by Helen Brooks
She could imagine patience was not one of his virtues. The thought tilted her lips.
‘What?’ he asked, watching her.
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on.’ He leant towards her, refusing to admit it was because he had caught the scent of her perfume outside the restaurant and wanted to smell the light but elusive blend that hinted of magnolias and warm summer nights again. ‘Tell me.’
Marianne hesitated. She didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot or it was going to be a long night with indigestion at the end of it. ‘I wondered if you were normally impatient,’ she prevaricated.
‘Did you now?’ He grinned, shifting in his seat and taking a long gulp of his wine before he said, ‘There are those who would accuse me of that crime, yes. As I’m sure you can appreciate.’ He leant back in his chair, surveying her from the piercing blue eyes that seemed to penetrate her mind. ‘But we digress. I’d like you to take a look at these.’ He pushed a folder towards her. ‘Tell me what you think and don’t be shy about giving your opinion.’
‘About Seacrest? I won’t.’ Marianne opened the folder. Five minutes later, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Rafe, but he hasn’t caught what Seacrest is, what the house is about.’ The intensity of what she was feeling caused her thoughts to tumble out in a rush as she went on. ‘Seacrest can’t be made into just a money-making enterprise. It deserves better than that. The alterations need to be planned by someone who appreciates that the house lives and breathes, that it has a soul of its own.’ She stopped abruptly, a flush rising in her cheeks. ‘Take the bar, for instance. It should be incorporated into the drawing room, unobtrusive but there to serve a need. And the dining room. Removing most of one wall so as to make it lighter and see the view is all very well but the house can’t take that much glass. It’s not right. And the extension to the present kitchen…’ Her voice trailed away and he watched her struggling to find the words to express herself. ‘It’s practical and feasible but—’
‘But what?’ he asked quietly.
‘But it’s not what Seacrest is about. It should be on the left side of the house—a brand-new kitchen maybe, and the old one can become a small sitting room or a playroom for children. Seacrest could accommodate that.’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I don’t suppose any of what I’m saying is making sense to you.’
‘On the contrary.’ He sat up straighter, the tiredness that had dogged him for the last hour or two gone. ‘It makes perfect sense. And the extension on the right side of the house could take a couple of en suite bedrooms for people unable to climb stairs, perhaps? We could keep the extension a ground floor one but with a sloping roof and eaves, something that fits in with Seacrest’s persona.’
Marianne stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. Ideal.
‘So the proposed two-bedroomed flat for you and Crystal, do you still see that extending from the new kitchen?’ Rafe asked, reaching forward and scanning the architect’s sketch, which Marianne had laid on the table as she had begun to talk. ‘Which would now be on the left side of the house.’
Marianne looked at the head of crisp black hair. He wore it short—very short—and she suspected it had a tendency to curl. For an insane moment she wanted to run her hands through it.
She compressed her mouth, forcing herself to concentrate on the drawing. ‘I think so, yes. It’s more practical that way. Crystal is going to be chief cook and bottlewasher—that’s her forte.’
‘And you, Marianne? What’s your forte?’ he asked softly, suddenly raising his head and fixing her with his eyes. ‘Tom tells me you work as an occupational therapist. Is that right? How will you adjust to such a radical change of career?’
‘I don’t see it like that,’ she said stiffly. He’d hit a nerve. More and more over the last days, she had realised she didn’t want to give up her work completely. It wasn’t just that she had worked hard to qualify, although she had, but she loved her job, helping the patients to get back to active life after an illness or an accident, or helping them adapt with the minimum of heartache to any disability resulting from either. She enjoyed keeping the long-stay patients in hospital in touch with ‘normal’ life, trying to prevent them becoming institutionalised and dependent on hospital staff. Part of her work involved helping people to settle back into their homes and family after they had been in hospital, and suggesting and organising any necessary adaptations. Most of her patients became friends and she loved the fact that she could help in some small way for them to regain their self-confidence so they could plan for the future.
