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‘Come on,’ said Kyra impatiently, and, stifling an odd pang of disappointment, Rafe went.
‘Hiya.’
Startled, Miranda looked up from her computer to see her youngest sister lounging in the doorway, and as usual making it appear that the door had been specifically designed to show her off to her best advantage.
‘Octavia! You’re not supposed to be in here. There are supposed to be security procedures to stop strangers getting in!’
Security at the Knighton Group was run by a gimlet-eyed ex-Army officer called Mack who took his responsibilities extremely seriously. Miranda sometimes thought it would be easier to stroll into Fort Knox with a handy bag for carrying bullion.
‘Oh, it’s OK,’ said Octavia carelessly, strolling into the office and looking around her with a kind of bemused curiosity. This was a place where people actually worked. ‘I spoke to someone called Mack—he’s sweet, isn’t he?—and told him it was an emergency, so he said it would be fine if I just came up. He told me where to find your office and everything.’
Miranda stiffened. ‘Emergency? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, I just wanted to see you, and I knew I’d never get near you unless I said it was important.’ Octavia spun a chair from the other desk and sat down on it, crossing her impossibly long legs. ‘You’d just say you were busy or something.’
‘I am busy,’ said Miranda, eyeing her sister with exasperation. Honestly, Octavia was impossible sometimes! ‘So why don’t you just tell me what you’re doing here?’
Octavia leant forward. ‘I was this close to meeting Rafe Knighton last night,’ she said, holding her thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate the nearness by which she had missed Rafe. ‘But he was with that cow Kyra Bennett, who saw me coming and whisked him away before I could introduce myself. I smiled and Rafe definitely looked interested.’ She pouted. ‘I just know he would have wanted to talk to me if she hadn’t been dragging him off.’
‘And I’m interested in all this because…?’
‘Because now I just need another chance to bump into him,’ said Octavia, ignoring Miranda’s sardonic expression. ‘I’m sure he’d recognise me, and I can take it from there.’
Miranda sighed. ‘Take what from where?’ she asked, knowing that she probably wasn’t going to like the answer.
She didn’t.
‘Things are desperate,’ announced Octavia. ‘I don’t like not having any money,’ she said simply. ‘It’s been horrid with Daddy dying and not having any money any more. I don’t even get an allowance now!’ The green eyes were wide with indignation. ‘My only option is to marry someone rich, and Rafe Knighton is as rich as they come. He’s rather gorgeous too, don’t you think? I wouldn’t mind sacrificing myself to him!’
‘That’s very noble of you, Octavia, but I do have to point out that marriage is not, in fact, your only option,’ said Miranda crisply. ‘You could always try working for a living like the rest of us.’
‘Why would I want to do that if I could get married instead and never have to work at all?’ Octavia countered, all reasonableness. ‘You wouldn’t have to either if I was Mrs Knighton. Octavia Knighton…’ She tried out the name musingly. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’
Miranda put her head in her hands. Sometimes she despaired of her sisters. They seemed to live in a parallel universe, one at least two centuries behind the times to boot.
‘And all you’ve got to do is introduce me to your boss,’ Octavia pointed out. ‘Is that too much to ask? What’s the problem?’
Where to start? Sighing, Miranda lifted her head.
‘One, I’m completely opposed on principle to the idea of marriage as a meal ticket,’ she said, ticking off objections on her fingers. ‘Two, even if I wasn’t, Rafe Knighton would make the worst possible husband for you. He’s just a pretty face with too much money, and he’d make you absolutely miserable.
‘And three,’ she finished with emphasis before she let herself remember that only the night before she had wondered if there might be rather more to Rafe than his looks, ‘I don’t have anything to do with him, so couldn’t introduce you anyway. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m just a temp here. He’s Chairman and Chief Executive. He never comes down here and if he did, he wouldn’t even know who I was.’
The words were barely out of her mouth when Rafe walked into the office.
