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Cinderella's Wedding Wish
Jessica Hart
When a Plain Jane… Efficient, witty and prim Miranda Fairchild has always blended into the background – her two beautiful sisters have seen to that! But that hasn’t stopped Miranda secretly dreaming of finding her fairy-tale prince… …is hired by a charming playboy…Dangerously charismatic, celebrity Rafe Knighton does not fit the bill. So when Miranda is hired as his assistant, she’s shocked to learn that Rafe has hidden depths. …can there be a Happily Ever After?And there’s more to Miranda than meets the eye – as Rafe knows all too well! Will he give this stubborn Cinderella the diamond ring she deserves? In Her Shoes… Modern-day Cinderellas get their grooms!


Out of the corner of her eye she couldsee the firm line of his jaw and thecorner of that mouth. He wasn’tsmiling, but there was a dent in hischeek and a quirk to the set of his lipsthat sent warmth shivering throughher. She tried looking away and staringat his jacket instead, but the materialseemed to shimmer in front of hergaze after a while and her eyes slidsurreptitiously back to his mouth.

It was so close. All he had to do was turn his head just a little, and if she turned hers too their lips would meet. What would that be like? The answer came in the leap of her heart, the acceleration of her pulse at the very thought, and Miranda closed her eyes against the instinctive knowledge of how thrilling it would be to touch her lips to his, to feel his mouth take sure, seductive possession of hers.

He would be a very good kisser. He had had lots of practice, after all. Miranda dragged the feverish drift of her thoughts back to reality. What was she thinking? That Rafe Knighton, playboy extraordinaire, would actually think about kissing her? He had his pick of beautiful women. Was it really likely that he would pass them all over in favour of plain Miranda Fairchild?
Jessica Hart was born in West Africa, and has suffered from itchy feet ever since, travelling and working around the world in a wide variety of interesting but very lowly jobs, all of which have provided inspiration on which to draw when it comes to the settings and plots of her stories. Now she lives a rather more settled existence in York, where she has been able to pursue her interest in history, although she still yearns sometimes for wider horizons. If you’d like to know more about Jessica, visit her website www.jessicahart.co. uk

CINDERELLA’S WEDDING WISH
BY
JESSICA HART

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
‘OH, FOR heaven’s sake!’ Miranda yanked impatiently at the front of the photocopier and banged it open so that she could peer inside. ‘Now what?’ she demanded. ‘I’ve cleared the jam, I’ve refilled all the paper trays… I can’t believe you really need toner too! You’re just being difficult.’
Exasperated, she shoved her hand into the machine to release the catch for the toner cartridge, only to catch her finger on a protruding piece of machinery. Jerking back with a yelp, she let out an involuntary exclamation. Miranda didn’t normally swear but it would have taken a saint not to lose it after the morning she had had with this machine.
She glared at the photocopier. ‘Right, that’s it! I’ve had enough of you now!’
Shaking her stinging finger and too frustrated to think what else to do, Miranda aimed a childish kick at the photocopier with another muttered exclamation.

‘Language, language!’ A tutting sound from behind her made Miranda’s head snap round.
A man was lounging in the doorway of the copying room, grinning at her. And not just any man. He was impossibly handsome, with dark hair, glinting navy blue eyes, the kind of features a male model would kill for and a smile perfectly designed to set most female hearts a-flutter.
Not Miranda’s though. Her heart didn’t do fluttering. Maybe it skipped, just a little, at the sight of him, but that was just surprise.
That was what she told herself anyway.
She had never met him before, but she knew exactly who he was, of course. There was no mistaking him. Rafe Knighton, darling of the gossip columnists, and the new Chairman and Chief Executive of the Knighton Group, which technically made him her boss.
And the last person she would have expected to encounter in the copying room, exuding assurance and glamour. The tall, dark and handsome cliché might have been invented for Rafe Knighton, she thought, determinedly unimpressed. He was immaculately dressed in a beautifully cut suit that fitted perfectly across his broad shoulders. His shirt was a luxuriously plain white, his tie discreet, classy, and knotted with just the right combination of ease and elegance. Miranda would have liked to dismiss him as effeminate, but at close quarters it was all too obvious that there was nothing effete about Rafe Knighton. He was all too solidly male.
Briefly, she wondered what he was doing slumming it on the communications floor. Perhaps he strolled down every few days to thrill the staff with his presence, and amused himself by seeing how long it took the females to swoon at his feet.
If he was waiting for her to do the same, he was in for a long wait, boss or no boss.
On the other hand, being caught swearing and kicking the office equipment probably wasn’t the best way to endear herself to the management, Miranda reflected. A swoon might be a better option. It was that, or brazen it out.
Before she had a chance to decide, Rafe Knighton had straightened from the doorway and was strolling into the room as if he owned it.
Which he did, of course.
‘I’ve a good mind to report you to the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Photocopiers!’ he said, wagging a chastising finger at her. ‘That poor machine shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of language, when it can’t answer back.’
The deadpan delivery was contradicted by the dancing humour in his eyes and ripple of amusement in his voice. The man practically oozed charm, Miranda thought, annoyed that she still had to brace herself to resist it.

