Loe raamatut: «The Secret Love-Child»

“Let’s talk about you.”

“Fine,” Rafe said, his head whirling. Did sperm live for a full day? He was pretty sure it was possible…but the odds weren’t on his side.

Weren’t on his side? Was he mad? He should have been relieved. He didn’t really want to be a father, did he? Did he?

He looked at Isabel and realized he did. With her, anyway.

The realization took his breath away.

He reefed his eyes away and stared down at the pool. Stared and stared and stared. And then his eyes flung wide. Who would have believed it?

“Rafe? Rafe, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

The Secret Love-Child
Miranda Lee

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘PLEASE, Rafe. My reputation for reliability is on the line here.’

Rafe sighed. Les had to be really desperate to ask him to do this. His ex-partner knew full well the one job he’d hated when they’d been in the photographic business together was covering weddings. Where Les enjoyed the drama and sentiment of the bride and groom’s big day, Rafe found the whole wedding scenario irritating in the extreme. The pre-ceremony nerves got on his nerves, as did all the hugging and crying that went on afterwards.

Rafe was not a big fan of women weeping.

On top of that, it was impossible to be seriously creative when the criterion was simply to capture every single moment of the day on film, regardless. Rafe, the perfectionist, had loathed having to work with the possibilities that the weather might be rotten, the settings difficult and the bridal party hopelessly unphotogenic.

As a top-flight fashion and magazine photographer, Rafe now had control over everything. The sets. The lighting. And above all…the models. When you shot a wedding, you had control over very little.

‘I presume you can’t get anyone else,’ Rafe said, resignation in his voice.

‘The wedding’s on Saturday, exactly a fortnight from today,’ Les explained. ‘You know how popular Saturday weddings are. Every decent photographer in Sydney will already be booked.’

‘Yeah. Yeah. I understand. Okay, so what do you want me to do?’

‘The bride’s due at your place at noon today.’

Rafe’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. It was eleven fifty-three. ‘And what if I’d refused?’

‘I knew you wouldn’t let me down. You might be the very devil with women, but you’re a good mate.’

Rafe shook his head at this back-handed compliment. So he’d had quite a few girlfriends over the years. So what? He was thirty-three years old, a better-than-average-looking bachelor who spent his days photographing bevies of beautiful women, a lot of whom were also single. It was inevitable that their ready availability, plus his active libido, would keep the wheels turning where his relationships were concerned.

But he wasn’t a womaniser. He had one girlfriend at a time, and he never lied or cheated. He just didn’t want marriage. Or children. Was that a crime? It seemed to be in some people’s eyes.

Rafe wished his married friends—like Les—would understand that not everyone wanted the same things out of life.

‘Just give me some details before the bride actually arrives,’ he said a tad impatiently, ‘so I won’t look a right Charlie.’

‘Okay, her name is Isabel Hunt. She’s thirtyish, blonde and beautiful.’

‘Les, you think all your brides are beautiful,’ Rafe said drily.

‘And so they are. On the day. But this one is beautiful all the time. You’re going to enjoy photographing Ms Hunt, I promise you. Or should I say, Mrs Freeman. The lucky girl is marrying Luke Freeman, the only son and heir of Lionel Freeman.’

‘Is that supposed to mean something to me? Who the hell is Lionel Freeman, anyway?’

‘Truly, Rafe, you’re a complete philistine when it comes to subjects other than food, the Phantom and photography. Lionel Freeman was one of Sydney’s most awarded architects. Poor chap was killed in a car accident a couple of weeks back, along with his wife, so tread easily with the groom when you finally meet him.’

‘Poor bloke. What rotten luck.’ Rafe’s own father had been killed in a car crash when Rafe had been only eight. It had been a difficult time in his life, one he didn’t like dwelling on.

‘Oh-oh. I just heard a car pull up outside. The bride-to-be, I gather, and right on time. I hope she’s just as punctual on her wedding day. Now what about money, Les? What do you charge for a wedding these days?’

‘A lot less than you could command, my friend. But I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my fee. It’s already been agreed upon and the full amount paid up front. If you give me your bank account number, I’ll…’

‘No, don’t bother,’ Rafe broke in, not caring about the money this once. Les might need it. He wouldn’t be running around covering too many weddings with a broken leg. ‘You can owe me one. Just don’t ask again, buddy. Not where a wedding is concerned. Must go. The doorbell’s ringing. I’ll call you back after the bride’s gone. Let you know what I thought of her.’