‘Hello, Miranda,’ he said.
For one dizzying moment, Miranda had the strangest feeling that all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
She had forgotten how physical he was. It had been a shock seeing him last night, but she had just managed to convince herself that he couldn’t possibly be as good-looking as she remembered, and now here he was, looking more so, not less, in yet another immaculately stylish suit, exuding charm and confidence and an almost electrifying energy.
His presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating, and after that first breathless moment when Miranda hadn’t been able to think at all her hackles rose instinctively. Really, he was too much. He was just too…too…too everything.
The last time she had seen him, she might as well have been naked. Miranda was mortified at the memory. He didn’t realise it, of course—thank goodness she had been wearing a mask!—but it still made her uncomfortable to think about how provocative that stupid costume had been.
Not that Rafe had leered like the other men, she had to give him credit for that, but how typical of him to have been at such a mindless party in the first place, and with that vapid girl clinging to his arm.
Burningly aware of Octavia’s accusing gaze, and offering up silent thanks to whoever had insisted the waitresses wore masks the night before, Miranda found a cool smile.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Knighton?’
‘You can call me Rafe, for a start,’ said Rafe, disconcerted by how familiar she seemed, sitting prim and proper behind her desk in a suit that was, if anything, less flattering than the day before. The woman had no idea how to dress. ‘Is Simon around? I never managed to talk to him about the ball yesterday.’
‘A ball! How exciting!’ A voice from the corner made Rafe turn and he found himself looking at a girl who might have been designed as a contrast to Miranda with her tight lips and her prudish expression.
She really was extraordinarily lovely, with flawless features and amazing green eyes. Silver gilt hair tumbled artlessly to her shoulders, and a breathtakingly short skirt revealed incredible legs—quite as good as that waitress’s last night—which she crossed as she leant forward with a dazzling smile.
‘Hello!’ she said as if she knew him.
‘Hello.’ He smiled back at her, and held out his hand. Unlike Miranda Fairchild, she looked as if she would enjoy a ball. She might be just the assistant he needed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there before. I’m Rafe Knighton. Are you temping here, too?’
‘Just visiting, I’m afraid.’ Her eyes laughed up at him as she shook his hand. ‘I’m Octavia Fairchild.’
Fairchild? ‘You’re Miranda’s sister?’ Rafe asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. It was hard to imagine two women more different from each other, one all lush, blonde beauty and the other prim and prickly and if not exactly plain, certainly nowhere near as lovely as her sister. Still, that explained why there was something familiar about her.
Octavia’s green eyes flickered slightly. She wasn’t used to being described as Miranda’s sister. It was usually the other way round.
She kept her smile dazzling, though, and nodded. ‘I know I shouldn’t be here,’ she confided, with a devastating glance up under her lashes, ‘but I wanted to see how Miranda was getting on.’
‘And discovered that I’m very busy,’ Miranda finished crisply for her with a meaningful look that Octavia ignored entirely. ‘Octavia’s just leaving.’
‘Don’t let me chase you away,’ said Rafe instantly. ‘I just came to have a word with Simon.’
‘He’s in his office if you want to go in,’ said Miranda, wishing he and Octavia would both go away, but before he could move the inner door opened and Simon himself came out.
‘Miranda, could you—?’ he began, then stopped as he saw Rafe. ‘I didn’t know you were here, Rafe,’ he apologised. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘Not at all. I’ve just been meeting Miranda’s sister here,’ said Rafe easily, indicating Octavia.
To Miranda’s surprise, Simon’s expression was disapproving as it rested on her sister. He nodded a curt greeting and turned immediately back to Rafe. ‘Come in,’ he said, and gestured towards his office. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well!’ Octavia was distinctly put out. ‘He’s not very friendly, is he?’
‘Actually, he’s very nice,’ said Miranda.
‘You can keep him.’ Octavia tossed back her hair with a sniff. ‘I’d rather have Rafe any day. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’
‘And no one knows it more than him,’ Miranda pointed out.
