by Lynne Graham
‘Review him with a critical eye.’ Rafael displayed the photograph for reappraisal. ‘This is Mr Ordinary, not some mythical prince.’
Mr Ordinary? Oddly enough, she had not noticed before that Luke’s hairline had begun to recede, or that his jawline was no longer crisp. He had definitely enjoyed her cooking. Whatever else had been a lie that at least had not been. Her throat closed over, for she was recalling cosy evenings when she had prepared meals while Luke talked about his day at work.
‘Go away,’ she told her tormentor in a jagged undertone.
‘My aim is to accelerate the recovery process,’ Rafael informed her, smooth as silk.
‘But you’re intruding. I’m trying to do my wallowing in grief bit, and nobody wants to do that with an audience!’ Her head was spinning a little from the combination of night air and peach wine.
‘I’ll be an objective companion.’
‘But you shouldn’t be here…this is a girlie ritual…play the music, wallow and weep, and burn the photos!’ Harriet slung at him shakily.
Rafael hunkered down beside the sizeable pile of memorabilia and surveyed it with a raised black brow of polite enquiry. ‘How long were you with the little guy? A lifetime?’
Harriet flushed and hunkered down to say urgently, ‘Look, he wasn’t a little guy…Oh, for goodness’ sake! I’ve known him for eight years. First we were friends, but we were a couple for five of those years.’
‘All that time…’ Rafael shook his arrogant dark head in genuine wonderment at the longevity of her attachment. ‘That’s sick…almost obsessional in my terms.’
‘I loved him!’
‘You’ll note that you are already using the past tense,’ Rafael remarked with satisfaction.
‘Do you think I don’t know I have to get over this? But it’s not that easy to get by without someone who was so much a part of my life. Haven’t you ever been hurt?’
His gleaming dark eyes narrowed and caught the leaping gold of the flames. ‘Once, when I was a teenager…never again.’
‘Right, so here you are offering advice when really you’re an emotionally damaged individual who doesn’t fall in love like other people!’ Harriet tossed back, unimpressed.
Taken aback, Rafael vented an abrupt laugh of disagreement. ‘There’s nothing damaged about me. I’ve seen the angst romantic nonsense causes, and I decided a long time ago that I would not repeat that mistake. May I?’
Harriet nodded in assent and watched him taste the wine direct from the bottle. She had to fight off a ridiculously guilty hostess-like urge to offer to go indoors and fetch him a proper glass from which to drink.
‘Too sweet for my palate…but it’s strong,’ Rafael commented. ‘I suspect it will give you a punishing hangover.’
In defiance of that uninvited warning, Harriet reclaimed the bottle for another rebellious swig. She rarely indulged in alcohol, but refused to worry about the morrow. She was sick and tried of always opting for the safe and sensible line. Alice had never played safe and sensible and she was the one Luke loved and was soon to walk down the aisle to the ‘Wedding March’! Feeding another CD into the player, Harriet turned down the volume only because her companion winced.
‘How did you manage not to fall in love again?’ Harriet asked with helpless interest, for the mere thought of ever daring to risk her heart again was anathema to her. On the other hand the prospect of being alone for ever, with only Samson and Peanut for company, was not as attractive an option as she felt it ought to be.
‘That’s simple,’ Rafael declared with absolute confidence. ‘It’s a question of self-discipline.’
Harriet was very impressed by that answer, for she had often suspected that the root cause of her biggest regrets was a lack of sufficient will-power. She needed more strength of mind, she told herself squarely. Having studied for a degree she hadn’t really wanted to satisfy her stepfather’s respect for academia, she had then settled for a high-pressured job she’d found less than fulfilling to make Luke happy. Time and time again other people’s wishes had influenced her choices. Why did she have this awful urge to please others more than herself? But hadn’t those other people been people she loved?