Rafe hung up and headed downstairs, then hurried along towards the front door, curious now to see if Les was exaggerating about the bride-to-be’s blonde beauty.

She’d have to be something really special to surprise him. After all, he was used to beautiful blondes. He’d photographed hundreds. He’d even fallen madly in love with one once.

He’d been twenty-five at the time, and had just started climbing the fashion photographic ladder. Liz had been an up-and-coming cat walk model. Nineteen, nubile and too nice to be true. Only he hadn’t realised that in the beginning. He’d become so besotted with her he’d actually begged her to live with him. Which she had. But only till she’d milked him for everything he was worth, both personally and professionally. Within a year she’d moved on to an older, more influential photographer, leaving an emotionally bruised and embittered Rafe behind.

He was no longer bruised, or bitter. That had all happened years ago. But he hadn’t lived with a girlfriend since, no matter how much he might occasionally be tempted to. And he didn’t date blondes any more. Experience had taught him blondes often played sweet and vulnerable and not too bright, when they were actually smart as a whip, sneakily manipulative and ruthlessly ambitious.

Photographing them, however, was another question. A blonde was still his model of choice.

Rafe wrenched open the front door to his inner-city terrace home and tried not to stare. Wow! Les hadn’t exaggerated one bit.

What a pity she was going to be married, he thought as his male gaze swept over his visitor. Because if ever there was a blonde who might make him reassess his decision never to date one again, she was standing right in front of him.

Talk about exquisite!

Ms Isabel Hunt was the epitome of an Alfred Hitchcock heroine. Classically beautiful and icily blonde, with cheekbones to die for, cool long-lashed blue eyes and what looked like a perfect figure. Though, to be honest, she would have to remove the fawn linen jacket she was wearing over those tailored black trousers for Rafe to be sure.

‘Ms Hunt?’ he said, smiling warmly at her. What had been an irksome task in his mind now held the prospect of some pleasure. Rafe liked nothing better than photographing truly beautiful women. Of course, only the camera would tell if she was also photogenic. It was perverse that some of the most beautiful women in the flesh didn’t always come up so well on film.

‘Mr Saint Vincent?’ she returned, her own gaze raking over him. With not much approval, he noted. Maybe she didn’t like men who hadn’t shaved by noon.

She looked the fussy type. Her make-up was perfection and her clothes immaculate. That white shirt she had on underneath her jacket was so dazzlingly white, it could have featured in one of those washing-powder ads.

‘The one and only,’ he replied, his smile widening. Most women, he’d found, eventually responded to his smile. Rafe liked his photographic subjects to be totally relaxed with him. Being stiff in front of a camera was the kiss of death when it came to getting good results. ‘But do call me Rafe.’

‘Rafe,’ she said obediently, but coolly.

Ms Hunt, Rafe realised ruefully, was not a woman given to being easily charmed. Which perhaps was just as well. She was one gorgeous woman. Those eyes. And that mouth! Perfectly shaped and deliciously full, her lips were provocative enough in repose. How would he react if they ever smiled at him?

Don’t smile, lady, he warned her silently. Or we both could be in big trouble!

‘Would you object if I called you Isabel?’ he said recklessly.

‘If you insist.’

Was that contempt he saw flicker in her eyes? Surely not!

Still, Rafe decided to pull right back on the charm for now and get down to tin tacks.

‘Les rang me a little while ago with just the barest of details,’ he informed her matter-of-factly, ‘so why don’t you come inside and we can discuss a few things?’

He led her into the front room where he conducted most of his business. It wasn’t an office as such, more of a sitting room, simply and sparsely furnished. The walls, however, were covered with his favourite photos, all of women in various states of dress and undress. None actually nude, but some were close, and all were in black and white.

‘I don’t see any wedding photos,’ the bride-to-be noted curtly as he led her over to the nearest sofa.

‘I no longer work as a wedding photographer,’ he admitted. ‘But I was once Les’s partner, so don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.’

She gave him a long hard look. ‘I suspect you’re more expensive than Les.’

Rafe sat down on the navy sofa opposite hers and leant back, stretching his arms along the back.

