She might not want to stay in bed, but she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to bear the pressure of normal clothing against her tender flesh.
She looked at her reflection critically, trying to see her body from a man’s point of view. Her skin was quite tanned—it was summer, after all—and she had the usual smattering of freckles that most people with her colouring were afflicted with, although not so many that it could be thought unattractive. Firm breasts were tipped with delicate coral pink, fuller than her other slenderness would imply, but proudly uptilting. Her waist was slender, her hips boyish, her legs surprisingly long and well-shaped for her five-feet-two-inch height. Like a long, leggy filly, Jordan always said.
Jordan. Jordan. Jordan. She had never realised before quite how much notice she took of the things he said to her.
‘You really are a bloody mess, aren’t you?’ said an impatient voice from behind her.
A voice she recognised only too well!
She gave a yelp of dismay before crossing the room to the sanctuary of the bed and the protective bedclothes, and looking accusingly at Raff over the top of the snowy-white sheet.
She hadn’t heard his approach or the bedroom door opening, but there he stood, larger than life in the daylight, the fitted denims low down on his hips, the dark blue shirt he wore making his eyes look darker.
But he still made her think of Heathcliff, his dark hair tousled and inclined to curl, his skin ruggedly tanned.
‘Here.’ He held up the clothes that were draped over his arm, derisively taking pity on her. ‘But I’ve seen it all before, you know,’ he drawled mockingly.
In Technicolor!
Her cheeks felt hot at the thought of this man’s hands on her body. Had her nakedness left him unaffected? Probably. He didn’t give the impression he found her in the least attractive. It wasn’t the reaction men usually had to her vivid colouring.
‘In that case—’ she sat up on the bed, baring her shoulders and back ‘—pass me my robe, would you?’ She held out her hand for the garment, her gaze unflinching.
Admiration slowly darkened his eyes and, although slow in coming, he actually smiled! ‘I wonder just who you are, Jane Smith?’ he mused softly.
Her head went back at this direct challenge, her defensive action turning to puzzlement as his expression became harsh, and his narrowed gaze rested on the flowing fire of her hair as it fell forward across her breasts.
‘I mean to find out before you leave here,’ he told her curtly.
Jane felt a shiver of apprehension, instantly dismissing the emotion as being ridiculous. She didn’t know exactly where she was, but she could leave any time she wanted to. Couldn’t she …?
‘Where did you come from last night?’ Raff demanded to know. ‘Where were you going to?’
‘I don’t think that’s any of your business,’ she snapped resentfully, well aware of what a disadvantage she was at, her robe having been placed over the back of the bedroom chair with her other clothes, way across the other side of the room. As Raff very well knew!
His eyes were still narrowed, his arms crossed in front of the broadness of his chest. ‘You gave your address at the hospital last night as being a hotel, but you must have lived somewhere before staying there?’
He was being deliberately provocative, almost insulting. ‘Raff …’
‘Who was he, Jane Smith?’ he pushed, not waiting for her to finish.
‘Who was who?’ Jane frowned.
‘Your wealthy lover!’
‘My—?’ Jane choked with indignation. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she gasped.
He shrugged. ‘I may not know too much about ladies’ clothing—’ his mouth twisted derisively ‘—but even I recognise some of the labels in your clothes as being designer models. Who bought them for you?’
‘I don’t have to—’
‘It was a man, wasn’t it?’ he cut in forcefully. ‘Silken underwear—’ He held up one of the lacy bras Jane favoured, that minute scrap of expensive lace looking even smaller in his callused hand. ‘Bought to please a lover. Or by him,’ Raff added hardly.
In truth, each and every article of her clothing had been paid for by a man, but she had chosen the underwear to please herself, no one else, loving the silken feel of it against her skin.