‘How do you see it?’ he asked quietly.
It was reasonable in the circumstances. After all, he and his father were investing an awful lot of money in Seacrest and they would want a good return. But she couldn’t promise that she was going to be a full-time hotelier for ever. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. She had to be honest here. ‘The work I do is very important to me,’ she said slowly, wondering how she could get him to understand that it was more than a job—much more. ‘And of course it’s totally with people. I spend most of my time with the patients, gaining their confidence and trying to find out what their problems are and what activities might best help to solve them. No two people react to illness or disability in the same way so it’s important to get to know the person really well and inevitably they become friends.’ She raised her chin a little. ‘I’ve found I’m quite good at making the right response to individual patients.’
He nodded. ‘So you’re saying what exactly?’
‘I wouldn’t want to give it up for ever. I could devote a couple of years to Seacrest full-time perhaps, but once everything is running smoothly I’d want to return to my work, even if it was just on a part-time basis to begin with. Before Mum and Dad died I was thinking—’ She stopped abruptly. She hadn’t meant to say so much.
‘What were you thinking?’ he asked curiously.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
His tone hardened. ‘If it involves what you’ve just been talking about, I think it does matter.’
Again, she supposed this was reasonable. Marianne took a deep breath. She didn’t quite know how they’d got on to this and she certainly hadn’t meant to bare her heart to Rafe Steed of all people. But it was too late now. ‘I seem to have a knack with children,’ she said flatly. ‘Some areas of a therapist’s work can need extra-special training, particularly with children with congenital handicaps for instance, and I was thinking I’d like to specialise in this if possible.’
She raised her head and looked at him as the silence grew. His eyes were narrowed on her face and she couldn’t quite read his expression but he wasn’t pleased, that was for sure. Defensively now, she said, ‘Of course this might not be possible now, I see that.’
Ignoring this, he continued to study her. ‘Wouldn’t that be…depressing? You’re a young woman. Don’t you want to have fun in your life?’
‘Working with handicapped children and having fun in my life aren’t necessarily incompatible,’ Marianne said steadily, ‘and you’re wrong about it being depressing. It can be upsetting at times, of course it can, but the children are so brave and determined on the whole and without self-pity.’
Why was he pressing her when he didn’t want to hear this? Becoming aware from her expression that he must be frowning, Rafe wiped his face clean of emotion. This woman was extracting herself from the neat little box in his mind labelled ‘Marianne Carr’ and it was unsettling.
He watched as the curtains of golden-blond hair swung either side of her flushed face as she bent to pick up her wineglass. Muscles clenched low in his stomach. Scented silk. Her hair, her skin—scented silk.
The kick from his manhood reminded him he was lusting after a woman who was undoubtedly not on the cards for him. If he believed her, and he found he did, she was too intense, too intelligent and too beautiful. Get involved with a woman like this one and you were asking for trouble, as his father had with Marianne’s mother. He had been wet behind the ear
s when he had met Fiona and she had reeled him in like a fish. Looking back, he could see their relationship had been all about lust on his part and greed on hers. She had been shallow, a butterfly. Gorgeous to look at, but that was all. She had served as a salutary lesson in the wisdom of future autonomy, of taking what he wanted when he wanted it from women who knew the score and needed happy-ever-after as little as he did, but that was all. Fiona hadn’t really left a deep ache in his life once he was over the initial sense of betrayal. This woman would be different. Like her mother, she had the ability to keep a man hooked long after she’d said goodbye.
‘Anyway, you can rest assured I’ll give one hundred per cent commitment until I’m not needed.’
Marianne’s voice brought him back to himself. In a voice which sounded ungracious even to himself, Rafe said, ‘Do I have your word on that?’
The deep brown of her eyes became like granite. ‘I’ve said, haven’t I?’
‘Forgive me, but I’ve learnt not to rely on what a woman says.’
