by Jessica Hart
She swallowed.
‘Now can you see why we keep going on at you to make more of an effort?’ demanded Octavia. ‘You’ve never had any idea how beautiful you are.’
‘But this isn’t me,’ said Miranda in a small voice.
‘It is you,’ said Octavia, exasperated. ‘Or it’s how you could be if only you’d have some confidence in yourself.’
Miranda didn’t believe her, but she didn’t want to get into an argument about it. ‘It’s very clever, what you’ve done,’ she said placatingly instead.
‘Yes, well, I’m not just a pretty face, you know. Off you go now,’ Octavia added in almost exactly the same tone Elvira had used. ‘I want to get ready myself.’
Thanking her a little lamely, Miranda made her way to the ballroom. She felt very strange. She kept catching glimpses of an elegant stranger in the mirrors and realising with a belated shock that it was her. Between them, Elvira and Octavia had transformed her. Miranda just wished that they had changed her inside too, while they were at it. As it was, she felt exposed and vulnerable, and wished that her clipboard were three times the size so that she could hide all her bare flesh behind it.
Lurking as unobtrusively as she could, and keeping the clipboard clutched firmly in front of her, Miranda waited in the hall to direct guests out to the marquee as they arrived. Much to her relief, she hadn’t seen Rafe at all. He must be in the marquee.
Only when she was sure that she was in no danger of being noticed in the crowd did Miranda make her own way there. The marquee was unrecognisable from the hot, quiet space where she and Rafe had stared at each other earlier. Now it was thronging with brightly dressed guests and the noise level was deafening.
Keeping to the edges, Miranda kept an eye on the tables until the guests were all sitting down and the first course was under way. She was determined not to look for Rafe, but she knew where he was sitting, of course, and it was impossible not to notice him. He was sitting between a vivacious brunette and a coolly beautiful blonde, but it was impossible to tell which was the lawyer and which the financial consultant. Rafe was smiling, exuding his usual charm and dividing his attention between them. Miranda couldn’t tell which one he seemed more interested in-and she didn’t care, she reminded herself quickly, turning away.
Now that the dinner was under control, she should be checking the band had everything it needed to set up in the ballroom, anyway.
The music started after the main course, and gradually dancers drifted up to the ballroom from the marquee, exclaiming at how beautiful it was. Miranda observed the floor fill up from her position in a quiet doorway. The band was fantastic and the floor was soon packed. She saw Octavia dancing with Simon. She saw Rafe dancing with a succession of lovely girls and apparently enjoying himself immensely.
Good, Miranda thought.
To her embarrassment, men kept asking her to dance. ‘I’m sorry, I’m working,’ she would have to explain, lifting her clipboard to underline the point. If only she could have stayed in her black trousers nobody would be making this mistake. Her feet in Elvira’s shoes were killing her too.
The evening wore on. The meal was eaten, the champagne drunk, the dances danced. It had all gone like clockwork. Only another hour or so and it would be over.
Trying to ignore her sore feet, Miranda watched everyone enjoying themselves and willed herself to feel excited, or proud at least. She had made this happen, after all, and it was clearly a huge success. She could put it on her CV, and perhaps it would help her to find a job. She would have to go back to the agency and see if they had a new assignment for her. Rafe didn’t need her any more. If he couldn’t find a suitable wife among this lot, there was no hope for him.
Without thinking, she sought Rafe through the crowd. He was dancing with yet another girl, another blonde, who looked vaguely familiar. He might have danced with her before, so a second dance might mean that he was interested? When he smiled down into her eyes like that, was he thinking that she was the one?
Miranda turned away, suddenly overwhelmed by tiredness and melancholy, and slipped out to the terrace. There was no more she could do now, in any case. She could go off duty, surely. Her feet couldn’t stand another second in these shoes.
Her heart couldn’t stand another second pretending it didn’t hurt just as much.