‘Usually,’ he agreed. ‘But not this time. I’m doing this job as a favour to Les.’

‘What about the actual photos? Will I have to pay more for them?’

‘No.’

She glanced up at the prints on the wall again and almost rolled her eyes. ‘You do take coloured snaps, don’t you?’

Rafe was not a man easy to rile. He had a very even temper. But she was beginning to annoy him. Coloured snaps, indeed! He wasn’t some hack or hobby photographer. He was a professional!

‘Of course,’ he returned, priding himself on sounding a lot calmer than he was feeling inside. ‘I do a lot of fashion photography. And fashion wouldn’t be fashion without colour. But wedding photographs do look fabulous in black and white. I think you’d be pleased with the results.’

‘Mr Saint Vincent—’ she began frostily.

‘Rafe, please,’ he interrupted, determined not to lose it. My, she was a snooty bitch. Mr Luke Freeman was welcome to her. Rafe wondered if the poor groom knew exactly what type he was getting here. Talk about an Ice Princess!

‘The thing is, Rafe,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘I wouldn’t have chosen a wine-red gown for my maid of honour if I wanted all the photographs done in black and white, would I?’

Rafe simply ignored her sarcasm. ‘What colour is the groom wearing?’

‘Black.’

‘And yourself?’

‘White, of course.’

‘Of course,’ he repeated drily, his eyes holding hers for much longer than was strictly polite.

She flushed. She actually flushed.

Rafe was startled. She couldn’t be a virgin. Not at thirty. And not looking like that. It was faintly possible, he supposed. Either that, or sex wasn’t her favourite pastime.

Rafe pitied the groom some more. It didn’t look as if his wedding night was going to be a ball if his bride was this uptight about sex.

‘I’m sorry but I really don’t want my wedding photos done in black and white,’ she pronounced coldly, despite her pink cheeks. ‘If you feel you can’t accommodate me on this, then I’ll just have to find another photographer.’

‘You won’t find anyone decent at this late stage,’ Rafe told her bluntly.

She looked frustrated and Rafe found some sympathy for her. He was being a bit stubborn, even if he was right.

‘Look, Isabel, would you tell a painter how to paint? Or a surgeon how to operate? I’m a professional photographer. And a top one, even if I say so myself. I know what will look good, and you won’t look just good shot in black and white. You’ll look magnificent.’

She was clearly taken aback by his fulsome compliment. But he’d never had the opportunity to photograph a bride as beautiful as this. No way was he going to let her muck up his creative vision. With the automatic cameras now available, any fool could take colour snaps. But only Rafe Saint Vincent could produce black and white masterpieces!

‘There will be any number of guests at your wedding taking coloured snaps, if you want some,’ he argued. ‘My job, however, is to give you quality photographic memories which will not only be beautiful, but timeless. I guarantee that you’ll still be able to show your wedding photographs to your grandchildren with great pride. They won’t be considered old-fashioned, or funny, in any way.’

‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ she threw at him in almost scornful tones.

‘I’m very sure of my abilities. So what do you say?’

‘I don’t seem to have much choice.’

‘You won’t be disappointed if you hire me. Trust me on this, Isabel.’

She half rolled her eyes again.

Trust, Rafe realised, was something else Isabel Hunt did not do easily.

‘Why don’t you look at some of my more conventional black and white portraits?’ he suggested, pushing over the album portfolio which lay on the coffee-table between them. ‘You might find them reassuring. I confess the shots on my walls are somewhat…avant-garde. Meanwhile, I’m dying for a cup of coffee. I haven’t been up all that long. Late night last night,’ he added with a wry smile. ‘Would you like one yourself? Or something else?’

‘No, thank you. I’ve not long had breakfast.’

‘Aah…late night, too?’ he couldn’t resist saying.

She looked right through him before dropping her beautiful but chilly blue eyes back to the album. She began flicking through it, insulting him with the little time she spent over each page.

He glowered down at the top of her head, and had to battle to control the crazy urge to bend over and wrench the pins out of her oh, so uptight French roll. His hands itched to yank her to her feet and shake her till her hair spilled down over her slender shoulders. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her till there was fire in her eyes, not ice. He wanted to see that blush back in her cheeks. But not from embarrassment. From passion.

He wanted… He wanted… He wanted her!

