Fairchild? ‘You’re Miranda’s sister?’ Rafe asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. It was hard to imagine two women more different from each other, one all lush, blonde beauty and the other prim and prickly and if not exactly plain, certainly nowhere near as lovely as her sister. Still, that explained why there was something familiar about her.

Octavia’s green eyes flickered slightly. She wasn’t used to being described as Miranda’s sister. It was usually the other way round.

She kept her smile dazzling, though, and nodded. ‘I know I shouldn’t be here,’ she confided, with a devastating glance up under her lashes, ‘but I wanted to see how Miranda was getting on.’

‘And discovered that I’m very busy,’ Miranda finished crisply for her with a meaningful look that Octavia ignored entirely. ‘Octavia’s just leaving.’

‘Don’t let me chase you away,’ said Rafe instantly. ‘I just came to have a word with Simon.’

‘He’s in his office if you want to go in,’ said Miranda, wishing he and Octavia would both go away, but before he could move the inner door opened and Simon himself came out.

‘Miranda, could you—?’ he began, then stopped as he saw Rafe. ‘I didn’t know you were here, Rafe,’ he apologised. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

‘Not at all. I’ve just been meeting Miranda’s sister here,’ said Rafe easily, indicating Octavia.

To Miranda’s surprise, Simon’s expression was disapproving as it rested on her sister. He nodded a curt greeting and turned immediately back to Rafe. ‘Come in,’ he said, and gestured towards his office. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Well!’ Octavia was distinctly put out. ‘He’s not very friendly, is he?’

‘Actually, he’s very nice,’ said Miranda.

‘You can keep him.’ Octavia tossed back her hair with a sniff. ‘I’d rather have Rafe any day. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

‘And no one knows it more than him,’ Miranda pointed out.

‘I think he liked me, don’t you?’

Miranda didn’t bother to answer that. Of course Rafe had liked Octavia. Men—with the apparent exception of Simon—always did.

She turned back to her computer. ‘Octavia, I’ve got to get on.’

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Octavia, getting gracefully to her feet. ‘I don’t want to look too keen. But if Rafe asks for my phone number, be sure and give it to him.’

Waggling her fingers in farewell, she strolled off, leaving Miranda alone with the scent of her perfume drifting in the air.

With a sigh, Miranda went back to her email.

It was nearly half an hour before Rafe emerged from Simon’s office. Miranda was alert to the sound of the opening door, and this time she was braced against the good looks and the dark-eyed charm. Less easy to ignore was the way his presence sent a charge zapping and crackling through the air and interfering with her breathing no matter how desperately she kept her eyes firmly fixed on her computer screen and pretended to be absorbed.

‘Have you got a moment, Miranda?’ said Simon, and, because it was him, she looked up. ‘Rafe has a proposal for you.’

Miranda looked wary. ‘What sort of proposal?’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not going down on one knee,’ said Rafe, with one of those smiles calculated to set a female pulse racing. Miranda kept hers below a gallop, but it was an effort. ‘This proposal’s to do with work, but I think it will be fun too.’

‘Fun?’

Just as he’d thought, she sounded as if she didn’t know what the word meant.

‘I want you to work with me on a special assignment,’ he told her. ‘Organising a ball, in fact.’

Most girls would have been thrilled at the idea. Rafe was pretty sure her beautiful sister would have been, but Miranda just looked at Simon.

He beamed back at her, oblivious to her dismay. ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fantastic at it. I’ve just been telling Rafe how impressed we’ve all been by you.’

‘But…won’t you need me here?’ she asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.

‘Ellen will be back on Monday,’ Simon pointed out. ‘We’ll miss you, of course, but it’s great to know that you’ll still be around for a while. We’ll clear it with your agency, of course, but I’m sure they’ll be delighted to let you stay when they hear what a prestigious assignment it is.’

Miranda was sure they would be too. Her heart sank, and she glanced at Rafe, who was watching her with evident amusement, as if he knew exactly how reluctant she was to take the job.

It wasn’t the job that made her uneasy, it was him. He was too disturbing, too overwhelming. It was impossible to concentrate when he was around, making the atmosphere zing just by standing there, letting the corner of his mouth curl in a way that made it hard to breathe properly. She would never get any work done.

