by Anne Mather
She took a deep breath. ‘Couldn’t you have sent it—whatever it is?’
‘I could have,’ he agreed flatly. ‘But I didn’t. So?’
Helen shook her head. ‘Oh—come up,’ she said, putting the receiver down again, and took the few moments’ breathing-space to swallow most of the Scotch and soda in her glass.
The doorbell rang as she was considering pouring herself a second, and she reluctantly decided against it. It would not do to meet Rafe in a state of intoxication, however mild, she decided. It was hard enough to parry his verbal duelling when she was sober; it would be virtually impossible if she did not keep her wits about her. All the same, she could have done with something more to stiffen her spine as she went to answer the door.
Rafe stood outside with his arms draped around a large cardboard box. It must be raining, she thought, identifying the drops of water sparkling on his hair, and her supposition was supported by the dampness of his jacket.
‘I—you’d better come in,’ she said stiffly, realising she could hardly keep him standing in the hall. And Rafe inclined his head in acknowledgement, before stepping into the apartment.
‘I’ll just put this here,’ he said, depositing the cardboard box on the gallery and, with some misgivings, Helen led the way down into the living room. ‘Hmm, very nice!’ he conceded, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets as he followed her. ‘Expensive! Do you live here all alone?’
Helen held up her head. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Rafe shrugged. ‘Nothing. I just thought perhaps—your fiancé——’
‘Adam and I do not live together!’ retorted Helen hotly, furious that he should suggest such a thing. ‘I—if you’ve only come to make snide comments, then as you’ve delivered whatever it is you’ve delivered, perhaps you’d better go!’
Rafe stood in the middle of the floor and regarded her without expression. He was wearing narrow grey pants and a flecked navy jacket, and beneath the damp shoulders of his coat, a dark green silk shirt was open at the collar. He had no sense of style, she thought contemptuously, but she was irritably aware that he would look good in anything. And he did—his Italian ancestry no doubt responsible for the swarthy darkness of his skin. It was the first time she had acknowledged the fact that he was half Italian, and his ash-pale hair made a startling contrast.
‘You left without even saying goodbye,’ he said at last, and Helen felt the air leave her lungs in a rush.
‘You weren’t around,’ she retorted, conscious that his disturbing gaze was affecting her against her will. She folded her arms in an effort to conceal the pointed betrayal of her breasts, only realising belatedly that by doing so she had drawn his attention to the slits in the caftan that exposed her leg from ankle to thigh.
‘You could have waited,’ he said now and, abandoning the intent appraisal that had left her feeling shattered, he cast another glance around the room. While she stood aside, frozen into immobility by the disruption he had caused, Rafe strolled across to the windows and surveyed the street below. ‘Filthy night,’ he commented, indicating the weather. ‘I had to park about a mile away.’ He looked down at his feet. ‘I should have worn rubber boots.’
Helen followed his gaze and observed that the pale suede boots he was wearing were soaked almost to his ankles. Combined with the dampness of his jacket, he was running the risk of a severe cold or pneumonia, she thought reluctantly. What on earth had possessed him to drive up here on a night like this!
‘It wasn’t raining when I left home,’ he remarked, as if reading her mind, and Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth.
‘Don’t you have another pair of shoes in the car?’ she protested. ‘Or a jacket you could wear instead of that one?’
‘I don’t usually carry a change of clothes with me,’ Rafe responded sardonically. ‘But don’t worry,’ he added, sauntering back across the floor. ‘I shan’t die of cold, or anything dramatic like that. And as you said, I’ve made my delivery now. There’s no need for me to hang about dampening your carpet any longer. Sorry to have interrupted your evening. I’ll let myself out.’
‘No—wait!’ As he mounted the steps to the gallery, Helen came to her senses. With a sigh, she started after him, only to halt uncertainly when he turned to face her.
‘Why?’ he demanded expressionlessly. ‘Why wait? You can’t wait to get me out of here?’
Helen hesitated. ‘I—you haven’t told me what you’ve brought,’ she murmured awkwardly. ‘And—and you can’t go out again without at least drying your jacket. Why don’t you take it off, and I’ll do what I can to dry it out?’
