His Reluctant Cinderella

by Jessica Gilmore

  She had dressed for battle too, sleek and purposeful in a grey suit.

  But Raff could feel the faint tremors running through her body. Her lips were colourless under her lip gloss.

  The Drewes were staying at one of the most exclusive hotels in London, an old Georgian town house discreetly tucked away in a square in Marylebone. It was an interesting choice. Not overtly glitzy but it suggested old money, power and taste.

  Raff was looking forward to this. He knew all about old money, power and taste. Bring it on.

  Clara was all purpose now, marching up the stone steps and through the double doors, turning with no hesitation towards the hotel’s sunny dining room.

  ‘Clara.’ Both men rose to their feet; although they both wore smiles the brown eyes were alike—cold and assessing.

  ‘Byron, Mr Drewe.’ She shook hands in turn, strangely formal considering one of these men was the father of her child. ‘This is Raff.’ She didn’t qualify their relationship. Good girl, Raff thought, keep them guessing. ‘Raff, this is Byron and his father, Archibald Drewe.’

  Raff reached over to shake hands in his turn, unable to resist making his own handshake as strong and powerful as he could. So this was Summer’s father, this tall, handsome man, whose smile didn’t reach his eyes and who wore his privilege with ease.

  ‘Please, sit down.’ The elder Drewe looked very similar to his son, the dark hair almost fully grey and the tanned face more wrinkled but with a steely determination behind the affable façade.

  Raff pulled out Clara’s chair for her, a statement of intent.

  ‘It’s been a while,’ she said to Byron. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’

  ‘You look great.’ The other man was looking at her with open admiration. ‘Haven’t changed a bit even if you have changed the sarong for a suit.’

  He had seen Clara in a sarong. The hot jealousy that burned through Raff at Byron Drewe’s words shocked him. Of course he had seen Clara in a sarong—and a lot less too. He was her ex-lover, the father of her child. At some point Clara had been enamoured enough with this guy to have a baby with him.

  And at some point he had allowed her to come home, alone. To raise their child alone.

  The jealousy ebbed away, replaced with cold dislike and even colder contempt. ‘I am trying to persuade her to link her business with mine. But you know Clara.’ He smiled at her. ‘She has to be in control. Even a name like Rafferty’s doesn’t reassure her!’

  ‘Rafferty’s?’ The older man’s eyes were now assessing Raff. ‘Impressive.’

  The contempt deepened. Now they knew who he was his stock had gone up. Raff hated that.

  ‘What do you do now, Clara?’ Should Byron Drewe be smiling at her in that intimate way? Raff allowed himself a brief, self-indulgent fantasy of leaning across the table and planting one perfect punch on that perfect nose.

  ‘I run a concierge service.’

  ‘Half of Hopeford couldn’t manage without her, including me,’ Raff said.

  ‘How interesting.’ The older Mr Drewe couldn’t sound less interested. Maybe it was his nose that Raff should fantasise about punching.

  ‘It keeps me busy.’ If Clara had heard the snub she wasn’t reacting. ‘And it’s thriving. Between work and Summer I don’t have much free time.’

  Raff bit back a smile as he mentally applauded. Nicely done, Clara. Remind them why we’re here, ignore their put-downs and make sure they realise you’re doing them a favour.

  She didn’t need him to step in at all. He might as well help himself to the coffee and sit back and enjoy the show.

  ‘And how is Summer?’

  Surely Summer’s own grandfather shouldn’t pronounce her name in that slightly doubtful way, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was right.

  Or maybe he just didn’t like the name. Clara could scrape her hair back and put on a suit but she knew full well that Archibald Drewe still thought of her a teenage hippy with long hair, tie-dye dresses and a happy-go-lucky attitude who had named her daughter accordingly.

  She had been that girl once, but it was a long time ago.

  ‘She’s good.’ Clara pulled out her tablet. ‘I have pictures.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’

  Time stopped for a long moment, the blood freezing in her veins. How could he dismiss her daughter, his own flesh and blood, in that cold, cavalier way?