Rafe reeled with shock. To desire this woman was insane. And stupid. And masochistic.

First, she was going to be married in two weeks. Second, she was a blonde. Third, she didn’t even like him!

Three strikes and you’re out!

Now go get your coffee, dummy. And when you come back, focus on her simply as a fantastic photographic subject, and not the most challenging woman of the century.

CHAPTER TWO

ISABEL did not look up till she was sure she was alone, shutting the photo album with a snap.

The man was impossible! To hire him as her wedding photographer was impossible! Rafe Saint Vincent might be a brilliant photographer but if he wasn’t capable of listening to what she wanted, then he could just go jump.

Truly, men like him irritated the death out of her.

And attracted the devil out of her.

Isabel sighed. That was the main problem with him, wasn’t it? The fact she found him wickedly sexy.

Isabel closed her eyes and slumped back against the sofa. She’d thought she’d finally cured herself of the futile flaw of fancying men like him. She’d thought since meeting and becoming engaged to Luke that she would never again need what such men had to offer.

Luke was exactly what she’d been looking for in a husband. He was handsome. Successful. Intelligent. And extremely nice. A man who, like her, had come to the conclusion that romantic love was not a sound basis for marriage, that compatibility and common goals were far more reliable. Falling in love, they’d both discovered in the past, made fools of men—and women. Passion might be the stuff poems were written about, but it didn’t make you happy in the long run. Mind-blowing sex, Isabel now believed, was not the be-all and end-all when it came to a relationship.

Not that Luke wasn’t good in bed. He was. If her mind sometimes strayed to her own private and personal fantasies while he was making love to her, and vice versa, then Isabel hadn’t been overly concerned.

Till this moment.

It was one thing to fill her mind with images of some mythical stranger during sex with Luke. Quite another to go to bed with him on her wedding night thinking of the likes of Rafe Saint Vincent.

And she would, if he was around all that day, looking her up and down with those sexy eyes of his.

Isabel shook her head with frustration. She’d always been attracted to the Mr Wrongs of this world. The dare-devils and the thrill-seekers. The charmers and the slick, smooth-tongued womanisers who oozed the sort of confidence she found a major turn-on.

Of course, she hadn’t known they were Mr Wrongs to begin with. She’d thought they were interesting, exciting men. It had taken several wretched endings—especially the disaster with Hal—to force her to face the fact that her silly heart had no judgement when it came to the opposite sex. It picked losers and liars.

By her late twenties, desperation and despair had forced Isabel’s brain to develop a fail-safe warning system. If she was madly attracted to a man, then that was a guarantee he was another Mr Wrong.

So she didn’t have to know much about Rafe Saint Vincent to know his character. She only had to take one look at him. Les had provided her with some brief details about him—namely that he was a bachelor, and a brilliant photographer—but to be honest, aside from the warning bells going off in Isabel’s brain, Mr Saint Vincent’s appearance said it all, from his trendy black clothes to his earring and his designer stubble. The fact he lived in a terraced house in Paddington completed the picture of a swinging male single of the new millennium whose priorities were career, pleasure and leisure, and who was never going to buy a cow when he could have cartons of milk for free. Rafe might not be a criminal or a con man, like Hal had been, but he would always be a waste of time for a woman who wanted marriage and children.

Actually, every man Isabel had ever fancied had been a waste of time in that regard. Which was why, when she’d found herself staring thirty in the face, still without the home and family of her own she’d always craved, Isabel had decided enough was enough, and set about finding herself a husband with her head, not her heart.

And she had.

Isabel knew she could be happy with Luke. Very happy.

But the last thing she needed around on her wedding day was someone like Rafe Saint Vincent.

Yet she needed a photographer. What excuse could she give her mother for not hiring him? The black and white business wouldn’t wash. Her mother just loved black and white photographs, a hangover from the days when that was all there was. Her mother was not a young woman. In fact she was seventy, Isabel having been the product of a second honeymoon when Doris Hunt had turned forty.

No, there was nothing for it but to hire Rafe God’s-gift-to-women Saint Vincent. Isabel supposed there was no real harm in fantasising about another man while your husband was making love to you, even on your wedding night. Luke would never know if she never told him.

And she wouldn’t.

Actually, there were a lot of things about herself she’d never told Luke. And she didn’t aim on starting now!

