by Lynne Graham
‘Did you make my bed for me before we went out?’ Boyce called from the guest room while she was whipping up a quick lunch.
‘No. I’m your sister, not your housekeeper!’
‘Well, someone did,’ he declared.
Harriet lodged in the doorway. ‘You must have done it without realising it.’
Boyce spread emphatic hands in denial. ‘I didn’t!’
‘Well, maybe we have fairies—and long may they stay under this roof if they like to tidy up!’ Harriet teased.
‘You don’t know what the paparazzi are capable of,’ her brother said worriedly. ‘A paparazzo could have been in here taking photographs, or snooping in search of a good story.’
‘Do paparazzi usually make beds for their victims?’
A reluctant grin wiped the unusual gravity from his boyishly handsome features. ‘All right. I sound paranoid,’ he conceded.
‘Yes, you do. I honestly believe that while you’re in Ballyflynn you won’t be bothered by the press or anybody else.’
The day was flying past, and Harriet was determined to see Rafael. He would think that she had terrible manners because she had not immediately contacted him to thank him for his generous gift, she reflected guiltily. But she had just not known what to say. Leaving her brother happily discussing Irish property and investment values on the phone, she went into her room to freshen up.
There, she was visited without the slightest warning by the eerie suspicion that the perfume bottles on her dressing table had been moved. For some reason the room seemed indefinably different to her eyes, although there was not a single change that she could exactly identify. Had Samson sneaked up on the bed and rumpled the spread? It was perfectly possible. She did not allow the tiny dog to come into her bedroom, but he never gave up trying. My goodness—what was the matter with her? She was not a fanciful person by nature. Of course nobody had been in the cottage while she and her brother were exploring Slieveross! Things were almost certainly just as she had left them. Why on earth was she letting Boyce spook her? But, bearing in mind her brother’s renown in the music business, perhaps it would be a good idea to be more cautious about locking up while he was staying. She went outside and removed the spare key from its rather obvious hiding place under a stone by the back door.
It was almost four by the time she reached Flynn Court. There was no sign of Tolly. A maid ushered her into the library. Harriet was astounded by the strength of her hunger to see Rafael again. That craving sprang on her without warning and filled her with the most unbearable shyness. As he strolled forward to greet her, the essence of sophistication in a silver-grey pinstripe suit, nervous tension rushed her straight into speech.
‘I wanted to phone and ask what was happening with Una, but I knew you had a lot to sort out between you and I decided to wait for a day or two,’ Harriet shared breathlessly, her attention welded to his lean, hard features, her mouth running dry. ‘But when you sent the brooch—’
‘Did you like it?’ Rafael cut in, smooth as silk.
Her fingers knotted together as she sought for the right words. ‘Very much…I mean, it’s exquisite. But—’
‘I’m glad you like it. We had a good time together, and the Irish and Italian in my soul gives me quite a sentimental streak.’ His deep dark drawl was casual, dismissive in tone, and could not have provided a more cynical contrast to the emotional base he claimed. ‘I like to say goodbye with style. Please don’t try to return my gift.’
Shock made Harriet stop breathing. Goodbye with style? She did not move a muscle, did not trust herself to do so, for she was afraid that in the heat of the moment she might betray her hurt. When they had left his stud on the day of the races she had had no idea whether or not he planned to see her again. But when the gold, emerald and diamond horseshoe brooch had arrived, she had honestly believed that her worries had been misplaced. It had not once crossed her mind that a man might give such a carefully chosen gift to mark the end of an affair. She could feel the blood draining out from below her skin. It was as though she had been forcibly woken from a dream to find herself walking a tightrope when she had a terrible fear of heights. And, worst of all, she was totally unprepared for the power of her own reaction.
‘Una…?’ In the humming silence, Harriet snatched at the teenager’s name again with an edge of desperation.
