Rafael's Suitable Bride (19 page)

‘That's…that's a horrible thing to say,' she whispered, but he was already turning away, heading for the door.

She had an insane desire to tug at his shirt and make him stay rather than watch him walk away and leave in his wake this great, ugly pool of bitterness and misunderstanding. Had he kissed her as some kind of
trick
? she wondered feverishly. Had he thought that she had turned over some kind of new leaf, become cheap and easy, the sort of girl who would wear a sexy dress, invite a man back to her apartment and spend the night with him? The sort of girl she had never been and never could be?

She flew behind him and finally, when he was putting on his jacket, she
did
clutch his arm. Hopefully she didn't appear too desperate but she wouldn't have put money on that.

‘Please don't go. Not like this.'

Rafael stopped to look coldly at her. ‘Not like what?'

‘James was just a
date
! I wasn't going to…I'm not
like
that! Why did you kiss me?' She had to know.

‘You would have fallen into bed with me.'

‘Because you know how I feel about you. I know it would have been a big mistake, but did you just kiss me because you wanted to prove that you
could
? Were you jealous of James?'

‘Me? Jealous of
Goodman
?' The mere fact that she had reminded him of a feeling he had no time for, a feeling which was for losers who didn't mind feeling vulnerable—sad sacks who didn't mind handing over the reins of control to someone else—was enough to fuel his anger at her.

‘No, of course you wouldn't be,' Cristina said in a strained voice. ‘You have Cindy.' He may have lost control for a split second—maybe he had just wanted to put her to the test, to find out whether she was as lacking in self-control as he seemed to think she was—but he had pulled back out of respect for the wonderful woman he still hadn't slept with. She wondered how she could ever have felt uplifted at the thought that he hadn't slept with the blonde. Had she been
mad
? Was it any wonder that he felt sorry for her? It was easy to feel sorry for the person you've left behind when you, yourself, have successfully moved forward with your life.

She hugged herself and stared down at the ground. The high-heeled shoes had been discarded somewhere along the way and, in her stockinged feet, she was as physically disadvantaged as she knew she would be. It was like being in the shadow of a towering volcano. She expected that he was disappointed and disgusted with her. Probably counting his lucky stars that he hadn't ended up with a woman he now,
incorrectly
, thought had absolutely no morals. He couldn't have been more wrong but she didn't even know where to begin to tell him that. His face was closed and forbidding, and horribly,
horribly
cold.

‘You shouldn't have come here tonight,' she mumbled with heartfelt sincerity.

It was a sentiment with which Rafael wholeheartedly concurred. The thought of her with Goodman—dressing for him, getting ready for him, tempted to sleep with him, whatever she stammered out about not being
that sort of girl
—would live in his head for ever.

‘I couldn't agree more,' he told her icily. ‘Furthermore, Goodman's welcome to you.'

T
HREE
days later and Cristina decided that she had to get away. She kept reliving every minute of their last encounter and, the more she relived it, the more hopeless and despairing she felt. She hadn't meant to see him after the party, and when he'd turned up on her doorstep she hadn't meant to let him get physically near her, but she had, and now she couldn't stop beating herself up for her weakness. She had to get over him, and even being in the same city as he was, improbable though it was that she would ever catch sight of him, made her feel a bit panicked.

Anthea would be able to manage the flower shop on her own for a few days. She would leave loads of instructions and she would make sure that she wasn't out of the country, although what she really would have loved to do was to pack her bags and slink back to the warm bosom of her family.

She could easily have rented a room in a hotel and disappeared off to a conveniently remote place, but in the end she telephoned one of the women she had met at the party in connection with a possible landscaping job. It hadn't been anything big, just redoing a tiny bit of their garden at the back where they wanted a useful vegetable plot to be incorporated into something ornamental. Cristina remembered it because
it was out in the country and she could be accommodated in a tiny cottage on the estate.

Having had no expectations that she would be in luck, she was pleasantly surprised when Amelia Connolly remembered her, and even more pleasantly surprised to be told that she could come immediately and stay for a few days, which would suit them fine as they were going to be out of the country for a fortnight.

So the following day saw her stepping out of her car and clutching the key to the cottage which she had retrieved from a neighbour, whose house lay out of sight behind fields and towering trees.

The main house was very grand. It was a traditional red-bricked Victorian mansion on a vast scale, and she could easily picture its elegant past of servants and butlers, cooks and nannies. Amelia and her husband had two young children and the house seemed very big for a family of only four, two of whom were only just out nappies, but then some people just liked having an awful lot of space around them.

The cottage was much more her style. It was at the front of the property, where the long, gravelled drive to the main house began, and it was very picturesque.