She shook her head. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t I?’ he rasped, throwing the bra down disgustedly on top of her other clean clothing. ‘Believe me, I know more than you think,’ he told her heavily. ‘But before this goes any further I think I should tell you I’m not on the lookout for an expensive mistress. Or one of any other kind, come to that,’ he added insultingly.
His behaviour took her breath away, angry colour darkening her cheeks. ‘If I were on the lookout for a rich lover, you can be sure you wouldn’t even be a consideration!’
Really, the man didn’t even know her, and yet he could make accusations like that!
‘Then we understand each other,’ he nodded with satisfaction.
‘Completely,’ she snapped resentfully.
‘Good,’ he said smugly. ‘Now that we’re agreed on what neither of us want, we can get around to discussing what I do want.’
‘Sorry?’ Jane shook her head, still feeling slightly muzzy. It must be those tablets she had taken the night before. Maybe she was imagining this whole conversation? It was too outrageous to be real!
‘Can you type?’ He sat down in the bedroom chair, uncaring that he crushed her clothes in doing so.
Jane frowned, having difficulty keeping up with the conversation now. ‘Type?’ she repeated dazedly.
‘Yes.’ His mouth twisted. ‘You know, place your fingers on the keys of a typewriter and make words appear on—’
‘I’m well aware of what typing is,’ she snapped. ‘I just don’t see what it has to do with me?’
Raff looked at her consideringly. ‘At a guess, I would say right now you’re homeless and jobless—’
‘That’s a hell of an assumption to make,’ Jane bit out resentfully. God, was she so transparent? Possibly, to this man, with his probing eyes and cynicism. Although he certainly wasn’t a hundred per cent right about her! Just enough to have unnerved her, she admitted.
She still had no idea where she was, and although Mrs Howard had seemed respectable enough that was really little comfort right now.
Raff arched dark brows. ‘But a correct one?’
‘Who are you, Raff Quinlan?’ Her head was back challengingly.
He shrugged broad shoulders. ‘Rafferty Quinlan. Thirty-seven. Divorced.’ The last was added bitterly. ‘In charge of the running of an estate that is slowly bleeding itself—and me—dry!’
It was the very briefest of r$eAsum$eAs, and yet Jane was able to glean a lot from it. His marriage, whether it had initially been a happy one or not, had ended badly, which might account for some of his behaviour towards her. But not all of it!
‘ ‘‘In charge of running an estate’’?’ she repeated slowly.
He nodded abruptly. ‘I can’t exactly claim to own it when it’s mortgaged up to the hilt,’ he rasped. ‘My father had little interest in the place for years before he and my mother were killed in a plane crash five years ago, and he had let things deteriorate badly. My darling wife decided she didn’t want to be stuck out in the middle of Hampshire struggling to make a living, let alone enjoying herself, and took what little there was left as a divorce settlement. I’ve only managed to keep Mrs Howard because she’s run the house since before I was born, and considers it more her home than I do!’
Jane didn’t believe that; she sensed a fierce pride in Raff in the estate he called his home.
And at least she knew where she was now! Not that she was too familiar with Hampshire, but she felt a little more reassured now that she was at least approximately aware of her whereabouts.
Raff’s wife couldn’t have loved him if she could have walked out on him for
such a reason. And it would probably explain part of his resentment towards the type of woman he had decided she had to be.
But it didn’t explain his conversation of a few minutes ago.
‘What does all this have to do with whether or not I can type?’ She frowned.
His mouth twisted. ‘Well, as it seems for the moment I’m responsible for you …’
‘You most certainly are not!’ she protested indignantly. ‘I’m responsible for myself,’ she told him firmly.
At least, she was trying to be.
Her bank account stood at nil and, for all that she tried to deny it to this man, she was homeless into the bargain; she hadn’t even thought to bring any of her jewellery—that she could have sold and lived off the money for a while—away with her when she’d left.
‘You aren’t doing a very good job of it,’ Raff drily echoed at least some of her sentiments.
‘I’m doing the best that I can!’ To her chagrin she heard her voice break with emotion.
