Rafael's Suitable Bride (5 page)

‘Thanks for the advice,' Rafael said gravely. ‘I'll give it some thought when my working day ends at nine.'

‘Now you're laughing at me.'

‘Perish the thought.'

He wasn't sure how she had managed it, or maybe it had done him good just escaping London for a night, but he was perfectly relaxed by the time he made it to his own place in Chelsea.

Unlike Cristina, he occupied by London standards an enormous penthouse suite that spanned the top two floors of a redbrick mansion not a million miles away from where she lived. Like hers, his was impeccably decorated, and with a minimalism that left little room for individual touches. Just the way Rafael liked it. No family photos adorned the surfaces, no mementoes of holidays taken, no random books lying dog-eared on tables waiting to be picked up and explored. Instead, the living area was dominated by two sprawling, cream leather sofas, between which was a thick, cream rug with a barely visible abstract pattern and which had cost the earth.

The paintings on the walls were likewise abstract, splashes of colour which were demanding rather than soothing. Likewise, they too had cost the earth.

He dumped his case on the ground, poured himself a glass of water and immediately went to check his answer machine. Nine messages, eight of which he would deal with later. The ninth…

Rafael played it back with a frown of annoyance.

Delilah. A damned stupid name he had thought at the time, but he had been prepared to overlook that because she was exquisitely beautiful. Very tall, very leggy and with a serenely angelic face that cleverly hid the personality of a shrew.

Theirs had been one of the few relationships which he had allowed to drift, largely because he had been out of the country so much at the time that a face-to-face confrontation had never been engineered, and Rafael had not sought one out. Delilah was prone to hysterics, and if there was one thing that he couldn't stand it was a hysterical woman.

Now, after nearly four months, she was back on the scene. His mother's words slammed back at him—different mistresses every week…running away from a past he never wanted to revisit…living life in a vacuum…

He leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes and thought that maybe, just maybe, it really was time to think about settling down.

T
HAT
thought had cleared his mind by the time he awoke on the Monday morning to the insistent beeping of his mobile phone at the ungodly hour of…

Five o'clock!

And a text message from Delilah. The text message, with all those abbreviations which Rafael found so annoying, informed him that she had been away—an extended holiday in the Caribbean—but that now she was back and would love to meet so that they could catch up.

Once a relationship had been terminated, Rafael was the sort of man who moved on. Not for him any scenarios which involved meeting up with an ex-girlfriend so that they could talk over the bad old days about a bottle or two of wine. He had moved on from Delilah, although he had to admit that it had not been a clean break.

Without giving himself time to switch into work mode, he dialled in her number, then waited all of two rings before it was picked up. Not a good sign. Women who waited by phones were women who became very dependent very fast, and a very dependent woman was a liability.

It was not a comfortable conversation and he knew that it should have been conducted face to face. He had optimisti
cally figured that deliberate absence from the scene and a lack of communication would be sufficient indication of a breakup, but he had been lazy.

Hence he could hardly blame her for the tears, the accusations, the insults—which he was unsurprised to hear consisted of a wide range of adjectives—and, worse than all that, the plaintive, rhetorical question of what she had done wrong.

It was nearly six before he was finally off the phone, having endured his full frontal attack, and close to eight by the time he had showered, changed, sent some emails and was heading out of his front door.

It was barely light outside with a cold, blustery wind that felt damp even though there was no sign of rain. Rafael, still in a foul mood after his conversation with Delilah, would have missed the flower shop had it not been open for a delivery just as he happened to be walking past.

He had never noticed it before, but then that was hardly surprising. Flower shops did not feature highly on his list of desired destinations, nor did he often walk to work. It was a vigorous twenty-five minute walk and he could rarely spare the time.

In the bleak mid-winter grey, the scent filled his nostrils and on the spur of the moment he paused then entered the shop.

It was small, but overflowing with flowers, most of which were unusually vibrant, many exotic. One side of the wall was completely given over to orchids, and Rafael was startled at the array. He would have a couple of them delivered to Delilah's house with an appropriate note, but before he could place his order the very young girl who was busying herself with the delivery informed him that the shop wasn't actually open as yet. Not until ten.

‘I'll make it worth your while,' Rafael said, glancing at his watch, knowing that he would have to get his skates on if he
was to make it to his first meeting. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a wad of notes, then he pointed to the two most exquisite of the orchid plants.

‘I want those delivered to this address…' He scribbled Delilah's address on the back of one of his business cards. The young shop assistant was beginning to look flustered, but not for a minute did he think that he wouldn't be able to get what he wanted, because at the end of the day, whether the shop was open or not, money talked.