‘Then you’ve been mixing with the wrong sort of women, Mr Steed.’
‘We’re past Mr Steed.’ He grinned at her. ‘You can insult me and still use Rafe, you know.’
He saw one corner of her delectable mouth twitch but she didn’t smile, her voice prim as she said, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
The steaks came and were eaten, along with the dessert of chocolate fudge cake and ice cream. They talked of inconsequential things on the whole, keeping it light and informal, but Rafe found he was putting himself out to make her smile and then feeling inordinately pleased when he succeeded. Taking the warning the red light in his mind had flashed up, he ordered coffee for them both. He didn’t think for a minute she would invite him in when he walked her home, but just in case…
Then he cut across all his good intentions by saying, ‘So, anyone in your life at the moment, Marianne?’ Cursing himself, he added quickly, ‘I was just thinking it would be an added complication if so, with you moving to Cornwall.’
She seemed to take his words at face value. ‘No one special,’ she said lightly. ‘I’ve lots of good friends in London but that’s all. How about you?’
He shook his head. ‘Long-term relationships aren’t my thing—too difficult to maintain. The business comes first.’
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the soft woolly top she had on clinging to her breasts. His body hardened.
‘In a different sort of way, I suppose that’s been a bit of a problem for me, too. My work involves unsocial hours at times, evening work visiting patients and families and so on, and there’s always a mountain of paperwork to do at weekends.’ She wrinkled her small nose. ‘I ought to keep on top of it during the day at work but I find it more tempting to fit in an extra patient instead. Still, the reports and case conferences and all the rest of it have to be done. Not that I’ve lived as a nun the last few years, of course.’
She smiled at him and he forced a smile back. He found he didn’t like the thought of her in another man’s arms. Knowing he was opening a can of worms, he said, ‘So you’ve never lived with anyone, been engaged, anything on that level?’
She stared at him for a moment. ‘No.’
Knowing he had no right to ask, Rafe said, ‘But you want marriage, kids, the whole caboodle at some point, surely?’
‘Do I?’
She didn’t seem offended, more amused if anything. ‘Don’t you?’ he persisted evenly.
‘Yes, I suppose so. Yes—’ she seemed to make up her mind ‘—but everything would have to be right. I’ve seen so many of my friends settle for—’ again she paused ‘—well, less than I would. I suppose it comes from seeing my parents so happy and in love.’ She stopped abruptly, adding, ‘Sorry, but they were.’
He inclined his head. ‘Don’t apologise. Mine were, too, in their own way.’
Uncomfortably now, she said, ‘I wasn’t trying to make a point, Rafe.’
‘I know that.’ He did. She wasn’t the type of person to indulge in sly digs; she was too straightforward for that. Nevertheless, the more relaxed atmosphere of the last hour had vanished. He glanced at his watch and then stood up. ‘I’ll walk you home if you’re ready.’
‘No, there’s no need for that. It’s only a minute or two to my flat.’ She stood up hastily, gathering her bag and cardigan as she said, ‘Thank you for the meal. It was lovely.’
‘I insist, Marianne. I’ve never yet let a woman walk home alone and I don’t intend to start with you.’
‘Rafe, this is a respectable part of London, not a no-go area in some foreign port or other. I’ll be perfectly all right. I know the streets round here like the back of my hand and they are inhabited by nice respectable folk on the whole.’
He caught a shred of amusement in her voice and immediately his hackles rose. ‘I’m walking you home,’ he repeated tonelessly. ‘That does not mean I intend to make a move on you, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
The amusement was gone when she responded vehemently, ‘Of course I didn’t think that. It’s just not necessary, that’s all.’
He didn’t know whether to be offended or take it as a compliment. ‘Necessary or not, that’s what’s happening.’
He kept his hand on her elbow as they walked to the door, the waitress who had served them—and to whom he had given a very generous tip—falling over herself to remind them that she hoped she would be seeing them again soon.
