His Reluctant Cinderella Page 8

  ‘I think so. Why?’

  Lisa clasped her hands together and looked up at Raff hopefully. ‘We’re holding a fundraising ball, all the great and the good digging deep, you know the kind of thing! We had Phil lined up to speak but he had to pull out. Could you speak in his place?’

  Raff shifted from foot to foot, his expression one of deep discomfort. Clara watched him with some amusement.

  Good, she thought, let him get out of this.

  ‘People don’t want to hear from me,’ he said eventually. ‘They want to hear from the medical teams. They’re the ones with the real stories.’

  ‘We have doctors and nurses and helicopter pilots and patients,’ Lisa assured him. ‘But no one understands that without you guys there wouldn’t be a hospital—or water or electricity or a single bed. Turning a dusty piece of desert into a hospital? That’s the real heroism. We just turn up when it’s ready for us. Don’t you agree?’ she asked Clara.

  Clara looked at Raff with her most innocent expression. ‘I really do,’ she said. ‘He’ll be there, don’t worry. I guarantee it.’

  ‘Really? That’s brilliant. Raff, come along to the office this week and we’ll sort out slides and I’ll let you know how long you have to speak for. Make it funny but real as well, try and make them cry. That’s always worth a few more noughts on the cheque!’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He slid his gaze over to Clara. ‘I’m sure Clara will be happy to help me. You’ll have a bit longer to wait for that cake though, Clara. You need a dress fit for a ball, and a pair of glass slippers too.’ His eyes dropped to her feet, wobbling in the thin-heeled sandals. ‘I’ll tell Susannah to bring the highest she can find.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  CLARA UNZIPPED THE silver shift and let it spill to the floor. She knew Raff was on the other side of the curtain but his silence was absolute.

  Fine, if that was the way he wanted to play it, there was no way she was going to be the one to crack.

  She bent down and picked up the dress, carefully putting it on the hanger. Still no sound, not even a sigh. Anticipation clenched at her stomach as she slipped the next outfit, a wide-skirted silk affair in a vivid green, off the rail and put it on, barely bothering to check the mirror before wrenching the curtain aside.

  ‘And?’

  He was sitting on the sofa, lounging back seemingly without a care in the world. ‘The shoes don’t go.’

  ‘They go with the other dress. I didn’t change them.’ Seriously? Shoes? That was what he was thinking? She wouldn’t ask, she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t... ‘Okay. Spill.’ For goodness’ sake, her self-control was legendary. She prided herself on it! But the need to know was burning her and she didn’t want to examine why. ‘Who was that?’

  Raff got to his feet with leonine grace and sauntered over to the rail. ‘I think we agreed on the red shoes for that outfit, didn’t we? It’ll work very well for lunches. What?’ He was regarding her with faint surprise. No wonder. Clara was aware she resembled a fishwife more than a lady-who-lunches, hands on hips and head back. ‘I did introduce you. That was Lisa. We worked together.’

  ‘Yes, in Somalia,’ Clara said as patiently as she could manage. ‘Why were you in Somalia?’

  ‘I worked with her husband in Somalia,’ Raff corrected her. ‘I knew Lisa in Sri Lanka. I think...’ he finished doubtfully. ‘It might have been Bangladesh.’

  ‘Mercenary or spy?’ The words burst out before she could stop them.

  ‘What?’ The look of utter shock on his face was almost comical.

  ‘You keep quiet about what you do, you work in some of the most dangerous places on earth, it has to be one or the other.’ It was the only thing that made sense.

  ‘Because spies and mercenaries love to throw fundraising balls?’ How she hated that amused smile. He had of course honed in on the only flaw in her thinking.

  ‘Part of your cover.’ Okay, not the best idea she’d ever had.

  ‘Interesting theory. I like it. I always fancied myself as a suave, martini-drinking type. Sorry to burst your little fantasy but nothing so exciting.’ He paused and handed her another dress, a fifties-style halterneck that Clara secretly rather liked. ‘Here, try this on. I’m a project manager for Doctors Everywhere.’

