The chat was general, and within a few minutes she was aware of the dynamics of the assembled party. Paul and Emily Hass were university friends, and it said a lot about Rafe that he still communicated with people from so many years back. It was easy for him to see the people he had grown up with, since their parents still lived in the same town as his and the annual get-togethers would always be a source of catching up. Sophie had been to sufficient of those parties to have seen it in action. The girls who had become wives and then mothers, still flirting with Rafe while their husbands weren’t looking, and the boys who had grown into men and gradually given in to the curse of thinning hair and paunches. As a relative outsider to the privileged, golden group, and years younger, she had been happy to watch from the sidelines and mingle with the oldies.
For him to have kept in touch with friends from university would have required effort, and she rethought her assumption that effort was the one thing he did not expend on the human race.
Joe Marciano and his wife, Florence, both in their forties, were business friends. They were affable, affluent and very keen to discuss the vagaries of the property market, the headaches of having two teenage children and their plans to move abroad at some point. It was a congenial mix.
And helping things along was Adrian Walsh, who was seated to the right of her. His attention was flattering and convenient because it gave her an opportunity to distance herself from Rafe. When he asked her where she had been hiding all these years when surely she must have known that he was out there, looking for her, Sophie couldn’t help giggling.
‘I’ve been hiding away in a dusty lawyer’s office, running errands.’ She smiled, half concentrating on being charmed and half concentrating, against her will, on Rafe, who was holding the rest of his audience captive with an amusing anecdote about one of his deals that had flopped.
‘And before then?’
‘Art college.’
‘You paint?’
Sophie toyed with her food and gave him the usual rehearsed speech about illustrative art and how it differed from fine art. She was aware of Angela murmuring something to Rafe and his low laughter, and for a second her stomach twisted into a painful knot.
‘Shame,’ Adrian was saying. ‘I’ve always wanted to have my portrait commissioned.’
‘Which would be a very vain thing to do,’ Sophie scolded, pleased when he laughed out loud at her reprimand. They were playing a light-hearted game of flirting, which was something she had never done before, and it was fun. She drank some more of her wine, feeling pleasantly tipsy. The dessert menu had arrived and been refused, and she thought that she had ordered coffee, although she wasn’t quite sure.
‘Yes, you’re absolutely right. Very vain.’ His wicked brown eyes swept over her and he grinned. ‘I’m thirty-four but, deep down, I’m still a kid who kinda likes the idea of seeing himself hanging on a wall in my house. What do you think? Do you think I’d make a good sitter?’
‘Sophie doesn’t go for blonds, Adrian.’ Rafe’s voice was soft but sharp.
‘Excuse me?’ she said, turning to him. He was so close to her that she could feel his breath against her face. He wasn’t looking at her, though. His eyes were narrowed on Adrian, with just the merest hint of a smile to tone down the warning in them.
‘Besides, what’s happened to the little Spanish beauty you were with a few weeks ago?’
‘Galloped back to Spain,’ Adrian said mournfully, ‘leaving a broken heart behind.’
‘Anyone’s in particular?’ The uncomfortable moment passed, and the conversation became good-humoured, with Rafe relaxing back once more and signalling for the bill.
It seemed almost disappointing that the evening was over. She would stick the outrageous dress back into her wardrobe and who knew when it would make a second appearance?
On a sudden tide of self-pity, she reached for the remnants of wine in her glass, as everyone was standing up to leave, and she felt Rafe’s hand descend to circle her wrist.
‘I think you’ve had enough,’ he said under his breath.
‘I don’t care what you think,’ Sophie muttered mutinously, looking at his lean brown fingers and feeling a spurt of confused rebellion well up inside her.
‘Well, in the morning you’ll care about what you think of yourself.’ He curled his arm around her waist, supporting her as they all trooped towards the door, and once outside, the darkness provided welcome cover for her wobbly legs.
How much had she drunk? she wondered? It had seemed to be only a glass or two, but then the very efficient wine waiter had been topping them all up throughout the course of the evening. She became aware that she was leaning against Rafe and tried to pull herself away, but his arm was like an iron grip.
The couples had already departed in their pre-booked taxis and she was unsteadily aware of Adrian, leaning to kiss her on her cheek and whispering in her ear that he would be in touch.
Then the three of them were on the pavement, with George patiently waiting in the Jag, the embodiment of discretion.
‘I need to get a cab,’ Sophie said, looking around and feeling a bit queasy. There didn’t seem to be an abundance of them around, which would entail a walk, the very thought of which made her feel even sicker.
‘Yes, you do,’ Angela said, spinning round so that she was looking directly at Sophie. ‘You look terrible. God, Rafe, is she for real?’
‘Shut up, Angela!’ His voice was like the crack of a whip and Sophie cringed with embarrassment at the picture she was presenting. A very tarnished Cinderella, who was so unused to drinking that she was practically falling down after a few glasses! Angela had sipped nothing but mineral water for the duration of the evening. Sophie vaguely remembered her giving a run-down of her diet, which she had to adhere to because modelling was such a competitive world and one spare ounce of weight could spell the difference between success and failure. She had thought at the time how silly it was to deny yourself the things you enjoyed. Unfortunately, she was now heartily wishing that she had had the sense to control her sudden urge to enjoy the marvellous white wine in such steady supply. Unlike her, Angela still looked pristine, not a strand of hair out of place.