Her eyes opened and lifted to the photographs on the wall again and, this time, with their creator out of the room, Isabel let her gaze linger.

They really were incredibly erotic, his clever use of shadow highly suggestive. Although the subjects were obviously either naked or semi-naked, the lighting was such that most private parts were hidden from view. There was the occasional glimpse of the side of a breast, or the curve of a buttock, but not much more.

Tantalising was the word which came to mind. Isabel could have stared at them for hours. But the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs had her reefing her eyes away and searching for something to do. Anything!

Fishing her mobile phone out of her bag, she punched in her parents’ number and was waiting impatiently for her mother to answer when her nemesis of the moment walked back into the room, sipping a steaming mug of coffee.

She pretended she wasn’t ogling him, but her eyes snuck several surreptitious glances as he walked over and sat down in the same spot he’d occupied before. He was gorgeous! Tall and lean, just as she liked them. Not traditionally handsome in the face, but attractive, and oh, so sexy.

‘Yes?’ her mother finally answered, sounding slightly breathless.

‘Me, here, Mum.’ No breathlessness on Isabel’s part. She sounded wonderfully composed. Yet, inside, her heartbeat had quickened appreciably. Practice did make perfect!

‘Oh, Isabel, I’m so glad you rang before we left for the club. I was thinking of you. So how did it go with Mr Saint Vincent?’

‘Fine. He was fine.’

Isabel saw his dark eyes widen over the rim of his coffee-mug. Clearly, he’d been thinking she wasn’t going to hire him.

‘As good as Les?’ her mother asked. Les had been hired by her parents before, for their recent golden wedding anniversary party.

‘Better, I’d say.’

‘That’s a relief. I’ve waited a long time to see you married, love. I would like to have some decent photographs of the momentous event.’

Isabel’s eyes flicked up to the two most provocative photos on the wall and a decidedly indecent thought popped into her mind. What would it be like to be photographed by him like that? To be totally naked before him? To have him arranging filmy curtains or sliding satin sheets over her nude body? To have to stand—or lie—perfectly still in some suggestive pose for ages whilst he shot reel after reel of film, those sexy eyes of his focused only on her?

Just the thought of it sent her heartbeat even higher.

Fortunately, Isabel was not a female whose inner feelings showed readily on her face. She could look at a man and be thinking the hottest thoughts and still look cool. Sometimes, even uninterested. Which perhaps was just as well, or she’d have spent half of her life in bed.

She didn’t flirt easily. Neither was she capable of the sort of coy sugary behaviour some men seemed to find both a come-on and a turn-on. Most men found her slightly aloof, even snobbish. They often confused her ice-blonde looks and ladylike manner with being prudish and undersexed. Which perhaps explained why most of her lovers had been men who dared to do what a gentleman wouldn’t, men who simply rode roughshod over her seeming uninterest and simply took what they wanted.

Isabel looked at the man sitting opposite her and wondered what kind of lover he’d be.

Not that you’re ever going to find out, her conscience reminded her harshly.

‘I have to go, Isabel,’ her mother was saying. ‘Your father and I were just having a bite to eat before we go down the club. When will you be home? Will you be eating with us tonight?’

Isabel had been living with her parents during the last few weeks leading up to the wedding. She’d quit her flat, plus her job as receptionist at the architectural firm where Luke worked, content to become a career wife and home maker after their marriage. She and Luke were going to try for a baby straight away.

‘As far as I know,’ she told her mother whilst she continued to watch the man opposite with unreadable eyes. ‘Unless Luke comes back today and wants to go out somewhere. If he happens to ring, you could ask him. And tell him I’ll be back home by one at the latest.’

‘Will do. Bye, love.’

‘Bye, Mum.’

She clicked off the phone then bent down to tap it against the album on the coffee-table. ‘Very impressive,’ she said, giving him one of her super cool looks, the ones she fell back on when her thoughts were at their most shocking. Pity she couldn’t have rustled one up earlier when his barb about her wearing white at her wedding had sent a most uncharacteristic flush to her cheeks. Still, she was back in control now. Thank heavens.

She put down the phone and opened the album to a page which held a traditional full-length portrait of a woman in an evening gown. ‘I liked this portrait very much. If you feel you could reproduce shots like this, then you’re hired.’