His spectacular dark golden eyes rested on her with an impassivity that she found unnervingly distant. ‘I’ve agreed to let her miss the last few days of term. The school doesn’t want her back in any case. She’s almost certainly dyslexic, and she’s agreed to accept specialist tutoring. I’ve said that I’ll look into more local possibilities on the education front, and make a decision by the end of the summer. However, I haven’t made any promises.’
Harriet forced a valiant smile. ‘It all sounds good…Obviously you’re talking to each other and getting everything sorted. I’m pleased about that, but surprised that she hasn’t called round even to see the yard. Though I expect she’s very busy at present.’
‘Perhaps.’ Grim amusement assailed Rafael, for he was well aware that his surprisingly partisan half-sibling was furiously disappointed with Harriet, and would almost certainly speak her mind when she had got over her present desire to huff and sulk over the issue.
‘Did I mention the opening I have planned for the tack shop next weekend?’
‘I wasn’t aware that you were planning to open a shop.’
‘You did say that you weren’t interested in details. But in future I’ll put everything on paper to ensure that you’re kept informed,’ Harriet declared brightly, putting her all into maintaining a jolly front while she went on to tell him about the gymkhana. ‘It’ll provide good publicity.’
‘Do you really think that you’ll still be living in Ballyflynn in a year’s time?’
That dry, sceptical note sent colour surging into her cheeks, banishing her strained pallor. His apparent conviction that the livery yard would fail within twelve months felt like the ultimate insult to Harriet, implying as it did a low opinion of her ability to keep the yard afloat.
‘I’m well aware that most new businesses go bust in the first year, but the livery won’t be one of them. The shop will stock only basic supplies, but it should generate enough trade to cover overheads, and it’ll keep the customers calling. Perhaps you are not aware of it, but when you offered me a superb Georgian stable yard as a base, and a resident groom, you gave me a much better chance of surviving.’
The phone on the desk buzzed.
‘Tell Una I said to call in whenever she gets the chance.’ Harriet turned gratefully away, emptied of artificial good cheer, feeling much as though she had withstood ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer.
Rafael strode past the ringing phone to pull open the door for her. He wondered why even now he was so much better mannered with her than he had ever been with any other woman. He wondered what she would do if he simply used the fierce desire which had shattered her only days earlier to bring her back to him. That hunger had been very new to her. True love versus sexual passion. He was not convinced that she would be strong enough to resist temptation. In such circumstances Valente would not have hesitated to play dirty. Rafael was surprised to discover that, unlike his late father, he had scruples.
‘Where’s Tolly?’ Harriet felt a need to fill the silence while she crossed the gracious hall with firm steps, her slim shoulders stiff with the effort of dignity.
‘His brother in England has been taken ill. He went over to see him yesterday,’ Rafael advanced.
She got into her car and drove off without looking back or doing a single dramatic thing. She felt hollow, shaken. Rafael had made her feel like a teenager on a rollercoaster of excitement. Like a silly kid, she had developed a crush on him. Everything about him had knocked her out: his incredible looks, his wickedly racy sexy reputation, his charismatic smile. No, she definitely didn’t want to think about his smile. It had been a stupid transitory
fling, a total and absolute mistake, and it was over…so what was the matter with her? Before she reached home again she pulled off the road because her face was wet with tears. Dragging in a steadying breath, she dashed away the tears, angry that she was upset.
Determined not to let her brother suspect anything was amiss, she drove round for a while with the car window wound down, praying the stiff breeze would blow away the evidence that she had been crying. For good measure she bought some groceries from the supermarket. At the checkout she noticed Tolly’s daughter-in-law, Sheila, standing by the freezers, staring at her. What was that woman’s problem? Irritated, Harriet felt like walking over and asking. But Sheila’s husband, Robert, appeared behind her. His square face ruddy with colour, he hurried the older woman on.
She was driving back out of the village again when she saw Una. Harriet waved and looked frantically for a place to stop on the busy street, but by the time she found somewhere the leggy brunette had vanished from view. Her brow furrowed and she frowned, for she had been sure that the teenager had seen her and would wait. Had she been mistaken? Or was there something more behind Una’s recent silence? Harriet thought about the badly spelt note she had shown to Rafael and paled. It was very possible that Una was annoyed about that, and regarded Harriet’s interference as a betrayal of her trust.
