Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage

‘She has a picture of you in her room and I tell her lots of stories about you and about Sydney. She helps me put the photos together every Christmas, chooses the pictures she wants to send you. She would love to meet you.’

‘Clara, I...’ Was that pity in his eyes or shame? Either way it wasn’t what she wanted to see.

‘It’s just, while you’re here...’

‘I’m getting married.’

Clara stared at Byron blankly. This was why they wanted to see her? Did they think she’d be upset after ten years of silence and neglect, that she was so pathetic she still harboured hopes that they would be a family?

The ego of him.

Raff moved his arm so that his hand lay over hers, lacing his fingers through her fingers, a tacit show of support. She should be annoyed at this overt display of ownership but relief tingled through her instead. ‘That’s great,’ she said, injecting as much sincerity into her voice as she could. ‘Congratulations, I hope you’ll be very happy.’

‘He’s marrying Julia Greenwood.’

Archibald Drewe obviously expected this to mean something.

‘Great!’

‘She’s heiress to a media empire,’ he told her, his voice oozing contempt for her obvious ignorance. ‘This is a brilliant match for Byron, and for our business.’

Much better than a penniless English teenager. She’d known she was never good enough for Byron’s family. Once it would have hurt that he had allowed them to influence their future. Now she simply didn’t care.

As long as it didn’t affect her daughter.

‘We want you to sign this.’ Archibald Drewe slid a sheaf of papers over the table. Aha, this was the real reason for the meeting. Business, the family way.

‘What is it?’ Clara made no move to take it.

‘Byron is about to join together two great businesses, and any children he and Julia will have...’ the emphasis here was intentional ‘...will inherit a very influential business indeed. We don’t want anything from Byron’s past to jeopardise his future.’

Anything? They meant anyone.

Beside her Raff was rigid, his hand heavy on hers, fingers digging in, almost painfully.

‘And what does this have to do with me?’

‘I want to make it quite clear...’ Archibald Drewe leant forward; obviously the kid gloves were off ‘...that your daughter has no claim on me, my son or our business. No claim at all. However...’ his smile was as insincere as his eyes were hard ‘...we are not unfeeling. It’s not the girl’s fault her beginnings were so unorthodox.’

Raff’s arm twitched under hers, the only sign he was alive. Otherwise he was completely still. She couldn’t look at him, afraid of what might be in his face. She didn’t need his anger and she really couldn’t handle pity right now.

The room seemed to have got very cold. She knew how Archibald Drewe felt about her; he had made it completely clear ten years ago. She hadn’t expected time to soften him; only money and influence could do that.

But, fool that she was, she hadn’t expected him to try and wipe his granddaughter out of the family history books.

‘We will send no more annual cheques and you will stop with the photos and emails. Julia does not know of your daughter’s existence and neither Byron or I wish her to know. If you sign this contract, however, I will give you a one-off payment of one million pounds sterling in complete settlement of your daughter’s claim.’

Raff had met people like the Drewes far too many times; with them it always came down to money. What a cold existence they must lead.

‘What does the contract say?’ Clara’s voice was completely still but she was gripping his hand as if he were the only thing anchoring her.

‘It says your daughter has no claim now or in the future on our money or any of our business interests. It also states clearly that she may make no attempts to contact Byron or any member of his family.’

‘I see.’

‘It’s a good offer, Clara.’ At least Byron didn’t try to meet her eye. Coward.

He had promised himself that he wouldn’t intercede but it was no good. How dared they treat Clara like this? ‘I’ll get my lawyer to have a look at it. Clara isn’t signing anything today.’ Raff made no attempt to keep the contempt out of his voice.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ Clara pushed the contract away and rose to her feet. ‘I won’t sign away my daughter’s right to contact her father or siblings although don’t worry, Byron, I’ll do my best to talk her out of it. I would hate for her to be humiliated the way I have been today.’

She was amazing. Calm, clear, holding her anger at bay. But it was costing her; he could hear the strain in her voice, see it in the tense way she stood. What if she hadn’t asked him to be there, had had to face these two men alone? It wasn’t that she couldn’t defend herself. She obviously could. No damsel in distress, this lady. But she shouldn’t have to.

