‘Luke, truly, you don’t have to do this.’
‘Yes. I do. Now listen up.’
Isabel listened up, amazed when Luke insisted she have his town house in Turramurra, as well as a portfolio of blue-chip stocks and shares which would provide her with an independent income for life. It seemed his father had been a very rich man. And now so was Luke.
She thought about refusing, but then decided that would just be her pride talking. At least now she wouldn’t have to worry about having to live here under her parents’ roof till she found another job. Her mother was going to be very upset when she found out the wedding was off.
She smiled a wry smile at this wonderful man she had hoped to marry. ‘I always knew you were a winner. But I’d have preferred you as my husband rather than my sugar-daddy.’
‘You’ve no idea how sorry I am about all this, Isabel,’ Luke apologised again. ‘I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world. You’re a great girl. But the moment I saw Celia, I was a goner.’
Isabel’s mind flew straight to the moment she first saw Rafe Saint Vincent today. She hadn’t been a goner. But she might have been, if he’d come on to her. Thank heaven he hadn’t.
‘She must be something, this Celia.’
‘She’s very special.’
And very beautiful, no doubt, Isabel deduced, with a body made for sin and eyes which drew you and held you and corrupted you. Just as Rafe’s eyes had today.
He’d fancied her. Isabel hadn’t liked to admit it to herself before this, but she’d sensed his male interest at the time. She’d sensed it from the first second they’d looked at each other. She always sensed things like that.
You could go back for your phone after Luke leaves. You could tell Rafe the wedding’s off. You could…
No, no, she screamed at herself. Not again. Never again!
‘Okay, so tell me all,’ she demanded of Luke, desperately needing distraction from her escalatingly dangerous thoughts. ‘And don’t leave out anything…’
RAFE noticed the phone she’d left behind almost immediately. He snatched it up from the coffee-table and was running out after her when he stopped and waited to see if she remembered and came back for it herself.
But she didn’t, and he just stood in the hallway and listened to her drive off.
It was crazy to want to see her again this side of the wedding. Crazy to force her to return.
She wasn’t the type to let him have his wicked way with her. She wasn’t the type to let any man have his wicked way with her without a band of gold on her finger.
Maybe not a virgin, but close. The way she’d frozen when he’d dared touch her hair. The way she’d bolted out of his place, probably in fear that he might do more.
And he’d wanted to. Oh, yes. Being that close to her—actually touching her—had turned him on something rotten. When her bag had hit him as she’d hurried out, he’d just managed not to visibly wince. Luckily, she hadn’t stopped and looked down at where her bag had hit him, or she’d have been in for one big fright!
That was another reason why he hadn’t run out into the street after her just now. Looking a fool was not his favourite occupation.
Hopefully, by the time Isabel realised she’d left her phone and turned round to come back, he’d have himself under control again.
And then what, Rafe? What is the point of this exercise? Is it some form of sexual masochism?
Even if you were the kind of man who seduced other men’s fiancées—which you’re not, usually—you haven’t one chance in Hades of defrosting this one.
So, if and when she does come back, have the damned phone handy near the front door, give it to the lady and send her on her merry way.
His decision made, Rafe dropped the metallic-blue cellphone on the hall table and headed upstairs for some breakfast. After that, he came back downstairs to his darkroom, where he set about developing the rolls of film he’d shot last night at Orsini’s summer fashion parade, and at the after-parade party, which had gone well into the wee small hours of the morning. The women’s magazines would be ringing first thing Monday morning, wanting to see the best of them.
Two hours later, Rafe was still in his darkroom, going through the motions, but his mind simply wasn’t on the job. The object of his distraction hadn’t come back, and he simply could not put her out of his head.
The truth was, she intrigued him. Not just sexually, but as a person. He wanted to know more about her.
In the end, Rafe stopped trying to put her out his mind. He abandoned his work, pulled the business card she’d left him out of his pocket, went back upstairs, picked up his phone and punched in the number she’d written down.
The line rang and rang at the other end, with Rafe about to hang up when someone finally picked up.
‘Hello there.’
Rafe frowned. It was a woman, but he wasn’t sure if it was Isabel. She sounded…odd. ‘Isabel?’
‘Yep? To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’
Rafe couldn’t believe his ears. She was drunk!
‘It’s Rafe. Rafe Saint Vincent. The photographer.’
Dead silence. Though he could hear her breathing.
‘You left your mobile phone at my place.’
More silence.
‘I thought you might be worried about it.’
She actually laughed.
‘Isabel,’ he said with concern in his voice. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Mmm. You might say that.’
‘I am saying it.’
‘So what?’
Rafe was taken aback. This wasn’t the woman he’d met today. This was someone else. ‘You said you didn’t drink,’ he reminded her.
She laughed again. ‘I lied.’
His eyes widened with shock, then narrowed with worry. ‘Isabel, what’s wrong? What’s happened?’
‘I guess there’s no point in not telling you. You’ll have to know some time, anyway. The wedding’s off.’
He couldn’t have been more taken aback, both by the news and her manner. ‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Luke’s left me for someone else.’
Rafe experienced a small secret thrill at this news, but his overriding emotion was sympathy. He knew what it was like to be left for someone else, and he wouldn’t wish the experience on a dog.
‘I’m so sorry, Isabel,’ he said with genuine feeling. ‘You must be feeling rotten.’
‘I was, till I downed my third whisky. Now, I actually don’t feel too bad.’
He had to smile. That was exactly what he’d done the day Liz had left him. Hit the bottle. ‘You should never drink alone, you know,’ he warned softly.
‘Oh, I’m not drunk,’ she denied, even though her voice was slurring a little. ‘Just tipsy enough so that my pain is pleasantly