Emerald Mistress (12 page)

As Harriet sat up her head swam, making her feel a touch dizzy. ‘Oops…’

Springing upright to his full imposing height, Rafael reached down a lean hand and pulled her upright. ‘I’ll see you indoors before I leave.’

‘You do have great manners. I like that,’ she mumbled, swaying slightly until he braced an arm over her spine and managed to steady legs that seemed briefly to want to move in opposing directions.

‘I’m thrilled that you noticed.’

Tugging free of his support, to be the new and brave independent woman she was determined to be, Harriet plotted a reasonably straight path through the rough grass on her own. But Rafael helped her over
the fence, and vaulted over the same barrier with the intimidating ease of an athlete to escort her across the yard.

‘I’d invite you in but I’m very sleepy,’ Harriet confided. ‘When are we going to have a business meeting?’

‘I’m about to leave for New York,’ Rafael divulged.

Stark disappointment swallowed Harriet alive. ‘Oh…’

‘We’ll talk tomorrow afternoon at two. My place or yours?’ he quipped.

‘Here would be the better option.’

‘In the meantime, I never did return your friendly salutation on the phone.’ His dark eyes locked to her innocent puzzled face as he closed light hands over hers and drew her close to his tall, muscular frame. ‘Hello, partner…’

He kissed her breathless. She wasn’t prepared, and there was no time to muster her defences. She fell into that kiss and the heat of a passion that burned her from inside out. Gasping, trembling, suddenly painfully alive to the tingling reaction of every nerve ending she possessed, she was shaken by the seductive strength of her own pleasure. She didn’t want to breathe, she didn’t want him to stop, she just wanted to stay where she was, feeling what she was feeling for ever.

But Rafael pressed open the door behind her, eased her into the dim kitchen and said goodnight. In a daze she stood there for several minutes, not quite sure what had happened to her.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Harriet tried to avoid waking up: a wheel of fire was turning inside her head. She embraced the pain with the masochistic conviction that she thoroughly deserved to suffer for being so foolish with the wine.

At the same time, Rafael Flynn had kissed her—and she couldn’t quite credit that development. Possibly the isolation of life in County Kerry had driven him to lower his standards. From what she had seen Ballyflynn wasn’t exactly heaving with young women. But he hadn’t simply kissed her once, she recalled. He had done the deed twice—and very thoroughly. Of course there was a more obvious explanation for her sudden startling pulling power: she was on the spot and single and he was over-sexed. That made the best sense of all to her, for she felt that it went without saying that a womaniser of international
acclaim would probably be
extremely
over-sexed.

The tentative knock that sounded on her bedroom door provoked a faint moan of self-pity from her. It creaked open. ‘Harriet?’ Una stage-whispered. ‘Do you want your first plaiting lesson?’

Discomfiture ate Harriet alive. Ignoring her headache, she sat bolt upright. ‘Yes…what a great idea.’

‘I’ve been here for an hour. I let you have a lie-in,’ the teenager told her chattily from the doorway.

Harriet lodged an anguished eye on the alarm clock, which confirmed that it was still only seven in the morning, and forced a valiant smile. ‘Give me ten minutes.’

‘It was so quiet here while you were away. I hardly saw Fergal,’ Una lamented, while she demonstrated her failsafe methods on Snowball’s somewhat thin mane. ‘I’m starting to think he’s avoiding me.’

‘I expect he’s very busy.’ Harriet attempted without much success to make her fingers match the younger woman’s nimble example. ‘But I do have a couple of things to discuss with him. Do you know where I would be most likely to find him mid-morning?’

‘In Dooleys Bar, of course.’ Una was evidently surprised by what she considered to be an unnecessary question.

Harriet’s eyes widened, but she made no comment and offered the teenager a lift home. It was a bright sunny morning. While she waited for Una to load her bike into the pick-up truck, she stood at the fence admiring the view down to the sea. The green fields stretched down to the deserted white strand and the sparkling sapphire blue of the Atlantic: it was so beautiful it almost hurt her eyes.

‘There’s a rumour going round the village that you’ve been fighting with Rafael Flynn. Obviously you’re a lot cheekier than you look.’ The teenager gave her a teasing glance.

Thinking of the kiss the night before, Harriet reddened, and to cover her blushes quipped, ‘Don’t you think I have to avoid him?’