And even if she did manage to deal with those distractions, she would never be able to keep Octavia away once she found out what she was doing. Miranda had no intention of encouraging Octavia’s dreams of becoming Mrs Knighton. There was no way coming up smack against a man as superficial and self-absorbed as herself would make her lovely sister happy. She needed to be cherished for her beauty and charm, not broken on the wheel of Rafe’s ‘fun’ lifestyle.

But what could she say? She could hardly say that she didn’t like him, or thought that the whole idea of a ball was typically frivolous and silly. A ball, in the twenty-first century! Honestly!

She lifted her chin. ‘How long would this assignment last?’

‘That depends on when the ball is,’ said Rafe cheerfully. ‘Your first task will be to set a date. But let’s say a couple of months.’

‘You’ll never find a venue in that time.’ Miranda seized on the excuse. ‘Anywhere big enough to a hold a ball will be booked up years in advance.’

‘I’ve got an idea about that,’ said Rafe, looking directly into her eyes. ‘But before we talk about details, I need to know if you’re available, and if you’re willing to do the job.’

All she had to do was say that she had other commitments. She didn’t have to do any job if she didn’t want to.

But she needed the money, and there was no guarantee the agency would be able to find her another placement next week. Especially if she had turned down a plum assignment for no reason other than feeling unsettled by her prospective boss.

Don’t be so silly, Miranda told herself sternly. The hard truth was that she needed the money, and two months of regular income would make a big difference. If she carried on working in the evenings as well, she could even start to save.

She thought about Whitestones and how much it was going to take to make the house habitable. Then she thought about the sea and the smell of the air and how happy she always felt there. It would be worth putting up with Rafe Knighton for that, wouldn’t it?

And perhaps she wouldn’t have to have that much to do with him after all, she encouraged herself. A man like him wasn’t likely to involve himself in boring practicalities. She might never see him.

Taking a deep breath, Miranda looked steadily back into Rafe’s eyes. ‘I’m available,’ she said, ‘and I’m willing.’

* * *

On Monday morning, Miranda presented herself in the chief executive’s office at nine o’clock on the dot. She was wearing a grey suit with a neat white blouse, and sensible black court shoes. She looked, she felt, cool and professional, and that was what she was determined to be.

Miranda had had the weekend to think about it, and she had decided that she had been overreacting to Rafe Knighton’s unsettling presence. She had nearly refused this job because of him. How stupid would that have been?

It was humiliating to think that she had been rattled by glinting eyes and a wicked smile. Miranda squirmed whenever she remembered the way her pulse had jumped and jittered. She ought to be immune to his particular brand of good looks and charm, after all.

And she was, Miranda resolved. She was lucky to have a job at all, let alone the prospect of an interesting one. She was good at organising. A ball was a project like any other, and she was fairly sure Rafe Knighton would lose interest as soon as they got down to the tedious details. He would drift off to another idea, and she would be able to get on with the job.

It would be fine.

Rafe’s PA, an elegant woman called Ginny, was clearly expecting her and made her welcome. She had even cleared a desk for her, but before Miranda had a chance to pump her about exactly what she was expected to do Rafe himself breezed into the office.

It was extraordinary the way everything snapped into focus when he was in the room, Miranda thought, conscious of a hitch in her breathing in spite of all her sternest resolutions not to notice him at all. She hadn’t even been aware of how muted things had seemed until he appeared.

In place of his usual immaculate suit, he wore black jeans and an open-necked pink shirt, its sleeves rolled casually above broad, strong wrists. The colour should have made him look effeminate, but instead only emphasised the virile masculinity he managed to exude just standing there, and Miranda made herself look away while she concentrated on breathing steadily. Cool and professional, right?

Right.

Rafe was kissing Ginny on the cheek and teasing her about her weekend. His charm was relentless, Miranda thought, glad to be back in critical mode, encompassing everyone and everything in his path. She imagined it steamrollering over man, woman, child or dog, regardless of whether they wanted to be charmed or not. Was she the only one able to resist it?

