“It’s like a fairy tale…”
Castor Rafferty, London’s notorious vice-CEO of glamorous Rafferty’s Stores, might have a reputation to uphold, but he’s determined to protect his independence. He needs a convenient girlfriend, but his reluctant Cinderella—gorgeous single mom Clara Castleton—doesn’t seem to be falling for his charms!
Clara isn’t looking for Prince Charming—only for a life where she’s in control. But there’s something about Raff that makes her want to open her heart…and to believe in a happy ending after all!
She was paralyzed by the heat in his eyes, warming her through from head to toe, settling in the pit of her stomach, awakening a sweet, insistent ache she hadn’t felt for so long.
The naked desire in his face provoked pride, need, want.
And she wanted him, too.
She’d wanted him since the moment he had sauntered into her office, arrogant and demanding, making her think and making her do and making her feel. Not just because he looked so good, was so tall and so broad and so solid, and not just because he had eyes that caressed and a mouth that made her knees tremble, but because he was a man who cared, hide it as he might.
But he was a man who was leaving. A man with itchy feet who lived his life on the edge of civilization, risking his life every day.
Right now it was hard to remember why that was a problem.
Dear Reader,
I love fairy tales—and I especially love it when they are given a twist: when the characters choose their own way rather than following the path laid out for them by their fairy godmothers.
Clara might spend her whole life working, but that’s absolutely fine by her. Balls? Dresses? Glass slippers? Not for this reluctant Cinderella! Give her a mop, a duster and a spreadsheet any day—because if she buries herself in work, she won’t have time to notice how lonely she is. Until Castor “Raff” Rafferty comes through her door and shows her just what she’s been missing.
Tall, handsome, heir to a fortune… Raff leads a life that seems charmed, but it’s a gilded cage. His future is all planned out: settling down, heading up the family business, giving up the dangerous but meaningful work he loves so much. Clara could provide him with some much-needed time to plan his escape—if he could just persuade her to put down her broom and let him whisk her away to the ball….
When I first started thinking about Raff and Clara’s story, I spent a lot of time on the Médecins Sans Frontières website, reading the blogs written by staff in the field. The charity Raff works for is imaginary, but it is inspired by the amazing doctors, nurses and project managers who volunteer their time to work in some of the most dangerous and deprived places on earth providing much-needed health care. You can check out their stories for yourself at www.msf.org.uk.
Love,
Jessica x
HIS RELUCTANT CINDERELLA
Jessica Gilmore
After learning to read aged just two, Jessica Gilmore spent every childhood party hiding in bedrooms in case the birthday girl had a book or two she hadn’t read yet. Discovering Harlequin® books on a family holiday, Jessica realized that romance writing was her true vocation and proceeded to spend her math lessons practicing her art, creating Dynasty-inspired series starring herself and Morten Harket’s cheekbones. Writing for Harlequin® really is a dream come true!
A former au pair, bookseller, marketing manager and Scarborough seafront trader selling rock from under a sign that said Cheapest on the Front, Jessica now works as a membership manager for a regional environmental charity. Sadly, she spends most of her time chained to her desk wrestling with databases, but likes to sneak out to one of their beautiful reserves whenever she gets a chance. Married to an extremely patient man, Jessica lives in the beautiful and historic city of York with one daughter, one very fluffy dog, two dog-loathing cats and a goldfish named Bob.
On the rare occasions when she is not writing, working, taking her daughter to activities or Tweeting, Jessica likes to plan holidays—and uses her favorite locations in her books. She writes deeply emotional romance with a hint of humor, a splash of sunshine and usually a great deal of delicious food—and equally delicious heroes.
Recent books by Jessica Gilmore:
SUMMER WITH THE MILLIONAIRE
THE RETURN OF MRS. JONES
This and other titles by Jessica Gilmore are also available in ebook format from www.Harlequin.com.
For my parents
To Mum, thank you for weekly trips to the library, for never telling me to “put that book down,” for the gift of words and stories and dreams.
And to Dad for proving that families are more than genes, that blood isn’t thicker than water, that nurture totally trumps nature—and for being the best grandpa in the world.
I love you both x
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
EXCERPT
CHAPTER ONE
‘IF YOU TELL ME where my sister is, I’ll give you ten thousand pounds.’
The down-turned head in front of him lifted slowly and Raff found himself coolly assessed by a pair of the greenest eyes he had ever seen, their slight upward tilt irresistibly feline, the effect heightened by high, slanting cheekbones and a pointed chin.
If this lady had a tail, it would definitely be swishing slowly. A warning sign.
He’d never been that good at heeding warnings. He liked to see them more as a challenge.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice was as cold as her stare. Maybe he should have tried charm before hard cash, but somehow Raff doubted that even his patented charm would work on this cool cat.
Her dismissal should have annoyed him, he was used to people snapping to attention when he needed them, but he had to admit he was intrigued. He smiled, slow and warm. ‘Clara Castleton?’
