don’t believe I did.’ Raff hooked the wooden chair out from opposite her desk and slid into it. He knew his six-foot-two frame could be intimidating, used it to his advantage sometimes, but for some reason, standing before her incredibly neat desk, he was irresistibly reminded of being summoned to the headmaster’s office.
Although that was where any resemblance to his long-suffering former headmaster ended despite her severely cut suit—her strawberry-blonde hair might be ruthlessly scraped back but it looked as if it was all there and she lacked the terrifying bushy eyebrows. Hers were rather neat lines, adding a flourish to what really was a remarkably pretty face, although the hair, the discreet make-up and the suit were all designed to hide the fact. Interesting. Raff filed that fact away for future use. He sensed he was going to need all the weapons he could get.
He leant back in his chair, keeping his eyes fixed on her face. ‘Castor Rafferty, but you can call me Raff. I believe you know my sister.’
‘Oh.’ Her eyes flickered away from his searching expression. ‘I was expecting you a couple of days ago.’
‘I’ve been busy dropping everything and rushing back to England. So, are you going to tell me where Polly is?’
Clara Castleton shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t tell you if I knew,’ she said. ‘But I don’t.’
Raff narrowed his eyes. He didn’t believe her, didn’t want to believe her. Because if she was telling the truth he was at an utter dead end. ‘Come now, Clara. I can call you Clara, can’t I? This short and simple email...’ he held up his phone with the email displayed. Not that he needed to be reminded what it said; he knew it off by heart ‘...tells me quite clearly that in an emergency my sister can be contacted via Clara of Castleton’s Concierge Consultancy. Nice alliteration by the way.’
She took the phone and read the message, those intriguing eyebrows raised in surprise. ‘Sorry, I have an email address, nothing more.’
‘I’ve tried emailing a couple of times.’ Try ten. Or twenty. ‘Maybe she’ll read it if it comes from you,’ he suggested hopefully. ‘My original offer still stands.’
‘Keep your money, Mr Rafferty.’ Her voice was positively icy now. Raff was already finding the anaemic English spring chilly; her tone brought the temperature down another few degrees. ‘Your sister has taken care of my fees. She asked me to help settle you in, to continue to make sure the house is cared for. This I can do, it’s what I do. But unless there is a real emergency I won’t be sending any emails.’
It was a clear dismissal—and it rankled, far more than it should do. Time for a change of tactic; he needed to get this right so Polly would be back where she belonged, managing Rafferty’s, the iconic department store founded by their great-grandfather.
And he would be back in the field where he belonged. He’d barely had a chance to unpack, to assess what was needed, how to play his own small yet vital part in stopping the humanitarian crisis unfolding before him from becoming a full-blown disaster, when he’d received Polly’s email ordering him home.
Typical of his family, to think their petty affairs were worth more than thousands of lives. And yet here he was.
Raff looked around the neat, organised room for inspiration. Such a contrast from his last office: a tent on the outskirts of the camp. Even the office before that, situated in an actual building, had been a small room, almost a cupboard, piled high with crates, paperwork and supplies. He couldn’t imagine having all this space to himself.
Occupying the corner at the end of the quaint high street, Clara’s office took up the entire ground floor of a former terraced shop, the original lead-paned bow windows now veiled with blinds, the iron sign holder above the front door empty, replaced by a neat plaque set in the wall.
Outside looked like a still from a film set in Ye Olde England but the inside was a sharp modern contrast. The large room was painted white with only bright-framed photographs to alleviate the starkness, although through the French doors at the back Raff could see a paved courtyard filled with flowering tubs and a small iron table and chairs, a lone hint of homeliness.
Clara’s very large and very tidy desk was near the back by the far wall, facing out across the room. Two inviting sofas clustered by the front window surrounding a coffee table heaped with glossy lifestyle magazines. The whole room was discreet, tasteful and gave him no clue whatsoever to its owner’s personality.
Maybe it was time to try the charm after all.
Raff leaned forward confidingly. ‘I’m worried about Polly,’ he said. ‘It’s so out of character for her to disappear like this. What if she’s ill? I just want to know that she’s all right.’ He allowed a hint of a rueful smile to appear.
The look on Clara’s face oozed disapproval. Yep, she was still giving out the whole ‘disappointed headmaster’ vibe. ‘Mr Rafferty, you and I both know that your sister hasn’t just disappeared. She’s gone on holiday after making sure that both her job and home are taken care of. There really is no mystery.
‘It may be a little out of character.’ Was that doubt creeping into her voice? ‘I haven’t known her to take even a long weekend before—but that’s probably exactly why she needs this break. Besides, isn’t it your company too?’
Unfortunately. ‘Just what has my sister said to you?’
A faint flush crept over the high cheekbones. ‘I don’t understand.’
Oh, she understood all right.
‘She didn’t use the words irresponsible or lazy?’ Polly’s email might have been short but it had been to the point. Her point of view. As always, they differed on that.
The flush deepened. Not so cool after all. The colour gave her warmth, emphasising the curve of her cheek, the lushly dark lashes veiling those incredible eyes. An unexpected jolt of pure attraction shot through him. Before she had been like a marble statue, nice to look at but offputtingly chilly. This hint of vulnerability gave her dimensions. Unwanted, unneeded dimensions. He wasn’t here to flirt. With any luck he’d hardly be here at all.
‘Our communication was purely business,’ but she couldn’t meet his eye. ‘Now, I do happen to have a half-hour free right now. Is this a convenient time for me to show you the house?’
No, Raff wanted to snap. No, actually it wasn’t convenient. None of this was. Not Polly’s most uncharacteristic disappearance, nor her SOS ordering him home right now. She couldn’t expect him to drop everything and step in so she could go on some extended holiday.
Even though he hadn’t been home in over four years. He pushed the thought away. He wasn’t needed here, not as he was out in the field. Besides, his absence had given Polly the opportunity she had wanted; the two circumstances were entirely different.
Which made this whole disappearing act even odder. If he allowed himself to stop feeling irritated he might start getting worried.
‘Mr Rafferty?’
‘Raff,’ he corrected her. ‘Mr Rafferty makes me think I’m back at school.’
Or even worse back in the boardroom, sitting round a ridiculously large table listening to never-ending presentations and impenetrable jargon, itching to get up, stop talking and do.
‘Raff,’
