by Jessica Hart
‘What were your holidays like?’ he asked her. ‘I suppose you always had your sister to play with?’ She seemed so self-sufficient that she could have been an only child too, but he remembered meeting Octavia, with her beauty and her ready smiles. He had been surprised that two such different girls could be related.
Now…He glanced at Miranda and remembered how she had looked when she smiled. If Octavia had closed her eyes and smiled languorously, would he have been as struck? Rafe thought not.
‘Two sisters actually,’ Miranda was saying. ‘I’m the middle one.’
‘Ah, three sisters…like a fairy tale?’
‘Yes, but in the case of the Fairchilds, it’s two beautiful sisters and one ugly one. Belinda looks like Octavia,’ she added, just in case he hadn’t realised who the ugly one was.
‘You’re not ugly,’ said Rafe without thinking. ‘You just dress badly. Every time I’ve seen you, you’ve been wearing a dull little suit like that one.’
That wasn’t quite true, Miranda thought, and the memory of the cat suit sent faint colour creeping into her cheeks. Thank goodness he hadn’t recognised her! It would have been mortifying.
‘A suit’s practical if you’re working in an office,’ she pointed out.
‘There’s nothing wrong with a suit if it’s well cut, or if the colour is flattering, but you seem to go out of your way to pick bad designs and colours that do nothing at all for you,’ he said almost crossly.
‘You sound like my sisters!’
It was none of his business, Rafe knew, and probably deeply inappropriate to boot, but he had always had an eye for good design, and it bothered him that Miranda seemed to care so little about her appearance. It just seemed a waste.
‘You dress as if you don’t want anyone to notice you,’ he grumbled.
Miranda sighed a little. ‘That’s probably true. Everyone else in my family was so flamboyant, and so obsessed with what they looked like, that I suppose I got used to not competing. I knew I could never look like my sisters, so it seemed easier not to even try.’
It couldn’t be easy having one sister as spectacularly pretty as Octavia, let alone two, Rafe reflected. Still, it was a shame she didn’t make more of herself. With a little effort, she could be lovely. You had to look twice to notice the luminous skin, to realise that the cool, quiet features were full of character, to see the intelligence shining in those steady eyes that seemed to waver between brown and green.
And that wasn’t all. Rafe thought about the curl of her mouth as she smiled, about the way the ruthlessly confined hair gleamed with warmth in the sun.
‘Why don’t you let your hair down?’ he demanded abruptly.
‘You mean, why don’t I have some fun?’ said Miranda with an edge of bitterness. ‘My sisters say that, too.’
‘Actually, I meant literally,’ said Rafe, ‘but why not?’
‘Literally, because it’s more practical to have it tied back. Look what a mess it would be in now if it was hanging all over my face,’ she pointed out. ‘An open-topped sports car isn’t the place to start experimenting with a new style, is it?’
‘And not literally?’
She sighed. ‘The only thing my family knew how to do was have fun,’ she said. ‘Look where fun has got me!’
There was a story there, thought Rafe, with a sidelong glance at her unguarded expression, but perhaps now was not the time to probe.
‘Driving out of town on a sunny Monday morning?’ he suggested.
Miranda acknowledged the point with a tiny huff of laughter. ‘My Monday mornings aren’t usually like this!’
‘Mine either,’ he agreed, ‘so we might as well make the most of it. Let’s get out of London, and then find somewhere to have that coffee. If Ginny found out I’d made you do without, I’d never hear the end of it!’
They were going against the traffic, so once they hit the motorway they made rapid progress. Rafe was a good driver, fast but not reckless, and his reactions were very quick. Conversation was difficult with the top down, but the further London fell behind them, the more Miranda’s spirits rose.
It was a beautiful day, and she watched the countryside with pleasure as they sped by, but she was acutely conscious of Rafe beside her, long hands very steady on the steering wheel, dark hair ruffled by the wind, his thigh close enough to touch.