As if she didn’t have enough to annoy her at the moment.
It was too late to swoon, anyway.
‘The photocopier started it,’ she said coldly.
Rafe’s eyes gleamed as he studied her. He was still getting used to the idea that Knighton’s wealth and prestige was his responsibility now, and the realisation could be oppressive at times. Whenever he started feeling that the walls were closing in on him, he took a walk. He told everyone that he wanted to familiarise himself with the company, which was true, but Rafe knew that these tours of the building were more about his own restlessness and inability to decide whether he had done the right thing in coming back.
Knighton’s was an institution, with a fiercely loyal and dedicated staff, and Rafe sometimes felt that everyone belonged here except him—and now this girl, turning the air in the copying room blue. Her involuntary exclamation had been so unexpected that he had stopped as he walked past the door, captivated by the slight girl in a neat, dull suit swearing at the photocopier.
Entertained by the contrast, Rafe had been unable to resist finding out more.
He hadn’t seen her before. At least, he didn’t think so. The most memorable thing about her seemed to be the plain brown hair pulled tightly back from her face in a very unflattering style. Rafe’s first impression had been one of primness, contrasting sharply with the words coming out of her mouth, but as she stood there and looked back at him with eyes that were clear and green and very direct she suddenly didn’t seem so nondescript any more, and his interest sharpened.
‘We haven’t met, have we?’
‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘I’m just a temp.’
‘Well, welcome.’ Apparently oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm, he smiled and held out his hand. ‘I’m Rafe Knighton.’
As if she wasn’t supposed to know!
Miranda might have little interest in celebrities, but even she knew about Rafe Knighton. He had been the ultimate playboy until four or five years ago when he had disappeared from London, presumably to drift around some other playground of the rich and famous, and there had been almost feverish excitement in the gossip pages when he had returned a couple of months earlier to take up the reins of the Knighton Group.
His father had famously keeled over with a heart attack in the middle of negotiating a mega-million dollar deal in New York and since then the business pages had been full of speculation about Rafe’s ability to step into his father’s spectacularly successful shoes.
Speculation of a more lurid nature was equally rife in the gossip columns and celebrity magazines. At thirty-five, Rafe was still unmarried, and since inheriting his father’s fortune was rarely mentioned without the tag of ‘the most eligible bachelor in Britain’ attached to his name. He was welcomed back onto the A-list with open arms, and was photographed with any number of beautiful women on his arm, but as yet there had been no obvious front-runner for the title of Mrs Knighton.
Miranda knew all this because her younger sister, Octavia, avidly drank up every mention of Rafe Knighton and was determined to meet him. She had been delighted when she had heard that Miranda would be working for the Knighton Group.
‘Wangle me an invitation to meet Rafe,’ she had urged her sister, while Miranda had stared at her in disbelief.
‘Octavia, I’m only there as a temp,’ she tried to tell her. ‘Temps don’t even see chief executives, let alone meet them and get on wangling terms! They’re right at the bottom of the pecking order. I won’t even get within spitting distance of Rafe Knighton.’
And yet, here he was, holding out his hand, and clearly waiting for her to introduce herself.
Miranda sighed inwardly. She disapproved of everything Rafe Knighton stood for, and she didn’t like the way he seemed to fill up the room with his good looks and his smile and that almost tangible charm. That feeling that he was using more than his fair share of the room left her edgy and more than a little breathless, and Miranda didn’t like it at all, but she could hardly refuse to shake his hand.
‘Miranda Fairchild,’ she said reluctantly, and touched her palm to his.
She made to withdraw it right away, but Rafe was too quick for her. His fingers closed warm and firm around hers in a proper clasp as he smiled down at her. The touch of his hand sent a strange feeling snaking down her spine, and she snatched her hand away, prickling with irritation.
Couldn’t he let up with that macho charm for an instant? It was so clearly an automatic reaction with him. All that intense gazing into her eyes and smiling and holding her hand just a little too long!
Miranda was exasperated. Surely he didn’t expect her to believe that he had actually seen her? He was like a big tom cat on the prowl, making overtures to any female that happened to cross his path. Look at him, just waiting for her to melt at the knees and smile mistily back at him!
She had absolutely no intention of gratifying his vanity by smiling at all, let alone mistily, but she was annoyed to discover that her knees were not, in fact, quite as steady as they should have been.