There was no answering upturn of her full mouth as she nodded at the name tag, displayed neatly on the modern oak desk. ‘As you can see. But I don’t believe you introduced yourself?’
‘I don’t believe I did.’ Raff hooked the wooden chair out from opposite her desk and slid into it. He knew his six-foot-two frame could be intimidating, used it to his advantage sometimes, but for some reason, standing before her incredibly neat desk, he was irresistibly reminded of being summoned to the headmaster’s office.
Although that was where any resemblance to his long-suffering former headmaster ended despite her severely cut suit—her strawberry-blonde hair might be ruthlessly scraped back but it looked as if it was all there and she lacked the terrifying bushy eyebrows. Hers were rather neat lines, adding a flourish to what really was a remarkably pretty face, although the hair, the discreet make-up and the suit were all designed to hide the fact. Interesting. Raff filed that fact away for future use. He sensed he was going to need all the weapons he could get.
He leant back in his chair, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Castor Rafferty, but you can call me Raff. I believe you know my sister.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes flickered away from his searching expression. ‘I was expecting you a couple of days ago.’
‘I’ve been busy dropping everything and rushing back to England. So, are you going to tell me
where Polly is?’
Clara Castleton shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t tell you if I knew,’ she said. ‘But I don’t.’
Raff narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe her, didn’t want to believe her. Because if she was telling the truth he was at an utter dead end. ‘Come now, Clara. I can call you Clara, can’t I? This short and simple email...’ he held up his phone with the email displayed. Not that he needed to be reminded what it said; he knew it off by heart ‘...tells me quite clearly that in an emergency my sister can be contacted via Clara of Castleton’s Concierge Consultancy. Nice alliteration by the way.’
She took the phone and read the message, those intriguing eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Sorry, I have an email address, nothing more.’
‘I’ve tried emailing a couple of times.’ Try ten. Or twenty. ‘Maybe she’ll read it if it comes from you,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘My original offer still stands.’
‘Keep your money, Mr Rafferty.’ Her voice was positively icy now. Raff was already finding the anaemic English spring chilly; her tone brought the temperature down another few degrees. ‘Your sister has taken care of my fees. She asked me to help settle you in, to continue to make sure the house is cared for. This I can do, it’s what I do. But unless there is a real emergency I won’t be sending any emails.’
It was a clear dismissal—and it rankled, far more than it should do. Time for a change of tactic; he needed to get this right so Polly would be back where she belonged, managing Rafferty’s, the iconic department store founded by their great-grandfather.
And he would be back in the field where he belonged. He’d barely had a chance to unpack, to assess what was needed, how to play his own small yet vital part in stopping the humanitarian crisis unfolding before him from becoming a full-blown disaster, when he’d received Polly’s email ordering him home.
Typical of his family, to think their petty affairs were worth more than thousands of lives. And yet here he was.
Raff looked around the neat, organised room for inspiration. Such a contrast from his last office: a tent on the outskirts of the camp. Even the office before that, situated in an actual building, had been a small room, almost a cupboard, piled high with crates, paperwork and supplies. He couldn’t imagine having all this space to himself.
Occupying the corner at the end of the quaint high street, Clara’s office took up the entire ground floor of a former terraced shop, the original lead-paned bow windows now veiled with blinds, the iron sign holder above the front door empty, replaced by a neat plaque set in the wall.
Outside looked like a still from a film set in Ye Olde England but the inside was a sharp modern contrast. The large room was painted white with only bright-framed photographs to alleviate the starkness, although through the French doors at the back Raff could see a paved courtyard filled with flowering tubs and a small iron table and chairs, a lone hint of homeliness.
Clara’s very large and very tidy desk was near the back by the far wall, facing out across the room. Two inviting sofas clustered by the front window surrounding a coffee table heaped with glossy lifestyle magazines. The whole room was discreet, tasteful and gave him no clue whatsoever to its owner’s personality.
Maybe it was time to try the charm after all.
Raff leaned forward confidingly. ‘I’m worried about Polly,’ he said. ‘It’s so out of character for her to disappear like this. What if she’s ill? I just want to know that she’s all right.’ He allowed a hint of a rueful smile to appear.
The look on Clara’s face oozed disapproval. Yep, she was still giving out the whole ‘disappointed headmaster’ vibe. ‘Mr Rafferty, you and I both know that your sister hasn’t just disappeared. She’s gone on holiday after making sure that both her job and home are taken care of. There really is no mystery.
‘It may be a little out of character.’ Was that doubt creeping into her voice? ‘I haven’t known her to take even a long weekend before—but that’s probably exactly why she needs this break. Besides, isn’t it your company too?’
Unfortunately. ‘Just what has my sister said to you?’
A faint flush crept over the high cheekbones. ‘I don’t understand.’
Oh, she understood all right.