‘Well, get her a taxi, then!’ Angela snapped angrily. ‘When you told me that she’d be joining us, I had no idea that you would end up having to babysit her!’ Tears gathered in her eyes.
‘We’ll drop you back to your flat.’ Rafe’s voice was hard and flat. ‘Then I’ll see Sophie back to her place.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’ Angela cried. ‘Why can’t she see herself home? And what about us? I thought we would be spending the night together!’
‘I’ll call you in the morning.’ Without further preamble, he manoeuvred Sophie into the back seat, waited for Angela to slide in, then slammed the door shut behind them so that he could sit in the front, alongside his driver.
The drive to Angela’s flat was completed in silence. Sophie rested her head against the window and closed her eyes, not wanting to see the resentment on the other woman’s face, which, quite frankly, she understood. For Angela, her evening of fun followed by a romp in the hay with her lover had now been reduced to a night of solitude while the man who should have been at her side was busy on the other side of town delivering an inebriated last-minute guest back to her own place. Thinking too much about it threatened to release the headache that she could already feel gathering pace.
She was aware of the car stopping and the slamming of two doors as Rafe saw Angela to her front door. One peek was enough to tell her that the fight that Angela had initiated outside the restaurant was still in progress, although Rafe seemed to be contributing very little. All the talking and gestures were being conducted by Angela. He, on the other hand, stood quite still, hands tucked into his trouser pockets, head inclined slightly to one side.
She closed her eyes again to block out the depressing scenario. She knew she ought to rouse herself and tell him that she was fine, that she could tak
e it from here, but she couldn’t be bothered. Her limbs felt like lead and the alcohol was catching up fast, making her sleepy.
The next thing she was aware of was being lifted out of the car. By Rafe. That woke her up faster than a bucket of cold water thrown over her head and she began to wriggle.
‘Put me down! I’m fully capable of walking!’
Without preamble, he dropped her to her feet and then waited as she giddily tried to regain her balance.
How much had she had to drink? Four glasses. No more. And he had been counting, aware of every sip she took even though his back might have been to her. He should have stopped her from having that last one, should have known from the heightened tempo of her voice and brightness of her eyes that she just wasn’t accustomed to drinking and would end up just as she had, incapable of seeing herself home.
He watched as she managed a couple of unsteady steps in the vague direction of the door, and then picked her up and slung her over his shoulder, ignoring the hands trying to pummel his back.
‘I…I…how dare you? Put me down this instant!’
‘Where are your keys?’
‘I can’t get them if I’m like this, can I?’
‘Sure you can. Just hand them to me, because I’m not putting you down. I don’t want to be responsible for you falling down and breaking something.’
Sophie awkwardly managed to retrieve the keys from her clutch bag, which was dangling ridiculously from her hands. Lord only knew what people would say if they could see her now. Draped over some man’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
‘I’m beginning to feel sick,’ she complained.
‘Keep it in. Which floor are you on?’
‘Second.’ If she had hoped that he might be daunted by the prospect of doing his caveman impersonation up two flights of stairs, she was disappointed, because he kicked the door shut behind him and carried her up as though she didn’t weigh anything.
The house was dark and quiet. It was a large Victorian place that had been sectioned off into several small flats, each big enough to just about provide adequate cover space for one, very undemanding person. Sophie had been lucky to get hold of it because it was reasonably priced in a reasonably salubrious area.
She kept quite still as he fiddled with the key to her door, finally opening it, and positively sighed with relief when she was gently deposited on the bed in her room. He had thoughtfully avoided switching on the overhead light, opting instead for the table lamp on her small chest of drawers.
‘I’ll make you some coffee.’
‘There’s no need, Rafe.’ She struggled into a sitting position on the bed, very much aware of the awful sight she must be making, with her coat still on and the wretched turquoise dress not looking quite so impressive as it had earlier on. ‘Thank you for delivering me back here and I’m sorry…for spoiling your evening.’ She enunciated every word very carefully and then subsided back onto the pillows and covered her face with her arm.
Sleep was just beginning to seduce her when she felt herself being shaken and then helped up, back into that sitting position that made her head throb and eyeballs ache.
‘Take these.’
‘Why are you still here?’
‘Just take the painkillers, Sophie. If you don’t, your hangover tomorrow morning is going to hurt even more.’ He thrust the tablets into one hand and a glass of water into the other and watched while she swallowed the tablets. ‘Now let’s get you out of your coat.’ He didn’t give her time to protest, just eased it off it, shuffling her a bit so that he could slide it out from under her and toss it on the chair by the door. ‘Right. Now the shoes.’ He was squatting by the bed, looking at her. He should be furious at having his plans for the night changed because of her antics, but instead he just felt amused at the sight of her sullen face and that hair curling wildly over her shoulders and down her back.
‘I don’t see the joke!’ Sophie snapped, reading his expression. She hiccupped, which was annoying, and continued to glare at him.