Her father had been exactly the same. When he’d died, Miranda had lost count of the people who had told her that he was the most charming person they had ever met, but she had often wondered whether that expansive charm hid a desperate need for approval. It had always seemed to her that her father didn’t exist properly unless he had someone to amuse or impress or flatter with his attention.

Rafe Knighton came from the same mould, Miranda suspected, and she would do well not to forget it.

‘I’m glad to see you, Miranda,’ said Rafe, turning his attention to her at last. ‘And bang on time, too. I hope this means you’re keen to get going on the ball?’ His voice was warm with laughter and his eyes danced distractingly as they studied her, standing neat and composed by the desk.

What was so funny? Miranda thought crossly even as she reminded herself not to let him rile her. Lifting her chin, she returned his gaze levelly.

‘It means I believe punctuality is important,’ she said.

‘What about at the end of the day? Are you one of those clock-watchers who’ll drop everything and walk out at five-thirty, regardless of what needs to be done?’

Privately, Miranda thought Rafe Knighton was a fine one to talk about clock-watching when he had barely done a stroke of work in his life. Easy to sneer at people who were paid by the hour when you could drift around amusing yourself all day.

‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘If anything needs to be dealt with urgently, then of course I will stay—and include any extra hours on my timesheet,’ she added, just in case he expected her to work for free.

‘Excellent,’ said Rafe. ‘In that case, let’s go.’

‘Go?’ Miranda stared at him. ‘Go where?’

‘I want you to see the ballroom I’ve got in mind and tell me what you think. You can’t start organising the ball until you know where it’s going to be.’

‘Rafe, you can’t drag the poor girl off before she’s even had a chance to sit down!’ Ginny protested.

‘Poor girl? Poor girl?’ Rafe shook his head. ‘Don’t let that demure look fool you, Ginny. Miranda isn’t a poor girl. The entire communications department was terrified of her efficiency, and I’ve seen her beat their photocopier into submission with my own eyes! I won’t tell you how she did it or what kind of language she used. You would be shocked!’

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miranda’s mouth twitch and, although she quickly suppressed her smile, he was conscious of a spurt of triumph at having got through to her at last. It was a relief to see that glimpse of humour, too. Perhaps he hadn’t made such a colossal mistake after all.

He had been dismayed when he’d first walked in that morning to see her looking prim and proper in that dull suit and far more colourless than he had remembered. This ball was important, and if it was going to be a success it would have to be run by someone who had some sense of humour as well as excellent organisational abilities.

Rafe had liked Miranda’s astringency when he had met her the week before, and that combined with the glowing references Simon had given her had made her seem like the perfect candidate. This morning, though, he had begun to wonder if the sharp Miranda he remembered had been a mere figment of his imagination. Now, seeing the curl at the corner of her mouth, he was reassured. She might not want to let on that she was amused by his nonsense, but Rafe knew better.

‘At least have a cup of coffee first,’ Ginny was urging, but now that he was sure Miranda was the girl he had remembered he was impatient to be off.

‘You don’t want coffee, do you, Miranda? I bet you don’t even touch the stuff.’

‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘I depend on coffee to get me through the morning.’

Her eyes met his blandly, and meeting that clear green gaze, Rafe felt his pulse kick unexpectedly.

‘We’ll stop on the way,’ he promised, turning back to Ginny. ‘There’s nothing that won’t keep until tomorrow, is there?’

‘Tomorrow?’ Miranda repeated as she followed him out of the office. ‘How long are we going to be?’

‘We’ll be away most of the day,’ said Rafe casually. Pushing the button to call the express lift, he caught her look of dismay. ‘Why, do you have to be back for a certain time?’

‘Well, no…’ she admitted. She had worked every evening over the weekend and was looking forward to a night in.

‘Good. I hate having to be somewhere at a set time, don’t you?’

‘No,’ said Miranda as the lift doors slid open and they stepped inside. ‘I prefer to have a plan.’

Rafe glanced at her. As before, her hair was pulled tightly back from her face. A practical style, maybe, but not a flattering one, even if it did expose the pure line of her jaw and the chin tilted at what he suspected was a characteristically determined angle.

