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

She had no idea what to say.

Raff was responsible for people’s lives every day. He didn’t cut them open, administer the medicine, nurse them, but he made that possible. He worked in impossible conditions in impossible countries for an impossibly tiny wage.

And he loved it. It was good that his grandfather was seeing that, acknowledging it.

‘He doesn’t want to let you down,’ she said, aware what a lame response it was.

‘No.’ The older man looked at her, really looked at her for the first time in the weeks since they had met. And for once there was no trace of a sneer on his face. Just hollow loss. ‘He’s aware of his family responsibilities. I made sure of that. He was only eight when his father had the stroke, when it was obvious his father would never recover. Only eight when I anointed him as my heir.’

‘And Polly?’ Okay, she was going beyond anywhere she had any right to go. But Polly was her friend. And Raff? He meant something to her, something a little like friendship.

‘Polly?’ He shook his head. ‘I made a mess of it, didn’t I? I inherited the company from my father and groomed my son to take my place with Castor waiting in the wings. It didn’t even occur to me that he might not want it—or that Polly did.’

‘Look, he’s ready.’ Raff had stepped up onto the temporary stage and was gesturing for quiet. He dominated the marquee, tall, imposing, his sheer force of will stopping the chatter as people turned to listen. ‘I’m sure you’ll work it out,’ she said quietly as the main light dimmed, leaving just one spotlight trained directly onto Raff.

The silence was expectant. Clara was aware of nothing but the ache of anticipation twisting her stomach. Do well, she urged him silently. Make them see. Looking at her hands, she was surprised to see her nails digging into her palms. She didn’t feel any pain but when she unfurled her hands there were crescent marks embedded in the soft skin. When had he started to matter so much? When had she begun to care?

It wasn’t just because she had helped him, gone over the presentation over and over until it made no sense to either of them.

‘I know you are all ready for your coffees.’ Raff hadn’t raised his voice at all yet every syllable carried to every corner. ‘And listening to me talk about project management isn’t going to raise your heart rate the way my very talented colleagues did. I have watched them perform surgeries, vaccinate children and deliver babies in every kind of condition you can think of—and I was still blown away by their talks earlier. So no, I can’t compete with them. My job now, as in the field, is to enable their work. And this, ladies and gentleman, is how I do it.’

He raised a hand and pressed a button and immediately the room was filled with the sound of drums building up into a crescendo as the screen behind him burst into life.

Raff had elected not to go for a talk and slides, knowing that the previous presentations would be using photos to great effect. Instead he had put together a video, a montage of photos and film showing a ‘typical’ day in his life, backdropped by fast, evocative music. The film started by panning around a small dorm room, ending in a different if similar room, and took in five different clinics and hospitals, two camps and four temporary clinics during the ten-minute show.

Raff was shown sitting in an office with paperwork piled on top of a crowded desk, spanner in hand, eying up a battered old truck, in a helicopter, setting up a tent, fixing a tap, spade in hand digging a pit, playing volleyball outside a tent, watching a spectacular desert sunset.

But the main focus of the film was the patients and people using the facilities he built, repaired and managed.

As the camera lingered on a queue of women waiting patiently to vaccinate their children, he spoke. ‘We need running water, toilets, moving vehicles, electricity, satellite connections, working kitchens, working sterilisers for the most basic of our clinics. The hospitals are a whole other level. It all needs to be brought in on budget and just to add to my woes our staff and volunteers quite like to be fed, have somewhere to sleep and the chance to get to the nearest city to enjoy their time off. It’s exhausting, often sweaty and dirty, and involves spreadsheets, but on the rare occasion when everything is working I can stand back and I see this.’

Another image flashed up and stayed there. A small boy beaming at the camera, one leg wrapped in bandages, his arm encased in plaster. ‘I see children with a future, families kept together, mothers who will live to watch their children grow up. I see hope.

‘Thanks to you we will be able to keep vaccinating, operating, delivering and curing. Your generous donations mean that children, just like Matthew here, have a future. Thank you. I’m now going to give you the opportunity to show just how generous you can be. There are some fabulous prizes in our auction. Dig deep, dig hard and bid as high as you can.’