Miranda scowled at the thought, and Rafe raised an eyebrow at her expression. ‘Is there a problem?’
Perversely, this evidence that he was not only seeing her but watching her quite closely made Miranda even crosser. She could hardly tell him the truth: Oh, I’m just irritated with my knees for going all weak when you smiled. Now she was going to have to lie, and she hated doing that.
‘I’m sorry, it’s just a bit sore,’ she improvised, holding up her grazed finger and taking the opportunity to step back. Why couldn’t he go away and leave her alone?
‘You’ve hurt yourself?’ Rafe frowned in quick concern at the raw graze on her hand.
‘I didn’t do it,’ she corrected him crisply. ‘It was the photocopier that bit me. I told you it started it! I don’t know why you’re worrying about the machine. You should get in touch with the RSPCT instead.’
‘The Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to…?’
‘Temps,’ she said, and he laughed.
She reminded him of a little bird, he thought, one with drab plumage but bright-eyed and alert. Rafe liked people and usually people liked him back, but since he had taken over Knighton’s he had come to wonder whether there was an element of sycophancy in the smiles that met him wherever he went. This girl with her prim outfit and her crisp voice and her clear, disapproving gaze made a refreshing change.
‘That looks sore,’ he said. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue you for a grazed finger!’ she said and turned back to the photocopier, but Rafe was intrigued now, and refused to take the hint that he should leave her to get on.
Instead he settled himself against the table and studied her with a discerning eye. It was a long time since he had met a woman who made so little of herself. That suit she was wearing was appalling, for instance. There was no way of telling what kind of figure she had, but she had other assets, Rafe realised on looking closer. Her hair was an ordinary brown, but shiny and very clean, and she had beautiful skin and quiet, fine-boned features. If she wore a better-fitting suit, let down her hair and bothered with a little make-up, she wouldn’t look too bad at all.
‘Which department are you working in?’
‘Communications,’ said Miranda briefly, wishing that he would go away. She crouched down and peered into the photocopier again.
‘Ah, yes, you must be covering for Simon’s PA… Is it Helen? Isn’t there some problem with her mother?’
‘It’s Ellen, and it’s her father who’s ill,’ Miranda corrected him, but she was secretly impressed that he had remembered as much as he had. In her experience as a temp, chief executives of companies the size of the Knighton Group rarely bothered to learn the names of their junior staff, let alone remember details of their domestic problems. ‘I’m just covering for a week while she sorts out some care for him.’
‘And after that?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll have to hope the agency comes up with another assignment for me.’
‘Have you been temping long?’
‘A few months,’ she said uninformatively.
Rafe looked down at her as she frowned into the photocopier. The overhead light gleamed on her hair, and his gaze noted the sweep of her lashes and the way the fine brows were drawn together over her nose. Her face had intelligence and character, he thought. She seemed an unlikely temp somehow.
‘What were you doing before that?’
She shot an irritated glance up at him. ‘Are you always this interested in your temporary staff?’
‘I’m interested in all my staff,’ said Rafe, wondering why she didn’t want to tell him. ‘How do you find Knighton’s as a place to work?’
Miranda shrugged. ‘It’s fine. Everyone is very professional.’
Except the chief executive, she wanted to add, but didn’t. Temping might be a bit of a climb-down from board member, but she needed the money and there were worse places for temporary placements.
Working here was bittersweet. So much was familiar. Like Fairchild’s, the Knighton Group was a family business, a dynasty, but one that had embraced new technologies and business practices to become a household name with global interests, while Fairchild’s had traded for too long on its past reputation.
Still, there was no use feeling bitter. She had a job to do, and she just wished Rafe Knighton would let her get on with it instead of lounging there interrogating her about things that were none of his business.
‘It’s just a shame about the machinery,’ she added, pulling awkwardly at the toner cartridge, and muttering under her breath as it stuck firmly in place.
‘Can I help?’ asked Rafe, bending down to peer into the machine.
‘Not unless you’d like to go out and buy a new photocopier,’ said Miranda as crisply as she could, but it was hard with him so close beside her. The room was airless enough to begin with, and with six feet of male looming over her she was feeling distinctly short of oxygen.
‘Is it broken?’
‘I can’t get the toner cartridge out.’
‘I like to make sure my staff have the equipment they need to do their jobs properly,’ said Rafe, ‘and I don’t want you to think I’m mean, but purchasing an entirely new machine when we just need to replace a cartridge does seem a touch extravagant.’

