Rafael's Suitable Bride (3 page)

She wondered where he was right now. Somewhere in the room, but he had been commandeered by acquaintances long before she had made it over to Maria. Which brought her to the subject of the dress, upon which she launched into an exuberant account of how it was that she was wearing her hostess's dress. Maria, with her head cocked to one side and smiling with amusement, listened to the end and then assured her that she was more than happy for her to keep the dress because it certainly looked a great deal better on Cristina than it ever had on her.

‘I've never quite managed to fill it out at the top in the same way,' she confided, instantly boosting Cristina's self-esteem. ‘Now, tell me how your parents are…'

They chatted for a few minutes, then Maria took her on a round of introductions to people whose names Cristina had a hard time remembering. By the time Maria disappeared back into the throng, Cristina was happily ensconced in a lively conversation about gardens with some of the locals, who seemed as enthusiastic about the ins and outs of soil and compost as she was.

Across the room, Rafael absentmindedly looked at her and then took himself off in search of his mother, who would doubtless give him a sound lecture on the virtues of punctu
ality. He wondered how that would favour an early departure from the scene, thanks to an important overseas conference-call which he had scheduled for eleven-thirty.

But no, there was no mention of his late arrival, and within seconds he knew why.

‘I had no choice,' he muttered. ‘The woman had ploughed into the side of the road and was hunting down an errant contact lens as if she had a hope in hell of finding it.' He wondered how well she was taking in her surroundings without the dreaded spectacles, which she had refused to wear, opting instead for one contact lens and the possibility of crashing into something breakable.

She really was generously proportioned in all the right places, he thought distractedly, finding her and keeping her in his sight for a few seconds while he polished off his whisky and soda.

‘She's a gem,' Maria said, following his gaze. ‘I've known both her parents for such a long time. They own that chain of jewellers…you know the ones? Supply diamonds to all the best people…quietly influential, if you know what I mean.'

Rafael had been half listening, but now his ears pricked up, more thanks to his mother's intonation than the substance of her words, though he was picking up phrases: not brash like most wealthy people…Italian, of course, very traditional in their outlook, but not suffocatingly so…Happy for their youngest to live and work in London…And then, from nowhere, ‘She would be perfect for you, Raffy and it's really time you thought of settling down…'

‘N
O
, M
OTHER
!'

They were sitting in the large, farmhouse-style kitchen with a pot of coffee between them and the buzz of the radio in the background telling them that another depression was heading in their direction so that they could expect more bad weather.

It was not yet six-thirty, but Rafael had already been up for an hour, travelling the world via his mobile phone and laptop computer, and Maria was up simply because she found it impossible to sleep beyond six in the morning. Waking early was the habit of a lifetime, and a very handy one when she wanted to corner her son before the rest of her overnight guests started drifting downstairs and commanding her attention.

‘You are not getting any younger, Raffy.' She picked at the croissant on her plate and tried to work out a suitable strategy for coaxing him into her way of thinking, a mammoth task by anyone's standards. ‘Do you want to grow old changing mistresses every other week?'

‘I don't change mistresses every other week!' Rafael informed her. He looked meaningfully at his computer and was dutifully ignored. ‘I like my life just the way it is. Moreover, I'm sure she's a very nice girl, but she's not my type.'

‘No, I have met your type! All looks and no substance.'

‘Mother, that's the way I like them.' He grinned, but met no smiling response. ‘I don't want a relationship. I haven't got time for a relationship. Have you any idea how little free time I have in my life?'

‘As little as you want to have, Rafael.' She leaned towards him and he could feel a sermon approaching. Mentally he kicked himself for getting downstairs at the crack of dawn when he should have known from past experience that his mother would be there, bustling around and primed for conversation. But he hadn't thought. In fact, he had forgotten her ridiculous remark the minute his conference call had started, just as he had forgotten his brief contact with the girl in question about whom he could only vaguely recall someone short, plump and unnaturally cheerful.

‘You can't run away forever, Raffy,' Maria told him in a gentle voice, and his brows snapped together in disapproval of where the conversation was heading. Unfortunately for him, his mother was immune to any such vibes. She just kept ploughing onwards.

‘I really don't want to talk about this, Mama.'

‘And I think you need to. So you married young and were heartbroken when she died—but, Rafael, it's been over ten years! Helen would not have wanted you to live your life in a vacuum!' Privately, Maria thought that probably was exactly what his ex-wife would have wanted, but she kept the thought to herself, just as she had always kept her opinions of her son's ex-wife to herself. More so now because it was disrespectful to speak ill of the dead.