‘It’s late,’ he said flatly. ‘I’ve been hanging about for the past two hours, waiting for you to come home. I went to the shop, and your assistant, partner, whatever, told me you’d left there about three o’clock.’
‘You went to the shop!’ Helen moistened her lips. ‘You saw Melanie?’
‘A skinny female; about thirty?’ Rafe was ruthlessly accurate. ‘If that’s Melanie, I guess so.’
Helen put the thought of what Melanie might have thought of Rafe aside for the moment, and admitted unhappily: ‘I went shopping. You should have phoned.’
‘I did phone,’ countered Rafe abruptly. ‘At least half a dozen times in the last three days. There was never any answer.’
Helen made a helpless gesture. ‘I’ve been away.’
‘I guessed.’ Rafe was laconic. ‘With Adam, no doubt.’
Helen’s chin jutted. ‘We don’t live in one another’s pockets, you know. As—as a matter of fact, I was working. I went to a sale in Derbyshire.’
‘Did you?’ Rafe inclined his head. ‘Well, well! And I had visions of you and this belted earl you’re engaged to making up for lost time.’
Helen pursed her lips. ‘You don’t make it easy, do you?’ she exclaimed, pressing the knuckles of one hand into the palm of the other.
‘Easy?’ he probed. ‘Easy to what?’
‘To help you!’ Helen retorted sourly, resenting his cool indifference. ‘And—and how do you know Adam has a title. Have you been checking up on me?’
‘Antonia mentioned it,’ he declared carelessly, and Helen felt a sickening pang at the news that he had been seeing the other girl.
‘I—didn’t realise you were still such close friends,’ she said, and although she tried her utmost, she couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice.
‘We’re not.’ Rafe shrugged, and when he did so, she glimpsed the dampness that had penetrated to his shirt. ‘She came for the same reason her father did, I guess. To make her apologies for leaving early on the day of the funeral. I offered her a drink. It was no big deal.’
‘I didn’t say it was.’ Helen tried to be indifferent. ‘It’s nothing to do with me.’
‘No.’ He conceded the point, his eyes inquiring. ‘I mean—it’s not as if you want me, is it?’
Helen’s face flamed. ‘What you do is of complete indifference to me!’ she exclaimed. ‘As a matter of fact, until you mentioned it, I’d forgotten all about that aspect of my grandmother’s will!’
‘You don’t say.’
Rafe was openly mocking, and Helen’s nails dug into her palms. ‘You see!’ she said. ‘You won’t be serious! How can you expect me to care what happens to you when you persist in making fun of me?’
‘Was I doing that?’ Rafe’s mouth twitched and Helen knew a helpless sense of frustration. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you cared.’
‘I only care that I shouldn’t be held responsible for your catching pneumonia!’ she retorted, avoiding looking at him. ‘Do you want me to dry your jacket? Or would you rather make your own arrangements?’
Rafe gave her another disturbing look, and then shrugged out of his jacket. ‘Thanks,’ he said, turning away from the stairs and holding it out to her. ‘You have permission to look through all the pockets.’
Helen pressed her lips together to prevent herself from retaliating, and gestu
ring towards the sofas, she invited him to sit down. ‘I’ll go and hang this over the towelrail in the bathroom,’ she said stiffly, walking towards the door. ‘Help yourself to a drink. There’s some Scotch on the table.’
When she came back, he had kicked off his shoes and socks and was reclining on one of the suede sofas. A tumbler of Scotch was lodged lazily in his hand, and he was surveying a Chrysler print hanging above the sofa opposite. He looked very much at home, she acknowledged reluctantly. She couldn’t ever remember Adam looking so relaxed, not even in the bedroom. But Rafe looked a little tired, too, she conceded unwillingly noting the slight hollowing around his eyes. On his feet and facing her, she had been more intent on keeping her cool than noticing any change in his appearance. But now, unobserved for the moment, she felt her senses stir with latent sympathy. It was just conceivable that it hadn’t been as easy for him as she had thought. For years, everyone had known him as the Flemings’ adopted son, and it must have caused some upheaval on the estate—and in the village—when the news of his real identity leaked out. He was well-liked, it was true, but how did people feel now that he was their employer? No matter how little difference it might make to him, there were always those who were only too willing to feel an imagined grudge.
