nerve and sinew, her veins humming with excitement. She looked up at him boldly, allowing her want to shine out, and with a muffled growl Raff moved forward, closing the infinitesimal gap, pulling her hard against him. Clara found herself on her tiptoes, straining towards him.
It could only have been a second, two at the most before his lips touched hers but it felt like an eternity and Clara was sure she would explode if he didn’t kiss her right there and then. And then his mouth was on hers sure and sweet, his hands were holding her close, one on the small of her back, holding her tight, the other in the nape of her neck and Clara wanted to climb onto him, into him and never let go. The lazy circles his fingers were making on her back, each one teasing hot, sensitised skin to the point of insanity, the way his hand cupped her tender neck, fingers buried in her hair, the way his mouth claimed her, demanding, expecting, giving.
Nothing had ever felt so right.
And when he let her go, staggered back with a look of total disbelief on his face, she was utterly bereft. ‘The door’s unlocked.’ He was breathing hard, his voice ragged.
It took a moment for his words to penetrate her overheated brain. ‘Oh.’ Anyone could have come in, seen her practically naked, draped all over him. She should feel shamed. But she wasn’t; she just wanted to be back in his arms, fused into him.
‘I could lock it...’
Her eyes fastened on him, on the question implicit in eyes darkened by desire.
‘You could, you probably should.’ It wasn’t the most eloquent response but it was all he needed. Powerful long strides across the room and the key was turned firmly, the outside world shut away.
Raff turned, eyes glittering dangerously. ‘Clara?’
This was it, this was her chance to turn back, to get this relationship back on a professional footing. There was nothing she wanted less. ‘I’m standing here in my underwear,’ she said as calmly as she could, allowing a purr to enter her voice, tossing her hair back over her shoulder. ‘And you’re all the way over there and fully dressed...’
‘That,’ he said grimly, advancing on her with meaningful intent, ‘can soon be remedied.’
Clara found herself being walked backwards until her back hit the wall. Panting, she looked up at him, a teasing smile on her lips, a smile he claimed as he swung Clara up in strong arms and she gave in to the sensation of his mouth, his hands, all thoughts drifting away and instinct taking over until she was no longer sure who she was or where she was. All she knew was that right now, in this moment, she was his.
‘ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Polite, cool, collected. Of course she was, just as she always was.
Clara was playing her part to perfection. His house, his life were seamlessly run by her employees while she stepped into her role as his girlfriend with grace. His employees liked her, she had charmed every business associate he had introduced her to and even his grandfather was showing signs of thawing.
But as soon as they were alone she retreated behind a shield of courtesy and efficiency. A shield he made no attempt to push aside.
It was better that way even if he did keep getting flashbacks of hot kisses, silky skin and fevered moans. After all, he usually kept his relationships short and sweet, superficial. Just not usually this short.
Or this sweet.
‘I think we’ve shown our faces long enough if you want to leave.’ Raff liked music as much as the next man but the benefit for ill and destitute musicians was a little out of his comfort zone. ‘Unless, of course, you’re enjoying it.’
The corners of her mouth tilted up, as close as she had got to a genuine smile in weeks. ‘The violinist sounds just like Summer when she’s practising,’ she whispered, her breath sweet on his cheek. ‘I had no idea I was raising a musical genius.’
‘He sounds like Mr Simpkins when I’ve forgotten his evening fish,’ Raff retorted. ‘I think they’re trying to extort money from us with menaces. Pay up or the music continues.’
‘The percussionists were good and the harpist wasn’t too bad...’ She broke off, biting her lip, laughter lurking in her eyes.
‘Until she started singing.’ Raff glared over at the harp. ‘If she isn’t some sort of banshee then that voice was genetically engineered for warfare. There’s no way those howls could be natural.’
‘Come on.’ Clara placed her hand upon his arm, just as she had done at every party, every dinner, every benefit over the last few weeks. His blood began to heat up until he was surprised his sleeve didn’t burst into flames, but he didn’t betray his discomfort by a single twinge.
‘Only if you want,’ he demurred. ‘There’s still the Cymbal Concerto to go. I’d hate for you to miss out.’
‘So considerate.’ She might look as if she were wafting along on his arm but her hand was inexorably steering him towards the open doors. ‘Successful night?’
‘When it was quiet enough to hear myself speak. Polly must be exhausted, spending her free time at these things.’ Raff routinely worked twelve-, fourteen-hour days out in the field but give him those any day over his sister’s routine of office by day, business socialising by night. ‘I would give anything for a quiet night in The Swan.’
‘Me too. You know, I thought my life was in danger of getting into a rut.’ Clara breathed in a deep sigh as they left through the double doors that led from the ornate banqueting hall into the equally ornate but much quieter and cooler vestibule. ‘But after several weeks of social events I am yearning for my sofa, a film and something really plain to eat. A jacket potato, salad, a piece of grilled chicken.’
‘That sounds amazing.’ It really did. Canapés and fancy dinners had lost any novelty after just a few days. ‘Can I join you?’
It was supposed to be a joke but he made the mistake of looking directly at her; their gazes snagged, held and colour rose over the high cheekbones. ‘It would be a rom-com,’ she warned him, looking away, her voice light.
‘My favourite.’ Right then he almost meant it; a night lazing on a sofa, something undemanding on the TV, sounded like paradise. But he could feel the phone in his pocket almost physically weighting him down stuffed as it was with commitments and appointments and functions, all as serious and important and necessary as tonight’s. ‘I might have a spare evening in, oh, about three weeks.’
Rafferty’s had to be represented, had to be seen to be there. This was where business was discussed, decided, where deals were struck. Under the sparkling lights, a glass of something expensive in one hand, a canapé in the other.
‘Actually...’ Clara sounded almost shy, tentative, completely unlike her usual assertive self ‘...I wondered if you were free tomorrow morning?’
‘On a Sunday?’ Raff didn’t even try to hide his shock. Apart from that very first week, Clara had kept Sundays sacrosanct. They were her family day, a day she was very firmly off duty.
Did that mean her daughter