‘She didn’t use the words irresponsible or lazy?’ Polly’s email might have been short but it had been to the point. Her point of view. As always, they differed on that.
The flush deepened. Not so cool after all. The colour gave her warmth, emphasising the curve of her cheek, the lushly dark lashes veiling those incredible eyes. An unexpected jolt of pure attraction shot through him. Before she had been like a marble statue, nice to look at but offputtingly chilly. This hint of vulnerability gave her dimensions. Unwanted, unneeded dimensions. He wasn’t here to flirt. With any luck he’d hardly be here at all.
‘Our communication was purely business,’ but she couldn’t meet his eye. ‘Now, I do happen to have a half-hour free right now. Is this a convenient time for me to show you the house?’
No, Raff wanted to snap. No, actually it wasn’t convenient. None of this was. Not Polly’s most uncharacteristic disappearance, nor her SOS ordering him home right now. She couldn’t expect him to drop everything and step in so she could go on some extended holiday.
Even though he hadn’t been home in over four years. He pushed the thought away. He wasn’t needed here, not as he was out in the field. Besides, his absence had given Polly the opportunity she had wanted; the two circumstances were entirely different.
Which made this whole disappearing act even odder. If he allowed himself to stop feeling irritated he might start getting worried.
‘Mr Rafferty?’
‘Raff,’ he corrected her. ‘Mr Rafferty makes me think I’m back at school.’
Or even worse back in the boardroom, sitting round a ridiculously large table listening to never-ending presentations and impenetrable jargon, itching to get up, stop talking and do.
‘Raff,’ she said after a reluctant pause. He liked the sound of his name on her tongue. Crisp and cool like a smooth lager on a hot summer’s day. ‘Is now a convenient time?’
Not really but Polly had backed him into a hole and until he had a chance to work out what had happened he didn’t have much choice.
He was still joint Vice CEO of Rafferty’s, after all. Someone had to take over the reins, stop Grandfather working himself into an early grave; in Polly’s absence that person had to be him.
She had planned it well. The contrary streak in Raff wanted to ensure she didn’t get her way. To walk away from her home, her company. Show her he couldn’t be manipulated.
But of course he couldn’t. Despite everything Polly was his twin—and pulling a stunt like this was completely out of character. Polly didn’t just quit; she was the hardest worker he knew. The sooner he found out what had happened and fixed it, the sooner they could both return to their lives.
And he was sure that the woman in front of him could help him, if he could just find a way to make her crack, like a ripe and rather inviting nut.
‘Okay, then, Clara Castleton,’ he said. ‘Lead the way.’
* * *
‘Is there something wrong?’
Clara knew she sounded cold. Raff Rafferty might have turned on the charm but she preferred to keep a professional distance, especially when her new client owned an easy smile and a devilish glint in blue, blue eyes.
And a disconcerting way of looking at her as if he could see straight through her barriers, as if the suit didn’t fool him at all. Her skin fizzed with awareness of his intense gaze—or with irritation at his high-handed ways.
Either way he was dangerous. The sooner she settled him in and got out, the better.
The tall blond man wasn’t actually her client but his sister had made sure Clara was fully briefed. The Golden Boy, apple of hi
s grandfather’s eye. Clara knew men like Raff Rafferty all too well. It wasn’t a type she admired at all. Not any more.
Look at him now, leaning against her van, a smirk playing on those finely sculpted lips.
‘This yours?’
Clara held up the keys. ‘Why?’
His eyes swept assessingly over the large, practical van, her logo and contact details tastefully picked out on the side. ‘I imagined you driving something a little more elegant.’
Clara took a breath, an unexpected flutter in her stomach at the idea of something elegant, that she was featuring in his imagination at all. She pushed the thought resolutely away.
‘Save your imaginings,’ she said. ‘The van is practical.’
‘It’s practical all right.’
His lips were pressed together; Clara had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her. ‘I’m sure it’s not your usual style,’ she said as evenly as she could. ‘If you’d rather walk I can meet you there.’
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m not fussy.’
‘Great.’ She was sure that her attempted smile looked more like a grimace. She should make him sit in the back amongst the cleaning supplies and tools. See how fussy he was then.
At least, Clara reflected as she pulled the van out into the narrow main road that ran through the town, he hadn’t offered to drive. Some men found it hard to be driven by a woman, especially in a large van like this. Raff was the very definition of relaxed, leaning back in his seat, lean jean-clad legs outstretched.
Practical it might be, but the large van always felt out of place on Hopeford’s narrow windy streets. It took all Clara’s skills and concentration to negotiate the small roads. The overhanging houses and cobbled pavements might be picturesque enough to pull in tourists and Londoners looking for a lengthy if direct commute, but they were completely ill suited for work vans.
And it was easier to concentrate on the driving than it was trying to make conversation with someone who seemed to suck all the air out of the van. It had always felt so spacious before.
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