  ‘She has your hair, your eyes.’ She looked directly at Byron, willing him to stand up for her, for his daughter, for once in his pampered life. ‘If you ever look at the pictures I send you you’ll know that.’

  ‘I look.’ He had the grace to sound ashamed. ‘She’s beautiful.’

  ‘She is, but she is also smart and kind and very funny. You’d like her.’

  He shifted in his seat, evidently uncomfortable. Beside her Raff was leaning back, ostensibly totally at his ease, sipping a cup of coffee. But the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw told her that he was utterly alert, following every word, every intonation.

  Every put-down.

  Her hands tightened on her cup; it had been like a game of chicken, leaving asking him along to the last possible moment, kidding herself that she might be able to do this alone. Afraid that his presence might make the whole, nasty situation even more humiliating. She’d thought she’d be ashamed, for him to see this side of her. The dismissed, ‘unwanted single mother’ side. But having him next to her filled her with the strength she needed to battle on. After all, he had his demons too.

  She reached over and laid her hand on his forearm, squeezing very slightly, letting his warmth fill her as she lifted her head and stared evenly at her daughter’s father.

  ‘I haven’t told her you’re here but I hope you have got time to meet her.’ She wanted to keep it businesslike but she couldn’t help babbling a little, trying to sell her daughter to the one person who shouldn’t need the pitch, the one person who should be in regardless.

  ‘She has a picture of you in her room and I tell her lots of stories about you and about Sydney. She helps me put the photos together every Christmas, chooses the pictures she wants to send you. She would love to meet you.’

  ‘Clara, I...’ Was that pity in his eyes or shame? Either way it wasn’t what she wanted to see.

  ‘It’s just, while you’re here...’

  ‘I’m getting married.’

  Clara stared at Byron blankly. This was why they wanted to see her? Did they think she’d be upset after ten years of silence and neglect, that she was so pathetic she still harboured hopes that they would be a family?

  The ego of him.

  Raff moved his arm so that his hand lay over hers, lacing his fingers through her fingers, a tacit show of support. She should be annoyed at this overt display of ownership but relief tingled through her instead. ‘That’s great,’ she said, injecting as much sincerity into her voice as she could. ‘Congratulations, I hope you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘He’s marrying Julia Greenwood.’

  Archibald Drewe obviously expected this to mean something.

  ‘Great!’

  ‘She’s heiress to a media empire,’ he told her, his voice oozing contempt for her obvious ignorance. ‘This is a brilliant match for Byron, and for our business.’

  Much better than a penniless English teenager. She’d known she was never good enough for Byron’s family. Once it would have hurt that he had allowed them to influence their future. Now she simply didn’t care.

  As long as it didn’t affect her daughter.

  ‘We want you to sign this.’ Archibald Drewe slid a sheaf of papers over the table. Aha, this was the real reason for the meeting. Business, the family way.

  ‘What is it?’ Clara made no move to take it.

  ‘Byron is about to join toget
her two great businesses, and any children he and Julia will have...’ the emphasis here was intentional ‘...will inherit a very influential business indeed. We don’t want anything from Byron’s past to jeopardise his future.’

  Anything? They meant anyone.

  Beside her Raff was rigid, his hand heavy on hers, fingers digging in, almost painfully.

  ‘And what does this have to do with me?’

  ‘I want to make it quite clear...’ Archibald Drewe leant forward; obviously the kid gloves were off ‘...that your daughter has no claim on me, my son or our business. No claim at all. However...’ his smile was as insincere as his eyes were hard ‘...we are not unfeeling. It’s not the girl’s fault her beginnings were so unorthodox.’

  Raff’s arm twitched under hers, the only sign he was alive. Otherwise he was completely still. She couldn’t look at him, afraid of what might be in his face. She didn’t need his anger and she really couldn’t handle pity right now.

