He grinned guiltily. “Not quite sneaky enough, it would seem. Look, Ali I’m going mad here. And you’ve got all of the others working against me, too,” he added with a gesture in the direction of the basement. “I’ve been barred from the terminals and the trading floor.”
“Good! You’re supposed to be resting--that’s the only way you’re going to get better. The doctor said so!”
“Ali, you must know that I find work far more restful than sitting around trying to summon up an interest in whether Cort is going to marry Elaine even if she has lost her memory thanks to Carla’s evil machinations. Watching t.v. all day is really not my bag, honey. And I’ve tried reading, but I just can’t seem to concentrate. I need to keep my hand in.”
Ali remembered Rafael’s earlier comments about her father. He had been right, of course.
Mason Witherspoon had never been interested in the aggressive, no holds barred type of investing that had always fascinated Rafe--and made the latter so good at raising venture capital money. Mason’s style had always been more academic--he dealt in various complex investment strategies as if they were fascinating intellectual puzzles. The results had been impressive, and had won him a more than respectable list of clients, who were eager to see their money grow thanks to the “Witherspoon Method”.
He would often get so involved with his intricate calculations that he lost all track of time. After Ali’s mother had died, Ali had taken over the task of making sure Mason didn’t get too wrapped up in work to eat and sleep at regular intervals. His brilliance and his personable, easygoing kindness also inspired a fierce loyalty among his employees, who had taken over the task of ensuring he didn’t get too carried away by his work, once Ali left.
Unfortunately, no-one had noticed that over time, Mason had gradually lost his ability to separate the intellectual challenges of various investment strategies from the awareness that this was actual money--sometimes the better part of a client’s personal fortune--that he was dealing with. And so, without even his own awareness of it, the stress had begun to eat away at his health. The heart attack had been a shock for everyone.
Ali sighed as she looked at her father.
“Point taken. But I don’t think you’re up for a trip to Ucluelet, no matter what you say. How’s this for a compromise? You can go over all the documentation Rafael drops off for us and when I get back on Monday, we can have a meeting and discuss your conclusions. But no going onto the trading floor or examining the clients’ portfolios. Fair?”
He slanted her a crooked smile. “I guess I can agree to that. The stocks are where the stress is anyway.” He shook his head. “I’ve lost my stomach for risk--so your taking over really is for the best.” He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “It’s good to have you back, Ali--even if you have become a bossyboots.”
She chuckled, breathing in the familiar, comforting smells of clean shirt and shampoo--the same brand that he had used since she was little, even though his hair had grown considerably sparser over the years. These were the smells of home. “I’m glad to be back, Dad.”
After a few moments, she sighed, raising her head from his shoulder. “I’m going upstairs to change--I need to get out of these clothes.”
Once upstairs, Ali closed the door to her room, which was still filled with relics of her childhood and teenage years. Glancing around, she shook her head. In some ways, it was comforting, but in others, each time she stepped into the room, it felt like she had suddenly regressed about fifteen years. “I’ll have to find an apartment as soon as Dad’s a bit better,” she muttered.
She removed her suit jacket, absently hanging it up. She was about to do the same with her blouse when suddenly, she paused, frowning, and walked over to the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Then, slowly, she unbuttoned the silken fabric and parted it. Her throat tightened as they became visible. The first one, a puckered, unsteady scar, starting just below her left collarbone and stretching across her chest to the edge of her right arm. The marks left by the stitches were still visible against her skin.
She ran her finger along the reason she always wore high-necked outfits. Then, her eyes traveled downwards. The next scar slashed across her belly--the wound that had made her condition critical for a time. Now, it was just a mark--a reminder of how close she had come to death when Angela’s car had collided with an oncoming vehicle on that long-ago, icy night. Angela hadn’t survived. Neither had any of the others in the car.
Ali placed a gentle hand over the puckered mark for a few moments. “So much for my ‘perfect body,’” she muttered.
But she had been the lucky one--and ugly as they were, the scars were a reminder of that fact. They were her private trophies--testimony to the fact that she had lived, when things could all too easily have gone the other way. For that reason, among others, she had decided against plastic surgery.
But at the same time, she had no interest in flaunting the marks, for she had always been acutely aware of how they might be regarded by others. Grotesque. Hideous. Disfigurements.
Certainly, that was how Nigel had reacted. He and Ali had developed a friendship over her years in London, and after the accident, she had made the mistake of seeking comfort in his arms, as if intimacy might help to heal the pain of loss. He had tried to cover his reaction to the freshly-healed gashes, but not before Ali had seen the way he recoiled from them.
Perhaps she had trusted the wrong person--but Ali didn’t want to have to face that kind of reaction to her scars again. She had since decided that she wouldn’t be showing them to anyone she didn’t trust implicitly.
And those were just the superficial wounds.
She swallowed, and almost without volition, her hand slipped down, to rest on the area covered by her skirt. Her hips and lower belly. This had been the hardest wound of all to deal with, for while she had lived through it, the accident had ensured that she would no longer be the bearer of life.