  Oh.

  Kitbags, dangerous places, fundraising balls, hospitals. That made sense. Reluctantly Clara let go of her visions of chase scenes, fancy cars, an evil mastermind bent on world domination.

  ‘Doctors Everywhere?’ she echoed as she obediently accepted the outfit and tottered her way back to the curtain. Of course she had heard of them; they provided healthcare in the Third World, in refugee camps, in war spots.

  They were incredibly well respected. Not the natural playground of playboys. Which meant that every little preconception she had was wrong.

  Clara changed on autopilot, so many thoughts tumbling around her brain it was as if her head had joined the circus.

  Somehow the emotion she could most easily identify was anger. She pushed away the thought that this might be a little unreasonable. After all, what Raff Rafferty did with his time was really none of her business.

  He had made it her business, she argued back as she fumbled with the buttons at the back and cautiously zipped up the tight bodice. Employing her, introducing her to his grandfather, buying her these exquisite, over-priced, really very flattering clothes.

  He had made her complicit.

  The curtain made a most satisfying swoosh as she pulled it open, and she stomped forward only wobbling twice. Damn, she was still wearing the stupid sliver shoes. No wonder Cinderella had discarded her glass slippers; she was probably in agony by midnight.

  ‘Doctors Everywhere?’

  ‘Yep.’ He was still standing up, leaning against the back wall. The plain colour of the backdrop suited him, made the hair a little blonder, the eyes even bluer. Not that she was noticing. Not at all.

  Oh, no, she was putting her hands on her hips again. Ten years of careful, calm control and yet one day with this man and she was unleashing her inner harpy. ‘Which is obviously such a terrible thing for you to do you had no choice but to lie to your sister and grandfather?’ Clara could hear the sarcasm dripping from her voice and tried to calm down.

  This wasn’t her family. Why did she care so much?

  He looked at her for one long moment and Clara thought he wasn’t going to answer. After all, the annoying voice of reason whispered, he didn’t have to explain himself to her, but after a moment he sighed. ‘I didn’t lie. They know what I do.’

  ‘They know? Then why does your grandfather want you to take over Rafferty’s? And why has Polly never mentioned it?’ Clara twisted the heavy curtain fabric around her hand and studied him curiously.

  ‘According to Grandfather it’s just a phase I’ll grow out of. As for Polly...’ He glanced away, staring at the stark walls as if the answer would be found there. ‘I don’t know what she hates more—that Grandfather always wanted me to have this place or that I don’t want it. I hoped that if I went away she would be able to convince him that she was the better candidate but she accused me of running away. Maybe she was right.’

  ‘Why?’ So she was curious; it wasn’t a crime.

  He pushed himself off the wall and walked over to the small table, which held a jug of iced water and a bunch of grapes, nothing that could mark the valuable clothes. ‘Want one?’ he offered and she shook her head.

  He poured himself a glass. Clara watched as he took a long, deep drink, her eyes drawn to the way his tanned throat worked as he swallowed. He set the glass down and, with a purposeful manner, as if he had come to some kind of internal decision, he turned and faced her squarely, eyes holding hers.

  ‘Because I was running away,’ he said. ‘Away from expectations and responsibility
and guilt and family. I was at a really low point, Polly and I were fighting, Grandfather kept promoting me higher and higher whilst passing her over—and believe me it wasn’t on merit—and then I met up with a friend who was volunteering with Doctors Everywhere. He mentioned that they always needed people with good project-management skills and a second language—to be honest I didn’t think I had a chance. A pampered boy like me who thought travelling second class was slumming it?

  ‘Nobody was as surprised as me when they took me. But I didn’t ever consider not going.’ He grimaced. ‘I genuinely thought it was a one-off. That I’d be back in three months relieved to be back behind my desk.’ His mouth twisted with a wry humour as he remembered. ‘I nearly was. That first three months was the most difficult, stressful three months of my life. It made prep school seem like a holiday camp. I couldn’t wait for it to be over.