  The room seemed to have got very cold. She knew how Archibald Drewe felt about her; he had made it completely clear ten years ago. She hadn’t expected time to soften him; only money and influence could do that.

  But, fool that she was, she hadn’t expected him to try and wipe his granddaughter out of the family history books.

  ‘We will send no more annual cheques and you will stop with the photos and emails. Julia does not know of your daughter’s existence and neither Byron or I wish her to know. If you sign this contract, however, I will give you a one-off payment of one million pounds sterling in complete settlement of your daughter’s claim.’

  Raff had met people like the Drewes far too many times; with them it always came down to money. What a cold existence they must lead.

  ‘What does the contract say?’ Clara’s voice was completely still but she was gripping his hand as if he were the only thing anchoring her.

  ‘It says your daughter has no claim now or in the future on our money or any of our business interests. It also states clearly that she may make no attempts to contact Byron or any member of his family.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s a good offer, Clara.’ At least Byron didn’t try to meet her eye. Coward.

  He had promised himself that he wouldn’t intercede but it was no good. How dared they treat Clara like this? ‘I’ll get my lawyer to have a look at it. Clara isn’t signing anything today.’ Raff made no attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice.

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ Clara pushed the contract away and rose to her feet. ‘I won’t sign away my daughter’s right to contact her father or siblings although don’t worry, Byron, I’ll do my best to talk her out of it. I would hate for her to be humiliated the way I have been today.’

  She was amazing. Calm, clear, holding her anger at bay. But it was costing her; he could hear the strain in her voice, see it in the tense way she stood. What if she hadn’t asked him to be there, had had to face these two men alone? It wasn’t that she couldn’t defend herself. She obviously could. No damsel in distress, this lady. But she shouldn’t have to.

  She should never have been put into this position. They thought their money and influence gave them the right to treat people like dirt. They were everything he despised.

  Raff stood up, taking Clara’s hand in his as she continued, her eyes as cold as her voice, but he could feel her hand shaking slightly as she held herself together. ‘I won’t promise not to send you yearly updates—you don’t have to open them but she is your daughter and the least you can do is acknowledge that she exists. As for the money, keep it. I work hard and I provide for her. I always have. I’ve put every cheque you sent away for her future and that’s where it stays. I don’t need anything from you, Byron, not any more, and I certainly don’t need anything from you, Mr Drewe.’

  The older man’s face was choleric. ‘Now don’t be so hasty...’

  ‘If you change your mind, if you want to meet her, then you know where I am. Ready, Raff?’

  ‘Ready.’ He got to his feet and nodded at the two men. ‘I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure but I was brought up to be honest.’

  * * *

  It wasn’t until they got outside that Clara realised that she was shaking, every nerve jangling, every muscle trembling.

  ‘Come on.’ Raff’s eyes were still blazing. ‘You’ve had a shock and you need something to eat. And if I stay anywhere near here I will march back in there and tell them exactly what I think of them.’

  ‘They wouldn’t care.’ She wasn’t just shaking, she was cold to the bone. Clara wrapped her arms around herself trying to get some heat into her frozen limbs.

  ‘I’d feel better though.’ He shot her a concerned glance. ‘Come here.’ He pulled Clara into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her close. ‘You’re like ice.’

  She had tried so hard to avoid his touch since that afternoon, since she had let down her guard, but the memory of his touch was seared onto her nerve endings and her treacherous body sank thankfully against him.

  ‘Let’s get a taxi. We can go to Rafferty’s, get you fed.’

  ‘No, honestly.’ Clara wasn’t ready to face the world yet. ‘Let’s just walk. I need some air.’

  ‘Whatever you want.’ But he didn’t let go of her, not fully, capturing her hands in his, keeping her close as they walked. ‘I am going to insist on tea full of sugar though. I work in a medical capacity, remember? I am fully qualified to prescribe hot, sweet drinks.’