She should never have been put into this position. They thought their money and influence gave them the right to treat people like dirt. They were everything he despised.

Raff stood up, taking Clara’s hand in his as she continued, her eyes as cold as her voice, but he could feel her hand shaking slightly as she held herself together. ‘I won’t promise not to send you yearly updates—you don’t have to open them but she is your daughter and the least you can do is acknowledge that she exists. As for the money, keep it. I work hard and I provide for her. I always have. I’ve put every cheque you sent away for her future and that’s where it stays. I don’t need anything from you, Byron, not any more, and I certainly don’t need anything from you, Mr Drewe.’

The older man’s face was choleric. ‘Now don’t be so hasty...’

‘If you change your mind, if you want to meet her, then you know where I am. Ready, Raff?’

‘Ready.’ He got to his feet and nodded at the two men. ‘I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure but I was brought up to be honest.’

* * *

It wasn’t until they got outside that Clara realised that she was shaking, every nerve jangling, every muscle trembling.

‘Come on.’ Raff’s eyes were still blazing. ‘You’ve had a shock and you need something to eat. And if I stay anywhere near here I will march back in there and tell them exactly what I think of them.’

‘They wouldn’t care.’ She wasn’t just shaking, she was cold to the bone. Clara wrapped her arms around herself trying to get some heat into her frozen limbs.

‘I’d feel better though.’ He shot her a concerned glance. ‘Come here.’ He pulled Clara into his embrace, wrapping his arms around her, pressing her close. ‘You’re like ice.’

She had tried so hard to avoid his touch since that afternoon, since she had let down her guard, but the memory of his touch was seared onto her nerve endings and her treacherous body sank thankfully against him.

‘Let’s get a taxi. We can go to Rafferty’s, get you fed.’

‘No, honestly.’ Clara wasn’t ready to face the world yet. ‘Let’s just walk. I need some air.’

‘Whatever you want.’ But he didn’t let go of her, not fully, capturing her hands in his, keeping her close as they walked. ‘I am going to insist on tea full of sugar though. I work in a medical capacity, remember? I am fully qualified to prescribe hot, sweet drinks.’

Clara knew that if she spoke, just one word, she’d start to cry. And she didn’t know if she would ever be able to stop. So she simply nodded and allowed him to continue to hold her hands as they ambled slowly through the grey streets.

‘You must think I’m a fool,’ she said finally. They had continued to wander aimlessly until they had reached Regent’s Park. Raff had bought them both hot drinks from a kiosk and they walked along the tree-lined paths in silence.

Raff looked at her in surprise. ‘I don’t think anything of the sort. Why?’

‘Byron.’

He huffed out a laugh. ‘If you judged me on my taste in women when I was eighteen your opinion of me would be very low indeed.’

But Clara didn’t want absolution. The humiliation cut so deep. ‘I thought I was so worldly. I had travelled thousands of miles alone, with a ticket I had saved up for. I had amazing A-level results. I had it all. I was an idiot. An immature idiot.’

She risked looking into his face, poised to see contempt or, worse, pity, but all she saw was warm understanding. ‘I didn’t really date at school. I was so focused on my future, on leaving Hopeford. So when I met Byron...’ She shook her head. ‘We were in Bali, staying in the same hostel. He was two years older and seemed so mature. I had no idea he was from a wealthy family. He didn’t act like it. It was his suggestion we share a house in Sydney and save to go travelling together. It was his own little rebellion against his father’s plans.’

‘We all have those.’ His mouth twisted.

‘At least yours involves saving people’s lives.’ She wasn’t ready for absolution. ‘Byron was just playing. But I didn’t see it. I fell for him completely. When I found out I was pregnant I was really happy. I thought we really had a future, travelling the world with a baby. God, I was so naïve.’ She stopped and scuffed her foot along the floor, as unsettled as a teenager on her very first date. ‘Thank you.’

Raff raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘What for?’

‘For standing by me, for allowing me to handle it.’

‘Well,’ he confessed, ‘that wasn’t easy. I don’t usually resort to violence but I had to sit on my hands to keep from throttling Byron’s father when he offered you the money.’