The night was warm, and the music spilled out over the paving. Taking off her shoes, Miranda went down the steps and with a sigh of relief curled her bare toes into the cool grass. A little further along the path, a stone bench was hidden in the shadows, and she sank down onto it, lips pressed together in a fierce line to stop the tears that clogged the back of her throat.
She was just tired, Miranda tried to convince herself. It was just anticlimax, just sore feet. Otherwise she wouldn’t be feeling so pathetic.
Everything was fine. She had successfully completed an interesting project, and, with all the overtime and evening work, she had managed to save more than usual recently. True, she was still a long way from her target, but if she kept working it might not be too long before she could go to Whitestones and be happy.
What more did she want?
CHAPTER SEVEN
M IRANDA’S mind flickered to Rafe, but she clamped down immediately on the thought. Oh, for heaven’s sake! she told herself, exasperated. Don’t be so silly.
She sat on in the darkness, watching the stars that spangled the deep, dark blue of the sky. She could still hear the band and the sound of laughter from the ballroom but it was muted here, and, enveloped in the scents of the summer night, Miranda gradually relaxed. Everything was fine, she thought, and this time she meant it.
She was fine.
Even when a familiar figure materialised out of the shadows, she kept her calm, and if a flush crept into her cheeks, well, he wouldn’t be able to see much in the darkness. He wouldn’t see her heart pounding or the tingle of awareness beneath her skin.
Rafe stopped in front of her. ‘What are you doing sitting out here in the dark, Miranda?’
‘Resting my feet.’
Her bare shoulders were luminous in the starlight, and in that elegant dress she looked like a stranger, but the tilt of her chin and the directness of her gaze were unmistakably Miranda’s.
Rafe’s head was reeling. All evening, he had been keeping an eye out for Miranda, and getting increasingly frustrated at her absence, until quite suddenly he had spotted her, although he had had to look twice to make sure that it was really her.
He had never seen her look like that before. It was impossible not to recognise the trademark proud lift of her chin, the straight back and prim posture, and of course she had that damned clipboard held in front of her like a shield. There was no mistaking that.
But he was shaken to see her in a dress that clung lovingly to her figure and showed off her beautiful skin. The dress was old-fashioned, but it suited her somehow. It was unique, like Miranda herself. In it she looked elegant and ethereal, and quite unlike the frumpy assistant he was used to seeing.
She looked beautiful.
And once Rafe had seen her, he couldn’t help seeing her everywhere. He tried not to stare, but he was aware of her all the time, and every time he saw another man approach her he felt himself tense, hoping that she wouldn’t agree to dance. It made him furious to realise that he wasn’t the only man who had noticed her.
When Miranda had slipped out onto the terrace, Rafe had seen her go. He’d told himself not to follow her. He was supposed to be having a good time. He was supposed to be finding a suitable wife.
So he’d kept on dancing, and when that dance had ended, he’d taken his partner back to the table and asked someone else to dance. Like everyone else he had danced with, she had been witty and intelligent and attractive, but the ballroom had felt hot and airless and noisy, and once the dance was over and she had been escorted back to the table in her turn, Rafe had murmured an excuse and escaped outside, the way he had been wanting to do ever since Miranda
had disappeared.
At first, he hadn’t been able to see her anywhere, and, feeling a fool, he’d been about to head back to the ballroom when he had caught a glimpse of movement in the shadows. Now he looked down at her, sitting alone in the dark, the clipboard resting in her lap, and he could feel his heart swelling at the sight of her.
‘Come and dance, Cinderella,’ he said. ‘You’ve been working all evening.’
‘You’re supposed to be dancing with your guests,’ said Miranda, bracing herself to resist him. It wasn’t fair of him to stand there, looking like that, smiling like that.
‘I have danced with them,’ said Rafe. ‘I’ve been dancing all night, and now I want to dance with you,’
‘Why?’
Yes, why? Rafe asked himself. He didn’t know himself, he just knew that he did.