‘For the final time, Mother, I am not living my life in a vacuum! I happen to enjoy my life the way it is!'
And I don't
need you to try and find me a suitable wife
, he thought, although he would not have dared utter such a statement
because he knew how much it would have hurt her. He was, after all, her only child, and as such a certain amount of interference in his personal life was only to be expected. But that girl of all people? Surely his mother knew him well enough to know that physically the girl just wasn't his type!

She should also have known that any talk of Helen was taboo. That was a part of his life which he had consigned to the past, never to be resuscitated.

Maria shrugged and stood up. ‘I should go and change,' she said neutrally. ‘People will start heading down in a minute. I wouldn't like to shock them by having to see me in my dressing gown. I am sorry if you think that I'm being an interfering old woman, Rafael, but I worry about you.'

Rafael smiled fondly. ‘I don't think you interfering, Mother…'

‘The child is a little naive. I know her parents. Is it any wonder that I feel a certain moral obligation that she is okay?'

‘She seems fine to me,' Rafael said heartily. ‘No complaints about London life. Probably having a whale of a time.'

‘Probably.' Maria busied herself with her back to her son, making sure that all the breakfast requirements were ready. Of course Eric and Angela, who had been with her for ever, would have made sure that everything was prepared for her guests—twelve of whom had remained for the night—but she still liked to make sure for herself that all was as it should be. She could hear the guilt in Rafael's voice, but her maternal sense of duty ignored it. She wanted her son to be sorted out, which meant not standing on the sidelines while an array of highly unsuitable women flitted in and out of his life until he eventually keeled over from work-related stress or heart failure.

‘Maybe, however, you could make sure that her car is all right for her drive back down to London?' She turned to him
for confirmation. ‘I told her that you would last night, and she has left her car keys on the table by the front door.'

‘Sure.' That small favour seemed more than acceptable when the upside was his mother dropping a conversation that was really beginning to frustrate him.

He would have to do his emails a little later, which was annoying, but unavoidable.

He left the house before further distractions occurred and headed out to where the Mini had been abandoned overnight. Already the sky was beginning to turn the peculiar yellow-grey colour that precedes a snowfall. He realised that if he didn't leave soon he might find himself marooned in his mother's house, subjected to significant conversations about the quality of his life choices.

He was unprepared for the unthinkable, which was a Mini whose engine had decided to hibernate.

An hour after he had left for the seemingly routine task of starting it up, letting it run for a few minutes and then assuring his mother that the car was fine and dandy, he was returning with a ferocious scowl and a premonition of hassle.

He pushed open the front door in a tide of bitterly cold air to find Cristina standing there, warmly clad in jeans and a jumper. The source of all his trouble.

‘The thing's dead,' he informed her, slamming the door behind him and stamping his feet on the mat. He divested himself of the beaten leather jacket and glared at her.

Cristina bit her lip, guiltily aware that she should have been the one seeing to her car, even though Maria had assured her that Rafael wouldn't mind in the least checking on it first thing in the morning. She'd given the impression that it would be no bother at all. From the dark expression on his face, it certainly had been a bother.

‘I'm really sorry,' she apologised profusely.' I should have gone and tried myself. In fact, I was about to…'

‘Do you think you might have been able to get it going where I failed?'

‘No, but…' She fidgeted and then gave him a watery smile. ‘Thank you so much for trying anyway. Is it very cold out there? I can make you a cup of hot chocolate, if you like. I'm good at making hot chocolate.'

‘No hot chocolate. Black coffee.' He headed towards the kitchen which, thankfully, had not yet been invaded by the leftover guests. As an afterthought, and without turning around to look at her, he offered her a cup.

‘I've already had a cup of tea. Thank you.' Cristina paused. Even windswept and scowling he was still rawly, powerfully sexy, just as sexy as he had appeared the night before when he had come to her rescue. She brightened up at the memory of that, the way he had helped her out when there had been no need. ‘Do you think I might be able to get in touch with a garage to come and have a look at it?' she asked his averted back.

‘It's Sunday and it's going to snow.' Rafael turned around to look at her. ‘I think the answer to that is no.'

Cristina paled. ‘What am I going to do, in that case? I can't just stay here indefinitely. I've got my job. I can't believe my car's decided to just pack up on me!'

‘I doubt it was a deliberate act of sabotage,' Rafael commented dryly, feeling slightly better after the coffee, but still aware that there was a shed-load of work waiting to be done and that he would have to leave sooner rather than later. The motorway would be fine, even if it began to snow, but getting down the lanes that led from his mother's house could be challenging in bad weather, especially in a sportscar which was not fashioned for anything but optimum road conditions.

Cristina smiled and he was dimly aware that she really did have a smile that lit up her face, giving her a fleeting aspect of beauty. However, he was far more aware that time was pressing on, and he looked at his watch and then gulped back the remainder of his coffee.