  ‘But I signed up for my next assignment the day after I was released.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t know then that I had been broken in easy—an existing brick-built hospital, my own bedroom, not a war zone. Somalia was a horrid shock. But I signed up again as soon as I returned from there, for six months that time. It’s like a drug. I think I can walk away any time but I always go back for more.

  ‘Because...it makes a real difference, Clara. Everything I did changed somebody’s world. I might not be the person performing the operations—but I was the person making sure that the operations could take place. That we had beds and kits and food and water. It mattered.’

  ‘And Rafferty’s doesn’t?’

  ‘Not to me.’

  Raff heard his words echo around the room. He’d thought them many times but had never said them aloud.

  But the sky didn’t fall in, the world didn’t end, his grandfather didn’t appear in a puff of smoke to blast him away like a vengeful god. He was still the same man, still standing there.

  Only everything had changed. He couldn’t fool himself or his family any longer. He wasn’t working away for a sabbatical or a career break or for an adventure. It was what he did, what he needed to do, what he was. And it didn’t matter whether his grandfather left him Rafferty’s or not, he would just sign it over to Polly. It was hers; she deserved it.

  There was no point waiting and hoping that things would work out his way; he had to make them happen.

  Clara was still looking at him, that green gaze of hers intent. He didn’t know what he had expected. Shock? Disapproval? Horror? It was hard to remember sometimes that to other people Rafferty’s was no more than a place to buy beautifully gift-wrapped socks or get an expensive but perfect afternoon tea. It wasn’t the centre of everyone’s world.

  What was it about this woman that made him want to confess, to spill all the secrets that he preferred to keep locked away so tightly? Was it her directness, her transparency? The unexpected way she lit up when she smiled?

  Their eyes were locked, the colour rising faint on her cheeks, her breath coming a little quicker. The full mouth parted slightly. Heat rose through him, sudden and shocking. The walls of the room seemed to contract; all he could see was her. The red-gold hair tumbling around her creamy shoulders, delicate tempting shoulders exposed by the deceptively demure halterneck dress, shoulders that were begging for a man to touch them, to kiss the triangle of freckles delicately placed like an old-fashioned patch.

  Raff swallowed, blood thrumming round his body, his heartbeat accelerating. She was so very close, green eyes darkening until they resembled the storm-tossed sea. Just a few short steps...

  ‘That suits you.’ Raff jumped as Susannah heeled in a third rail. ‘Although I don’t think those are the right shoes.’

  Clara pulled her eyes from his, pulling at the hem of the dress. The room felt a good ten degrees colder and suddenly a lot bigger. ‘No,’ she agreed, throwing Raff a faint, complicit smile that warmed him through. ‘After ten minutes in these shoes I am completely convinced that they are absolutely not the right shoes.’

  ‘Have you made any decisions yet? I’ve brought a few formal evening gowns as Mr Raff instructed.’ Susannah gestured towards the rail. ‘He didn’t specify but with your colouring I thought greens, blacks and golds might be most suitable. Do you want me to stay and help you try them on?’ She picked up a long, dark dress and carried it into the curtained area, hanging it onto one of the silver rails that hung between the floor-length mirrors.

  ‘That’s very kind but I think I’ll manage, thanks. They all look lovely.’ Clara threw the rail a helpless look. ‘I’m only on my third dress. I’d better hurry up or I’ll never get my reward.’

  Cake, she meant cake, Raff reminded himself, fingers curling into a fist as other, equally sweet ways of rewarding her flashed through his head.

  Clara took a step back, retreating behind the curtain as Susannah left. Raff paced around the room trying not to interpret every sound he heard. The rustle of a button, the slow, steady zip as the dress was undone, the faint slither of material falling to the floor.

  Maybe he should have some more water.

  ‘Have you ever tried to tell them how you feel?’ Her voice floated through the curtain.

  It took a few seconds for the words to penetrate through his brain, for him to remember the conversation they had been halfway through before time slowed, before his brain had gone into lockdown and his body into overdrive.

