch. He shook his head, his grin wide. ‘Fairy tales must be a barrel of laughs at your house. It’s important that you play the part well and that means dressing the part too. You don’t have to keep any of it after we’re finished: sell them and give the proceeds to charity, turn them into bunting. They’re yours. Personally I’d say enjoy them. There must be a huge demand for sequinned shifts in Hopeford.’

  Her mouth tilted upwards. Her smile was irresistible; maybe it was a good thing she didn’t unleash it often. ‘Oh, there is. Perfect for a quiet drink at The Swan.’

  ‘We don’t have to take them all,’ he pointed out. ‘I think you need about six cocktail dresses, the same amount in day dresses and shoes and bags as well. Come on, Cinders, the sooner you try them on and make some decisions, the sooner you can have that cake.’

  ‘I think I preferred the mud,’ Clara said, but she unhooked the silver sequinned shift and began to carry it to the curtained-off area at the back. She paused at the curtain and turned back, her eyes lowered, cheeks flushed. ‘I feel really uncomfortable about this, Raff, you buying me these clothes. It’s one thing paying me for my time but this feels a step too far.’ She raised her eyes, meeting his with obvious difficulty. ‘I can’t begin to offer to pay you for them. I’m sure that I can manage with what I have.’

  Raff found himself short of breath, unable to formulate any kind of reply. He had been out with enough women to consider that he had a pretty good grip on the feminine mind even if he had been thrust into a single-sex school long before puberty, but he hadn’t seen this coming.

  Not one ex, from the trust fund socialite to the vegan gardener, had ever turned down a free outfit from Rafferty’s.

  He wasn’t sure whether he admired her pride—or found her stubbornness frustrating. ‘Well technically I won’t be buying you anything, they’re a gift from Rafferty’s, but remember I’m not playing Professor Higgins,’ he said as offhandedly as he could. ‘I’m just ensuring you have the right outfits for the job I have hired you to do. I supply the, what did you call them? Instruments of torture? You wear them.’

  She looked at him searchingly for a long moment before nodding, a short reluctant agreement. ‘Of course,’ she grumbled, ‘these clothes aren’t designed for real women. If I was a size-zero giraffe I might find this easier.’

  Raff ran his eyes over her approvingly. Clara wasn’t built like a model, it was true, nor did she eat like one, thank goodness. The year after university, full of pent-up energy he couldn’t expel at work, he had partied hard and dated several models and socialites. He had soon got bored with the shallow crowd he was running with.

  And women who thought a piece of lettuce meant a full dinner.

  No, give him someone like Clara, not too tall, not too small, curves in all the right places. That shift she was holding, for instance, it would fall to mid-thigh, showcase those fantastic legs, cling to the curve of her bosom.

  The room felt very small, just a curtain separating him from the area where Clara would be unbuttoning all those tiny buttons, slipping her dress off, replacing it with the short shift.

  He took in a deep breath. It was warm in here, roasting in fact. He should talk to someone about the temperature.

  ‘I think you’ll look perfect,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Why don’t you get started? I’ll just be...’ He waved at the entrance. ‘I need to get something.’ A brandy, a cold shower, some air.

  * * *

  Left alone, Clara felt curiously deflated. There had been something in Raff’s eyes. Something hot, something terrifyingly honest. Something that had awakened feelings she had spent so long hiding from: what it was like to be wanted, what it was like to want.

  Clara sank down into the hard-backed chair, the sole piece of furniture in the spacious curtained-off area. For the first time in a really long time she wished she had someone to lean on, to confide in.

  Raff, Byron’s impending visit, deciding how to best use the money Raff was paying her. There was so much going on she didn’t know where to turn.

  But there was no one. She didn’t want to worry her mother, Summer was too young, Maddie so busy. She had nobody. It hit her like a blow to the stomach as hot, unwanted tears pricked at the backs of her eyes; she blinked them away, wrapping her arms around herself as if she could ward off the unwanted knowledge. She would be so ashamed if her mother or cousin or the handful of friends she kept in contact with guessed just how she felt.

  Lonely.