‘Why do men keep offering me money? First you and now him. Why do some people think that throwing money at things—at me—solves their problems?’

To her horror Clara could hear that her voice was shaking and feel the lump in her throat was growing. Keep it together, Clara, she told herself, but there were times when will power wasn’t enough.

Clara blinked, hard, but it was too late as the threatened tears spilled out in an undignified cascade. She knuckled her eyes furiously, as if she could force them back.

‘Because we’re fools?’ Raff took her hand in his, his fingers drawing caressing circles on her palm. It wasn’t the first time he had touched her today but this wasn’t comforting; the slow, lazy touch sent shivers shooting up her arm.

‘No, don’t.’ She pulled her treacherous hand away. ‘You don’t have to be nice to me. This is all a pretence, isn’t it?’ The only person she could ask to stand by her wasn’t really in her life at all. How pathetic was that?

Her throat ached with the effort of keeping back the sobs threatening to erupt in a noisy, undignified mess, the tears continuing to escape as Raff took hold of her, tilting her chin up so she had no choice but to look him in the eyes.

‘Not all of it,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘It’s not all pretence, Clara. Is it? I know we haven’t talked about it, try and pretend it didn’t happen, but it felt pretty real to me.’

‘That was just sex.’ Easy to say but she knew her tone lacked conviction. There was no such thing as just sex for Clara; she hadn’t trusted anyone enough to get close enough for ‘just sex’ since Byron. Just this man, standing right here, looking down at her with the kind of mixture of concern and heat that could take a girl’s breath away.

‘I’m on your side, Clara. I’m here for you, whatever you need, whatever you want.’

Hope sprang up, unwanted, pathetic, needy; she pushed it ruthlessly away. ‘For as long as we have a deal, right?’ Was that sarcastic voice really hers?

‘For as long as it takes, as long as you need me.’ His hands tightened on her shoulders, his eyes dark, intense as if he could bore the truth of his words into her.

And, oh, how she wanted to believe him. She didn’t mean to move but somehow she was moving forward, allowing herself to lean in, rest her head against the broad shoulders, allowing those strong arms to encircle her, pull her close as the desperate sobs finally overwhelmed her, muffled against his jacket. And he didn’t move, just held her tight, let her cry it all out. For as long as she needed to.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘YOU LOOK...’ RAFF CAME to a nonplussed stop, trying to find a word, any word, that did Clara justice. It didn’t exist.

‘Beautiful?’ Clara supplied for him. That wasn’t the word; it wasn’t enough by any measure. ‘I hope so. I’ve spent all day being prodded, plucked and anointed. If I don’t look halfway decent at this exact moment in time then there is no hope.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘You’re somewhere past halfway.’

The truth was that at the sight of her all the breath whooshed out of his body; in a room full of glitter she shone the brightest. In the end she had eschewed all the designer dresses Rafferty’s had to offer and had opted for a vintage dress that had belonged to her great-grandmother, a ballerina-length full-skirted black silk with a deceptively demure neckline, although it plunged more daringly at the back, exposing a deep vee of creamy skin.

Raff immediately vowed that nobody else would dance with Clara that evening, no other man would be able to put his hand on that bare back, feel the silk of her skin.

‘You scrub up nicely as well,’ she assured him.

Raff pulled at his bow tie. He’d owned a tux since his teens but he still felt as if he were dressing up as James Bond.

Or a waiter.

‘Nervous?’

‘A little,’ he admitted. ‘Not about the presentation, more how Grandfather will take it. How is he?’

‘He’s here.’ She pulled an expressive face. Her relationship with Raff’s grandfather had thawed a little; he was at least polite. But although she told Raff—and herself—that his initial rebuff didn’t worry her, she wasn’t being entirely honest. It was all too reminiscent of Archibald Drewe’s treatment of her, an uneasy and constant reminder of her mistakes.

‘Grumpy that he has a special diet and can only drink water but happy he’s away from that damned TV and fool nurse. His words not mine.’

‘I bet he’s glad to be talking work as well.’ Raff had mingled business with business and invited some of Rafferty’s key suppliers and associates to fill the table he had paid for. It was odd seeing his two very different worlds colliding in this rarefied atmosphere of luxury and wealth.