Miranda sucked in her breath, irritated anew by the undercurrent of laughter in his voice. ‘I wasn’t being serious,’ she snapped. Cautiously, she reached back into the innards of the copier. ‘If I could just…’ She grunted with effort, grimacing as her fingers felt for the catch once more. ‘Oh, come on, stop being so difficult!’
Rafe observed her with amusement as she sat back on her heels with a sigh of frustration. ‘Do you always talk to photocopiers?’
‘I’ve got this theory they’re like horses,’ Miranda told him. ‘When you’re a temp, you spend a lot of time wrestling with photocopiers. They’re always skittish at first, and they play up the moment they sense you don’t know what you’re doing. You have to get to know them every time, and let them know who’s boss.’
‘You mean you’re a sort of office equipment whisperer?’
‘Not a very effective one at the moment.’
Miranda sighed and gave up on the catch, but as she pulled her hand out, she caught her finger again. Same metal, same finger. ‘Ow!’ she said, shaking it. ‘Maybe I am serious about you buying a new one!’ she added to Rafe. ‘I could take a hammer to this one first, and then you’d have to replace it.’
‘Let me have a go.’
Rafe hitched up the trousers of his perfect Italian suit and crouched down beside her.

At close quarters, he was overwhelmingly male. Miranda scuttled crab-wise away from him as far as she could go, but there was very little room to manoeuvre between the table and the photocopier, and in the end she scrambled to her feet instead. At least that way she could breathe.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘You’re too well dressed,’ she told him bluntly, trying to ignore the way every cell in her body still seemed to be humming with awareness of the leashed power beneath the suave exterior. ‘Changing the toner cartridge can be a very messy business.’
‘So can letting temps loose with hammers,’ he said, glancing up at her with a grin that infuriatingly made Miranda’s heart skip a beat.
Scowling at herself, she watched as Rafe put his hand into the copier, grasped the cartridge, and jerked it sharply forwards so that it shot out of its slot at last.
‘There you go,’ he said. He unclipped the used cartridge and lifted it out.
‘Thank you,’ said Miranda reluctantly.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Rafe. ‘I don’t often get the chance to make myself useful!’
She eyed him uncertainly, unsure if he was joking or not. On the whole, she thought not. He certainly didn’t have the air of a man used to menial tasks, and why would he? Few people could have led such a pampered and privileged life as Rafe Knighton.
‘Careful!’ she warned as he straightened with the cartridge still in his hand. Bitter experience had taught her that used toner had a tendency to leak badly, and Rafe wouldn’t be nearly so pleased with himself if he ended up with the fine black powder all over that immaculate suit. He looked the fastidious type, and she didn’t have time to deal with an executive’s wardrobe emergency this morning.
But it appeared that Rafe was more competent than he seemed. He set the cartridge down without so much as a particle of powder escaping. ‘I’m not as careless as I look,’ he told her, almost as if reading her mind, and then he smiled at her expression.
Miranda wished he would stop doing that. Her heart knocked into her ribs again, and, desperate to put a few more inches between them, she found herself backing into the table until it dug into the back of her thighs. She was grateful to him for fixing the copier, of course, but now he should just go away.
Close up, Rafe was less handsome than he seemed from a distance and in the glossy magazine photographs, she realised. It should have been reassuring, but the unevenness of his features and the faint prickle of stubble gave him a rough edge that paradoxically made the dark, glinting eyes and the mobile mouth more attractive rather than less, and all at once she was suffocatingly aware of him, of the clean, expensive smell of him, of the faint quiver of laughter she could sense vibrating beneath the suave exterior, of his massive, solid warmth so close to her.
Swallowing, Miranda turned away to busy herself inserting the new toner cartridge. Once it had clicked into place, she wiped around the copier to remove any spilt ink and closed the front of the machine with a snap.
‘Now, get on with it!’ she told it, relieving her feelings with a jab at the start button.
Obediently, the copier whirred into action.
‘That’s what I like to see,’ said Rafe, who had been watching her with amusement. ‘A firm hand! There’s no mistaking who’s boss around here, is there?’
‘Very funny,’ said Miranda mirthlessly, her eyes on the copies that were emerging from the machine. After all the hassle the copier had given her this morning, it was hard to believe that it was actually doing what it was supposed to do.
She couldn’t believe Rafe had actually joked about who was in charge. He seemed to have no sense of his own importance. He was unlike any boss she’d ever encountered before. He definitely wasn’t the kind of boss she had been in those last disastrous months at Fairchild’s.
In her experience, bosses maintained their distance from the staff, either because they were too busy, or because they were concerned about their own status. They certainly didn’t drift around the way Rafe Knighton evidently did. Miranda couldn’t think of any other boss she had known who would hang around in the copying room, winding up the new temp or attempting to fix a photocopier themselves. Didn’t he have anything better to do?
That unnerving awareness of him as a powerful male was fading, and she could dismiss him once more as little more than a clothes horse for expensive suits, an empty-headed celebrity wandering around his own company because he didn’t know what to do with himself.
‘Were you looking for anyone in particular?’ she asked repressively.
‘I was hoping to have a word with Simon,’ said Rafe, recalled to a sense of his original purpose. ‘Is he around?’
‘He’s out, I’m afraid. He’ll be back this afternoon. He’s got a meeting at two.’ Miranda nodded at the papers stacking up in the copier tray. ‘That’s what all this copying is for.’
‘I’ll catch him later, then,’ said Rafe easily.
‘Shall I ask him to call you when he gets back?’
‘You could do,’ he said, ‘or I’ll wander down again a bit later. I only took over a month or so ago, and I’m still trying to get to know everybody,’ he explained, seeing that Miranda was looking unim¬ pressed by this casual approach. ‘I like to walk round myself and see what’s going on rather than wait for staff to come to me. That’s how I get to know people like you and learn interesting things I didn’t know, like rude words and how to talk to photocopiers!’
Miranda flushed slightly. Didn’t he take anything seriously? ‘Can I tell Simon what it’s in connection with?’ she asked, deliberately formal.
‘I’ve got an idea I want to discuss with him,’ said Rafe. ‘I think we should hold a ball.’
A ball? Miranda’s lips tightened disapprovingly. Rafe ought to be worrying about investment and product development and financial forecasts, not parties and balls and getting his photo in the papers! He reminded her all too bitterly of her father, who had been bored by the nitty gritty of business and had poured all his energy—not to mention the firm’s profits—into putting on a show. Rafe Knighton had a reputation as a hell-raiser, and Miranda hoped that he wasn’t going to throw away everything his father and grandfather had achieved the way her own father had done at Fairchild’s.
‘I’ll tell Simon as soon as he gets back,’ she said curtly as she collected the first set of copies and banged them lightly on the top of the machine to straighten them into a neat pile.
Rafe was left with the distinct feeling that he had been dismissed. For a moment he wavered between irritation and amusement—who did this temp think she was?—but, as so often with him, amusement won. He had to admire her gall, if nothing else.
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ he said. ‘Nice to meet you, Miranda Fairchild.’
Miranda watched him go, shaking her head slightly. Thank goodness he had gone, she thought. Perhaps now she could get on with some work. It had been impossible to concentrate with him looming over her, charging the air with his mere presence and making her nerves fizz and prickle. He would be much better off staying in his boardroom than wandering around unsettling people like that.
She slotted another set of papers into the feeder and pressed the copy button again.
It looked like being a long day, and she still had tonight to get through. When Rosie had asked her if she wanted to help out on occasional evenings waitressing, Miranda had jumped at the prospect of earning a bit of extra money, but it was hard work being on your feet all evening, and there were times, like now, when she wanted nothing so much as to go back to the flat and flop in front of the television all evening.
But it would be worth it when she had earned enough to move to Whitestones, Miranda thought fiercely, squaring her shoulders. Think about the house, she told herself. Think about the cliffs and the sound of the sea on the shingle.
Think about leaving London and the likes of Rafe Knighton far behind.
It would all be worth it then.