  Clara knew that if she spoke, just one word, she’d start to cry. And she didn’t know if she would ever be able to stop. So she simply nodded and allowed him to continue to hold her hands as they ambled slowly through the grey streets.

  ‘You must think I’m a fool,’ she said finally. They had continued to wander aimlessly until they had reached Regent’s Park. Raff had bought them both hot drinks from a kiosk and they walked along the tree-lined paths in silence.

  Raff looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t think anything of the sort. Why?’

  ‘Byron.’

  He huffed out a laugh. ‘If you judged me on my taste in women when I was eighteen your opinion of me would be very low indeed.’

  But Clara didn’t want absolution. The humiliation cut so deep. ‘I thought I was so worldly. I had travelled thousands of miles alone, with a ticket I had saved up for. I had amazing A-level results. I had it all. I was an idiot. An immature idiot.’

  She risked looking into his face, poised to see contempt or, worse, pity, but all she saw was warm understanding. ‘I didn’t really date at school. I was so focused on my future, on leaving Hopeford. So when I met Byron...’ She shook her head. ‘We were in Bali, staying in the same hostel. He was two years older and seemed so mature. I had no idea he was from a wealthy family. He didn’t act like it. It was his suggestion we share a house in Sydney and save to go travelling together. It was his own little rebellion against his father’s plans.’

  ‘We all have those.’ His mouth twisted.

  ‘At least yours involves saving people’s lives.’ She wasn’t ready for absolution. ‘Byron was just playing. But I didn’t see it. I fell for him completely. When I found out I was pregnant I was really happy. I thought we really had a future, travelling the world with a baby. God, I was so naïve.’ She stopped and scuffed her foot along the floor, as unsettled as a teenager on her very first date. ‘Thank you.’

  Raff raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What for?’

  ‘For standing by me, for allowing me to handle it.’

  ‘Well,’ he confessed, ‘that wasn’t easy. I don’t usually resort to violence but I had to sit on my hands to keep from throttling Byron’s father when he offered you the money.’

  ‘Why do men keep offering me money? First you and now him. Why do some people think that throwing money at
things—at me—solves their problems?’

  To her horror Clara could hear that her voice was shaking and feel the lump in her throat was growing. Keep it together, Clara, she told herself, but there were times when will power wasn’t enough.

  Clara blinked, hard, but it was too late as the threatened tears spilled out in an undignified cascade. She knuckled her eyes furiously, as if she could force them back.

  ‘Because we’re fools?’ Raff took her hand in his, his fingers drawing caressing circles on her palm. It wasn’t the first time he had touched her today but this wasn’t comforting; the slow, lazy touch sent shivers shooting up her arm.

  ‘No, don’t.’ She pulled her treacherous hand away. ‘You don’t have to be nice to me. This is all a pretence, isn’t it?’ The only person she could ask to stand by her wasn’t really in her life at all. How pathetic was that?

  Her throat ached with the effort of keeping back the sobs threatening to erupt in a noisy, undignified mess, the tears continuing to escape as Raff took hold of her, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look him in the eyes.

  ‘Not all of it,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘It’s not all pretence, Clara. Is it? I know we haven’t talked about it, try and pretend it didn’t happen, but it felt pretty real to me.’

  ‘That was just sex.’ Easy to say but she knew her tone lacked conviction. There was no such thing as just sex for Clara; she hadn’t trusted anyone enough to get close enough for ‘just sex’ since Byron. Just this man, standing right here, looking down at her with the kind of mixture of concern and heat that could take a girl’s breath away.

  ‘I’m on your side, Clara. I’m here for you, whatever you need, whatever you want.’

  Hope sprang up, unwanted, pathetic, needy; she pushed it ruthlessly away. ‘For as long as we have a deal, right?’ Was that sarcastic voice really hers?

  ‘For as long as it takes, as long as you need me.’ His hands tightened on her shoulders, his eyes dark, intense as if he could bore the truth of his words into her.