“You never know, Ali. But your body has been damaged,” the doctor had said, her expression unbearably compassionate. “And given what happened to you, the chances are fairly high that you will never be able to conceive. I won’t say it’s impossible, but let’s say there’s a 99.9% likelihood that you will not be able to have children.”
Which was about as clear as anyone could be.
Ali’s mouth stretched into a smile that had little to do with happiness. It had taken a long time to accept facts. But even after almost three years, she still didn’t want to have to speak the words “I can’t have children” to someone. It would just hurt too much.
So, she had devoted herself to her career, carefully fostering her self-sufficiency--and if it meant that she had built a few barriers along the way, what of it? Under the circumstances, preventing anyone from getting too close seemed the best way to avoid inevitable hurt and disappointment--on both sides.
She heard the sound of a car door slamming outside and stiffened. After walking over to her window, she peeped out of the blinds and saw Rafael striding away from his Porsche 911. Her body came alive at the knowledge that he was close by.
“And you are the last thing I need in my life right now--or ever,” she muttered, but despite the words, she found herself watching him hungrily as he walked across a stretch of lawn with brisk strides. He had removed his jacket and the firm muscles of his broad-shouldered frame were visible through the burgundy fabric of his shirt. But, even more potent than his physical beauty was the vibrant intensity that emanated from him, even at this distance.
Some part of her let out a tiny sigh as he disappeared around the corner of the house.
Ali turned away from the window, annoyed with herself for being drawn to him like this. She shook her head. Even if she were considering getting involved with someone--which she absolutely was not--she needed a gentle, kind, understanding man. Someone who would be able to accept her shortcomings and wouldn’t hold them against her.
By
contrast, she could not afford to get involved with someone like Rafael--someone ruthless enough to throw her aside once he saw that she represented damaged goods.
So, she’d just have to bloody well resist whatever morbid attraction she had for the man.
And with that notion firmly fixed in her mind, she changed quickly into a pair of stretch pants and a sleeveless turtleneck sweater in powder blue. After running a quick brush through her hair, she took a deep breath and squared her shoulders.
Then, opening the door, she headed down to the living room. She could hear the murmur of male voices as she descended the stairs and walked along the corridor.
The conversation died as she entered the room, making her wonder uncomfortably if she had been the subject of discussion. The two men looked up, and her father smiled. “Ali!”
Rafael merely inclined his head, his dark eyes intent as one corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
“Hey you two,” she said, striving to sound casual. “Thanks for dropping the stuff off, Rafael. I appreciate it. I can’t believe I forgot to pick it up on my way out this afternoon.”
He shrugged fluidly, but it seemed to Ali that his expression mocked her hasty departure earlier. “These things happen. And it gave me the excuse to stop by in person to see how Mason is doing,” he said, shifting his attention to her father. “You look pale. Perhaps what you really need is a break from this place.” He glanced at Ali, then returned his gaze to Mason, but not before she caught the flash of his grin. “I asked your daughter if she wanted to look at the Ucluelet property this weekend and she responded with what I can only describe as unflattering reluctance. Perhaps you’d like to--”
“No,” Ali interjected, flooded with anger that he would even presume to suggest such a thing when her father was looking so obviously weak and exhausted. “Dad and I already discussed this. He’s not up for that kind of trip--the long periods in the car, the ferry ride over and the drive all the way out to the other side of the island. Absolutely not.”
Rafael rose from the sofa, watching her with a cold expression. “It’s just a trip to the island, for God’s sake. You make it sound like a damned triathlon.”
“For him, in his condition, it would be--or can’t you see that he’s visibly frail--“
“I can see that he’s being driven to distraction by boredom--“
“Children, children!” Mason’s shout penetrated the rising volume of their discussion. Ali closed her mouth, her latest protest dying on her lips as she belatedly remembered that her father was sitting on the couch, listening to every word they said.
Now, he sent them each a quelling look. “Visibly frail,” he raised a brow at Ali, “though I might be, I think I’m still able to speak for myself.” He turned to Rafael. “And though I appreciate the offer, Rafe, I think my daughter’s right. I’m just not up for a trip like that quite yet. I’ll have to content myself with going through all these intriguing goodies you’ve brought,” he concluded, smiling as he held up a thick binder of papers.
“Sorry, Dad,” Ali muttered.
“Tsokay. Perhaps you could offer Rafe some coffee--or a beer? He refused earlier, but I think that might have had more to do with my visible frailty than a sudden aversion for drinks of any kind.”
“No, I really am fine.” Rafael raised a hand to forestall Ali’s offer. Then, he glanced at his watch. “In fact, I have something going tonight, so I should probably be heading out. See you later, Mason. I’ll be in touch.”
The two men shook hands. Then, Rafael turned to Ali, unable to suppress a grin as he saw her expression. She looked like a disgruntled child--and almost appealing enough to make him forget the kind of vamp she was beneath that innocent façade. When she had walked into the room, she had looked the very picture of wholesome beauty.
He had wanted to reach out and touch that perfection. To cup the curve of her jaw in his hand and draw her in for a hard, intimate kiss that would brand her as his own. Even now, his body was uncomfortably aware of hers. But he had perfected his façade over the years--and he would use that control to good effect. She would only know what he wanted her to know.
