Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage. Sophie Pembroke
father thought that I, well, it doesn’t matter now, but we don’t have the best relationship.’ She twisted her bangle round. ‘I wanted to be strong enough to do it alone.’
Raff’s heart squeezed, painfully. It couldn’t be easy for her to ask for help. ‘Is Summer going?’
She shook her head. ‘They don’t want her there.’
‘Of course I’ll be there.’ It was just returning a favour, right? The cold, still anger that consumed him when he saw the stricken look in her eyes, heard her voice shake, watched her search for words no mother should have to say had nothing to do with his decision. It was just a favour. No big deal.
‘I’ve been dreading this,’ she confessed, the shadows under her eyes making them look even bigger than usual. ‘All I’ve ever wanted is for Byron to be part of Summer’s life. And now he’s finally here, in London, just an hour away from her, I’m terrified.’ She shook her head helplessly. ‘I don’t know why. I should be stronger than this.’
Raff stopped and turned her around to face him, tilting her chin up, making her look at him, see the truth of his words. ‘Clara, you are incredible. You raise Summer alone, you run a business, half of Hopeford relies on you one way or another. You are the strongest woman I know.’
She stared up at him, doubt in her eyes. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He squeezed her shoulders, ignoring the urge to pull her in a little closer.
She exhaled. ‘Thank you, I appreciate it. I really do.’
Raff knew instinctively that it wasn’t easy for her to lean on him; he was honoured, of course, that she had asked him, had confessed her fears to him. It must have hurt her to show him the vulnerable side she kept so locked away. But it was terrifying as well. Physical intimacy was one thing, emotional intimacy, honesty, secrets? Another ballgame altogether.
But she’d been let down enough already. One morning, that was all she was asking. He was capable of that at least.
* * *
As they approached the hotel Clara’s demeanour subtly changed, as if she were going into battle. There was little outward sign of her stress although her grip tightened on his arm. Her face was utterly calm as if she were going to any business meeting, her hair had been ruthlessly tamed and coiled back in a neat bun, not one curly tendril allowed to fall about her face. It made her eyes look even bigger, emphasised the catlike curve of her cheek; Raff thought she looked vulnerable, a child playing dress up.
She had dressed for battle too, sleek and purposeful in a grey suit.
But Raff could feel the faint tremors running through her body. Her lips were colourless under her lip gloss.
The Drewes were staying at one of the most exclusive hotels in London, an old Georgian town house discreetly tucked away in a square in Marylebone. It was an interesting choice. Not overtly glitzy but it suggested old money, power and taste.
Raff was looking forward to this. He knew all about old money, power and taste. Bring it on.
Clara was all purpose now, marching up the stone steps and through the double doors, turning with no hesitation towards the hotel’s sunny dining room.
‘Clara.’ Both men rose to their feet; although they both wore smiles the brown eyes were alike—cold and assessing.
‘Byron, Mr Drewe.’ She shook hands in turn, strangely formal considering one of these men was the father of her child. ‘This is Raff.’ She didn’t qualify their relationship. Good girl, Raff thought, keep them guessing. ‘Raff, this is Byron and his father, Archibald Drewe.’
Raff reached over to shake hands in his turn, unable to resist making his own handshake as strong and powerful as he could. So this was Summer’s father, this tall, handsome man, whose smile didn’t reach his eyes and who wore his privilege with ease.
‘Please, sit down.’ The elder Drewe looked very similar to his son, the dark hair almost fully grey and the tanned face more wrinkled but with a steely determination behind the affable façade.
Raff pulled out Clara’s chair for her, a statement of intent.
‘It’s been a while,’ she said to Byron. ‘You’ve cut your hair.’
‘You look great.’ The other man was looking at her with open admiration. ‘Haven’t changed a bit even if you have changed the sarong for a suit.’
He had seen Clara in a sarong. The hot jealousy that burned through Raff at Byron Drewe’s words shocked him. Of course he had seen Clara in a sarong—and a lot less too. He was her ex-lover, the father of her child. At some point Clara had been enamoured enough with this guy to have a baby with him.
And at some point he had allowed her to come home, alone. To raise their child alone.
The jealousy ebbed away, replaced with cold dislike and even colder contempt. ‘I am trying to persuade her to link her business with mine. But you know Clara.’ He smiled at her. ‘She has to be in control. Even a name like Rafferty’s doesn’t reassure her!’
‘Rafferty’s?’ The older man’s eyes were now assessing Raff. ‘Impressive.’
The contempt deepened. Now they knew who he was his stock had gone up. Raff hated that.
‘What do you do now, Clara?’ Should Byron Drewe be smiling at her in that intimate way? Raff allowed himself a brief, self-indulgent fantasy of leaning across the table and planting one perfect punch on that perfect nose.
‘I run a concierge service.’
‘Half of Hopeford couldn’t manage without her, including me,’ Raff said.
‘How interesting.’ The older Mr Drewe couldn’t sound less interested. Maybe it was his nose that Raff should fantasise about punching.
‘It keeps me busy.’ If Clara had heard the snub she wasn’t reacting. ‘And it’s thriving. Between work and Summer I don’t have much free time.’
Raff bit back a smile as he mentally applauded. Nicely done, Clara. Remind them why we’re here, ignore their put-downs and make sure they realise you’re doing them a favour.
She didn’t need him to step in at all. He might as well help himself to the coffee and sit back and enjoy the show.
‘And how is Summer?’
Surely Summer’s own grandfather shouldn’t pronounce her name in that slightly doubtful way, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was right.
Or maybe he just didn’t like the name. Clara could scrape her hair back and put on a suit but she knew full well that Archibald Drewe still thought of her a teenage hippy with long hair, tie-dye dresses and a happy-go-lucky attitude who had named her daughter accordingly.
She had been that girl once, but it was a long time ago.
‘She’s good.’ Clara pulled out her tablet. ‘I have pictures.’
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’
Time stopped for a long moment, the blood freezing in her veins. How could he dismiss her daughter, his own flesh and blood, in that cold, cavalier way?
‘She has your hair, your eyes.’ She looked directly at Byron, willing him to stand up for her, for his daughter, for once in his pampered life. ‘If you ever look at the pictures I send you you’ll know that.’
‘I look.’ He had the grace to sound ashamed. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘She is, but she is also smart and kind and very funny. You’d like her.’
He shifted in his seat, evidently uncomfortable. Beside her Raff was leaning back, ostensibly totally at his ease, sipping a cup of coffee. But the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw told her that he was utterly alert, following