‘This isn’t exactly how I imagined spending my evening,’ Rafe drawled, straightening up and sitting on the bed next to her.
‘I know and I’m sorry.’ Embarrassment and guilt rushed over her, followed swiftly by anger because, really, there had been no need for him to deliver her like a package to her room. She hadn’t asked him to and, the longer he stayed, the more humiliated she felt. She also remembered his little quip about lifting her up because he didn’t want to be responsible for her falling over and hurting herself. As though she were a toddler in need of a steadying hand! ‘Your girlfriend was very cross and I don’t blame her,’ Sophie said, going down the appeasing route, the quicker to get rid of him. ‘Good Lord, I feel ill. Please, just go.’
‘You need to get out of that dress. Where do you keep your…whatever it is you sleep in?’ He stood up and headed for the chest of drawers, which appeared to have nothing he could identify as something a woman would sleep in. It took him a few minutes to realise that he wasn’t dealing with a woman of the sort he was familiar with, but a woman whose dress code barely seemed to have struggled into the twenty-first century. Little wisps of black lace and sexy French knickers would not be on the sartorial menu, never mind that she had broken out of her routine tonight. He glanced across to where she had clearly fallen asleep and for a few seconds contemplated the turquoise-clad figure, arm still protectively covering her face, her chest rising and falling rhythmically. Her dress had risen provocatively higher, so that most of her thigh was exposed and just the merest sliver of underwear.
He felt something tighten in him and with a muttered, impatient oath he resumed his searching of the drawers until he extracted something big, old, stretchy and distinctly unappealing, which could only be classed as nightwear for the sleeping Cinderella.
She would probably go into one of her funks the next morning, but she would thank him deep down for not letting her sleep in that very tight dress. And, like it or not, she was his responsibility. After all, their mothers were close friends! She had been thrust upon him but, now that she was here, he had a duty to make sure that she was all right. He wondered what his mother would say if could see the situation now. What both their mothers would say!
She barely woke as he eased her out of the cling film. A few soft moans, but she was as pliable as a rag doll, allowing him to peel the dress down, down past her smooth, pale shoulders, sprinkled with freckles to match her face, down lower.
The tightness he had felt earlier on came back with a thunderous, physical rush as he eased the dress lower and realised, too late, that there was no gossamer-thin strapless bra supporting her breasts. Pert, as pale as the rest of her, crowned with pink nipples that were tipped up at him. He had seen sufficient breasts in his life to know what they looked like, but he could still feel his face suffusing with colour and was damned glad that the lighting in the room was dim, just in case she woke up.
Then he thought that if she did wake up, his bloody adolescent embarrassment would be wiped clean off his face by the crack of her hand against his cheek.
This was the kid next door? The woman with the dubious taste in clothing? The one who followed him around against his wishes and felt free to voice her opinions even when he clearly wasn’t interested?
He disrobed her in record time, but very gently so that he didn’t wake the sleeping tiger. His body was doing crazy things, which he tried to squash by telling himself that he was highly irritated at finding himself in the uninvited role of caretaker to a kid who couldn’t hold her drink, and by ignoring those breasts as he eased the baggy nightdress over her head. Mission accomplished, he sprang back and walked towards the door before pausing to cast one last glance at the prone figure on the bed. Out for the count and snoring softly. Never mind the dress removal, he grinned to himself, any mention of snoring, softly or otherwise, would probably provoke the same outraged response.
On impulse, he scribbled a few words on some paper he found by her
telephone and left the note propped up on the chest of drawers. She couldn’t fail to see it first thing in the morning.
She did see it. Just about the same time as her memory of the night before began playing in her head, starting with her entrance into the restaurant and ending with her being bundled back to her flat by a very annoyed Rafe who had seen plans for his night with Angela scuppered by his misguided sense of responsibility.
She groaned and sat up and, in between the thought of getting out of bed to fetch his note and actually doing something about it, she realised that she was no longer in her dress. She was in her old, worn nightie and since the only person to accompany her to her flat was Rafe…
Heat started from the tips of her toes and worked its way remorselessly up her body. The body that had been sheathed in that tight dress, the bra-less body that had been sheathed in that tight dress…
She would have vaulted out of bed to get to the note, but her head didn’t allow for too much unnecessary movement. She took it very easy, giving herself plenty of time to replay the disaster that had been last night.
She had been the belle of the ball, or at least she had felt like it—especially once that smooth white wine had started having an effect. She remembered feeling utterly relaxed and laughing a lot and being complimented by a very nice man with blond hair. Rafe had been sitting next to her. That had been the fly in the ointment, but she had ignored him, even though she had been fiercely conscious of him inches away from her. And then Angela, who had hit the roof when it had dawned on her that she would be returning to her apartment without her escort.
In the cold, sober light of day, events seemed rather different. She had felt like a different person, true enough, but what a complete fool she must have made of herself, behaving utterly out of character and then ending the evening by having to be chaperoned home like a teenager whose behaviour had become embarrassingly out of hand. Her mind braked to a crashing stop at events that unfolded after that, which she couldn’t recall firsthand, but which her imagination was only too willing to fill in.
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