The spotlight dimmed and the house lights were switched back on as the room erupted into applause. People were on their feet congratulating Raff as he walked around the room.

‘That was different,’ Charles Rafferty said drily. But, Clara noted, his eyes were moist.

‘It was good, wasn’t it?’ she agreed. ‘Luckily Raff blogs a lot when he’s out in the field and often embeds video or pictures so he had a lot of footage he could use.’

‘If he goes back,’ Raff’s grandfather said, his eyes fixed on Clara, the intent gaze eerily similar to that of his grandson, ‘what about you?’

Clara’s mouth dried. She had kind of got used to having him around, sitting on her desk disrupting her, whispering highly libellous biographies of the people they met, raising an approving eyebrow as she made small talk.

She had got used to those moments when their hands brushed, the sensation that time was slowing and that all she could see or hear was him. The swell that seemed to roar upwards, filling her full of awareness of his every movement, his every gesture.

‘We’ve managed so far,’ she said as lightly as she could. ‘Skype, letters, it works really well. We’re both so busy that time apart gives us a chance to breathe. Excuse me for a moment.’

The tent seemed so bright, so loud. The chatter and the music competing with each other, driving up the noise level to a deafening shriek. Each of the myriad lights seemed to shine directly into her eyes, the heat making her stomach roll. She needed air and quiet and dark. She needed some space.

Clara moved quickly across the tent, swerving to avoid the clustered groups, making sure she didn’t catch anyone’s eye as the announcer returned to the stage to announce the start of the auction. Thankfully, she reached the marquee entrance and slipped out into the grounds.

What was wrong with her? It had been a highly successful night. Raff’s presentation had been sensational, the guests all looked ready to start spending and donating lavishly and if Clara had read him correctly then Raff’s grandfather looked ready to do the right thing and give the company to Polly.

Even better, she had made some great contacts and, if she dared, was in a great position to expand out of Hopeford.

If she dared. Was that it? Was that the reason for this melancholy that had fallen on her like a damp dusk? Because starting the business had been absurdly simple; it had all fallen into place with surprising ease. But taking it into the big city meant taking risks and that was something Clara just didn’t do any more.

Or was it because this adventure was nearly over? She’d thought that she was finished with adventures but maybe that part of her wasn’t as dead and buried as she liked to think. As she had hoped. Compared to backpacking around the world it was a tame adventure, true, but a part of her was thrilling to the unpredictability.

And Raff. Clara sighed, feeling the truth exhale out of her with her heavy breath. There it was. Like a fool she was allowing the pretence to take over. Just because they pretended it was a relationship, acted as if it were a relationship, did not make it one. He didn’t want or need ties here; he was doing his best to sever the ones he already had.

There was nothing long term for her. She should be sensible. Just as she always was.

‘Here you are.’ Clara’s heart gave an absurd skip at the low voice; clearly the sensible memo hadn’t reached it yet. ‘Are you okay?’

‘A little hot.’ That wasn’t a lie. ‘Shouldn’t you be inside for the auction?’

‘There’s not much call for exotic villas or cases of fine wine out in the field,’ he said, walking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her. All thoughts of caution, of taking a step back, fled at his touch. ‘I did purchase an obscene amount of raffle tickets, though. You?’

‘I don’t think there’s any point in me competing against any of those platinum cards.’ There had been some amazing items on the auction list but the guide prices alone had made Clara take a hasty gulp of her wine. ‘I think your grandfather was planning to bid. Maybe we should go back in.’

‘He’s quite capable of spending a lot of money without my help.’ Raff’s arms tightened a little, his breath hot on her neck, burning her, branding her, sending heat flaming through her veins. ‘I’m looking forward to spending some time off duty.’ He turned her unresisting body round, cupping her face with his hand. ‘I just want a night with no more work talk, a beautiful woman on my arm, in my arms. Music, wine, fun. Are you in? Because...’ his voice was low, intimate ‘...there’s no one else I want to be with.’

She had spent the last ten years building up a reputation, one she was proud of. She was often called driven, reliable, honest—and she was proud of those attributes. But beautiful? Fun?

Raff thought she was both of them. And tonight, just tonight, Clara thought she might think so too.

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