When she got back to the cottage she was astonished to find Boyce and Fergal watching football together and generally behaving as though they had known each other all their lives. Nursing bottles of beer, they yelled and punched the air in unison as a goal was scored.
‘So…you two have met?’ Harriet stated the obvious as casually as she could.
‘Yeah…Hey, look at that footwork,’ Boyce groaned, his entire attention welded to the television screen.
She marvelled at the idea that she had worried that her brother might notice that she had been crying. Boyce would not have noticed had she turned cartwheels—unless, of course, she had interrupted his view of the match.
‘Will the two of you be coming down tonight to the ceilidh?’ she heard Fergal ask on his way out an hour later. ‘It should be a good night of music.’
‘I wouldn’t miss it, mate.’
‘What happened to your fear of being recognised?’ Harriet asked Boyce.
Her brother gave her a look of satisfaction. ‘I told Fergal my name. I even admitted that I was a musician. But he didn’t show any reaction. He has no idea who I am. If someone in his age group doesn’t recognise me, who will? And why didn’t you mention that the village bar is well known for traditional music? I’m really into that sort of stuff.’
‘Dooleys? Is it well known? I had no idea.’
‘Fergal seems a good bloke. You could do worse,’ Boyce declared, giving the young trainer his official stamp of bloke approval.
‘We’re just friends.’
*
Harriet discovered that the doors at the rear of the tiny bar she had visited opened into a very big low-ceilinged room with a smouldering turf fire, flagstones on the floor and seating arranged in convivial clumps. Initially tense at being in a public place, Boyce soon relaxed. A ceilidh band composed of a fiddler, an accordion player and a guy with a tin whistle entertained them. It was true toe-tapping stuff.
A couple of hours into the evening, when her smile was like set concrete on her weary face, Fergal brought the fiddler over to meet her brother. Technical talk of music batted back and forth across the table. In his schooldays Boyce had been an accomplished flautist, with plans for a classical career, and he was almost as proficient with a violin. Tunes were hummed, rhythms beaten out on the wood, old ballads discussed. Boyce was in his element.
Harriet did not sleep well, and when she awakened just after five the next morning she decided to take Snowball for a ride. She walked round the stable block to get into her car and stopped dead. Some sort of graffiti now marred the end wall of the stables. Disbelief made her throat tighten and her tummy clench hard.
LEAVE HIM ALONE, it said. The words had been picked out in white gloss paint. Someone had done it in a hurry, for the paint had dripped down from each letter. She was certain it had not been there when she’d gone out with Boyce the night before, but it had been dark when they got back and she had no memory of looking at the wall then.
She swallowed hard. Leave him alone? This was her home. It could only be a message meant for her eyes. Who was she supposed to leave alone? Rafael? And who would feel there was a need to warn her off him? Who was most insecure and likely to be possessive of Rafael’s attention right now? Una, who was struggling to get through a bad patch? Yet she could not credit that Una would be at the foot of such an unpleasant act. An act designed to shock and scare. There was no denying that it was frightening to think that someone with malicious intent had visited her home and expressed their angry hostility in that painted warning. But, no matter how hard she sought to dismiss the idea that Una had been responsible, she remained painfully aware of the teenager’s hot temper and impulsive nature.
Reaching a decision, Harriet hurried round to the old shed, where various paint tins lurked. She levered open a can of white paint, poured some clumsily into a roller tray and got to work on the wall. Within a few minutes Harriet was liberally spattered with paint drops, but the scrawled words were obscured and no longer readable. She would lash on another coat later and she wouldn’t mention the matter to anyone. It could only have been Una, and that saddened her. She had not realised until that moment just how fond she had become of the younger woman. Was Una under the impression that Rafael and Harriet were involved in some secret affair? Well, she would soon find out her mistake and learn that while Harriet might not be a rival for Rafael’s attention, there was a world of very beautiful women out there, just waiting for him to snap his imperious fingers.