Her lips were pressed together in a tight line and she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the lights above the door. In that suit she looked neat and tense and far too controlled for comfort.

‘Don’t you ever feel like being spontaneous?’ he asked.

The lift sighed to a halt on the ground floor and the doors opened once more. ‘I grew up in a family of spontaneous people,’ said Miranda. ‘In my experience, nothing ever happens unless you plan it.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of organisation,’ Rafe agreed, holding open the door for her, ‘but if you plan too much it takes away all the fun. Take today,’ he went on as they stepped out into the spring sunshine. He gestured around. ‘It’s a beautiful day. If we had planned meetings we’d end up sitting in an office all day. As it is, we can do whatever we like with it.’

‘You may be able to, but I can’t afford to do that,’ she pointed out crisply. ‘I’m being paid to do whatever you want to do. If not, I wouldn’t be here.’

‘Where would you be? If you could do whatever you liked today?’

That was easy. Miranda thought of Whitestones on a day like today. The house would be full of sunshine, and at the bottom of the cliff the sea would be a-glitter in the bright light. ‘I’d be at the seaside,’ she said.

CHAPTER THREE

A GLEAMING convertible sports car was waiting at the bottom of the steps, engine idling, its soft top invitingly open. The moment Rafe appeared, the driver got out and handed him the keys before opening the passenger door for Miranda.

As she got in with a murmur of thanks Miranda thought about her trip to work that morning. She had had to walk to the Tube, then wait for a train. Engineering works had caused delays all along the line, and by the time she had eventually managed to squeeze onto a train she had had to spend the entire journey pressed up against all the other blank-faced, Monday-morning commuters.

Now, barely an hour later, transport had been brought to the door so that all she had to do was sink into the soft leather seat. The contrast was dis-orientating.

Rafe had finished exchanging racing tips with the driver and got in beside her. He smiled at her as he pulled on his seat belt and started the car.

‘Which sea?’

Miranda blinked. ‘Sorry?’

‘You said that if you had a choice you’d be at the seaside. I wondered which coast you were thinking of.’

‘Oh. The south coast,’ she told him, watching as he pulled expertly out into the traffic. ‘In Dorset.’

Her eyes took on a faraway expression as she pictured Whitestones. ‘There’s a house on a cliff, and steps that lead down to a shingle beach.’ She sighed a little, remembering. ‘I love it there.’

‘Then we’ll go.’

There was a strange note to Rafe’s voice, and Miranda turned to stare at him. ‘I thought we were going to look at a ballroom?’

‘We are. We’re going to have lunch with my grandmother who lives in Hampshire, but after that we’ll drive on and find your beach.’ He slanted her one of his smiles. ‘There you are, we’ve got a plan after all.’

‘You’re not serious!’

‘Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious,’ said Rafe, but the navy blue eyes glinted in a very unserious way.

‘We’re going to Hampshire? For lunch?’

‘And to see a ballroom. Don’t forget this is work,’ he said with mock reproof.

‘But…does your grandmother have a ballroom?’ This was turning into such a strange Monday morning that Miranda was beginning to find it all surreal.

‘Indeed she does,’ said Rafe cheerfully. ‘Knighton Park is a monstrosity built by my great-great grandfather when he made his fortune. He was a typical bad boy made good, and once he’d made some money he was determined to flaunt it. He built a pile that everyone else must have thought was impossibly vulgar, with every mod con of the time…including a ballroom that’s hardly been used since. My grandmother has lived there since she was married.’

‘I thought the ball would be in London,’ said Miranda, frowning slightly.

‘That would be ideal, but, as you pointed out, we’re unlikely to find anywhere if we don’t want to wait until next year now…and I don’t.’

No, Rafe would never want to wait for anything. He was a typical trust fund baby, expecting that he could have whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, thought Miranda, conveniently forgetting that she had grown up in a family that acted on very similar assumptions.

‘What’s the big hurry?’

The traffic lights chose that moment to turn red, and Rafe pulled up with a little sigh of frustration. Yanking on the handbrake with unnecessary force, he turned to look at Miranda, sitting straight-backed beside him. ‘Don’t you ever wake up with an idea and want to make it happen straight away?’