‘No. If you’ve got the nerve to fight with him, you could be just the woman for him!’

Harriet laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

Una asked to be dropped off in the middle of Ballyflynn. It was market day and the village was busy. On the colourful main street Harriet bought fresh vegetables out of the back of an ancient lorry and fretted guiltily over the fact that she had still to pick a patch on which to grow her own. Dooleys Bar appeared to share space with the post office. She walked through the low green painted door into a cosy, impossibly crowded room floored with worn
flagstones and warmed by a turf fire. The smell of burning peat made her think of lonely stretches of sweeping moorland. The bar was packed tight with farmers, who twisted round to look at her, and several offered a few pleasantries in greeting. It amused her that although she had not met one of them before they every one to a man knew exactly who she was.

‘How you doing?’ Fergal asked cheerfully

Harriet blushed at her uncharitable assumptions. He was not propping up the bar with a pint in his hand but serving drinks from behind it. ‘There’s been some developments at the yard, but we can catch up later.’

‘Fergal…I’ll mind the bar while you have a break.’ A pale little woman with a tight perm and sharp eyes bustled out from behind the post office counter. ‘Introduce me to your visitor.’

For some reason that request turned Fergal the colour of a beetroot. At the same time the noisy rise and fall of conversation in the busy room suddenly died. ‘Ma…’

Marvelling that his mother’s friendly welcome should have reduced Fergal to the level of an inarticulate schoolboy, and awakened so much apparent interest from the locals, Harriet stepped into the awkward silence. ‘Mrs Gibson…I’m Harriet Carmichael.’

‘Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure. Fergal…don’t keep the lady waiting!’ the older woman urged her son. ‘Now, where would you like to sit?’

‘Thanks, but we’ll head over to the café!’ Fergal pulled open the door for Harriet with alacrity.

‘If I’d known you were working I’d never have come in,’ Harriet was dismayed by the embarrassment she appeared to have caused him. ‘Is the bar a family business?’

‘Dooleys belongs to my uncle. After my father died we moved in with him. But I’d give anything to train horses full time.’ Fergal pulled out a chair for her occupation in the cosy café across the street. ‘But helping Ma run the bar is my bread and butter.’

Harriet unbuttoned her fleece jacket. ‘I want to keep you informed about what’s happening at the yard.’ She gave him a brief rundown on what he needed to know. ‘From here on in Rafael Flynn will be my partner.’

‘I’m thinking it’ll be a challenge for him to share anything, for he’s always the big boss. But he was born knowing more about horseflesh than some learn in a lifetime. He picks winners time and time again,’ Fergal volunteered with honest admiration. ‘Do you reckon he’ll want me out of the stables?’

‘That’s what I don’t know as yet.’ Distracted by the sound of a car braking hard on the street outside, Harriet glanced out of the window.

Across the street a big black Range Rover had come to a halt. Her attention sharpened as Rafael Flynn sprang out in an apparent attempt to intercept the girl hurrying with her head down in the opposite direction. His lean, strong face was hard as granite as he blocked her path.

‘My goodness, that’s Una!’ Harriet exclaimed in astonishment. ‘What on earth is he doing?’

When the teenager visibly broke down into tears of distress, Fergal looked miserably uncomfortable and averted his eyes. ‘Well, her half-brother was certain to find out eventually that she wasn’t safe in school, like he thought,’ he sighed. ‘She’s been running round trying to avoid him. I felt guilty for not telling him. A few other people did too, but you don’t like to get her in trouble.’

On the brink of racing outside to intercede on Una’s behalf, Harriet froze halfway out of her chair. ‘Her…half-brother? Una is Rafael Flynn’s
half-sister
?’

‘Sorry, I should’ve realised you wouldn’t know. But it’s an open secret round here because it was such a scandal when it happened. Her mother and his father—well…’ Fergal frowned. ‘Rafael’s father didn’t take responsibility, but when he found out about her Rafael
did
. Fair play to him, he’s done his best for Una, but she fights him every step of the way.’

‘She said her brother was scarier than scary,’ Harriet groaned, watching the teenager slink into Rafael’s car with the defeated aspect of a prisoner being taken into custody. ‘I wish she’d confided in me.’

