by Anne Mather
'How long have you been living in Pendower?' he asked, with his back to her, and she moved her shoulders in an offhand gesture he could not see, before replying: 'About nine months.'
'Nine months?' He repeated her words as he turned to face her. 'So—what made you come back to Wales? Surely there are more interesting jobs available in London than in this depressed area.'
Catherine shrugged. 'I—just like it here,' she confessed. 'I always liked coming to the valley.'
'Yes, you did, didn't you?' His expression was not cold now, and contrarily, she wished it was. He was too approachable in this mood. 'Little Catherine! Who thought she could ride as well as any boy!'
Catherine said nothing. What could she say? It was too disturbing knowing his memory of those days was as good as hers.
'Tell me,' he went on, 'do you still ride? Or don't you find time now that you obviously have other commitments?'
Catherine avoided his eyes, and pretended an interest in a fallen petal from a bowl of chrysanthemums resting on the bookshelves. 'Uncle Mervyn doesn't keep any horses I could ride these days,' she averred lightly. 'Besides, as you say, I don't get much time…'
'I could lend you a mount,' Rafe offered quietly. 'So far I've managed to hang on to a couple of horses, and Tom's mare needs exercise.'
Catherine licked her suddenly dry lips. 'Doesn't— doesn't your wife ride, Mr Glyndower?'
There was another of those little, awkward silences. Then he said flatly: 'Is that meant as a reminder, Miss Tempest? The offer was quite an innocent one, I do assure you.'
Catherine was hot with embarrassment. 'I merely meant—that is—doesn't Thomas ride his own horse?'
'When he's at home.' Rafe inclined his head. 'But only with supervision. He's not got enough experience to venture beyond the paddock. And in any case, those occasions are infrequent, as you know.'
Catherine nodded, and then, taking all her small store of confidence into her hands, she ventured: 'It would be easier if—if Thomas—well, if he lived at home, wouldn't it?' Rafe crossed the room slowly towards her. 'Are you offering me your opinion—or your advice, Miss Tempest?' he enquired dryly, halting before her. 'Whatever, let me offer you a piece of advice—don't get involved.' 'With—with what, Mr Glyndower?' 'With my son, with his problems—or with me.' Catherine refused to be daunted. 'He's only a child,' she protested. 'Why can't he go to school here in Pendower? Why does it have to be somewhere he obviously hates?'
'A good question.' His hands descended on her shoulders suddenly, and her heart leapt into her throat, almost suffocating her. But all he did was move her firmly aside so that he could walk into the hall, though it took her several minutes to recover from that unexpected contact.
'Tom!' he called, and with a shivery feeling of anticlimax she followed him into the hall just as Thomas came dejectedly down the stairs. 'Are you ready?'
Thomas nodded reluctantly, then he turned to Catherine, saying eagerly: 'Can I come to your shop some time? I—I'd like to see it.'
Catherine looked at Rafe, meeting his guarded gaze with appealing eyes. 'I—well, I suppose so, Thomas,' she agreed, ignoring the ominous tightening of his father's expression. 'Next—next time you're on holiday, give me a ring, and we'll arrange something.'
'Miss Tempest is very kind, but I think she's only humouring you, Tom,' Rafe said then, successfully extinguishing the spark of excitement that had kindled in the boy's eyes. 'Boutiques are not suitable places for small boys. You'd just be in the way, and you wouldn't like that.'
Catherine's lips sagged. What was that supposed to mean? That he would not approve of his son associating with her? She couldn't believe he really thought she would have no time for the boy, not after what she had said.
'Do you have a coat?' Rafe continued, thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his own parka, and when Thomas offered a mute denial, he put a hand on his blazer-clad shoulder and urged him down the passage towards the front door.
Then, he looked at Catherine again, and she steeled herself to face his cold disapproval. However, his expression revealed only polite gratitude now, and he offered her his hand in farewell.
'Thank you again,' he said formally, and at his words Thomas turned to echo his father's sentiments.
'I will see you again, won't I?' he asked, and the appeal in his voice was irresistible.