‘I think he liked me, don’t you?’
Miranda didn’t bother to answer that. Of course Rafe had liked Octavia. Men—with the apparent exception of Simon—always did.
She turned back to her computer. ‘Octavia, I’ve got to get on.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Octavia, getting gracefully to her feet. ‘I don’t want to look too keen. But if Rafe asks for my phone number, be sure and give it to him.’
Waggling her fingers in farewell, she strolled off, leaving Miranda alone with the scent of her perfume drifting in the air.
With a sigh, Miranda went back to her email.
It was nearly half an hour before Rafe emerged from Simon’s office. Miranda was alert to the sound of the opening door, and this time she was braced against the good looks and the dark-eyed charm. Less easy to ignore was the way his presence sent a charge zapping and crackling through the air and interfering with her breathing no matter how desperately she kept her eyes firmly fixed on her computer screen and pretended to be absorbed.
‘Have you got a moment, Miranda?’ said Simon, and, because it was him, she looked up. ‘Rafe has a proposal for you.’
Miranda looked wary. ‘What sort of proposal?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going down on one knee,’ said Rafe, with one of those smiles calculated to set a female pulse racing. Miranda kept hers below a gallop, but it was an effort. ‘This proposal’s to do with work, but I think it will be fun too.’
‘Fun?’
Just as he’d thought, she sounded as if she didn’t know what the word meant.
‘I want you to work with me on a special assignment,’ he told her. ‘Organising a ball, in fact.’
Most girls would have been thrilled at the idea. Rafe was pretty sure her beautiful sister would have been, but Miranda just looked at Simon.
He beamed back at her, oblivious to her dismay. ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fantastic at it. I’ve just been telling Rafe how impressed we’ve all been by you.’
‘But…won’t you need me here?’ she asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.
‘Ellen will be back on Monday,’ Simon pointed out. ‘We’ll miss you, of course, but it’s great to know that you’ll still be around for a while. We’ll clear it with your agency, of course, but I’m sure they’ll be delighted to let you stay when they hear what a prestigious assignment it is.’
Miranda was sure they would be too. Her heart sank, and she glanced at Rafe, who was watching her with evident amusement, as if he knew exactly how reluctant she was to take the job.
It wasn’t the job that made her uneasy, it was him. He was too disturbing, too overwhelming. It was impossible to concentrate when he was around, making the atmosphere zing just by standing there, letting the corner of his mouth curl in a way that made it hard to breathe properly. She would never get any work done.
And even if she did manage to deal with those distractions, she would never be able to keep Octavia away once she found out what she was doing. Miranda had no intention of encouraging Octavia’s dreams of becoming Mrs Knighton. There was no way coming up smack against a man as superficial and self-absorbed as herself would make her lovely sister happy. She needed to be cherished for her beauty and charm, not broken on the wheel of Rafe’s ‘fun’ lifestyle.
But what could she say? She could hardly say that she didn’t like him, or thought that the whole idea of a ball was typically frivolous and silly. A ball, in the twenty-first century! Honestly!
She lifted her chin. ‘How long would this assignment last?’
‘That depends on when the ball is,’ said Rafe cheerfully. ‘Your first task will be to set a date. But let’s say a couple of months.’
‘You’ll never find a venue in that time.’ Miranda seized on the excuse. ‘Anywhere big enough to a hold a ball will be booked up years in advance.’
‘I’ve got an idea about that,’ said Rafe, looking directly into her eyes. ‘But before we talk about details, I need to know if you’re available, and if you’re willing to do the job.’
All she had to do was say that she had other commitments. She didn’t have to do any job if she didn’t want to.
But she needed the money, and there was no guarantee the agency would be able to find her another placement next week. Especially if she had turned down a plum assignment for no reason other than feeling unsettled by her prospective boss.