Inside not a great deal had been done and it was charming, with a small kitchen, a tiny little snug, and upstairs just the one bedroom and bathroom.

Cristina decided that she would explore the grounds in the morning because she was exhausted, even though the trip up had taken a scant two hours in her little car. She could hardly remember when she had last slept well; the past couple of nights had been a disaster. She had taken ages to fall asleep, and when she eventually had she had been awakened by dreams, which had all involved variations of Rafael vanish
ing into the distance while she tried to follow him only to discover that her feet were cemented to the ground.

She had brought enough food to last four days, which was how long she intended on staying. But, opening the fridge, she saw that Amelia had kindly stocked up with the basics, and beside a little dish of eggs on the counter was a note telling her to make herself at home, as well as several sheaths of paper detailing what sort of ideas they had for the vegetable plot.

Dinner was a cheese omelette, and by the time eight-thirty rolled around she was ready to fall asleep in front of the television. The mere fact that she wasn't in London was good for her mind. Yes, she still thought of Rafael as she lay in bed with her eyes closed, but at least he didn't pursue her in her dreams as well. And the following day she was bright-eyed and ready to start having a look at her project.

Losing herself in the maintained gardens and woodland was very easy for Cristina to do. More than once she wondered what on earth had possessed her to settle in London. When had it ever been her life's ambition to live in a city surrounded by pollution, traffic and constant noise? She decided that she really would think about moving somewhere, where the views were not impeded by buildings, or the only greenery was contained in parks which were only ever bearable in winter when no one else was interested in using them.

Because of the acres of land to explore, Cristina had packed herself a picnic lunch, and it was absolute heaven sitting on the edge of the woodland, a small copse fragrant with lavender which was all part of the estate.

She was in no rush to get back to the cottage. It was gloriously warm and she could have remained outdoors for ever. The wide open space was a soothing balm for her fretful mind. Frankly, she would have spent the night outdoors if she
wasn't slightly spooked by a comment Amelia had made about being glad to have someone around who could ‘keep their eyes on things'. Cristina knew she had been joking, but still had visions of gangs of teenagers joy riding along the narrow country lanes, high on drink and drugs, and chancing upon her sleeping under a tree outside because she had fancied being at one with nature. She was pretty sure that she had seen a movie along those lines, and it had been scary enough on celluloid. She wasn't going to risk the real thing for the sake of a night under the stars.

But by the time she had eaten her lunch and had a nap, something she never did in London, and then had busied herself sitting out in the open fields with her A4 pads, her graph paper, her pencils and her gardening books, it was nearly eight and the light was beginning to fade.

It had been a busy, enjoyable and productive day, and she was hopeful that she would literally fall into bed and be asleep within minutes. In her mind, indications warranting a very large tick in the ‘recovery and forgetting Rafael' box included getting into bed and falling asleep within minutes.

There was no warning at all by the time she finally made it back that anyone was in the cottage aside from herself. The door was unlocked, but then she remembered leaving it that way because she hadn't planned on being out for as long as she had, nor had she planned on straying as far from the cottage as she had ended up doing.

She went into the kitchen, switched on the light, dumped her stuff on the pine kitchen-table and was only aware of another presence by the shadow from behind her. A very big shadow. A shadow announcing a prowler who had made no noise whatsoever as he had entered the kitchen behind her.

Cristina didn't stop to think. She swung round with her
gardening book, and there was a satisfying thud as it made swift and violent contact with the intruder.

Rafael buckled under the vigour of the attack and the element of surprise. He had been forced to park outside the estate because the imposing front gates were locked, had braved the brick wall, clambering foliage and hedges, keenly aware that small country lanes were frequented by do-good ramblers who'd have thought nothing of setting their mutts onto him should they get the slightest whiff that he'd been planning to sneak into the grounds of the local gentry.

But he had made it in two hours previously and had found the cottage open but empty. He had contemplated walking the grounds in search of her but, first things first, he had had to have a shower because he'd been scratched, bleeding in places and filthy. And, with his trousers and shirt no longer of any use to man nor beast, he had been reduced to his boxers and the pink dressing-gown which she had brought with her and which had been hanging on a hook behind the bedroom door. It was too short, too small to be belted in any way, too pink, and made him resemble a cartoon character, but it would be less scary than the sight of him, unannounced, in nothing but his underwear.

Rafael, a man who could inspire fear without saying a word, was floundering in unknown territory, and he was a hell of a lot less fazed by the ridiculous figure he cut than he was by the knowledge that he was capable of being scared—that he was scared—scared that she might turn her back on him and walk away.

Cristina's first reaction as Rafael doubled over was
why is
this large, strange man wearing my bathrobe?
Then she registered the identity of the intruder and stepped back in shock, but her shock, lasting only a few seconds, was replaced by hot,
acid bitterness that filled her throat and made her feel literally sick.