Raff looked at her closely, obviously having heard that emotion too. ‘We all do that, little one,’ he told her softly. ‘It just isn’t always enough.’
No, she acknowledged sadly, it wasn’t always enough …
She didn’t even want to think about Jordan sitting waiting for her to crawl back and tell him he had been right about her not being able to survive on her own.
She blinked back the tears. ‘I’ll make your problems one less by leaving here as soon as I’ve ordered a taxi.’ She didn’t think Jordan would mind paying the fare; it would be worth it to him to have been proved correct!
‘To go where?’ Raff’s eyes were narrowed. ‘Back to him?’
Her cheeks were flushed. ‘I told you—’
‘Surely working for me, once you’ve ceased being a walking bruise, of course—even I’m not that much of a taskmaster that I would expect you to work while you’re still in pain …!’ he derided what he had guessed had been her opinion of him ‘… has to be better than returning to a man you obviously have no desire to go back to!’ he said exasperatedly.
‘What do you know about how I—work?’ Jane repeated slowly as all of his words sank in. ‘What sort of work are you talking about?’ she asked suspiciously.
His mouth twitched. ‘Well, I’ve asked you if you can type—so I obviously want you to start cooking for me!’ He shook his head. ‘What sort of work do you think I mean?’ he scorned.
Work. Raff was actually offering her a job! But why? He had treated her as nothing but a nuisance since he had first met her. Probably because she had been one, she ruefully acknowledged. He wasn’t the type of man to take lightly having his life interrupted as disastrously as last night had done. But he also wasn’t a man to shirk what he considered his responsibility either.
Responsibility. How she was coming to hate the very sound of that word!
She looked up at Raff uncertainly. ‘By working for you, do you mean—?’
‘I can afford to pay you a small wage, plus your room and food, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ he cut in harshly, his eyes narrowing resentfully. ‘The estate may be in difficulties, but I’m not bankrupt yet.’
And she had obviously hit upon a very raw nerve!
But the offer of a job was so tempting. Any job. It was exactly what she had been looking for, praying for. It meant so much more to her than just no longer being dependent upon Jordan. Not that she intended telling Raff Quinlan about that.
She looked at him quizzically. ‘Why?’
He gave an impatient sigh, as if already regretting having made the offer at all. ‘Don’t think I would be doing you any favours, Jane Smith,’ he rasped. ‘I have correspondence that needs answering dating back three months or so, have been so tied up with work on the estate these last few months that I just haven’t had time to tackle answering any of the mail.’
She frowned. ‘You usually do the typing yourself?’
Not that he didn’t look capable of coping with any problem that came his way—it was just unusual for a man in his position; she certainly couldn’t see Jordan doing his own typing, no matter what the circumstances!
Raff gave a dismissive shrug. ‘I have an aunt who comes down from town occasionally and does it, mainly so that she can keep an eye on exactly what’s going on here,’ he added derisively. ‘But she hasn’t found the time recently in her busy schedule.’ The last was said sarcastically.
Jane wasn’t the world’s best typist, as the last week of job-hunting has proved, although that was mainly because it was a lot of years since she had attempted any typing at all; but if Raff didn’t mind her lack of speed she was at least accurate.
My God, she wasn’t seriously thinking of accepting his offer, was she?
What did she know about the man—other than the fact that he seemed to be a law unto himself? She didn’t even know exactly where she was, let alone anything else.
And yet …
A job was all she needed. Just for three months. Until August the thirty-first. And there was Mrs Howard; she had seemed respectable enough …
Raff stood up abruptly. ‘Think about it,’ he bit out tersely.
‘Oh, but—’
‘I’ve wasted enough time already for one morning,’ he continued harshly. ‘Maybe when you decide what you’re going to do you’ll let me know?’ He strode across to the door, emanating physical power, stopping to turn back to her. ‘But I would advise you to consider very carefully before returning to a situation that was obviously stressful enough for you to have left it in the first place.’