‘To say thank you,’ he improvised. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job. Everybody’s saying what a success the ball is, and you should be sharing in that, not hiding out here.’
‘I’m not hiding. I’m tired, and my feet are killing me.’ She showed him her bare feet. ‘There’s no way I’m putting those shoes on again!’
‘Dance barefoot,’ Rafe told her. ‘But dance you will.’ Reaching down, he took hold of her hand and tugged her, still protesting, to her feet. ‘And you can leave that bloody thing here,’ he added, removing the clipboard from her clutch and tossing it onto the bench. ‘You don’t need it any more.’
His grip warm and firm around her hand, he pulled Miranda up the steps and across the terrace, ignoring her attempts to hang back.
‘You know, you could just say thank you,’ she said breathlessly as she was dragged along. ‘Or send me flowers tomorrow. I’d be fine with that. Or even better, a bonus!’
Rafe stopped suddenly just outside the doors, but didn’t let go of her hand. ‘Why don’t you want to dance with me?’ he demanded.
Miranda stared at him in frustration. She couldn’t tell him that she didn’t trust herself near him, that she was afraid of the way her body reacted to his closeness.
‘I can’t dance,’ she muttered. ‘You know that.’
‘We danced before,’ Rafe pointed out.
‘That wasn’t really dancing. And it wasn’t in public.’
‘Nobody’s going to be interested in you, Miranda,’ he tutted. ‘It’s not a display. Anyway, it’s not even proper dancing. It’s not as if we’re going to do a formal waltz. Listen.’
It was very late, and the band had switched to slow music by now. ‘See?’ Rafe said. ‘We don’t need to dance at all. We just need to hold each other and sway a bit.’
That was what she was afraid of.
‘Oh, well, if you’re going to make such a fuss about it,’ said Miranda, covering her nervousness beneath a familiar prickly manner. ‘But I’d really rather have a bonus!’
Rafe laughed and pulled her onto the floor. ‘I love it when you’re charming, Miranda!’
As he had promised, no one was dancing properly. The floor was so crowded, they had little choice but to stand close together. Rafe curled his fingers firmly around hers and held her hand against his shoulder. He spread his other hand against the small of her back, feeling her stiff and rigid, and eased her nearer to him so that he could breathe in the scent of her hair.
This was what he had wanted to do all evening, he realised. He had danced with an array of women far more beautiful and sophisticated, but Miranda was the one he wanted.
It was madness, Rafe told himself. She was completely unsuitable for him in every way. They were totally incompatible. She didn’t want him, didn’t approve of him, and she had made it very clear that theirs was a strictly working relationship. It would be deeply inappropriate to suggest anything else.
So he couldn’t let his lips drift over the silky hair, couldn’t nudge it aside to kiss his way down her temple, couldn’t nuzzle the warm, sweet pulse beneath her ear. Couldn’t undo those little buttons down her back one by one and slide the dress off her so that he could make love to her.
Rafe felt his blood surge at the thought. What would it be like to unlock the tension in her, to get past those defensive barbs to the warm, vibrant woman he was so sure lurked beneath that prim exterior? To make her shudder with pleasure, to give her joy, to show her what fun there was in loving and being loved?
But Miranda wouldn’t think an affair was fun, Rafe realised. She had told him that she was holding out for true love. She was dreaming of the fairy tale, not fun.
And he was no Prince Charming. He couldn’t give her the fairy tale she wanted, and anything else would hurt her. That was the last thing he wanted to do.
No, this was one impulse he had to resist. Thanks to Miranda’s organisation, he had met lots of interesting, attractive women tonight. His pocket was bulging with business cards, telephone numbers and email addresses. Any one of them might be the woman he was looking for.
Tomorrow he would start his quest to find her, Rafe vowed. But in the meantime, Miranda was warm and slender in his arms, and although he knew he shouldn’t really be pulling her tighter, he couldn’t resist doing it anyway. She was here for now. He would make the most of that.
‘You look wonderful in that dress,’ he told her.