She watched him coldly, her arms folded, as he slowly regained his breath and gradually stood up. ‘How did you find out where I was?'

Rafael rubbed his ribs where she had smashed him with the gardening manual. It must weigh a ton, and she had spared no effort. On a better day he might have joked that the Territorial Army could find her a real asset.

‘I managed to persuade your friend at the flower shop that it was in your best interests that I find out where you were staying. How much does that book weigh anyway? I think you may have broken a couple of my ribs.' It was a weak attempt at a joke, and it fell as flat as a lead balloon. He looked at her icy expression and felt another knot of sickening fear in the pit of his stomach.

‘Good, because you shouldn't be here, and I want you to leave. I want you to take off my bathrobe and just get out of my life.'

‘Don't say that, Cristina. Please.'

He had that voice that could make her go weak at the knees, but she found that they felt remarkably steady at the moment. The past, she thought, couldn't be buried under a
please
. She didn't even know why he was here and she wasn't going to ask so she remained silent, looking at him, her whole mind taken up with the nightmare of that last conversation they had had.

‘I…Problem with the clothes…' He gestured to the robe. ‘My clothes are soaking in the bath upstairs…' Did she want to find out
why
? It would appear not, because she just kept her eyes focused icily on him. For someone who was naturally such a sunny personality, whose face was truly a mirror
into her thoughts, that lack of expression was as powerfully offputting as any shouting ever could have been.

‘I…I couldn't get in,' Rafael expanded into the devouring silence. ‘The gates were locked so I had to find a spot in the wall to climb over. Only problem was that I had to do a bit of battle with overhanging trees and dense hedge. Hence the outfit.' He paused, waiting for her to show some interest in what he was saying and knowing that she wouldn't. ‘Fortunately the front door to the cottage was open so I could get cleaned up inside. Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing here?'

‘Tell me why I should care, Rafael?'

‘This isn't easy for me.'

‘What isn't? Look, I don't want any more arguments with you, and I don't want you reappearing in my life whenever you feel like it.'

‘I understand that.'

‘No, you don't, Rafael!' She could feel her whole body shaking at the thought of him standing here in front of her, wrecking her nervous system, just when she'd been beginning to feel a little stronger. Was he going to keep on doing that—checking up on her whenever he was at loose ends? Whenever his conscience decided to rebel? Maybe he felt that he just
could
because he figured that he was her weakness, her Achilles' heel, and therefore he could dip in and out of her life as the fancy took him. ‘The last time we spoke…'

‘Please, hear me out at least.'
Why the hell should she?
He had hurt her deeply. Was it any surprise that she could barely look at him? The urgency of needing her to listen struck him with the force of a tidal wave, made his legs feel a little shaky. On the drive up, he had planned how this conversation would go. Generally speaking, he would emerge cool, controlled, a
big guy willing to admit mistakes and generous enough to express his feelings in a manner that was not namby pamby or loser-like. Three minutes in and he had lost it. She was looking at him as if he were something that had crawled out from under a rock and was now threatening to infect her.

Dulled colour highlighted his sharp cheekbones. He found that he might be better off sitting down.

‘Look, there's something you should know. Goodman. I did it. Phoned him up. Knew that he had made plans to see you. Also made sure that those plans came to nothing.' He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘You did
what
?'

‘I was jealous!' He glared at her, his expression telling her that there was nothing else he could have done given the circumstances, but it fell on stony ground.

‘Not content in messing up my life, you actually decided that you would eliminate the first guy who might just be interested in me?'

‘Okay, so maybe I was out of order.'

‘
Maybe?
'

‘But I've never been a jealous man, never had any cause to be.'

Cristina knew why he was jealous. She had been
his
possession, the
chosen one
, and his ego hadn't been able to bear the indignity of her messing up his carefully laid plans and, worse, possibly sparking up a relationship with one of his buddies.

‘It's all about
you
, isn't it, Rafael?
You
decide that it's time to find yourself a suitable wife,
you
pick the person and lay down all the ground rules,
you
react like a kid who hasn't got his Christmas present when your arrangements don't go according to plan!'

‘Yes.'

Cristina blinked. Had he just
agreed
with her or had she imagined that? ‘What did you just say?'

‘You're right. It was all about me.' He looked at her, watched as she warily sat on the chair facing him, wondered whether this was a good sign or not, and then decided that he wouldn't even go there; he had made enough mistakes already, been way too arrogant, and had paid the price. ‘I wasn't thinking of you when I made my plans, wasn't thinking about what you might like or not like. I took you for granted, and assumed that you would fall into line with a marriage because it made sense on paper.'