Now she tried to imagine having the self-discipline to enjoy a relationship without yielding to the dangerous desire to love that person and hold on to them for ever. That was definitely the way to go, she reflected painfully, studying a photo that depicted her with Luke at a university dinner and consigning it hurriedly to the flames. She had been so happy that night, so naïve, that she would have trusted Luke with her life. But she did not want visual memories of Alice’s bridegroom. Nor did she wish to be tempted to retain keepsakes from a past that was better forgotten. After all, Luke had let her down very badly, and was quite unworthy of fond recollections and sad longings.
‘A question of self-discipline?’ Harriet allowed herself to look at Rafael properly for the first time since he had unceremoniously invaded her girlie grieving session.
She was immediately absorbed by her entrancing view of the long, lean, relaxed sprawl of his powerful body. No, there was no denying the obvious, Harriet reflected abstractedly: Rafael Cavaliere Flynn was completely gorgeous. In fact just looking, lingering to admire the striking charismatic potency of his lean bronzed features, could easily become an addictive habit. But an addictive habit of the most innocent kind, Harriet reasoned with confidence. After all, as long as she was still in love with Luke she was totally safe from making the even bigger error of falling for a male so out of reach he might as well have been an alien on a distant planet. A male, moreover, whom no sane woman would ever believe cherished even the smallest wish to settle down. Thus reassured by his essential unsuitability as even a possible life partner, Harriet went back to admiring the smouldering depths of his dark eyes, which were nothing short of spectacular.
‘When did Luke take up with your sister?’ Rafael was conscious that he finally had her full attention. He was carelessly amused by the reality that he could not recall when he had last had to make an effort to hold a woman’s interest.
Harriet told him, and how she had found out, and how devastated she had been. In fact, after being encouraged to expand on several points, she told him the entire history of her relationship with Luke. From its inception to the bitter end, it erupted from her in a confessional, though any temptation to linger on irrelevancies was ruthlessly suppressed by her interrogator. He refused to be impressed or shocked or even sympathetic—until she divulged the bridesmaid offer.
His steady gaze hardened. ‘That’s a joke…right?’
‘No. I suspect that it’s my mother and Alice’s way of trying to pretend that Luke and I were never an item in the first place.’ Sadness flooded Harriet and she tipped a whole pile of photos and a penguin soft toy emblazoned with ‘Be My Valentine’ across a red satin heart on the fire. ‘I don’t want her to marry him. That’s so mean and selfish of me…’
Rafael tried not to smile while he surreptitiously set the wine bottle out of view and nudged the CD player behind his back before she could register that the whining tinny songs of heartbreak and betrayal had finally fallen silent. ‘I don’t think you have a handle on pure malice yet.’
‘What would you know about it?’
‘Probably more than you.’ Rafael was thinking of the women he had known. Harriet was painfully honest, and in obvious daily contact with her conscience. Meeting enquiring eyes with the unspoilt clarity of bluebells, he decided not to shock her with tales of extreme female guile and greed. He lifted an assured hand to brush a silky straight strand of copper hair back from her cheekbone.
Her pupils dilated, her breath tripping in her throat. ‘I’m supposed to be burning stuff…and I keep on talking instead…’
Helpfully he scooped up some more items and tossed them on the fire. ‘Do you always do what you’re supposed to do?’
The dark, husky timbre of his rich voice had an intimacy that skimmed down her taut spinal
cord like a caress. She shivered, and slowly, as though she was afraid of breaking out of the spell she was under, moved her bright head in affirmation. ‘Yes.’
‘That’s too predictable.’
‘You mean boring.’
‘Your slant on the word, not mine. You worry too much. You can’t make every decision by some rigid rulebook,’ Rafael censured, soft and low, his breath fanning her cheek. ‘You need to learn how to enjoy yourself again.’
His stunning eyes burned tawny gold in the firelight. She dragged in another stark breath. ‘Why aren’t you doing what billionaires usually do on a Friday night?’
His lean, startlingly handsome face remained maddeningly deadpan. ‘Which is?’