‘You cannot be serious!’
Miranda held up the uniform Rosie had presented her and stared at it, aghast.
Rosie shifted uncomfortably. ‘I know it’s a bit tacky, but the organisers have insisted all the waiting staff wear these.’
‘They want us to dress up as cats?’
‘I think they thought it would be funny,’ said Rosie with a sigh.
‘Hilarious,’ said Miranda acidly. She dropped the cat suit back on the pile with a gesture of distaste. ‘What’s wrong with a black skirt, a white blouse and a frilly pinny?’
‘It’s a book launch,’ Rosie said miserably. ‘One of those novelty self-help books, How to Unleash your Inner Pussy Cat or something like that. If you think the uniform is tasteless, you should see the goodie bag!’
‘We don’t really have to wear this, do we?’ The skin-tight cat suit came complete with a fluffy tail and a cat mask with ears and whiskers. Miranda eyed it with dismay. ‘Can’t we just refuse?’
‘Oh, please, Miranda!’ Rosie begged. ‘I wouldn’t ask, but this is a really important contract for me. They’ve said if it goes well they’ll offer me other jobs, and I think they have launches like this all the time. I can’t afford to get their backs up by being difficult about everything. It all needs to go perfectly tonight.’
Miranda sighed. She knew how Rosie was struggling to get her new business off the ground. Rosie was a fantastic cook who made the kind of delicious, witty, and innovative canapés that were perfect for events catering, but so much business depended on establishing a reputation, and her friend badly needed a break.
How could Miranda let her down? Rosie had been her best friend since they were at school together. Other so-called friends had kept their distance, not wanting to be associated with dreary failure, when Fairchild’s had collapsed and Miranda’s world had come tumbling about her ears, but Rosie had stuck by her. She had a tiny flat at the very end of the Tube line, but had given Miranda a room without hesitation, asking well below the going rate for rent.
Temping by day, Miranda was glad to earn extra money in the evenings by helping Rosie out. Sometimes she just washed dishes or helped with the preparations, but for big events like this one she acted as waitress. Normally she wore black and blended into the background, but occasionally the client asked Rosie if the staff could wear something special. Tonight was the first time they had been presented at the last minute with quite such a ridiculous costume, but, looking at Rosie’s anxious expression, Miranda knew that she couldn’t refuse.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said, and watched her friend’s face clear magically. ‘It’s not as if anyone is going to recognise me with that mask on! And who notices the waitresses anyway?’
Nobody might notice her, but it was hard not to feel very conspicuous indeed once she was squeezed into the cat suit. It clung to her figure in a way that was embarrassingly revealing.
‘Actually, you look great,’ said Rosie, surprised, when Miranda presented herself for duty. She walked round her, inspecting her critically. ‘You’ve got a really good figure, Miranda, but you keep it hidden away beneath those shapeless jackets you wear.’
‘I could do with a shapeless jacket now,’ sighed Miranda, plucking fretfully at the suit. ‘I might as well be naked!’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Rosie consoled her. ‘When you’ve got your mask on you won’t feel so exposed.’
Miranda wasn’t sure about that, but it was too late to back out now. Nobody ever noticed her, anyhow, so why should tonight be any different?
The mask made her feel a little more confident, but she was still very conscious of the stares that seemed to follow her as she threaded her way through the crowd with a tray, and she was dismayed to spot Octavia on the far side of the room. Looking as beautiful as ever, her little sister was flirting with a soap star who was rumoured to be about to hit the big time, and leave his second wife in the process.
Miranda found it hard to shake the habit of worrying about Octavia, but she was fairly sure that her sister would just be amusing herself. For a girl who looked the way she did, Octavia was surprisingly hard-headed when it came to men. Still, she had better avoid that side of the room, Miranda decided. She wouldn’t put it past Octavia to recognise her, mask or no mask, and she and Belinda complained enough about her evening job as it was.
‘It’s so shaming,’ they grumbled. ‘What if anyone recognises you as our sister?’ Personally, Miranda felt it was more shaming to sponge off friends the way Octavia did, or depend financially on your in-laws as Belinda clearly had to do, but she had given up arguing with her sisters years ago.
Wheeling round, she headed the other way, and wound her way through the crowd, tray balanced aloft and tail draped over one arm to stop herself tripping over it. Champagne was circulating freely and the party soon warmed up, the chatter getting louder, the laughter more raucous.