‘I take it there won't be a problem?' He looked up at the girl who glanced over her shoulder and smiled faintly.

‘Not at all, sir. What should the message on the card read?'

Rafael frowned and shrugged. ‘You're better off without me. All the best. R.' The girl was blushing violently as she transcribed the words onto a piece of paper, and Rafael raised his eyebrows in amusement. ‘Would you say that that is appropriate for a relationship that has outstayed its welcome?'

‘No! It's horrible!'

Rafael swung round at the voice to find himself staring into a pair of distinctly disapproving eyes, and for a few seconds he was lost for words. Fate had decreed that, of all the small flower-shops he might have walked into from the street on a grainy February morning, he had chosen the one belonging to Cristina.

‘Your shop?'

‘Anthea, I'll handle it from here.' Cristina, framed in the doorway of her little office at the back of the shop, folded her arms and looked at Rafael, who looked like no businessman she had ever seen before. The uniform was the same—sharp grey suit, just visible underneath the trenchcoat which was swinging open, black leather shoes—but somehow he'd transcended ‘average man on way to work' into a category of his own.

She turned just as a man approached from the office to stand next to her, and she gave him a bright smile.

‘So I can call you later in the week?' she asked.

‘Any time after six.'

Rafael watched this brief exchange through narrowed eyes. The man was stocky but muscular, with the build of someone who spent time outdoors. His hair was straight and very fair, and he was wearing an earring which, to Rafael, immediately spelt ‘disreputable'. He scowled and looked around him, waiting for her to finish her conversation.

‘Who was that?' he asked as soon as the man had left the shop.

‘What on earth are you doing here?'

‘What do you think I'm doing? And you haven't answered my question.'

‘Anthea…' Cristina was aware of her assistant looking at Rafael, goggle-eyed. ‘Why don't you go and start working on the costings for the delivery?

‘I know what you're doing here,' Cristina hissed, remembering why she had snapped at him in the first place. ‘You're buying flowers, but I'm just amazed that you came here! How did you know the name of my shop? I don't remember telling you.'

‘You didn't.' He wondered how her wealthy, no doubt protective, parents would react if they knew that their daughter was in London consorting with all manner of lowlife. ‘I happened to be walking to work and I needed to send some flowers to—'

‘Someone who had outstayed her welcome?' Cristina, having been raised on a healthy diet of romance fiction and fairy-tale-ending movies, bristled on behalf of the unknown recipient of the most expensive flowers in her shop.

Rafael flushed darkly. ‘Had I known that you owned this
place, I would have gone elsewhere,' he grated. ‘As it stands, you should be grateful that I've just provided some very healthy business for you. I can't imagine that random flower shops do that well in the centre of London.'

‘We happen to do very well, as a matter of fact! We specialise in fairly uncommon flowers.' It was not in her nature to be snide, but the devil inside her made her add, ‘Maybe guilty businessmen find it works when it comes to buying flowers for their girlfriends. Including the discarded ones.'

‘Sarcasm doesn't suit you, Cristina.'

‘How could you end a relationship on a note and a bunch of flowers?'

Rafael, unused to being criticised, frowned with displeasure. ‘Do you usually leap out of your office and attack people who happen to relay messages you don't like? Isn't that slightly beyond the bounds of good customer service?'

‘I couldn't help but overhear,' Cristina muttered. ‘I recognised your voice. You have a very distinctive voice.' She wondered what the mystery woman looked like.

‘Can that girl of yours look after the shop for a few minutes?' It would take one phone call to cancel his first meeting and Rafael, who had never cancelled work for any woman, decided that this would just have to be a first. He might have had the girl foisted upon him but, notwithstanding, he had some sense of duty towards her. That included setting her straight on the unscrupulous nature of men in London.

‘Why?'

‘There's a coffee shop a few minutes away. I passed it on the way here.'

‘Aren't you on your way to work?'

‘Have you forgotten that I own the company?' No one would guess that, though, Rafael thought with a sense of
irony, because he never took time off. In fact, his PA would have to be persuaded not to send round an ambulance crew when he told her that he would be in later than expected.

‘I'm going to give you a sermon about how women should be treated,' Cristina felt compelled to tell him, even though the thought of having coffee with him had filled her with a suffocating sense of excitement. ‘Do you still want to take me out for a cup of coffee?'

‘Give me five minutes to call my secretary…' As expected, Patricia seemed to hyperventilate when informed that he would have to miss his meeting. Was he really that predictable? he wondered. A man who so consistently put work ahead of everything else that the slightest deviation from the norm was enough to bring about heart failure in his employees?