If things were different, she would be able to reach over and lay her hand on it, to feel how lean and warm and strong he was. If she were another girl, she would know how to touch him. If he were another man, he would smile and cover her hand possessively with his own.
If he were a man who loved her.
If he were a man she could love.
But he wasn’t. He was Rafe Knighton, and he was the last man on earth she wanted to touch.
So why was her hand prickling and tingling with the mere thought of resting on his thigh? Uneasily, Miranda folded it against the other on her lap to keep it in place, and stared out at the landscape, but, instead of fields, Rafe’s image danced maddeningly in front of her eyes, with that gleaming, heart-shaking smile and all the easy assurance of wealth and good looks.
Don’t be an idiot, Miranda told herself firmly. Really, what was Rafe Knighton other than a walking, talking cliché? Tall, dark, handsome, impossibly rich…and vain and superficial and irresponsible and everything she despised.
No man like that was going to throw her into a tizzy, no matter how nice his smile.
Still, it was a relief when they stopped for coffee and she could get out of the car and put a bit more space between them.
They found a pub not far from the motorway, and sat at a table outside. A fat Labrador waddled out to keep them company in the sunshine. Miranda’s face softened as he thrust his nose into her lap and wagged his tail.
‘Hello, boy,’ she said, fondling his ears, and Rafe was shocked to find himself thinking, for one ridiculous moment, Lucky dog.
‘I love dogs,’ she told him, looking up with a smile that made him wonder how he could ever have thought her colourless. ‘I used to beg my parents for one, but they always said it would be too much trouble.’
‘You’ll get on well with my grandmother, then. She’s got hordes of them! I prefer cats myself,’ said Rafe, watching the way the dog was shedding hairs all over Miranda’s skirt.
‘Now, why does that not surprise me?’ Miranda’s voice was very dry. Cats spent their days pleasing themselves or grooming themselves. Easy to see why Rafe would identify with them!
‘You’ve got to admit cats have style,’ he said provocatively. It was interesting that she preferred dogs, he thought. She was so neat and self-contained so much of the time that he wouldn’t have expected the noisy chaos that so often accompanied dogs to appeal to her. But she didn’t seem at all bothered by the mess on her skirt.
‘But dogs are so loyal and so reliable and so friendly,’ Miranda was unable to resist arguing. ‘Aren’t you?’ she added to the dog, who was panting happily back at her, wagging not just its tail but its entire back end.
As if to prove her point, it pulled its head out of her lap and went round to say hello to Rafe instead.
‘Yes, yes, good dog,’ he said, resigned, and gave it a pat.
It responded by resting its head adoringly on Rafe’s knee and redoubling the wags.
‘Come away now, Archie,’ said the landlord sharply as he came out with their coffee on a tray. He put it down on the table, and pushed the dog away. ‘Sorry, he loves people. Has he been bothering you?’
‘Of course not. He’s lovely,’ Miranda assured him, but the landlord shooed the dog away anyway and left them to their coffee.
Turning back to Rafe, she saw him looking down at his trousers, where Archie had adoringly left a trail of slobber.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ she said before he had a chance to launch into a diatribe against the messiness of dogs. ‘It’s just a bit of slobber! There’s no need to make a fuss. Here.’ She found a tissue in he
r bag and without thinking leant over to wipe his leg.
The breath hissed out of Rafe.
Miranda froze at the sound, then drew back, scarlet with mortification. What was she doing? This was her boss. Knowing that it would be deeply inappropriate to touch him in any way, she had spent what felt like hours resisting the unprecedented temptation to lay her hand on his thigh in the car, and what did she do? Practically grab him and rub him down as if he were a child!
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I wasn’t thinking.’
Rafe didn’t even hear her. ‘It was you!’ he said, staring.
‘What?’ Miranda looked at him uneasily.
Something about the way she tutted, something about the briskness with which she had leant over to wipe his trousers had switched on a light bulb of recognition in Rafe’s brain. He remembered the waitress in the absurd cat suit brushing him down, the same way Miranda had brushed the traces of the dog from his trousers.
Exactly the same way.