The air outside was cooler than it had been for some weeks and Marianne was glad she’d brought her cardigan. As she slipped it on, Rafe assisted her, his hand touching the soft skin at the base of her neck for a moment. It was a fleeting touch and without intent, but her skin burnt for some seconds from the contact.
They began to walk, passing couples sitting outside a pub enjoying a drink, then a few shops and business premises which were closed for the night before reaching a brightly lit jazz bar. Music drifted on the air from the open door and Rafe glanced in interestedly as they passed. ‘Looks a nice place,’ he murmured. ‘Ever been in there?’
Marianne nodded. ‘Once or twice. I like jazz.’
‘Me, too.’ It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest they might go together some time, but he restrained the impulse. It would send out the wrong signals. Not that he thought she’d agree anyway. She wasn’t sexually indifferent to him—that kiss back at Seacrest had told him that—but Marianne wasn’t the sort of woman to be guided by her baser instincts. She would require mental and emotional fulfilment from a lover, not just physical stimulation. She would have to like a man, love him even, before she went to bed with him. Not the sort of woman he wanted to get involved with. Not in a million years.
They stopped outside a tall terraced house in a street full of identical properties. ‘I’m home,’ Marianne said brightly. ‘And thanks again for a lovely meal. I’ll wait for you to contact me about the alterations to the plans which we discussed, shall I?’
‘Sure, I’ll be in touch.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Was the landlord OK about you leaving? He wasn’t difficult, was he?’ What are you doing? he asked himself, aware he was making conversation in an effort to delay the moment of departure. Say goodnight and get the hell out of here.
‘He’s a she and, no, she was fine. She understood about Mum and Dad and couldn’t have been nicer.’
‘Good.’ He stared down into her heart-shaped face. The breeze had wafted a strand or two of silky blond hair across her cheek. His hand reached out of its own accord and brushed the shining strands back into the sleek curtain. ‘You must miss them a great deal,’ he heard himself say.
He couldn’t blame her for the surprise on her face. He watched as she hesitated, then said, ‘Yes, I do. More as the days go by, actually, which is strange.’
‘Not really. I think initially the mind is cushioned, especially in circumstances like yours when an accident’s occurred and there was no warning.’ OK, he told himself silently, you’ve done the comfort bi
t. Now leave. ‘It’s a process, grieving. You can’t rush it.’
She nodded. ‘Is that how it was for you? With your mother?’
‘I guess so.’ He didn’t want to talk about his mother or his father or her parents. He wanted…Suddenly he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her hard before stepping back. ‘Goodnight.’
He turned before she could respond, hearing her small ‘Goodnight,’ as he walked away. He had no idea if she was still standing there when he reached the corner of the street because he didn’t allow himself to glance back.
CHAPTER SIX
MARIANNE saw and heard nothing of Rafe in the short while before she left London for good, and she was grateful for the respite. The evening she’d spent in his company and particularly the last minutes of it had unsettled her far more than she liked. She’d found she couldn’t put him out of her mind for more than a few minutes at a time and it unnerved her. His kiss had unnerved her. Rafe unnerved her.
She had dealt with Rafe more easily when he was being obnoxious, she admitted to herself a day or two after their meal together. She hadn’t wanted to enjoy being in his company but she had found herself doing just that. And his kiss. Why was it this man only had to touch her for bells to ring? It was humiliating, the response he triggered in her body with no effort on his part whatsoever. She was sure he had meant the kiss as a polite goodbye, that was all. Admittedly, an English person would have probably confined themselves to a peck on the cheek, but then Rafe was not English. He was American. And Americans were altogether less formal than their English cousins.
Thoughts like these continued to whirl in Marianne’s head during the final days in London and the drive home to Seacrest. She had driven down to Cornwall the last couple of weekends, but now, with her bridges well and truly burnt behind her, this last journey felt different.