And with that last, strangely gentle advice Raff left the bedroom.
Jane dropped back on to the pillows, totally dazed by this complex man. One minute so harsh and dismissive, the next almost caring. But of course he didn’t care for her, just felt a responsibility towards her because of last night.
But did that really matter?
If she accepted his offer of a job she wouldn’t be cheating him in any way, would work as hard as she was capable of, and they would both be getting something out of the situation—Raff a backlog of correspondence that was troubling him, and she—well, ultimately she would get so much more out of it.
But was this a frying-pan-into-the-fire situation? Wasn’t Raff more of an enigma to deal with even than Jordan?
But it was only for three months, she reminded herself again. What other offers had she had?
None.
Her whole situation could be completely turned around if she just agreed to work for Raff Quinlan …
Was that too high a price to pay for proving Jordan wrong?
She had left him so confidently, so sure she could support herself. And she could—if she just took the job Raff offered her …
Pride warred with necessity—and finally necessity won. She couldn’t let it bother her that Raff had only offered her the job because he felt he had rescued her like some stray from the street. She would do her job and, when the time came, leave without regret.
She hoped.
All she had to do now was let Jordan know she had succeeded. He had been sitting back, she knew, waiting for her to crawl back to him with her tail between her legs. And last night she had been so close to doing that, had never felt so miserable in her life.
The role of guardian angel sat oddly on Raff Quinlan’s shoulders!
* * *
Dressing proved as difficult as she had thought it might, and by the time she had donned the thin woollen top and loose, flowered skirt the sweat stood out on her forehead and top lip, and she once again felt nauseous. But there was no telephone in her bedroom, and she had to find one. Besides, she was very curious about her surroundings, interested to see this estate Raff had talked about.
She stepped out of her bedroom into a long corridor, portraits adorning the walls, the resemblance of some of the subjects to Raff Quinlan pointing to their being his ancestors. So much for his casual dismissal the night before of his family name!
<
br /> Arrogant-looking men and haughtily beautiful women seemed to follow her slow progress down the hallway, and every window she passed showed countryside, long fields, and magnificently tall trees. But there was an air of neglect about the immediate grounds, the gardens slightly overgrown, the driveway having tufts of grass growing among the gravel. Jane could see stables off to the right of the house, but the stalls looked empty of horses. Raff seemed to have been telling the truth about the lack of funds to spend on the estate, at least.
There were signs of the same lack of money in the house, too, with the bare spaces on walls where paintings other than those depicting ancestors had obviously once hung, but had probably been sold over the years in an effort to hang on to the estate at all. The carpets were old and worn too, although everywhere was obviously kept spotlessly clean by the efficient Mrs Howard.
It was a pity that such a beautiful old house couldn’t be maintained in the way that it should have been, everything here in such sharp contrast to the luxury Jordan surrounded himself with.
Jordan.
He was the reason she had struggled down those stairs with her still painfully swollen ankle and stiff hip at all, her search for a telephone revealing one in the main hallway itself, her listening for Mrs Howard or Raff done almost furtively before she picked up the receiver and dialled.
The telephone rang and rang the other end. Jordan’s housekeeper was finally the one to answer the call, and Jane remembered it was Henson’s day off.
She asked for Jordan, knowing the call would be put through to his study at the back of the house where he couldn’t be disturbed by street noise. She could even picture him as he sat behind his desk, his dark hair kept severely short, a perpetual frown between his grey-blue eyes. Poor Jordan, he never seemed to stop working.
‘Yes?’ he barked impatiently into the receiver, and Jane instantly knew she had been right about his being engrossed with work at his desk.
‘It’s Rhea-Jane,’ she spoke briskly, and quickly, so that he shouldn’t interrupt her. ‘I’m well. I have a job. And I’m not coming home.’ She quietly replaced the receiver before he could make any response.
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