Now he knew why the waitress had seemed vaguely familiar.
‘You’re that waitress who threw canapés all over me,’ he said.
‘It was an accident-’ Miranda began in instinctive defence, and then stopped, furious with herself. Too late now to bluff it out and pretend that she didn’t know what he was talking about!
‘How did you recognise me?’ she asked dully, looking away.
‘Nobody mops up stains the way you do,’ said Rafe, amusement quivering in his voice. Now that it was clear, he marvelled that he hadn’t made the connection earlier. No one else walked with that straight-backed grace, did they? He should have recognised the proud tilt of her chin at least, the exasperated click of her tongue, the ironic curve of her mouth.
‘I can’t believe I didn’t recognise you sooner,’ he said. ‘But you had your hair down, and you were wearing that mask…’
He trailed off, remembering what else she had been wearing that night, and he was dismayed to realise how vividly he could picture her in that tight-fitting cat suit. Who would have guessed that such a spectacular figure was hidden beneath the ill-fitting suits she wore?
In spite of himself, his eyes dropped to her legs. Encased in the cat suit, they had been long and slender. The dull grey skirt she wore now cut her off at the knee, but there was no mistaking those calves, those ankles. It was hard to believe that he had missed them until now.
Rafe swallowed.
It had been hard enough reconciling prim Miranda Fairchild, the efficient temp, with the woman who had smiled so sensuously in the sunshine, without knowing that she was also a catsuit-wearing waitress with a figure that had lingered in his memory far longer than it should.
How was he to deal with her now?
‘You let your hair down when you’re waitressing,’ he found himself saying absurdly.
‘Only when the client insists.’ Miranda looked defensive. She sat very straight, feeling exposed. She might as well still have been wearing that cat suit. ‘We don’t normally have to wear those stupid costumes.’
‘Do you get hassled like that a lot?’ he asked uncomfortably, remembering the casual way that man had touched her and wished he’d thumped him when he had the chance.
She smiled a little wryly. ‘Nobody has ever noticed me at all,’ she said. ‘Those cat suits were deliberately provocative-I wasn’t the only waitress who had problems that night-but that’s the first and last time we’ve ever had to wear anything like that. Normally I just wear a regular uniform.’
Rafe wished she’d been wearing a regular uniform the other evening. Knowing what a gorgeous figure she had under those shapeless suits of hers wasn’t going to help his concentration at all!
His throat was dry. Miranda’s knees were tugging at the edge of his vision, but he mustn’t stare. Nobody’s ever noticed me, wasn’t that what she had said? If only he hadn’t noticed her. Now that he had, Rafe was very much afraid that he wasn’t going to be able to stop.
Which was absurd. It wasn’t as if she had turned into a raving beauty. She was still cool and prim, and her hair was still tied back in that ugly style. All he had to do was forget about how she had looked in that cat suit.
All?
Hah.
‘I didn’t realise you had an evening job,’ he said, conscious that he sounded lame, but he who was never at a loss for a flip comment was suddenly as tongue-tied as a boy and unable to think of anything to say.
Miranda leaned forward to pour the coffee. ‘It’s not a problem, is it?’
‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘It must be tiring, though, working all day and then starting another job in the evening.’
‘It is, but I need the money. Temping doesn’t pay well, even when you’re working somewhere like the Knighton Group.’
‘Couldn’t you get a permanent job?’ Rafe took the cup she passed to him with a murmur of thanks. ‘It’s obvious that you’re more than capable. Simon told me you’d have been able to run Communications by yourself by the time you’d been there a week. You ought to be a manager or administrator at the very least.’
‘Unfortunately, I don’t have much of a CV.’ Miranda stirred her coffee mindlessly. She had been over and over this so many times.
‘You learnt to organise somewhere,’ Rafe pointed out. ‘How old are you? Twenty-nine? Thirty?’
A faint flush stained her cheekbones. ‘Twenty-seven.’
‘Then you’ve been doing something for the past ten years. Even if you don’t have qualifications, you must have experience.’