Miranda’s feet were aching as she refilled the tray with exquisite little mushroom vol-au-vents and smoked salmon and scrambled egg canapés and headed back into the party once more.
There was Octavia again, sparkling up at a portly businessman. Miranda veered away and headed instead towards a group standing at the edge of the room. An incredibly slender girl wearing a dramatic dress that had probably cost as much as Miranda would earn in a year was looking bored, and as she got closer Miranda could guess why. The men with her had all obviously imbibed freely and were laughing uproariously at each other’s jokes.
Miranda wondered why the girl bothered to stay since she was so clearly unamused. She was standing close to a tall man with his back to Miranda, a possessive hand on his arm. Perhaps she would rather be bored than give up her position at his side?
He must be quite something, thought Miranda cynically. A girl like that wouldn’t bother unless he was very rich, very famous or very gorgeous, and she was clearly ready to defend her territory against the likes of Octavia. Needless to say, she didn’t even notice Miranda, proffering her tray, but her companion turned to look at her, and Miranda stopped dead, her heart lurching into her throat and wiping the smile from her face.

Now she could see why the girl was prepared to endure tedious jokes rather than abandon him—he was indeed very rich, very famous and very gorgeous, loath as Miranda was to admit it.
Rafe Knighton, in fact.
CHAPTER TWO
RAFE was looking straight at Miranda and the directness of his gaze made her burningly aware once more of her revealing costume. For one wild moment she was tempted to turn tail and run.
Then she told herself not to be so silly. Even if Rafe were to remember her from earlier that day, which was frankly pretty unlikely, there was no way he could recognise the sexily clad ‘cat’ as the colourless temp at the photocopier.
She forced a smile and held out the tray instead. ‘Would you like anything?’
The girl flicked a dismissive glance over her and looked away, not even bothering with a refusal, but the other men leered openly.
‘I know what I’d like,’ said one to a burst of laughter, ‘and it’s not on the tray!’
‘Here, pussy, pussy,’ called another in a high, stupid voice. ‘I’d like a stroke.’
Rafe was not enjoying himself. Why did he bother to come to these events? He had hoped to meet a rather more serious crowd at a book launch, but he should have known better. This party was even sillier than usual, and whose tasteless idea had it been to dress the waitresses as cats? They were all obviously hating it.
It was depressing to realise that someone had thought he would belong at a party like this. Had he really used to feel part of this life? Rafe was beginning to despair of ever persuading anyone that he had changed and was no longer the spoiled trust-fund baby that temp this morning had so obviously thought he was. No one was interested in what he had been doing for the past four years. No one was interested in what he was doing now. They all just assumed that he was playing at running the Knighton Group, and that the real decisions were being made by the board of directors.
About to feel sorry for himself, Rafe looked at the waitress, her smile rigidly in place. Poor girl. There were worse fates than inheriting a blue chip company, after all. He could be the one wearing the stupid costume and trying to earn a living while everyone else drank champagne and made lewd suggestions at his expense.
‘I’ll have one, thanks,’ he said, interrupting the increasingly risqué comments in an attempt to distract his companions, and she stepped forward gratefully with the tray.

