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