'Of course,' she said, ignoring Rafe's outstretched hand to go down on her haunches beside the boy. 'I promise!' And let your father make what he likes of that, she added silently.
She didn't wait to see the Volvo drive away, As soon as they were outside the door, she closed it behind them, leaning back against the panels with a fast-beating heart. She had been rude and ungracious, she-realised, but she didn't care. Was he completely without feeling when it came to the boy? Didn't he care that the idea of being sent back to that school again was tearing Thomas to pieces? Had he forgotten his own childhood so soon?
Eventually, of course, she had to move. A quick glance at the broad masculine watch on her wrist confirmed her suspicions that it was almost nine o'clock, and her assistant, Mary, would be waiting at the shop.
Ignoring the untidy mess of dishes on the breakfast bar, she collected her coat and let herself out of the cottage. It was a dull misty morning, and she had never felt less like going to work. But she had the sense to realise that work was the one thing in which she could lose herself. Rafe Glyndower was right, after all. It was not her concern. And the sooner she put all the Glyndowers out of her mind, the better.
CHAPTER FIVE
Catherine was in the stockroom when Mary Grant came to tell her there was a visitor in her office.
'It's a man,' the other girl said, rolling her eyes expressively. 'Some man! Where did you meet him?'
Catherine was in the process of stocktaking, and she was in no mood for her assistant's humour. Taking the pencil from behind her ear, she marked down a figure on the clipboard she carried, and gave Mary an impatient glance.
'Who is it?' she demanded tersely. 'Not Colin Barstow, I hope. I told you the last time he came here—'
'It's not him!' Mary made a sound of impatience. 'I'd know Colin Barstow if I saw him again, wouldn't I? And it's not your tame accountant either. He doesn't even look like a salesman. I don't think I've seen him before. I'm sure I wouldn't have forgotten if I had.'
Catherine stiffened. 'Well, what does he want? Surely you asked him that. Mary, I've told you—'
'He just asked to speak to you, that's all.'
'And you didn't get his name?'
Mary flushed. 'No.'
'Oh, Mary.'
Catherine put down her clipboard, and gave her reflection a hasty appraisal in the cracked mirror that occupied a corner of the stockroom. She had a crazy idea who it might be, and the prospect of meeting Rafe Glyndower again filled her with unhealthy excitement. It was frightening how that man affected her.
'You look fine,' exclaimed Mary generously, hoping to divert her employer's disapproval, and Catherine cast her a look of irritation.
'All right, Mary,' she said. 'I'm not angry with you. Look, you go on checking the sizes of these jeans while I find out—what he wants.'
Mary took over the task willingly, and Catherine ran up the few steps between the lower back room and the boutique itself. The disco music which was an accompaniment to sales technique these days was turned up to deafening proportions, and guessing this was another of Mary's doings, Catherine went to adjust the tuner. As she did so, her eyes were drawn, through the open doorway, to the dark green estate car parked at the kerb.
Immediately her mouth went dry. So she had been right. Mary's description, his lack of identity, the car: it all fitted, and her palms felt as if they were glued together. Yet why was he here? At the boutique? He had left her in little doubt as to his opinion of such places, the last time they had spoken together. How long ago was that now? One week? Two? The days had run together since that disastrous weekend, and Catherine had tried not t
o think about the Glyndowers or their problems. Her mind leapt ahead. Had something happened to Thomas? Was that why his father was here? Had the boy run away again? Was he missing? Did they think he might have come to her? Surely, by now, they must have reached a compromise.
Smoothing down her denim skirt, she turned towards her office, the tiny cubicle at the back of the store where she did most of her paperwork. It was hardly big enough to hold her, and the desk it contained, and she dreaded the prospect of a confrontation with Rafe Glyndower there.
He was seated on the edge of her desk when she paused in the doorway, indolently flicking over the pile of stock sheets she had been checking earlier. The half-finished cup of coffee Mary had made her for her break over an hour ago stood in chilly isolation on the filing cabinet, and for a moment she felt the interloper, the intruder into his privacy.
'Yes?' she said, the word clipped and nervous, a revealing indication of her own uncertainty, and Rafe slid politely to the floor, facing her with guarded approval.