She bit her lip and as she did so Rafe became aware of her presence. ‘Oh—there you are,’ he exclaimed, swinging his legs to the floor and getting to his feet. ‘Can I get you a drink, too? Another Scotch, perhaps?’
He was very sharp, but Helen refused to be drawn. Instead, she looked at the damp patches on his shirt and, ignoring her misgivings, she said: ‘I think you’d better take your shirt off as well.’
Rafe’s brown toes curled into the pile of her carpet. ‘And what if someone comes?’
‘No one will.’ Even as she said the words, Helen knew how provocative they sounded. ‘I mean,’ she contrived to defend herself, ‘I’m not expecting anyone. I was planning on having an early night.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Rafe put down his glass and unbuttoned his shirt as he spoke. ‘I won’t stay long. I’ve got quite a drive ahead of me.’
‘You’re not thinking of driving back to Wiltshire tonight!’ Helen’s dismay at this news helped her to avoid the intimacy that his bared chest created. The brown expanse he had exposed was smooth and muscled, and only lightly spread with hair, the coarser growth restricted to the arrowing fleece just visible below his navel.
‘It’s a bit late to consider checking into an hotel,’ he responded, tugging the hem of his shirt out of his pants and taking it off. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to lend me a towel or something while this is drying, would you?’ he added, suppressing an involuntary shiver as he handed the shirt to her. And, in spite of her reticence, Helen found herself staring at the sheen of moisture on his shoulders.
‘I think—I think you should take a bath.’ The words were out before she could prevent them, and Rafe gave her a faintly rueful grin.
‘Hey, I only wanted to put the towel round my shoulders,’ he protested, and she was grudgingly grateful for the way he had relieved her embarrassment.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said, twisting his shirt between her fingers. It was still warm, and the faint odour of his flesh clung sensuously to her fingers. ‘It’s not something I particularly want to suggest, but I think you’d better spend the night here. I—I have a spare room,’ she added hastily, ‘and—and it’s what my grandmother would have wanted.’ She made an awkward little gesture. ‘We are—cousins, after all.’
Rafe’s lips twisted. ‘You believe that now?’
Helen sighed. ‘I suppose I always did. Anyway,’ she could not sustain his direct gaze for long, ‘do I take it you accept? If so, I’ll show you the room.’
Rafe didn’t move. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? What if—Adam finds out?’
Helen held up her head. ‘What if he does? I’ve got nothing to hide. I shall tell him the truth—that you were forced to wait around for me, and in consequence it was too late to make the return journey.’
Rafe absorbed this in silence. Then, shrugging, he bent to pick up his glass, swallowing the remainder of its contents before showing his acquiescence. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said, following her across the room, and Helen wished her conscience would let her feel the same.
The spare room was decorated in shades of blue and beige. There was a comfortable divan, with a fluted brass bed-head; fitted cream units, with matching brass handles; a shagged blue carpet flowed into every corner, and the curtains and the quilt were of indigo piped with honey.
‘The bathroom’s through there,’ said Helen, pointing to a door set in the far wall. ‘I think you’ll find everything you need. Take as long as you like. We can eat when you’re ready.’
Rafe arched one quizzical brow. ‘Food, too?’
Helen’s eyes were downcast. ‘I’ll get you a sweater,’ she said, backing out the door. ‘I—I’ll leave it on the bed.’
After depositing a rather shapeless Aran sweater on his bed, Helen beat a retreat to the kitchen. Not that Rafe had been around. The only evidence of his occupation was in the tumbled heap of his trousers deposited on a chair, and the sound of running water in the bathroom.
The fricassee of chicken had taken no harm from its prolonged session in the oven, and she quickly found some rice and put it on to boil. Then, deciding against setting the table in the dining alcove, she set out knives and forks on the breakfast bar, re-tossing the salad and opening a bottle of wine she had fortunately treated herself to earlier in the day.