Opting for something a little unusual, Doctors Everywhere were holding the event in a private garden belonging to the privileged residents of a west London square.

‘It’s amazing, like a fairy tale.’ Clara was looking out at the candlelit gardens, her green eyes shining. Watching the lights play on her hair and face, Raff could only agree.

‘We have some very generous—and very rich—patrons,’ he said, trying to drag his thoughts back to the business at hand. ‘I hadn’t even thought about this side of our work. I spend the money, not raise it. I need to talk to Grandfather about allowing them to use Rafferty’s for something in the future. We could certainly donate food and staff or raffle prizes.’

And the people he knew could give even more. Helping with the last stages of the fundraiser had been an eye-opener, just not a particularly welcome one.

Raff knew he did a good job out in the field, but anyone with a good grasp of electrics, mechanics and project management could do that. He had other uses that were far more unique: entrée into some of England’s richest and most influential echelons and, although he himself didn’t value those connections, he knew that no charity could run on good intentions alone. Ensuring the donations came in was a vital role.

But would it be as satisfying? Or would it be a gilded cage just like the one he was working so hard to escape from?

‘Is everything set up?’ Clara was as cool and collected as ever, on the surface at least, but when he took her arm he felt the telltale tremble.

‘Ready to go,’ he promised her. ‘My mission tonight is to get all these people to remember why they’re here and part with as much money as possible.’

And throw the gauntlet down. Show his grandfather that this was where he belonged—and this was where he was staying, no matter what. Only he didn’t feel the same burning need to get back out into the field. It helped, of course, that he had been helping to set up the fundraiser, interacting with colleagues, seeing a new side of the charity’s work. But it was more than that.

Clara. Everything he didn’t want or need in his life. She needed stability and commitment and a father for her daughter, not a travelling jack of all trades whose idea of a perfect day with family meant a day by himself. And yet, and yet...

Somehow she had got under his skin. More than attraction, more than lust. He respected her, admired her strength—but it was those glimpses of carefully hidden vulnerability that really hooked him in. He knew how much she hid it, despised any display of weakness. But she had trusted him enough to lean on him, cry on him, allow him to shoulder her burdens for a short time.

From Clara that was a rare and precious gift. But was he worthy? And was he capable of accepting all that she had to offer?

* * *

‘They certainly do a lot of good.’ Raff’s grandfather had been slowly softening throughout the evening, his initial scepticism disappearing when he saw his table companions and the carefully prepared meal that had been specially provided for him. If he still cast a longing look or two at the bottles of very expensive wine that littered the table, he had at least stopped complaining and was sipping the despised mineral water with martyred compliance.

‘I had no idea about the sheer scale of their work,’ Clara agreed. ‘Nor just how desperate things can be. I’ll never complain about waiting for a doctor’s appointment again.’

Raff and his colleagues spent their lives making sure that people all over the globe, people who lived in poverty, who had fled their homes, who had seen their world turned into warzones still had access to medicine, to doctors. To hope.

He could have taken the easy option, the job provided for him, the family money, enjoyed all that London had to offer the young and the rich. In a way she wished he had; it would be so easy to keep her distance from that man. Much harder to stay away from the man sitting next to her, even though there was no way there could ever be any kind of happy ever after between them.

But in the few days since the meeting with Byron something had changed. They were easier with each other, more intimate. Hands brushed, lingered, eyes met, held. Nothing had happened, not again, but the promise of it hung seductively over them.

Butterflies tumbled around her stomach, a warm tingle spreading through her at the thought.

‘I’m sorry.’ Raff finally managed to gracefully extricate himself from the conversation he was embroiled in. ‘I’ve been neglecting you all evening.’

‘That’s okay.’ After all, she was being paid for her time.

Not that Clara felt she could charge a penny for tonight; she would ask Raff to donate her fee back to the charity.

Raff pulled a face. ‘I’d much rather be talking to you, but I have been promising myself that as soon as the dancing starts I am all yours.’ His eyes were full of promise and a shiver ran through her despite the heat in the overcrowded room.

‘You didn’t say anything about dancing,’ Clara protested. ‘I can barely walk in these heels, let alone dance.’