He was more formally dressed than she had seen him before. His medium-grey suit fitted his shoulders immaculately, the cut of the material an indication of its quality, and the silk tie that matched it was only a couple of shades darker than his shirt. He didn't wear an overcoat, and he pushed his hands carelessly into the waistline pockets of his trousers.
Even though she had expected to find him there, Catherine was still shocked by his appearance. Every time she saw him, she expected to find she had lost that disturbing awareness of his presence, and every time she was thwarted by the subtle attraction he exerted over her.
'Good morning,' he said, his voice no warmer than hers. 'Your assistant said I might wait in here. I'm sorry, by the way. I didn't realise you were such an astute businesswoman when I spoke to you so patronisingly about employment in this area. Your—er—Miss Grant enlightened me.'
'Oh, yes?' Catherine tilted her head.
'Yes.' He shrugged. 'I should have realised, when you said you had an accountant. My apologies.'
Catherine took a deep breath, becoming aware as she did so that her breasts swelled against the thin denim of her shirt, revealing an arousal she would rather have concealed. 'What can I do for you, Mr Glyndower?' she enquired, with consequent frustration. 'I—er—I am rather busy.'
'Yes.' The word was absent, but she was aware that no small item of her appearance missed his keen appraisal. 'I expect you are.' It sounded like an accusation. 'As a matter of fact, I came to speak to you about Tom…'
'Thomas?' Anxiety entered her expression. 'Is something wrong? He hasn't run—'
'No, no, nothing like that.' Rafe removed his hands from his trousers pockets and adjusted the pocket flaps on his jacket. 'On the contrary, he hasn't returned to boarding school. I spoke to his headmaster, and for the present he's attending the junior school here in Pendower.'
'Oh!' Catherine could not hide the relief this information gave her, or the sense of satisfaction she felt that Rafe Glyndower was not the unfeeling machine she had suspected him of being. 'That's marvellous news!'
'I thought you'd like to know,' he remarked flatly. 'And once again, I must apologise for Tom's unnecessary intrusion into your private affairs. He told me how he apparently turned your—friend—out of his bed, and I feel that I ought to offer to pay for his night's accommodation at the hotel.'
Catherine's cheeks flamed. 'There's no need, I can assure you.'
'I disagree.' His voice had hardened. 'It's become obvious to me that had my son not entangled you in his problems, Mr—er—Brooke? Is that right? Yes, Mr Brooke would have spent the night at your cottage.'
Catherine heaved a trembling breath. 'That may be so,' she admitted, annoyed at the tremor in her voice, 'but I do have two bedrooms, Mr Glyndower, and—and you're jumping to conclusions again!'
'The right ones, in this instance,' he retorted grimly. 'Tom told me how—disappointed Mr Brooke was at being turned away. But you have no need to defend yourself to me. I was merely trying to make amends for what must have been a most frustrating experience.'
The sound of her fingers striking his cheek seemed to echo in the tiny office, resounding off the walls with ominous reverberation. Catherine had never slapped anyone's face before, and she was surprised to find her fingers stinging almost as much as Rafe's face must have done.
Of course, the minute the blow had been struck she regretted it, but it was too late then. The damage had been done, and the slender red weals were appearing like magic upon his lean tanned cheek. The horror of her actions followed quickly on remorse, however. This was her uncle's landlord she had assaulted, the man who held her family's future in his grasp. Dear God, why had she allowed his words to provoke her, when it meant little to her what he thought of her?
'I'm sorry,' she burst out impulsively, wishing the floor would simply open up and swallow her. 'I—I'm sorry.'
'Are you?' he queried dryly, lifting his hand and running exploring fingers over his burning skin. 'Why? Have you changed your mind about what I said?'
'No!' He was being deliberately cruel now, and her breast heaved with the turmoil of her emotions. 'I—well, you can think what you like of me. I don't care.' She glanced behind her half nervously, and was reassured to find the shop was still empty. 'I—I don't think we have anything more to say to one another.'
'Don't you?'