Returning to the living room, she saw Rafe’s wet boots residing by the couch. She doubted they would ever look as good as they had done before their soaking, but she took them into the kitchen, along with their dirty glasses, and set them in a warm place by the cooker.
By the time she heard activity from Rafe’s bedroom, the rice was cooked and flaky, and the wine was at least partially chilled. She was filling two slim hock glasses when Rafe appeared in the doorway, and she concentrated grimly on her task to prevent herself from looking at him.
‘The meal’s ready,’ she said, turning away to take two plates from the warming drawer. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I thought we’d eat in here.’
‘Something smells good.’ Rafe took his cue from her, and straddling the stool opposite he watched her as she worked. ‘By the way, the bath worked wonders. I was feeling pretty chilled, but not any longer.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Helen set the casserole dish between them, and turned back for the rice. ‘Help yourself, won’t you,’ she murmured, perching on the other stool.
‘Okay.’
Rafe obediently took up the serving spoon and ladled first rice and then some of the simmering fricassee on to his plate. In so doing, his attention was distracted, and Helen was able to look at him without fear of encountering his too-penetrating gaze. He looked so—innocent, she thought impatiently, his hair damp and clinging to his head, his face devoid of any mockery. The old Aran sweater she had given him had stretched beyond belief, and although it had had to accommodate his muscular frame, the neckline still hung loosely, instead of fitting to his throat. In consequence, with his head bent towards the table, she had a perfect view of the curve of his neck, where it joined the downy column of his spine. There was something disturbingly vulnerable about that particular section of his back, and she knew an almost overpowering urge to reach across the table and slip her hand inside the sweater. Her fingers almost itched with the intensity to feel his skin beneath her palm, and she wondered for the umpteenth time why he should have this effect on her.
‘Can I serve yours?’ Rafe asked abruptly, looking up, and Helen quickly reached for the spoon.
‘I can manage,’ she mumbled, helping herself to only a tiny portion, and taking refuge in her wine to avoid any further conversation.
Rafe didn’t eat as if he was hungry either. He finished what he had put on his plate, but he refused a second helping, and when Helen
produced the lemon meringue pie, he ruefully shook his head.
‘That was delicious,’ he said, indicating the remains of the chicken, ‘but I couldn’t eat anything else. Nevertheless, I’m impressed.’
‘I didn’t make it,’ said Helen at once, scraping the remainder of her own meal into the sink disposal. ‘I have a daily woman, Mrs Argyll. She does most of the cooking.’
Rafe held his glass up to the light and studied the wine left in it. ‘Don’t be so defensive. You can’t do everything. I should think running that shop takes up quite a lot of time.’
‘Yes, it does.’ Helen was surprised at his perception. ‘Did—did Melanie show you round the place? It’s much bigger than it looks from the outside.’
‘I gathered that.’ Rafe nodded. ‘And I guess I didn’t show a deal of interest right then. That box is bloody heavy!’
‘Oh, the box!’ Helen put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’d forgotten. What’s in it?’
‘Things that belong to you,’ said Rafe quietly. ‘Toys and books and party games. I found them in that chest at the foot of your bed.’
Helen caught her breath. She had forgotten all about those childish treasures. In her haste to get away from Castle Howarth, she had not thought about clearing out her old room.
‘You don’t have to have them,’ he added, pushing his empty glass towards her. ‘I can take them back and store them in the attics until you have children of your own. I just thought you ought to be given the option. As they do belong to you.’
Helen turned away. ‘I suppose you’ll use my room as a guestroom now,’ she murmured, clattering the plates in her haste to get them into the dishwasher, and Rafe came to his feet.
‘As a matter of fact, I’m having the whole wing redecorated,’ he conceded, pushing his hands into his pockets. ‘Did I tell you both Mrs Pride and Miss Paget are leaving?’
‘You know you didn’t.’ Helen swung round on him, her indignation evident, ‘Where are they going?’