‘He’s only trying to keep her in school and out of trouble.’

‘Does she live with her mother during the holidays?’

‘With her married sister. But Philomena is too laid back to keep Una on a tight leash.’

Harriet called in to the newspaper shop to buy her favourite horse magazine. The owner chatted to her with the easy friendliness and unapologetic curiosity that was so characteristic of Ballyflynn. Although Harriet was worried about Una, she attempted to put what she had seen out of her mind. After all, Fergal had made it clear that Rafael had the teenager’s best interests at heart, and it was not her place to interfere. But all she could think about was what a disaster Rafael and Una could easily be as siblings—for both of them were equally proud and stubborn and strong willed.

Just before she got back into the pick-up she noticed a display of handcrafted jewellery in the window of the exclusive gift shop and art gallery at the top of the street. A pair of flamboyant beaded drop
earrings caught her eye; it would be Nicola’s birthday in a couple of weeks. The shop was packed, though, and she decided she didn’t have the time to queue. Before she could get back into her car, Fergal’s mother came out to invite her over to supper on Sunday evening. Harriet was surprised, but accepted with a smile and rushed off. In a couple of hours she had her meeting with Rafael Flynn, and she wanted the yard to be spick and span for his visit.

At five minutes to two that afternoon Harriet was flat on the floor of her bedroom, trying to get the zip up on her favourite jeans. It was at the precise moment when success was within a half-inch of achievement that she heard a large vehicle pull up outside. In dismay, she released her breath, and the zip slid straight down again. While she was struggling to regain lost ground, a knock sounded on the front door. With an anguished moan, she tore off the jeans in a feverish surge of activity. As she had neglected to close the curtains, she scurried on her knees over to the chest of drawers to yank out a pair of mercifully stretchy riding breeches. Shimmying frantically into them, she scrambled upright, saw the glossy black Range Rover parked outside, and raced for the front door.

‘Sorry—was I too punctual?’ Rafael asked, wicked dark eyes glittering over her decidedly tousled appearance.

He looked effortlessly, classily stupendous, in a brown waxed jacket, breeches and leather riding boots. With the greatest difficulty Harriet fought the urge to smooth a tidying hand through her tumbled copper hair. ‘No, I’ve been cleaning out the tack room,’ she told him with studied casualness, reasoning that that
was
what she had been doing before she’d realised that she was running late and hurried indoors to wash and change. ‘I lost track of the time. What would you like to look at first?’

‘Been there, done that…Unless you’ve made sweeping changes?’ A questioning ebony brow inclined. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

Momentarily thrown by what she suspected had been an opening designed to deflate any pretensions she might have, Harriet decided to take the hint and get straight down to business. ‘OK. Let’s move on,’ she suggested, pulling shut the door behind her to prevent Peanut and Samson galloping out and destroying her business credibility.

‘Item one on our agenda,’ Rafael drawled before she even got the chance to speak again, ‘has to be this cottage. I want it restored.’

‘I understand that, but—’

‘Naturally I would cover all costs.’

Her pale smooth brow furrowed, her surprise patent. ‘But this is where I live—’

‘I now own half of it,’ Rafael pointed out smoothly. ‘At this point I’ll settle for having the exterior restored. I’ll bring in an architectural historian to do an appraisal, but I should imagine that one of the first steps will be re-thatching the roof.’

As the cottage was an historic building, his concern was reasonable, Harriet conceded reluctantly. Nor did she feel that she could raise an objection when he was offering to foot the bill. Yet by making so immediate a claim to his right to repair the very roof over her head he was striking right at the heart of her security. The reminder that he owned half her home could only be unwelcome.

‘I’m making a logical request,’ Rafael remarked.

‘In theory I have no objection, as long as I don’t find changes being imposed without my agreement. You have to respect the fact that this is my home. I’d also have to run this by a solicitor, to check that you couldn’t later claim to have a right to a bigger share of the property because you covered the restoration costs.’

Dark eyes shaded by lush black lashes gleamed. ‘Either you’re my partner or you’re not. Distrust will render any agreement between us unworkable.’

Harriet stiffened as if he had cracked a warning whip round her flanks—and in a sense he had, she reflected resentfully. If she did not meet his demands,
he could quite easily make it impossible for her to get the yard up and running. ‘Trust is a tall order.’