‘I don’t ever reproduce anything, Isabel,’ he returned quite huffily. ‘I’m an artist, not a copier.’

Isabel’s patience began to wear thin. ‘Do you want this job or not?’ she threw at him.

‘As I said before, I’m doing this as a favour to Les. The question is…do you want me or not?’

Isabel’s eyes met his and she had a struggle to maintain her equilibrium. If only he knew…

‘I suppose you’ll have to do,’ she managed to say.

‘Such enthusiasm. When and where?’

How about here and now?

‘The wedding is at four o’clock at St Christopher’s Church at Burwood, a fortnight from today. And the reception is at a place in Strathfield called Babylon.’

‘Sounds exotic.’

It was, actually. Isabel had a secret penchant for the exotic. Though you’d never tell by looking at her. She always dressed very conservatively. But her favourite story as a child had been Aladdin, and she’d often dreamt of being a harem girl, complete with sexy costume and gauzy veils over her face.

‘Do you want me to come to your house beforehand?’ he asked. ‘A lot of brides want that. Though some are too nervous to pose well at that stage. Still, when I was doing weddings regularly, I developed a strategy for relaxing them which helped on some occasions.’

‘Oh?’ Isabel tried to stop her wicked imagination from taking flight once more, but it was a lost cause.

‘I’d give them a good…stiff…drink,’ he said between sips of his coffee.

How she kept a straight face, Isabel would never know.

‘I don’t drink,’ she lied.

‘Figures,’ he muttered, and she almost laughed.

He obviously thought she was a prude.

‘Don’t worry,’ she went on briskly. ‘I won’t be nervous. And, yes, I’m sure my mother will want you to come to the house beforehand. I’ll jot down the address and phone number for you.’ She pulled out a pen from her bag, plus a spare business card from her hairdresser, and wrote her parents’ details on the back.

‘What say you arrive on the day at two?’ she suggested as she handed it over to him, then stood up.

He put down his coffee, stared at the card, then stood up also.

‘Is this your regular hairdresser?’ he asked.

The question startled her. ‘Yes, why?’

‘Did they do your hair today?’

‘No. I did it myself. I only go to a hairdresser when I want a cut. I like to do it myself.’ Aside from the money it cost, she wasn’t fond of the way some hair-dressers had difficulty following instructions.

‘So you’ll be doing your hair on your wedding day?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not like that, I hope,’ he said as he slipped the card into his shirt pocket.

Isabel bristled. ‘What’s wrong with it like this?’

‘It’s far too severe. If you’re going to have it up, you need something a little softer, with some pieces hanging around your face. Here. Like this.’

Before she could step away, or object, he was by her side, his fingers tugging at her hair and touching her cheeks, her ears, her neck.

It was one thing to keep her cool whilst she was just thinking about him, quite another with his hands on her. His fingertips were like brands on her skin, leaving heated imprints in her flesh and sending quivery ripples down her spine.

‘Your hair seems quite straight,’ he was saying as he stroked several strands down in front her ears. ‘Do you have a curling wand?’

‘No,’ she choked out, knowing she should step back from him but totally unable to. She kept staring at the V of bare skin in his open-necked shirt and wondering what he would look like, naked.

‘I suggest you buy one, then. They’re cheap enough.’

Her eyes lifted to find he was studying not her hair so much, but her mouth. For one long, horribly exciting moment, Isabel thought he was going to kiss her. She sucked in sharply, her lips falling apart as a shot of excitement zinged through her veins. But he didn’t kiss her, and she realised with a degree of self-disgust that she’d just been hoping he would.

But what if he had? came the appalling thought. What if he had?

Just the thought of risking or ruining what she had with Luke made her feel sick.

‘I must go,’ she said, and bent to pick up her bag, the action forcing his hands to drop away from her face. By the time she’d straightened he’d stepped back a little. But she had to get out of there. And quickly.

‘If I don’t hear from you,’ she added brusquely, ‘then I will expect you to show up at my parents’ home at two precisely, a fortnight from today. Please don’t be late.’

‘I am never late for appointments,’ he returned.

‘Good. Till then, then?’

He nodded and she swept past him, her bag brushing against him as she did so. She didn’t apologise, or look down. She kept going, not drawing breath till she was in her car and on the road home.