‘If it’s a good idea, it’s worth taking the time to make sure it happens right,’ she said, thinking of Whitestones. ‘We can’t always snap our fingers and have exactly what we want immediately,’ she added reprovingly.

‘No, but if we don’t at least try to make it happen, we may never have what we want,’ Rafe pointed out. He might have known she wouldn’t understand. Look at her, buttoned up so tightly it was surprising she could breathe! She didn’t look as if she had ever done anything spontaneous in her life. On the other hand, the seaside had been an interesting choice. He’d have expected her to opt for something dull, like a library or a museum.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said, his eyes on the lights and his foot on the clutch, ready for the off. ‘Maybe it would be best to leave it for another year, but if there’s any chance of arranging something for this summer, I want to make it happen.

‘See what you think about the ballroom at Knighton Park,’ he went on, enjoying the sense of leashed power as the engine revved. ‘It’s not that far from London. It might work. If you don’t think it will, OK. We can look around for a venue for next year, at which point you’ll have organised your way out of a job, but in the meantime we may as well make the most of a day out, don’t you think? You’re getting paid for it, after all.’

Miranda felt the pressure against the small of her back as the lights changed to green and the car accelerated away. They were heading down Park Lane. On their right, Hyde Park looked bright and inviting, with the trees decked out in fresh green. It had been a long, grey winter and an even greyer spring, and now London was unfurling in the sunshine.

This was not the Monday morning she had expected, cocooned in the comfort of a luxurious car, driving out of town for lunch in the country and, as Rafe pointed out, getting paid for it. She didn’t often get a day off, so she might as well make the most of it, just as he’d suggested. Settling back into the leather, Miranda tipped her face to the sunshine, closed her eyes and smiled.

Rafe nearly went off the road. He had been aware of that rigidly prim pose slowly relaxing, and, glancing sideways, was struck afresh by the beautiful skin and the fine brows, by the clean lines of her face and throat. Last week, her hair had seemed dull and brown and straight, but the sunlight turned it to myriad shades of gold and honey, and made him wonder what it would be like if she let it fall around her face, whether it would feel as smooth and silky as it looked if he tangled his fingers in it.

And then she had smiled. She wasn’t even smiling at him. It was just a smile of sheer pleasure in the moment, but Rafe was startled. It was as if he had lifted a curtain, expecting to see a plain, ordinary girl behind it, and instead found himself staring at a lush, sensuous woman.

Had her mouth always been that wide? That sensual? Had it always curled in that tantalising way?

Thrown, Rafe gripped the steering wheel and concentrated fiercely on the traffic. Who would have thought that prim Miranda Fairchild would have a smile like that? And if that was how she smiled at the feel of sunshine on her face, how would she smile if she were happy? In love?

In bed?

Rafe dragged his mind away from the image with difficulty. He was more shaken than he wanted to admit by that brief glimpse of a different side to Miranda Fairchild. He wished he hadn’t seen that smile. He didn’t want her to be attractive and distracting. Although he hadn’t put it into words, he had decided that she would be ideal for this job precisely because he had thought she was neither. She was supposed to be intelligent and practical and unassuming, and nothing else. She wasn’t supposed to smile.

Not like that anyway.

‘Dreaming you’re back at the photocopier?’ he asked, keeping his voice determinedly light.

To his relief, Miranda laughed and opened her eyes. ‘No, I’m not missing that copier at all.’ Straightening, she looked around her. ‘It’s not a bad way to spend a Monday morning, I suppose! This reminds me of when my father used to drive me down to see my godmother in Dorset. He had an open-topped sports car, too.’

How long was it since she had thought about that? Miranda wondered a little guiltily. She ought to remember the good times with her father more often. Much better to remember him when he was the golden, carefree father she had idolised, than to think about the foolish vanity and obstinacy that had brought the entire family to ruin.

She pushed the dark thoughts determinedly aside. ‘It’s hard to believe I’m at work,’ she said brightly. ‘It feels like being on holiday!’

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