Don’t be so silly, Miranda told herself sternly. The hard truth was that she needed the money, and two months of regular income would make a big difference. If she carried on working in the evenings as well, she could even start to save.
She thought about Whitestones and how much it was going to take to make the house habitable. Then she thought about the sea and the smell of the air and how happy she always felt there. It would be worth putting up with Rafe Knighton for that, wouldn’t it?
And perhaps she wouldn’t have to have that much to do with him after all, she encouraged herself. A man like him wasn’t likely to involve himself in boring practicalities. She might never see him.
Taking a deep breath, Miranda looked steadily back into Rafe’s eyes. ‘I’m available,’ she said, ‘and I’m willing.’
* * *
On Monday morning, Miranda presented herself in the chief executive’s office at nine o’clock on the dot. She was wearing a grey suit with a neat white blouse, and sensible black court shoes. She looked, she felt, cool and professional, and that was what she was determined to be.
Miranda had had the weekend to think about it, and she had decided that she had been overreacting to Rafe Knighton’s unsettling presence. She had nearly refused this job because of him. How stupid would that have been?
It was humiliating to think that she had been rattled by glinting eyes and a wicked smile. Miranda squirmed whenever she remembered the way her pulse had jumped and jittered. She ought to be immune to his particular brand of good looks and charm, after all.
And she was, Miranda resolved. She was lucky to have a job at all, let alone the prospect of an interesting one. She was good at organising. A ball was a project like any other, and she was fairly sure Rafe Knighton would lose interest as soon as they got down to the tedious details. He would drift off to another idea, and she would be able to get on with the job.
It would be fine.
Rafe’s PA, an elegant woman called Ginny, was clearly expecting her and made her welcome. She had even cleared a desk for her, but before Miranda had a chance to pump her about exactly what she was expected to do Rafe himself breezed into the office.
It was extraordinary the way everything snapped into focus when he was in the room, Miranda thought, conscious of a hitch in her breathing in spite of all her sternest resolutions not to notice him at all. She hadn’t even been aware of how muted things had seemed until he appeared.
In place of his usual immaculate suit, he wore black jeans and an open-necked pink shirt, its sleeves rolled casually above broad, strong wrists. The colour should have made him look effeminate, but instead only emphasised the virile masculinity he managed to exude just standing there, and Miranda made herself look away while she concentrated on breathing steadily. Cool and professional, right?
Right.
Rafe was kissing Ginny on the cheek and teasing her about her weekend. His charm was relentless, Miranda thought, glad to be back in critical mode, encompassing everyone and everything in his path. She imagined it steamrollering over man, woman, child or dog, regardless of whether they wanted to be charmed or not. Was she the only one able to resist it?
Her father had been exactly the same. When he’d died, Miranda had lost count of the people who had told her that he was the most charming person they had ever met, but she had often wondered whether that expansive charm hid a desperate need for approval. It had always seemed to her that her father didn’t exist properly unless he had someone to amuse or impress or flatter with his attention.
Rafe Knighton came from the same mould, Miranda suspected, and she would do well not to forget it.
‘I’m glad to see you, Miranda,’ said Rafe, turning his attention to her at last. ‘And bang on time, too. I hope this means you’re keen to get going on the ball?’ His voice was warm with laughter and his eyes danced distractingly as they studied her, standing neat and composed by the desk.
What was so funny? Miranda thought crossly even as she reminded herself not to let him rile her. Lifting her chin, she returned his gaze levelly.
‘It means I believe punctuality is important,’ she said.
‘What about at the end of the day? Are you one of those clock-watchers who’ll drop everything and walk out at five-thirty, regardless of what needs to be done?’
Privately, Miranda thought Rafe Knighton was a fine one to talk about clock-watching when he had barely done a stroke of work in his life. Easy to sneer at people who were paid by the hour when you could drift around amusing yourself all day.
‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘If anything needs to be dealt with urgently, then of course I will stay—and include any extra hours on my timesheet,’ she added, just in case he expected her to work for free.
