Rafe introduced her simply as ‘Sophie’ and Bernadette seemed content with that. And at least Sophie was able to chat easily to the housekeeper. Six months ago and her observations would have been stiff and formal, but working at Poonbarra meant she could now identify with the housekeeper in a way which would have been unthinkable before. She had learnt how to mix with ordinary folk, she realised—and for that she must be grateful.
‘Is everyone else here?’ Rafe was asking.
‘No. You’re the first.’ Bernadette closed the heavy oak door on the snowy night. ‘Some of the others are flying in tomorrow. Your father’s got the four-by-four so he’ll be okay. And Sharla rang to say she’s coming by helicopter, so she’ll be here about midday.’
Sharla.
It was an unfamiliar name which sounded vaguely familiar, but Sophie’s interest was heightened by the sudden tension which had made Rafe’s body stiffen. She glanced up to see a hardness distorting his taut features—and a darkening look which made him seem like a stranger.
But he is a stranger, she reminded herself fiercely. You don’t really know anything about him. All they’d done had been to fall into bed where he’d made her feel stuff she hadn’t thought she was capable of. Made her long for things which were way out of her reach.
A sense of unease whispered over her but she said nothing as they were shown up a grand staircase into an enormous bedroom, dominated by a king-size bed covered with a brocade throw in deep shades of claret and gold. Beside the bed, crimson roses glowed in a bronze bowl and, against huge windows, velvet curtains were drawn to blot out the snowy night. A huge crackling fire had been lit in the grate, scenting the air with the crackle of applewood, and the glitter of the flames was reflected in the overhead chandelier. The overall effect was almost medieval and Sophie unbuttoned her new coat and hung it up in the old-fashioned wardrobe before slowly turning round.
‘Who’s Sharla?’ she questioned.
Rafe was reading something on his cell-phone and didn’t look up as he answered. ‘You’ve probably heard of her. She used to be a model.’
Wondering if his reply had been deliberately casual, Sophie nodded as she realised why she’d half recognised the name. Of course. How could she have overlooked that rare level of fame achieved when somebody was known simply by their first name? ‘You mean the Sharla?’ she questioned. ‘The supermodel with the endless legs—the one who’s married to the rock star?’
‘That’s the one.’ He looked up then and the expression in his grey eyes was curiously flat. ‘And just for the record, she isn’t married to him any more.’
‘Right.’ She looked at him. ‘But why is she here? I thought you said it was just family. A low-key affair.’
‘She is family.’ There was a pause. ‘I told you. She’s my sister-in-law Molly’s twin, although I don’t tend to think of her as family.’
She wondered how he did think of her. Why a sudden harshness had distorted his voice and why he’d tensed when Bernadette had mentioned the supermodel’s name. But it was none of her business. She was here because they were supposedly doing each other a favour. And yes, they’d had sex on the plane, but that didn’t mean anything—he couldn’t have made that more apparent if he’d tried. He hadn’t exactly pushed her away afterwards but he might as well have done. His attitude had been cool and distant. Careless might be the best way to describe it, as he’d tapped her bottom in that rather insulting way—which hadn’t stopped her wanting his fingers to linger there a little longer. So did sexual intimacy give her the right to quiz him about his thoughts or his feelings? It did not.
She peeped out behind one of the heavy velvet drapes. The snow was coming down hard now—great drifts swirling down and covering the ground by the second. Rafe switched on one of the bedside lamps and the rich brocade of the counterpane was illuminated by a golden glow. Yet Sophie felt awkward as she watched him moving around the elegant room. He looked so far away, she thought. Any closeness they had shared now seemed to have been forgotten. He hadn’t touched her once in the car and now she was supposed to be sharing a room and a bed with him and she didn’t have a clue how that was going to work. How any of this was going to work. What did other women usually do in this kind of situation? But she had wanted normality, hadn’t she? Maybe now was the time to embrace it.
Pulling the band from her hair, she shook her ponytail free. ‘What have you told them about me?’
‘Nothing. I told my brother I was bringing someone, but that’s all. They can find out who you are when they meet you.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘Given your great love of understatement, I thought you’d prefer no forewarning.’
‘And they won’t think it’s odd that you’ve turned up with a runaway princess?’
He gave the ghost of a smile. ‘I come from an unusual family, Sophie. Where the odd is commonplace and people break the rules all the time. They might remark on it but they certainly won’t have their heads turned by it. And don’t worry—people won’t bother you or ask you predictable questions, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Now,’ he added softly. ‘It’s late. Aren’t you going to get ready for bed?’
His words sounded scarily informal, which seemed crazy when she remembered being pinned to the floor of the plane, her jeans trapped around her ankles. But that didn’t prevent a sudden flash of nervousness as Sophie grabbed her wash bag and went into the bathroom. The clothes which Rafe had ordered to be delivered to the plane contained nothing as warm or practical as a nightshirt—but there was no way she was walking back out there naked. So she kept her knickers on and pulled a T-shirt over her head. Rafe’s eyebrows rose when she returned and climbed quickly into bed, though he said nothing as he went into the bathroom himself.
She switched off the bedside lamp and lay shivering beneath the duvet, listening to the sounds of taps being run and teeth obviously being brushed. The minutes ticked by excruciatingly slowly before the bathroom light was eventually turned off and Rafe came back into the bedroom. But it was long enough for her to see that he had no similar qualms about nudity and the image of his powerful naked body seemed to burn itself indelibly onto the backs of her eyes.
His words filtered through the air towards her. ‘Why are you hiding away in the darkness?’
‘I’m not hiding.’
‘Really?’ A hint of amusement touched his voice. ‘Are you suddenly turning shy on me, Sophie?’
‘Of course not.’ How could she tell him that this felt...weird? That she didn’t want to leave the light on because she didn’t know what to say or what to do. She wondered what had happened to the woman who’d been so uninhibited on the plane. Why she’d suddenly morphed into someone who was feeling swamped by hazy fears. The bed dipped beneath his weight and she held her breath as she heard the rustle of bedclothes.
‘Maybe you’re jet-lagged?’ he suggested.
‘I think I am, a little,’ she said hopefully, because surely sleep would blot out the tension which was growing by the second and making even the tiniest sound seem amplified. Surely the best thing would be to close her eyes and pray for oblivion to come, so she could wake up in the morning refreshed and able to cope with what lay ahead.
But sleep didn’t come. She lay there stiff and unmoving, terrified to move in case she rolled against his hard, warm body—wondering how she was going to get through a whole night like this—when a soft laugh punctured the semi-silence.
‘I know you’re not asleep.’
‘How?’ she questioned indignantly, before realising that her answer had given the game away.
‘Because you’re trying to make your breathing sound regular and shallow and people don’t really breathe like that when they’re asleep.’
‘I