‘Your grandmother insisted I wear it.’
‘Elvira always had taste. It’s exactly the colour of your eyes.’
She looked up in surprise at that. ‘No, it’s not. Elvira said it was greengage.’
‘So are your eyes.’
Miranda smiled uncertainly, as if unsure whether he was joking or not. ‘I’ve never thought of my eyes as green. They always look a murky ditchwater colour to me.’
‘They’re not murky at all,’ said Rafe without thinking. ‘They’re the clearest eyes I’ve ever seen.’
She opened her mouth, but no words came out, and after a moment Rafe smiled and drew her close, shutting out everyone else in the ballroom as they danced in silence.
It was just as well Rafe made no attempt at conversation because Miranda couldn’t have strung a sentence coherently together if she had tried. Her eyes were level with Rafe’s crisp white collar and she was woozy with his nearness. She could feel his hand warm and insistent on her back. His other palm was pressed against hers, their fingers entwined, as he clasped her hand to his chest.
She tried to hold herself away from him, but it was hopeless. He was too solid, too warm, his body too inviting. Miranda scowled at his collar and concentrated on all the reasons why she shouldn’t find Rafe attractive, but the more she thought about it, the more aware she was of him.
Out of the corner of her eye she could see the firm line of his jaw and the corner of that mouth. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a dent in his cheek and a quirk to the set of his lips that sent warmth shivering through her. She tried looking away and staring at his jacket instead, but the material seemed to shimmer in front of her gaze after a while and her eyes slid surreptitiously back to his mouth.
It was so close. All he had to do was turn his head just a little and if she turned hers too, their lips would meet. What would that be like? The answer came in the leap of her heart, the acceleration of her pulse at the very thought, and Miranda closed her eyes against the instinctive knowledge of how thrilling it would be to touch her lips to his, to feel his mouth take sure, seductive possession of hers.
He would be a very good kisser. He had had lots of practice, after all. Miranda dragged the feverish drift of her thoughts back to reality. What was she thinking? That Rafe Knighton, playboy extraordinaire, would actually think about kissing her? He had his pick of beautiful women. Was it really likely that he would pass them all over in favour of plain Miranda Fairchild?
Miranda swallowed, embarrassed that she could have let herself even imagine it. She had had years to get used to being the plain sister, the one nobody noticed. It had been uncomfortable this evening feeling that everyone was looking at her, as if she were a little girl dressed up as someone else.
>
Which she was.
She was dressed as a beautiful, sophisticated woman instead of the prickly, plain girl she really was. It had been a mistake. If she had been wearing black trousers and sensible shoes, she wouldn’t be here fighting temptation, torn between resistance and the yearning to lean against him and turn her face to his throat, to press her lips to his skin, and lose herself in the warm, solid safety of his body.
If she had any sense, she would pull out of Rafe’s arms, make an excuse and walk away right now, but the music seemed to be twining round them, and he was so broad and hard and inviting that in spite of herself Miranda felt herself relaxing instead.
Her mind might be issuing frantic instructions to stiffen every last sinew, but her bones were dissolving with the sheer pleasure of being held. The hand she had laid rigidly against his shoulder softened and of its own volition slid over the immaculate set of his suit, luxuriating in the feel of the powerful muscles beneath as she wondered what it would be like to slide her fingers under his jacket to unbutton his shirt, to spread her hands over his warm, bare skin…
Miranda inhaled sharply, shocked by the vividness with which she could imagine the scene. The sooner this dance ended, the better.
But when the music died away on a last note, perversely she wanted to cry. Rafe stopped moving but he continued to hold her until Miranda tried to tug her hands free.
‘They’re just getting going,’ he said, not letting her go. ‘Stay.’
Miranda’s throat was tight and hard and it was effort to force the words. ‘I think I’d better go,’ she managed. ‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘Like what?’
Protecting my heart. Remembering who I am and what I’m doing here. Making sure I don’t do anything stupid like fall in love with you.