‘I really have to go.' He wondered whether she had any idea of his mother's far-fetched ideas and decided that she didn't.

‘I know it's a huge imposition, but could you possibly give me a lift back to London—to whatever Underground station is closest to where you live? It's just that I really need to get back, and…I could always get the garage to come out in the morning and fix the car…and then have someone drive it down to London.'

‘Or you could just stay and see to it in the morning yourself. I mean, surely your boss would let you have the day off for an emergency.'

‘I don't have a boss,' Cristina said with a touch of pride. ‘I work for myself.'

‘All the better. You can give yourself a day off.' That sorted, Rafael dumped his cup in the sink and began heading for the door. But the image of her disappointed face behind him made him curse softly under his breath and turn back to her. ‘I'm leaving in an hour,' he said abruptly, watching the disappointment fade away like a dark cloud on a sunny day. ‘If you're not ready, I'll go without you, because snow's forecast and I can't afford to be trapped here.'

‘You could always ask your boss for the day off.' Cristina grinned. ‘Unless you are the boss, in which case you can always give yourself the day off.'

But she felt considerably cheered. It was peculiar, but there was something invigorating about him. She packed her bags quickly and efficiently. She hadn't eaten breakfast, but her
figure could do with skipping a meal, she decided. And Maria, despite her protests, assured her that she would telephone the garage herself and make sure that the car was delivered to London. She knew Roger, the chap who owned the garage, and he owed her a favour after she had given him a very lucrative tip indeed on the horses.

Rafael was less overjoyed with the arrangements. ‘Saddled with' were the two words that sprang into his head. He could hardly blame his mother for the state of the Mini and its lack of co-operation in getting started, but as they manoeuvred down the country lanes one hour later he couldn't help but feel that he had somehow been trapped into sharing his space with a perfect stranger.

And an extremely talkative one who seemed intent on ignoring the fact that he had a handless headset in the car for a reason. She patiently waited for business conversations to end, staring through the window at ominous skies which had gone from yellow-grey to charcoal, and then felt perfectly free to ask him about his work.

‘But don't you ever relax?' she asked, appalled after he had reluctantly given her a rundown of his typical day. They were leaving behind the first dismal flurries of snow and Rafael reluctantly abandoned his plans to call his PA, Patricia, for an update on the Roberts deal.

‘You sound like my mother,' he told her curtly, then, because he could sense rather than see her baffled silence at the harshness of his response, he relented. After all, he only had a couple more hours in her company. Why be offhand when she was so determinedly upbeat? ‘I presume, if you're your own boss, then you know that running a company is a twenty-four-seven commitment. What exactly do you do, anyway?'

Cristina, who had been a little hurt at his lack of curiosity
about her life and what she did, smiled, more than prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he was obviously very, very important. She had known, of course, that he came from a moneyed background, but she had had no idea that he was entirely and solely responsible for running the show. Little wonder he was so focused on work with little time to spare making polite chit-chat with her.

‘Oh, nothing very important,' Cristina said, suddenly a little abashed at her pedestrian occupation.

‘Now I'm curious.' He half smiled, and that half smile made her draw in her breath sharply, made a frisson of awareness ripple down her spine and send shivers racing all through her body. It was scary and exhilarating at the same time.

‘Well…do you remember I told you how much I love gardens? And nature?'

Rafael had a dim recollection but he nodded anyway.

‘I own a flower shop in London. I mean, it's nothing much. We each of us children came into some money on our twenty-first birthdays and I chose to spend mine on that.'

‘In England? Why?' A flower shop? He had had extensive dealings with flower shops, almost exclusively in connection with his girlfriends, to whom flowers were usually sent at the beginning and at the end of relationships. But his PA dealt with all that and he had always assumed that she simply rang one of those huge concerns that delivered worldwide. But there must be one-man-band shows. Cute. She had the appearance of someone who might run a flower shop.

Cristina shrugged and pinkened. ‘I fancied being out of Italy. I mean, I have perfect sisters who lead perfect lives. It was nice getting away from the comparisons. But please don't mention that to your mother, just in case it gets back to my parents!'

‘I won't,' Rafael promised solemnly. Did she imagine that
he gossiped with his mother about such things? Nevertheless, her admission was touching, as was her enthusiasm about what she did. The woman was a walking encyclopaedia on trees and plants, and he was perfectly content to listen as she chatted about her shop, her plans to branch out into the landscaping business at some point, starting with small London gardens, but then moving on to bigger things. She was dying for the Chelsea Flower show, which she had been to a couple of times, and which had never failed to amaze and astound her. Her dream was to show her own flowers there someday.