He had seen Clara in a sarong. The hot jealousy that burned through Raff at Byron Drewe’s words shocked him. Of course he had seen Clara in a sarong—and a lot less too. He was her ex-lover, the father of her child. At some point Clara had been enamoured enough with this guy to have a baby with him.
And at some point he had allowed her to come home, alone. To raise their child alone.
The jealousy ebbed away, replaced with cold dislike and even colder contempt. ‘I am trying to persuade her to link her business with mine. But you know Clara.’ He smiled at her. ‘She has to be in control. Even a name like Rafferty’s doesn’t reassure her!’
‘Rafferty’s?’ The older man’s eyes were now assessing Raff. ‘Impressive.’
The contempt deepened. Now they knew who he was his stock had gone up. Raff hated that.
‘What do you do now, Clara?’ Should Byron Drewe be smiling at her in that intimate way? Raff allowed himself a brief, self-indulgent fantasy of leaning across the table and planting one perfect punch on that perfect nose.
‘I run a concierge service.’
‘Half of Hopeford couldn’t manage without her, including me,’ Raff said.
‘How interesting.’ The older Mr Drewe couldn’t sound less interested. Maybe it was his nose that Raff should fantasise about punching.
‘It keeps me busy.’ If Clara had heard the snub she wasn’t reacting. ‘And it’s thriving. Between work and Summer I don’t have much free time.’
Raff bit back a smile as he mentally applauded. Nicely done, Clara. Remind them why we’re here, ignore their put-downs and make sure they realise you’re doing them a favour.
She didn’t need him to step in at all. He might as well help himself to the coffee and sit back and enjoy the show.
‘And how is Summer?’
Surely Summer’s own grandfather shouldn’t pronounce her name in that slightly doubtful way, as if he wasn’t quite sure it was right.
Or maybe he just didn’t like the name. Clara could scrape her hair back and put on a suit but she knew full well that Archibald Drewe still thought of her a teenage hippy with long hair, tie-dye dresses and a happy-go-lucky attitude who had named her daughter accordingly.
She had been that girl once, but it was a long time ago.
‘She’s good.’ Clara pulled out her tablet. ‘I have pictures.’
‘That won’t be necessary, thank you.’
Time stopped for a long moment, the blood freezing in her veins. How could he dismiss her daughter, his own flesh and blood, in that cold, cavalier way?
‘She has your hair, your eyes.’ She looked directly at Byron, willing him to stand up for her, for his daughter, for once in his pampered life. ‘If you ever look at the pictures I send you you’ll know that.’
‘I look.’ He had the grace to sound ashamed. ‘She’s beautiful.’
‘She is, but she is also smart and kind and very funny. You’d like her.’
He shifted in his seat, evidently uncomfortable. Beside her Raff was leaning back, ostensibly totally at his ease, sipping a cup of coffee. But the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw told her that he was utterly alert, following every word, every intonation.
Every put-down.
Her hands tightened on her cup; it had been like a game of chicken, leaving asking him along to the last possible moment, kidding herself that she might be able to do this alone. Afraid that his presence might make the whole, nasty situation even more humiliating. She’d thought she’d be ashamed, for him to see this side of her. The dismissed, ‘unwanted single mother’ side. But having him next to her filled her with the strength she needed to battle on. After all, he had his demons too.
She reached over and laid her hand on his forearm, squeezing very slightly, letting his warmth fill her as she lifted her head and stared evenly at her daughter’s father.
‘I haven’t told her you’re here but I hope you have got time to meet her.’ She wanted to keep it businesslike but she couldn’t help babbling a little, trying to sell her daughter to the one person who shouldn’t need the pitch, the one person who should be in regardless.
‘She has a picture of you in her room and I tell her lots of stories about you and about Sydney. She helps me put the photos together every Christmas, chooses the pictures she wants to send you. She would love to meet you.’
‘Clara, I...’ Was that pity in his eyes or shame? Either way it wasn’t what she wanted to see.
‘It’s just, while you’re here...’
‘I’m getting married.’
Clara stared at Byron blankly. This was why they wanted to see her? Did they think she’d be upset after ten years of silence and neglect, that she was so pathetic she still harboured hopes that they would be a family?
The ego of him.
Raff moved his arm so that his hand lay over hers, lacing his fingers through her fingers, a tacit show of support. She should be annoyed at this overt display of ownership but relief tingled through her instead. ‘That’s great,’ she said, injecting as much sincerity into her voice as she could. ‘Congratulations, I hope you’ll be very happy.’
‘He’s marrying Julia Greenwood.’
Archibald Drewe obviously expected this to mean something.
‘Great!’
‘She’s heiress to a media empire,’ he told her, his voice oozing contempt for her obvious ignorance. ‘This is a brilliant match for Byron, and for our business.’
Much better than a penniless English teenager. She’d known she was never good enough for Byron’s family. Once it would have hurt that he had allowed them to influence their future. Now she simply didn’t care.
As long as it didn’t affect her daughter.
‘We want you to sign this.’ Archibald Drewe slid a sheaf of papers over the table. Aha, this was the real reason for the meeting. Business, the family way.
‘What is it?’ Clara made no move to take it.
‘Byron is about to join together two great businesses, and any children he and Julia will have...’ the emphasis here was intentional ‘...will inherit a very influential business indeed. We don’t want anything from Byron’s past to jeopardise his future.’
Anything? They meant anyone.
Beside her Raff was rigid, his hand heavy on hers, fingers digging in, almost painfully.
‘And what does this have to do with me?’
‘I want to make it quite clear...’ Archibald Drewe leant forward; obviously the kid gloves