And so, he gave her a brief nod, still grinning. “I’ll see you Friday morning, Ali. Eight ten.”
He sauntered back to his car, feeling immensely pleased with himself. She had certainly jumped for the bait--as he expected she would after her spirited response to his earlier suggestion about Mason keeping his hand in with business while convalescing. Of course, one glance at his mentor made it clear that the man needed rest more than he needed a trip to the island. But Rafael wanted Ali to feel she had no choice except to accompany him. With Mason in the loop, she’d know full well that if she backed out, her father would want to take her place, in order to ensure due diligence had been carried out.
And, once there… Rafael’s grin grew wider as he contemplated his plans. This time, it would be he who controlled the situation--and, given how much she obviously liked to be the one in charge, it would give him no small pleasure to play with that power, inexorably seducing all her restraint out from under her.
CHAPTER FOUR
Friday morning came too quickly for Ali’s liking. Still, she was ready when she heard Rafael pull up outside the house. Carrying a weekend bag, she strode outside, noticing with a start that he was in a different car--a BMW Z8 Roadster convertible.
“Only one bag?” he asked, as he took it from her and loaded it into the car. He was wearing khakis and a polo shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. Ali’s stomach did a flip, even as she grudgingly acknowledged that he looked just as devastating in casual clothes as he did in formal and business wear. “I’m impressed.”
She shrugged. “I like to travel light.”
“One of those people who can’t be bothered with emotional baggage, hey?” He opened her door for her with an ironic flourish.
“I carry around my share of that, I’d say.” This close, Ali could smell the spicy tang of his aftershave. She frowned as she brushed past him in order to slip into the passenger seat, forcing herself to ignore the tremor of excitement that seemed to suffuse her body in his presence. She hardly needed caffeine, with Rafael around. “So what happened to the Porsche?”
He flashed her a white grin as he slammed her door. “It had a few dings,” he said with a shrug.
“You changed cars because the Porsche had a few dings?” Ali shook her head as she watched him walk around the car and settle into the driver’s seat.
“I can afford perfection, so why settle for less?” he replied, his tone offhand. He started up the car as Ali clicked on her seatbelt, uneasiness stirring in the pit of her stomach. “Top up or down?”
“Down is fine.” The sleek car already represented far too close quarters to share with Rafael--she wasn’t at all eager to increase the intimacy by having the top up. Thank God the weather is good, at least.
“Sunscreen?”
“Already applied.”
“Thorough as always, querida.”
“Would you stop calling me that?”
He raised an eyebrow at her, then shifted into gear and shot down the driveway, pausing only marginally before turning onto the main road with the precision of a racecar driver.
It wasn’t a long drive to the Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal. Shana had obviously made reservations, because once there, Rafael drove past the long lineup and straight onto the boat.
As they locked the car and headed up to the passenger decks, Ali forced herself to take deep breaths. Rafe had already mentioned that he had some work to go over during the ninety-minute ferry ride, so avoiding him on the ship should be no problem.
The real question was: how she was going to handle the several hours-long drive to the other side of the island if just the short jaunt to the ferry had been this difficult?
Focus on the scenery. It’s spectacular--though certainly not as sexy as the gorgeous bit of scenery in the damned driver’s seat.
By the time they turned dow
n the quiet road that led to the hotel where they would be staying, it was early afternoon. The ride had been breathtaking--each turn opened onto a new, dizzyingly stunning vista of mountains and water, all bathed in bright motes of light as the sun and clouds did a stately pavane high above.
But even that hadn’t been enough to get Ali’s mind off the man sitting beside her. He drove with the edged control of an expert--despite having only recently acquired this particular car. And, while Ali was usually a very nervous passenger--had been ever since the accident--she was surprised to discover that she felt oddly trustful as he took tight corners at the kinds of speeds that would have had her accusing any other driver of wanting to give her a heart attack.
Which was not to say that she relaxed--quite the contrary. But, the tension she felt had nothing to do with Rafael’s driving. Instead, it was her acute awareness of the focused vitality of the man beside her that had her feeling twitchy and on edge. At least the road noise from having the top down provided her with the welcome excuse to avoid trying to make conversation with him for most of the trip.
Now, as they climbed the front stairs to the hotel reception, Ali found she was utterly exhausted. She gave the check-in clerk a dazzling smile as she savoured the thought of retreating to the privacy of her room for a little while at least. The afternoon, perhaps. No doubt he’d have some sort of business to attend to and would want to jump into that, rather than be burdened with playing guide to her. She figured that could wait till tomorrow.
And so, she would soon have a few hours of blessed relief. No unwelcome chemistry she had to suppress. No barbed comments or seductive grins to ignore. In short, no Rafael to resist.
She was so caught up in the reverie that the implications of Rafael’s request to the clerk almost passed her by.
“I have a suite reserved under ‘Alvarez’.”
Ali frowned, wondering if perhaps Rafael was just wanting to do one reservation at a time to avoid confusion.
Leaving Rafe Page 4