As she did so the man standing next to her decided to put his words into action and patted her bottom, and Rafe saw her jerk unthinkingly away from his touch. He didn’t blame her for that at all, but the sudden movement tilted the tray, sending a selection of canapés shooting forward to land in a smear of pastry, egg and mushroom sauce all down the front of his jacket.
There was a moment of appalled silence.
Kyra was the first to speak. ‘You stupid girl!’ she snapped. ‘His jacket’s ruined.’
‘It wasn’t her fault,’ said Rafe sharply. He looked at the waitress, who was staring, aghast, at his jacket. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. Crouching down, she began hastily gathering the mess onto her tray while Kyra rolled her eyes and looked pointedly away, and the men shifted quickly into a new grouping, turning their backs on the whole sorry mess.
Rafe bent to help her. ‘It’s not you that should be sorry,’ he pointed out. ‘You shouldn’t have to put up with hassle like that.’
‘These outfits are asking for trouble,’ she said philosophically. ‘I shouldn’t have jumped like that, but he took me by surprise. I’m not used to anyone noticing me.’
She sounded quite sincere, Rafe realised to his surprise. He would have imagined that a girl with that figure would be fighting men off all the time. True, he couldn’t see much of her face, but she had beautiful skin, and, although what little he could see of her expression was rather ironic, those legs were spectacular. He was having trouble keeping his eyes off them, in fact, even if it did make him feel a creep, and not much better than the guy who had groped her.
‘Thank you for your help,’ she said briskly as she straightened. ‘And thank you for not making a fuss. My friend is responsible for the catering, and this is her first big job. I don’t want to cause any trouble for her.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Rafe said, picking a piece of scrambled egg off his tie, and wondering why she suddenly seemed oddly familiar.
‘Here,’ she said helpfully, shifting the tray onto the crook of her arm so she could pick up the fluffy tail and use the end to brush the last of the crumbs from his front.
‘At least this stupid tail is useful for something,’ she said.
There it was again, that peculiar conviction that he had met her before somewhere. Rafe frowned slightly. Surely he wouldn’t have forgotten those legs?
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, misinterpreting his frown. ‘There are still some marks on your suit. I should pay your dry-cleaning bill.’
‘Forget it,’ said Rafe easily. He was naturally neat, and there had been a time when he would have been bothered by a less than immaculate appearance, but the last four years had taught him that there were more important things than the odd stain. He certainly wasn’t going to accept what he suspected were the hard-won wages of a cocktail waitress. It hadn’t even been her fault.
‘It was high time this suit was cleaned anyway,’ he went on, when she hesitated. ‘You’ve done me a favour, really. Now I’ll have to do something about it.’
Behind her mask, Miranda regarded him in some puzzlement. Could it be that appearances were deceptive, after all? He had that glossy, well groomed look that was usually accompanied by an obsession with appearance, and she had expected him to make a huge fuss about the mess she had made of his jacket. Instead of which, he had been really very nice about it all. Few of the other guests at this party would have bothered to help out a frazzled waitress, that was for sure.
Miranda almost wished that he hadn’t. It was never comfortable having one’s preconceptions challenged, and she didn’t really want to think that there might be more to Rafe Knighton than met the eye.
The girl beside him hadn’t even made a token effort to help, but now that the mess was cleared up she was homing back in on Rafe. Miranda was amused to see the way she stepped slightly between them, turning her back to edge Miranda away. Not that she needed to worry, Miranda thought. She had absolutely no interest in the Rafe Knightons of this world. She knew only too well what it was like to live with a playboy.
You’d have thought that growing up with a father like theirs would have put her sisters off the idea of marrying anyone like him, but apparently not. Miranda couldn’t understand why Belinda had been so determined to marry a title, while Octavia, more practical, had set her sights on a wealthy husband. Their own parents had had the society wedding of the year in their day, and look how badly that marriage had turned out!
As if her thoughts had conjured her sister up, Miranda caught sight of Octavia somewhere behind Rafe’s shoulder. She was casually scanning the crowd, but as Miranda watched the beautiful green eyes widened as they fell upon Rafe’s profile.
Time to beat a retreat, Miranda decided. If she knew her sister, Octavia would be over here any moment now to introduce herself, and she didn’t want to be here when she did. Not that she cared about embarrassing Octavia, but it would be awkward if her sister somehow revealed her identity to Rafe. She would just as soon not be exposed to her boss while she was wearing a skintight cat suit.

‘I’d better go and get rid of this mess,’ she said to Rafe, backing away to his girlfriend’s evident relief. ‘Sorry again about your jacket.’
Rafe watched her slip away through the crowd. She had a very straight back, and he was conscious of the same odd feeling of knowing her somehow. His brows drew together in an effort to focus his memory. Where could he possibly have seen her before?
Beside him, he was vaguely aware of Kyra stiffening. ‘I’m bored with this party,’ she said abruptly, taking his arm with a proprietorial air. ‘Let’s go.’
Rafe hesitated. Kyra had attached herself to him early in the evening and he had been wondering how to shake her off without hurting her feelings. He had no intention of spending the rest of the night with her, but nor did he want to stay at this stupid party just to make a point. They could leave together and then go their separate ways, he decided.
As they turned to go he literally bumped into an enchantingly pretty girl, but Kyra towed him onwards before they had chance to do more than exchange apologetic smiles. Rafe glanced back over his shoulder with a faint frown as he left. There had been something elusively familiar about her too.
The thought made him pause at the door and look around to see if he could spot the waitress again, but there were too many people.

‘Come on,’ said Kyra impatiently, and, stifling an odd pang of disappointment, Rafe went.