  ‘Come on, Clara, where will self-pity get you?’ She hadn’t succumbed when she found out she was pregnant, only eighteen, thousands of miles away from home. She had stayed strong when Byron walked out of her life a month before their baby was born.

  She wouldn’t, couldn’t give in now. She had a wonderful, healthy daughter, a thriving business. She was lucky, even if it was hard to remember that sometimes.

  Slowly, feeling a little punch drunk, Clara rose to her feet and began to unbutton her dress. She was here to do a job. Feelings had nothing to do with it.

  The shift was heavy and yet it felt wonderfully cool and soft against her skin, the sequins sparkling as the spotlights hit it. Reflected in the many mirrors that lined the room, Clara gave in to the temptation to pirouette, loving the way the fabric flattered her. Raff was right: annoyingly, she did feel more confident, more sociable in this fabulous, exorbitantly expensive dress.

  Muttering, she forced her feet into a pair of strappy heels. She had thought that pairing silver shoes with a silver dress would be too much, that she would end up resembling a giant glitterball, but she had been wrong. The outfit looked amazing even with bare, pale legs, minimal make-up and a ponytail. Her stomach fluttered at the thought of really going out dressed like this; hair, make-up, accessories. Raff on her arm.

  If she could just walk in the shoes that would be a considerable bonus.

  A rustle from the other side of the curtain alerted her to another person’s presence. Raff must have returned.

  Clara took another look in the mirror. Was that really her? So elegant? The shoes added another four inches to her height, giving her legs the illusion of endless length. The urge to hide, tear off this costume and become her own safe self again was almost overwhelming but Clara sucked in a deep breath. She would walk through the curtain; she would show Raff.

  She would hopefully see that heat in his eyes again.

  Heart hammering, the wobble in her step not solely caused by the unfamiliar heels, Clara pulled the curtain open, a self-deprecating remark on her lips. But there was no need to utter it.

  The room was empty. Another rail of clothes and matching accessories had joined the first one.

  Her stomach plummeted as the adrenaline disappeared. It must have been Susannah she had heard. ‘Fool,’ she muttered. Clara chewed her cheek, indecisive. Should she wait, try on something else, look for him? Unsure, she walked to the door and peeked out, worry turning to irritation as
she saw him, right in front of the door, deep in conversation with a small brunette who was smiling up at him.

  ‘Clara?’ Darn it, he had spotted her. ‘Sorry, I bumped into an old colleague.’ Was it her imagination or did he hesitate over the word ‘colleague’?

  ‘Hi, I’m Lisa.’ The brunette smiled over at Clara. ‘It’s so great to see Raff. I thought he was in Afghanistan.’

  She thought what? Beach bum or adrenaline junkie, either way Afghanistan was the last place Clara imagined Raff Rafferty.

  Or was it? A picture flashed into her mind. That first afternoon, his face grey with weariness, the kind of weariness from hours and hours of travel, sitting in trucks and small airport waiting rooms not from the pampered world of First Class. The battered jeans, the old kitbag.

  None of it had added up at the time but she’d been so convinced that she knew the man she was dealing with she hadn’t even stopped to consider that her preconceptions might be skewed.

  ‘No, not this time,’ he said with a quick glance over at Clara. Was that embarrassment in his eyes? ‘I was in Jordan. We’re trying to make sure there are some medical facilities in the camps there but I was needed at home so had to take some leave. How about you?’

  Lisa blushed. ‘I’m based back in the UK at the moment. Did you know I married Mike, Dr Hardy?’

  ‘I had heard. Congratulations. I did a brief stint with him out in Somalia. He’s a great bloke.’ Again a swift, almost pleading glance at Clara.

  Somalia, Afghanistan, Jordan? Polly had said that Raff was abroad, she had been dismissive, giving Clara the impression that he was partying on a beach somewhere, not working in some of the most dangerous places in the world. Wasn’t she worried about him?

  ‘Mike is setting up a paediatric programme here in London for kids that just can’t be treated in the field so I’m based here too now. It’s not the same but there’s a lot to do. Actually...’ Lisa eyed him speculatively ‘...this could be a massive piece of luck running into you like this. What are you doing in five weeks’ time? Will you still be here?’