Harriet shifted slim shoulders to signify that she had only the sketchiest idea of what billionaires did on their weekends. ‘Something with a yacht or a private jet…at least a helicopter! You should be gambling at a casino…or waterskiing…or throwing a big party with loads and loads of beautiful women. Instead you’re watching a bonfire in an Irish field—’
‘I’m watching you…’
His intent gaze made her mouth run dry. He angled his proud dark head down and kissed her as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He tasted of woodsmoke and wine and sex. She shivered in response, shocked, excited, half terrified of what she was feeling. Even light-headed from the peach wine she had imbibed, she recognised that she was in the hands of a sensualist with a technique to die for.
As Rafael released Harriet she looked up at him with a flattering degree of appreciation and muttered without thinking, her words running together a little, ‘You really are perfect fling material.’
Rafael went very still. ‘Meaning?’
Harriet turned pink. ‘My goodness—did I say that out loud?’
His strong jawline squared. ‘You did…so explain.’
Harriet loosed an edgy laugh, and then concentrated on not slurring her speech. ‘What’s to explain? You’re a guy with a wild, roving reputation—’
‘And you’re the “faithful unto death” type?’
‘I was with Luke.’
A faint smile of amusement was playing over his firmly modelled mouth. ‘You picked him for a lifetime, but you think I’m only good for a fling?’
As Harriet registered that his oddly chilling smile did not quite reach his eyes, she swallowed hard. Had she offended him? How could she possibly have offended him? He had a notorious reputation as a womaniser. He had already admitted that it was a lifestyle choice: not to love, not to be hurt. And she envied his detachment, longed to emulate it so that she could forget Luke and the pain of his betrayal and her sister’s. Why should passion without strings be strictly a male preserve?
‘Please don’t be insulted,’ she whispered wistfully, for at some stage she had begun to enjoy the stimulation of his presence.
Rafael shifted a dismissive shoulder in a fluid movement that was supremely Italian. ‘How could I be insulted by such inspiring honesty?’
‘You’re a fabulous kisser,’ she added, and then clamped a stricken hand to her parted lips and groaned out loud. ‘Shouldn’t have said that either. Close your ears…don’t listen!’
Rafael studied the photos of her ex that still needed burning and pitched them onto the embers, prodding them into blazing destruction with a deft booted foot. She was in despair over a guy who could model for catalogues selling garden gnomes. She had drunk only the equivalent of two small glasses of wine but clearly had a low tolerance level for alcohol, since she was talking drivel. In vino veritas? It meant literally truth in wine. Perfect fling material? Was that how she saw him? As the male sexual equivalent of a bimbo? Suitable only for a one-night-stand? A casual encounter? He was outraged. There and then he decided that he had no intention of living down to her rock-bottom opinion of him.
As Harriet sat up her head swam, making her feel a touch dizzy. ‘Oops…’
Springing upright to his full imposing height, Rafael reached down a lean hand and pulled her upright. ‘I’ll see you indoors before I leave.’
‘You do have great manners. I like that,’ she mumbled, swaying slightly until he braced an arm over her spine and managed to steady legs that seemed briefly to want to move in opposing directions.
‘I’m thrilled that you noticed.’
Tugging free of his support, to be the new and brave independent woman she was determined to be, Harriet plotted a reasonably straight path through the rough grass on her own. But Rafael helped her over the fence, and vaulted over the same barrier with the intimidating ease of an athlete to escort her across the yard.
‘I’d invite you in but I’m very sleepy,’ Harriet confided. ‘When are we going to have a business meeting?’
‘I’m about to leave for New York,’ Rafael divulged.
Stark disappointment swallowed Harriet alive. ‘Oh…’
‘We’ll talk tomorrow afternoon at two. My place or yours?’ he quipped.
‘Here would be the better option.’
‘In the meantime, I never did return your friendly salutation on the phone.’ His dark eyes locked to her innocent puzzled face as he closed light hands over hers and drew her close to his tall, muscular frame. ‘Hello, partner…’
He kissed her breathless. She wasn’t prepared, and there was no time to muster her defences. She fell into that kiss and the heat of a passion that burned her from inside out. Gasping, trembling, suddenly painfully alive to the tingling reaction of every nerve ending she possessed, she was shaken by the seductive strength of her own pleasure. She didn’t want to breathe, she didn’t want him to stop, she just wanted to stay where she was, feeling what she was feeling for ever.