*
‘I’ve been thinking.’ Boyce leant back in his seat after lunch the following day. ‘I’m going to talk to Mum and suggest that it’s time she told you who your father is.’
Harriet would not have been surprised if that announcement had made her eyes shoot out on actual stalks of horror. ‘No way, Boyce. Eva will never forgive me if you tackle her. She’ll assume that I put pressure on you and—’
‘I won’t let Mum make that mistake. Maybe she’s afraid of what Alice and I might think. I want her to understand that that certainly isn’t an issue for me. She needs encouragement and support to speak up after all these years, but you don’t need to apologise for wanting the information. It’s your right, and when she realises that you have back-up it should help.’
Harriet worried at her lower lip with her teeth, her eyes troubled. Boyce was the apple of his mother’s eye, and the older woman was a different person with him. How could he understand that she was afraid of damaging her relationship with Eva beyond repair?
Boyce patted her hand. ‘Trust me,’ he urged with confidence. ‘I know Mum—and I know what I’m talking about.’
That evening, Harriet worked late at the yard. It was one of the groom’s days off and there was a lot for her to do. Boyce had offered to help but she had turned him down, for he had never been keen on manual labour. When she had finished feeding the horses she went into the office to make a start on the monthly bills. Peanut was unusually restive, snuffling at the door and scratching at the stone floor. Samson barked a couple of times and trotted about. Had she not been so busy their fussing would have driven her mad. It was only when she heard a door slam in the yard that she went out to investigate.
She was surprised to see Rafael, striding into the feed store on the other side of the cobbled yard, in apparent search of her. ‘Rafael?’ she called.
Tall and commanding, he swung round in a fluid athletic arc, his lean, bronzed face grim, brilliant golden eyes zeroing in on her. ‘The gate on the lower field was left open. Your horses are out!’
Harriet lost colour, but sprang straight into action. ‘I’ll call Fergal…we’ll need his help!’
; ‘Ask him to check the road first. I’ll rouse Davis if he’s at home.’
She raised Fergal on his mobile phone. He swore he’d be over in five minutes flat.
‘I don’t understand how this could have happened!’ she gasped.
‘Carelessness,’ Rafael spelt out with ringing derision.
‘Not mine. I check the gates every day—’
‘How many horses were down there?’ he incised, as Davis came clattering down the stairs from his apartment.
‘Six…’
‘An old mare is grazing by the gate. I cornered a grey gelding in the orchard and he’s safe. That’s two accounted for. You watch this end of the lane. Davis, come with me…we’ll drive over the estate and try to locate the rest.’ His dark drawl was cool, clipped and horribly impersonal.
‘I’m not careless,’ Harriet repeated tautly. ‘I swear I checked—’
‘I had to swerve off the lane when the grey ran out in front of the Range Rover. I have very fast reactions. Someone else might have been killed.’
‘I’m sorry…really sorry,’ she muttered wretchedly.
Rafael rested brooding dark-as-midnight eyes on her. In her shabby jodhpurs and sweatshirt, with her copper hair caught up in a schoolgirl’s ponytail and her deep blue eyes shadowed with exhaustion, she scored nil in the grooming and vanity stakes. Yet the natural appeal of her delicate bone structure and fine porcelain skin was only enhanced by that edge of fragility. He did not want to think about which particular activities had deprived her of sleep to that extent. Without another word, he got into the four-wheel-drive.
Harriet used the pick-up as a barrier to block the lane. Six horses on the loose. By any standards that was a disaster. How had the gate come open? Had a rambler been responsible? But walkers were usually careful with livestock and gates, and few would choose to enter a field full of horses. The yard would be liable if any of the runaways sustained an injury, but accidents did happen and she was fully insured. But what would it do to the business if word of this escapade got out?