What on earth would they all do if he disappeared for a week's holiday without warning? Self-implode?

* * *

‘Okay. Let's get the sermon out of the way.'

‘I know I don't have any right to preach to you…'

‘No, you don't.' Rafael looked at her over the mug of cappuccino, which she was now attempting to drink even though it was piping hot. A Danish pastry lay on the plate in front of her. In an era of diets and size zeros, it made a refreshing change.

Her outfit today was beyond casual, teetering into the realms of the truly bizarre. Workmanlike overalls and a broadly striped jumper which seemed intent on magnifying the generous proportions of its wearer. Since lack of money didn't lie behind her choice, he could only conclude that this was yet another quiet rebellion against those supposedly perfect sisters of hers.

‘I don't usually preach to people.'

‘Then why break the habit of a lifetime?'

‘Why had she outstayed her welcome?' Cristina asked. She carefully rested the mug on its saucer and bit into the Danish pastry, which crumbled on her lips and was absolutely delicious. ‘What did she do that was so wrong?'

‘Do you live in the real world, Cristina?'

‘Why do you say that?'

‘She didn't do anything wrong.'

‘You just got tired of her?'

‘This is what sometimes happens in relationships. People get tired of each other. Delilah was…unsuitable.'

‘That's very harsh, Rafael.'

‘You have crumbs on your mouth.' He picked up her napkin and brushed them away and Cristina jerked back, startled. ‘Don't worry. I'm not about to make a lunge for you.' He laughed, amused at her reaction. ‘And I wasn't being harsh,' he continued. ‘Delilah and I enjoyed a brief relationship. I never made promises, and it's unfortunate that she didn't understand the boundaries of what we had. Believe me, it wasn't for lack of clarity.'

‘How sad.'

‘What? What's sad?' Rafael frowned, not caring for the unwanted sympathy in her voice. ‘Sad,' he told her, leaning forward, ‘Is when two people get together hoping for the fairy-tale ending only to find that no such thing exists. Sad is when hope and expectation disintegrate. If there's no hope and no expectation, then what you get is an uncluttered relationship with no strings attached.' He didn't know why he was bothering to give her a protracted explanation of his theories on the male-female conundrum, especially when her only response was to look at him earnestly as if each word constituted a mound of earth towards the pit which he was digging for himself.

‘Have you never been in love?'

Rafael's face tightened. Love? Oh yes. He'd been there, or at least he'd thought he had. In his mind he saw his ex-wife, Helen, beautiful, ethereal, wild with love and promising the earth. How quickly time had dissolved that illusion.

‘Have you?' He threw the question back at her and watched her eyes grow dreamy.

‘Never. I'm saving myself for the right one. I mean,' she amended hurriedly, ‘I don't fling myself into relationships just for the sake of it.'

‘What do you mean by saving yourself for the right one?' He raised his eyebrows with rampant cynicism and then mused, with some amusement, ‘Don't tell me that you're a virgin…?' Not that he'd believed that for a minute, but from the expression on her face, he realised that he had unwittingly hit the bull's eye, and Rafael was strangely shocked by the thought of that.

‘No!' She cast an agonised look around her and then concentrated on the cappuccino in front of her. ‘Okay. So what if I am? There's nothing wrong with that!'

He gathered himself and said casually, ‘It's just a little unusual…' For a man who never indulged in discussing feelings—which he personally considered the prerogative of namby-pamby men who would rather talk than act—Rafael was surprised to discover that he was enjoying their conversation. It just went to show that a little novelty was good for the soul.

Cristina was horribly, sickeningly mortified by the admission. She had never uttered that confidence to anyone, not to her sisters nor to her friends. To find now that she had uttered it to a man who thought that sleeping around was par for the course was almost beyond belief. The fact that he hadn't roared with laughter only made matters worse, because she could smell his incredulity beneath the silence.

‘I realise you must think me a complete loser.' She stuck her chin up, but holding back the tears of embarrassment was an act of will.

‘Loser…no.' He leaned forward, both elbows on the narrow table separating them. ‘Were you never tempted?' he asked curiously.

‘I don't want to talk to you about this,' Cristina whispered. ‘Honestly, I don't know how…I've never spoken to anyone about this.' But there was something about this man. A part of her responded to him, and her responses seemed to be totally beyond her control. How was that possible? It was as if he had reached inside of her and tugged at something strong and hitherto unknown, some secret side of her as yet untapped. ‘It just slipped out,' she said defensively.