Still he made no move to go, and the seconds stretched into minutes as he continued to regard her with a mixture of admiration and contempt. If Mary appeared now, she would have food for gossip for a month, Catherine worried anxiously, wishing desperately that she had considered before behaving so recklessly.
At last, when her nerves were taut and her blood was singing in her ears, Rafe said: 'Actually, I do have something else to ask you.'
'Yes?' She was abrupt, nervous fingers seeking a strand of honey-brown silk, straying from the coil at her nape. 'If—if it's about my uncle, then I can tell you that he's still as morose as ever.'
'It's not about your uncle,' he declared, his hand falling to his side, exposing the marks which were fortunately fading a little. 'It's to do with you.'
Catherine stiffened, her nails curling painfully into her palms. 'If it's about my invitation to Thomas, you needn't worry. I shan't try to get in touch with him—'
'Damn you, let me finish!' he snapped, aroused at last. 'It's nothing to do with Thomas, or your uncle—or my wife, or anyone else in the valley.' He paused, recovering his composure. 'I wondered if you would do me the favour of riding the mare I told you about. She's an admirable creature, but she needs a firm hand, and I think you'd manage her easily. I could stable her with your uncle for the winter. I'd provide the fodder, of course, if you could find the time…'
Catherine's lips parted in astonishment. 'Me? Ride your mare?' And although her heart leapt at the chance of being able to ride again, she stared at him in disbelief. 'Why on earth would you want me to ride your mare?'
Rafe looked down at the toes of his suede boots for a moment, then he looked back at her. 'I've told you—she's a spirited animal. She needs exercise. I'd like you to take on that responsibility.'
Catherine moved restlessly. 'But now that Thomas is home—'
'He's too young. I explained the situation.'
Catherine shook her head helplessly. 'I—I don't know that I'll have the time…'
'Make time,' he suggested crisply. 'To—please me.'
'To placate you, you mean,' she retorted, and he moved his shoulders indifferently.
'If it pleases you to believe I need placating,' he essayed smoothly. 'The reasons are unimportant. I want you to do it.'
'Why?'
The word was wrung from her, but Rafe was already moving towards her, forcing her to step aside from the doorway. 'I'll arrange to have the mare sent down to Penwyn,' he said, and as she shrank back against the wall to allow him passage, he added: 'Don't look so worried. I deserved the rebuke. For the second time I've been guilty of verbal inte
rference in your affairs. I should apologise, not you.'
Catherine gazed up at him, trying to distinguish his real feelings behind the guarded mask of his face. The dark blue eyes, which a moment before had flashed fire, were now as bland as ever. He had himself in control again, and she wondered why it was so necessary for him to exercise such restraint.
Her heart lurched at the possibility that occurred to her. Did he find her attractive? Was that why he maintained such formality in her presence? It was a tantalising thought; tantalising because, like that son of Zeus who was so tormented, Rafe Glyndower was far out of her reach.
The impulse to find out surged within her, only to be subdued by common sense. It would be easy to flirt with him, to use the weight of her attraction against him, but the memory of Thomas's trusting little face deterred her. She had never allowed herself to become entangled with a married man; she had always despised girls who ignored the vows of matrimony and treated all men the same. She was not a conceited girl, but she had been aware of her attraction for the opposite sex for some years now, and she had little doubt that given enough encouragement, most men felt compelled to prove their masculinity. Her silky mass of honey-coloured hair had a sensual appeal all its own, and her air of independence invariably instilled them with a desire to tame her, but so far her forays into the emotional field had been few and far between. Rafe Glyndower was different. Hadn't it always been so? And she ought to be grateful he respected her sufficiently not to take advantage of his position.
Unaware, a little of her feelings had showed themselves in her eyes, however, and her pulses raced when, almost unwillingly, his hand lifted to stroke hard fingers along her jawline. Her chin lifted to escape that tenuous caress, but his touch remained, burning her skin.
'Do you forgive me?' he demanded, and she was shocked to hear the emotion in his voice after the silent reassurance she had just given herself.
'Please…' she whispered, hardly aware of what she was saying, and almost savagely, his hand was withdrawn.