  ‘No,’ he admitted, running one hand through his hair. It was a relief in some ways to spill the feelings he had carried around for so long, locked inside so tight he barely recognised them himself. Clara was unconnected; she was safe.

  In this context at least.

  And she was invisible, hidden away behind the curtain; it felt as if he had the seal of the confessional. That he could say anything and be absolved.

  ‘Rafferty’s means everything to Grandfather, to Polly too. But it bores me. Merchandise and pricing and advertising and thinking about Christmas in June,’ he said slowly, trying to pick his words carefully as he articulated the feelings he barely admitted to himself. ‘Polly and I owe my grandfather everything and all he wanted, all he wants, is for me to take this place over. To take my father’s place by continuing his work, accepting my great-grandfather’s legacy. I didn’t know how to tell him I didn’t want it. Not ever. What kind of spoiled brat breaks his grandfather’s heart?’

  She didn’t reply. How could she? But her silence didn’t feel hostile or loaded.

  ‘I tried.’ He leant back against the wall and gazed unseeingly at the ceiling, the long years of thwarted hopes and unwanted expectations heavy on his conscience. ‘I really, really tried, worked here after school and every holiday, gave up my dreams of studying medicine and struggled through three years of business management instead. I even did an MBA and I took up the role awaiting me here—and every day, for six years, I hated coming to work.’

  He sighed. ‘But ironically Polly loved it. I hoped that if Grandfather saw how well she did then he would switch his attention to her. But he’s old-fashioned. He doesn’t even realise how much he’s hurt her by leaving the company to me.’

  ‘You have to tell him.’ She sounded so matter of fact. As if it were that easy.

  ‘I know. Unfortunately last time I tried he ended up in hospital.’ Raff tried to make his voice sound light but he knew he was failing.

  ‘What’s your plan? To spend another six years here hating every moment, you miserable, Polly miserable?’

  ‘No!’ he protested. Her words cut a little deeper than he liked. After all, he had taken the path of least resistance, hoping it would all work out somehow. He had only postponed the inevitable.

  He had run through every possible conversation in his head. None of them ever ended well. If he had to he would just walk away, refuse to be involved, but the old man had lost one son already. If only there was a way to keep the family together and liv
e his own life.

  If only he could make his grandfather see...

  Unless...

  ‘I could invite him to the ball,’ he said, his brain beginning to tick over with ideas. ‘Let him see for himself what I’ve been up to.’

  ‘Will he be fit?’ She didn’t sound convinced.

  There was the flaw. ‘It’s five weeks away. He’ll be back home this week and resting. If I make sure he’s escorted at all times, order a special low-fat dinner and keep him away from the wine he should be okay. He never was the sort to dance the night away. I could take a table, fill it with business cronies. He’d enjoy that.’

  ‘And then what?’ She still sounded doubtful.

  He was over thirty. It was time to be a man, banish the guilt-ridden small boy, eager to please whatever the cost. ‘Then, after the ball, when he’s seen the difference we make, the difference I make, I’ll talk to him again. Honestly and firmly.’

  It wasn’t a foolproof plan by any means. Nor was it an instant answer. Raff would have to stick around for nearly two months—but he’d planned for that after all, booked Clara for up to six weeks.

  It felt like the best shot he had. And regardless of whatever his grandfather decided his own decision was made.

  It was only now that he realised just how heavy his burden had been: guilt, expectations, responsibility weighing him down. He wasn’t free of it, not yet, but freedom was in sight. It was strange how talking it through with someone, sharing his burden, had helped.

  Would anyone have done or was it Clara herself? Raff wasn’t sure he wanted to explore that thought any further.

  ‘It could work.’ She sounded a little more enthusiastic. ‘You better make sure your presentation is spectacular.’

  ‘Our presentation,’ he said silkily. ‘You’re the one who promised we’d be there, agreed to all this. I want your help with every aspect. You don’t just get to turn up late and leave early, Cinders. You have to work for your dress and glass slippers.’