But Rafael pressed open the door behind her, eased her into the dim kitchen and said goodnight. In a daze she stood there for several minutes, not quite sure what had happened to her.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE NEXT MORNING, Harriet tried to avoid waking up: a wheel of fire was turning inside her head. She embraced the pain with the masochistic conviction that she thoroughly deserved to suffer for being so foolish with the wine.
At the same time, Rafael Flynn had kissed her—and she couldn’t quite credit that development. Possibly the isolation of life in County Kerry had driven him to lower his standards. From what she had seen Ballyflynn wasn’t exactly heaving with young women. But he hadn’t simply kissed her once, she recalled. He had done the deed twice—and very thoroughly. Of course there was a more obvious explanation for her sudden startling pulling power: she was on the spot and single and he was over-sexed. That made the best sense of all to her, for she felt that it went without saying that a womaniser of international acclaim would probably be extremely over-sexed.
The tentative knock that sounded on her bedroom door provoked a faint moan of self-pity from her. It creaked open. ‘Harriet?’ Una stage-whispered. ‘Do you want your first plaiting lesson?’
Discomfiture ate Harriet alive. Ignoring her headache, she sat bolt upright. ‘Yes…what a great idea.’
‘I’ve been here for an hour. I let you have a lie-in,’ the teenager told her chattily from the doorway.
Harriet lodged an anguished eye on the alarm clock, which confirmed that it was still only seven in the morning, and forced a valiant smile. ‘Give me ten minutes.’
‘It was so quiet here while you were away. I hardly saw Fergal,’ Una lamented, while she demonstrated her failsafe methods on Snowball’s somewhat thin mane. ‘I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me.’
‘I expect he’s very busy.’ Harriet attempted without much success to make her fingers match the younger woman’s nimble example. ‘But I do have a couple of things to discuss with him. Do you know where I would be most likely to find him mid-morning?’
‘In Dooleys Bar, of course.’ Una was evidently surprised by what she considered to be an unnecessary question.
Harriet’s eyes widened, but she made no comment and offered the teenager a lift home. It was a bri
ght sunny morning. While she waited for Una to load her bike into the pick-up truck, she stood at the fence admiring the view down to the sea. The green fields stretched down to the deserted white strand and the sparkling sapphire blue of the Atlantic: it was so beautiful it almost hurt her eyes.
‘There’s a rumour going round the village that you’ve been fighting with Rafael Flynn. Obviously you’re a lot cheekier than you look.’ The teenager gave her a teasing glance.
Thinking of the kiss the night before, Harriet reddened, and to cover her blushes quipped, ‘Don’t you think I have to avoid him?’
‘No. If you’ve got the nerve to fight with him, you could be just the woman for him!’
Harriet laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’
Una asked to be dropped off in the middle of Ballyflynn. It was market day and the village was busy. On the colourful main street Harriet bought fresh vegetables out of the back of an ancient lorry and fretted guiltily over the fact that she had still to pick a patch on which to grow her own. Dooleys Bar appeared to share space with the post office. She walked through the low green painted door into a cosy, impossibly crowded room floored with worn flagstones and warmed by a turf fire. The smell of burning peat made her think of lonely stretches of sweeping moorland. The bar was packed tight with farmers, who twisted round to look at her, and several offered a few pleasantries in greeting. It amused her that although she had not met one of them before they every one to a man knew exactly who she was.
‘How you doing?’ Fergal asked cheerfully
Harriet blushed at her uncharitable assumptions. He was not propping up the bar with a pint in his hand but serving drinks from behind it. ‘There’s been some developments at the yard, but we can catch up later.’
‘Fergal…I’ll mind the bar while you have a break.’ A pale little woman with a tight perm and sharp eyes bustled out from behind the post office counter. ‘Introduce me to your visitor.’