‘Don’t worry.’ His expression was pure wicked intent. ‘I won’t let you fall.’

‘You better not. When are you on?’

‘In a few minutes. Wish me luck?’

Clara put one hand on his cheek, allowing herself the luxury of touch, rubbing her palm along the rough stubble. ‘Good luck,’ but she knew he didn’t need it. If he managed to get one hundredth of his charm across then he would have the guests clamouring to outbid each other.

The presentations had been spread out throughout the evening. A welcome speech before canapés, then, after the starters, two of the nurses gave an evocative talk that brought their exciting, dangerous and very necessary work alive. A surgeon’s visceral yet compelling description of the challenges she faced was an uneasy filler between the main course and pudding.

No one else seemed to notice the incongruity between their surroundings, with the conspicuous display of wealth and luxury, and the poverty and need so eloquently conveyed. Clara saw women wiping tears, the diamonds on their hands and wrists worth more than the total the charity was trying to raise.

‘We need to make sure everyone is suitably worked up before the auction,’ Raff whispered. ‘They’ll all be well fed and watered. We want them to go home with their consciences as sated as their stomachs!’

Just the nearness of him, though he was barely touching her, that lightest of contact, sent tremors rippling up and down her body. For so long she had been shut away in a box of her own design, not allowing herself to do or to feel. Constraining herself to the narrowest of lives. And it had worked. She hadn’t been hurt, hadn’t messed up.

But she hadn’t felt either. Hadn’t felt this bitter-sweetness ache. That awareness that overtook everything so that all she could see was him; she could feel nothing but his breath on her cheek, sending waves of need shuddering through her.

Clara took a deep breath, trying to regulate her hammering pulse, remember where they were, what he was about to do. ‘So it’s up to you to seal the deal?’

He grimaced. ‘I wish they’d put me on first. Logistics isn’t exactly the sexiest subject. They’ll be eying up the petits fours and coffee and be in a post-dinner slump by the time the auction comes around.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Clara reached for his hand and squeezed it, trying to quell the absurd jump every nerve gave as her fingers tangled with his. ‘If anybody can make logistics fascinating, you can. Go get them.’

Raff turned and looked at her and for one long moment the tent fell away, the people fading away to nothing but a murmuring backdrop to the scorching intensity of his gaze. ‘You think?’

‘I do.’ And she did. This was a new side to the confident, nonchalant playboy—but then wasn’t that playboy just a façade? A mask he wore well but a mask nonetheless. And the more Clara saw the passionate, principled man behind it, the more she wanted to retreat, to run away.

She’d thought playboys were her downfall. She’d been wrong. She had survived Byron, left him with her head held high and her heart only slightly cracked. But a man who cared, a man who carried the weight of the world on his broad shoulders? That was a far scarier prospect.

‘I think you can do anything,’ she said. ‘Including make every person here spend three times more than they budgeted for.’

‘That’s my aim.’ The words were jokey but his face was deadly serious. ‘Ready to clap nice and loudly?’

‘That’s my job.’

‘I’ll make sure I give you a good reference.’

Was it her imagination or did disappointment pass fleetingly over his face at her words? That would be ridiculous, Clara told herself sternly. They both knew what this was. This was a business arrangement. A glitzy, intimate contract maybe but a contract nonetheless. Money was changing hands, favours were being done. That was all.

‘Okay, then.’ And he was gone, the eyes of half the women in the room following the tall figure as he strode across the marquee.

Clara sank back in her chair, an unaccountable feeling of melancholy passing over her. What had he wanted her to say? She didn’t know; she was no good at this. Had swapped flirting for nappies and never quite got her groove back.

‘This means a lot to him.’

She jumped. For a moment she’d forgotten where she was, that she was surrounded by people. ‘I’m sorry?’

Charles Rafferty was looking up at the stage where his grandson stood, talking to the computer technician. Raff was relaxed, laughing, totally at home.

‘I knew he had this ridiculous hankering to be a doctor—it was because of his father’s illness, of course, that’s why I persuaded him to switch to business; besides, I needed him. But his heart was never in it. When he said he was off to work for these people I thought that a bit of time and freedom would sort him out. That he’d come back to me.’