‘Only of failure,’ she said bleakly, her eyes on her coffee.
‘You surprise me,’ he said. ‘You strike me as so competent I would have said that you would make a success of whatever you did.’
Miranda’s mouth twisted. If only he knew! ‘I’m afraid it would have taken a lot more than competence to rescue Fairchild’s.’
Rafe raised his brows. He remembered Fairchild’s from his childhood. A long-established chain of department stores, the shops had disappeared from London years ago. He had heard the company had gone belly up the year before but he’d been in Africa at the time and didn’t know any details.
‘You’re one of those Fairchilds?’
She nodded. ‘Looking back, I can see that the firm had been going steadily downhill for years, but I didn’t realise how badly until I went to university. I’d only been there a year when it became obvious it was in big trouble. My father was struggling, and there was no one else to help him.’ Miranda lifted her shoulders helplessly at the memory. ‘I dropped out and went to work with him instead. I thought I could make a difference but…’
‘What happened?’
‘We didn’t innovate. We didn’t develop. We didn’t recognise that the world had changed and we had to change with it.’ She sighed, remembering.
‘It sounds as if you did.’
‘I wasn’t enough,’ she said with a trace of bitterness. ‘I couldn’t persuade my father that we had to do things differently. Perhaps it was too late, anyway. It would have taken a complete transformation to turn things round, and my father wasn’t the only one convinced that our reputation would see us through.’
‘Reputation is a two-edged sword,’ said Rafe thoughtfully. ‘It can work to your advantage, sure, but it can be a huge liability, too. Once it’s established, it’s almost impossible to change the way people think of you.’
He glanced down at Miranda, and his smile gleamed suddenly, burning behind her eyelids. ‘I should know,’ he said.
She looked away. She had an uncomfortable feeling that she was changing the way she thought about him.
‘So what happened in the end?’ he asked after a moment. ‘Were you taken over?’
‘No, there were some offers, but my father refused to consider any of them.’ He had never accepted the reality of the situation, Miranda remembered, but had insisted on hanging onto the trappings of wealth long after the substance of it had been squandered.
‘Then
he had a heart attack, and died, and by then it was too late. The firm just collapsed in on itself. We were declared bankrupt, and that was it. I did what I could for the employees, but it wasn’t much, and then I had to find a job for myself, which wasn’t that easy. I’m not exactly employable.’
Her face was set, her mouth pressed firmly together, and glancing down at her Rafe was struck by the mixture of strength and vulnerability in her expression. It couldn’t have been an easy time for her, and obviously the sense of failure ran deep, but she had evidently picked herself up and started again, right back at the bottom. That took guts.
‘So you became a temp?’
‘I had to do something,’ she pointed out. ‘We had to sell everything. My father wasn’t very savvy about money-probably because it had always just been there for him-so he’d never considered setting up trusts or transferring ownership of the houses, or even taking out life insurance.’
Rafe grimaced. It sounded as if her father had been completely feckless. ‘Leaving you with nothing?’
‘Leaving me with what most of us have, the ability to earn my own living,’ said Miranda sharply. She hated people feeling sorry for her. ‘I’m really lucky to have a good friend who’s let me rent a room in her flat at a ridiculously cheap rate, and since I signed on with an agency, I’ve got an income. Things could be a lot worse.’
It must have been hard for her nonetheless, Rafe thought, pitched from a life of wealth and privilege into the day-to-day grind of working for a living and scraping by from one pay day to the next. One moment she had been a board member, the next she was a lowly temp, reduced to wrestling with photocopiers.
Miranda puffed out a sigh and leant forward to put the cup and saucer back on the tray. ‘I just feel so sad about Fairchild’s,’ she confessed. ‘My great-grandfather started the firm, and my grandfather built it up to a household name. They both worked so hard to make it a great firm. We just let all that go to waste.’
It was a pity she hadn’t had longer, Rafe thought. She might have been able to turn things round, but it sounded as if her father had frittered away his inheritance long before she tried to take the reins.