‘Hiya.’
Startled, Miranda looked up from her computer to see her youngest sister lounging in the doorway, and as usual making it appear that the door had been specifically designed to show her off to her best advantage.
‘Octavia! You’re not supposed to be in here. There are supposed to be security procedures to stop strangers getting in!’
Security at the Knighton Group was run by a gimlet-eyed ex-Army officer called Mack who took his responsibilities extremely seriously. Miranda sometimes thought it would be easier to stroll into Fort Knox with a handy bag for carrying bullion.
‘Oh, it’s OK,’ said Octavia carelessly, strolling into the office and looking around her with a kind of bemused curiosity. This was a place where people actually worked. ‘I spoke to someone called Mack—he’s sweet, isn’t he?—and told him it was an emergency, so he said it would be fine if I just came up. He told me where to find your office and everything.’
Miranda stiffened. ‘Emergency? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, I just wanted to see you, and I knew I’d never get near you unless I said it was important.’ Octavia spun a chair from the other desk and sat down on it, crossing her impossibly long legs. ‘You’d just say you were busy or something.’
‘I am busy,’ said Miranda, eyeing her sister with exasperation. Honestly, Octavia was impossible sometimes! ‘So why don’t you just tell me what you’re doing here?’
Octavia leant forward. ‘I was this close to meeting Rafe Knighton last night,’ she said, holding her thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate the nearness by which she had missed Rafe. ‘But he was with that cow Kyra Bennett, who saw me coming and whisked him away before I could introduce myself. I smiled and Rafe definitely looked interested.’ She pouted. ‘I just know he would have wanted to talk to me if she hadn’t been dragging him off.’
‘And I’m interested in all this because…?’
‘Because now I just need another chance to bump into him,’ said Octavia, ignoring Miranda’s sardonic expression. ‘I’m sure he’d recognise me, and I can take it from there.’
Miranda sighed. ‘Take what from where?’ she asked, knowing that she probably wasn’t going to like the answer.
She didn’t.
‘Things are desperate,’ announced Octavia. ‘I don’t like not having any money,’ she said simply. ‘It’s been horrid with Daddy dying and not having any money any more. I don’t even get an allowance now!’ The green eyes were wide with indignation. ‘My only option is to marry someone rich, and Rafe Knighton is as rich as they come. He’s rather gorgeous too, don’t you think? I wouldn’t mind sacrificing myself to him!’
‘That’s very noble of you, Octavia, but I do have to point out that marriage is not, in fact, your only option,’ said Miranda crisply. ‘You could always try working for a living like the rest of us.’
‘Why would I want to do that if I could get married instead and never have to work at all?’ Octavia countered, all reasonableness. ‘You wouldn’t have to either if I was Mrs Knighton. Octavia Knighton…’ She tried out the name musingly. ‘It’s got a nice ring to it, don’t you think?’
Miranda put her head in her hands. Sometimes she despaired of her sisters. They seemed to live in a parallel universe, one at least two centuries behind the times to boot.
‘And all you’ve got to do is introduce me to your boss,’ Octavia pointed out. ‘Is that too much to ask? What’s the problem?’
Where to start? Sighing, Miranda lifted her head.
‘One, I’m completely opposed on principle to the idea of marriage as a meal ticket,’ she said, ticking off objections on her fingers. ‘Two, even if I wasn’t, Rafe Knighton would make the worst possible husband for you. He’s just a pretty face with too much money, and he’d make you absolutely miserable.
‘And three,’ she finished with emphasis before she let herself remember that only the night before she had wondered if there might be rather more to Rafe than his looks, ‘I don’t have anything to do with him, so couldn’t introduce you anyway. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m just a temp here. He’s Chairman and Chief Executive. He never comes down here and if he did, he wouldn’t even know who I was.’
The words were barely out of her mouth when Rafe walked into the office.
‘Hello, Miranda,’ he said.
For one dizzying moment, Miranda had the strangest feeling that all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
She had forgotten how physical he was. It had been a shock seeing him last night, but she had just managed to convince herself that he couldn’t possibly be as good-looking as she remembered, and now here he was, looking more so, not less, in yet another immaculately stylish suit, exuding charm and confidence and an almost electrifying energy.
His presence was overwhelming, almost suffocating, and after that first breathless moment when Miranda hadn’t been able to think at all her hackles rose instinctively. Really, he was too much. He was just too…too…too everything.
The last time she had seen him, she might as well have been naked. Miranda was mortified at the memory. He didn’t realise it, of course—thank goodness she had been wearing a mask!—but it still made her uncomfortable to think about how provocative that stupid costume had been.
Not that Rafe had leered like the other men, she had to give him credit for that, but how typical of him to have been at such a mindless party in the first place, and with that vapid girl clinging to his arm.
Burningly aware of Octavia’s accusing gaze, and offering up silent thanks to whoever had insisted the waitresses wore masks the night before, Miranda found a cool smile.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Knighton?’
‘You can call me Rafe, for a start,’ said Rafe, disconcerted by how familiar she seemed, sitting prim and proper behind her desk in a suit that was, if anything, less flattering than the day before. The woman had no idea how to dress. ‘Is Simon around? I never managed to talk to him about the ball yesterday.’
‘A ball! How exciting!’ A voice from the corner made Rafe turn and he found himself looking at a girl who might have been designed as a contrast to Miranda with her tight lips and her prudish expression.

She really was extraordinarily lovely, with flawless features and amazing green eyes. Silver gilt hair tumbled artlessly to her shoulders, and a breathtakingly short skirt revealed incredible legs—quite as good as that waitress’s last night—which she crossed as she leant forward with a dazzling smile.
‘Hello!’ she said as if she knew him.
‘Hello.’ He smiled back at her, and held out his hand. Unlike Miranda Fairchild, she looked as if she would enjoy a ball. She might be just the assistant he needed. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there before. I’m Rafe Knighton. Are you temping here, too?’
‘Just visiting, I’m afraid.’ Her eyes laughed up at him as she shook his hand. ‘I’m Octavia Fairchild.’
Fairchild? ‘You’re Miranda’s sister?’ Rafe asked, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. It was hard to imagine two women more different from each other, one all lush, blonde beauty and the other prim and prickly and if not exactly plain, certainly nowhere near as lovely as her sister. Still, that explained why there was something familiar about her.
Octavia’s green eyes flickered slightly. She wasn’t used to being described as Miranda’s sister. It was usually the other way round.
She kept her smile dazzling, though, and nodded. ‘I know I shouldn’t be here,’ she confided, with a devastating glance up under her lashes, ‘but I wanted to see how Miranda was getting on.’

‘And discovered that I’m very busy,’ Miranda finished crisply for her with a meaningful look that Octavia ignored entirely. ‘Octavia’s just leaving.’
‘Don’t let me chase you away,’ said Rafe instantly. ‘I just came to have a word with Simon.’
‘He’s in his office if you want to go in,’ said Miranda, wishing he and Octavia would both go away, but before he could move the inner door opened and Simon himself came out.
‘Miranda, could you—?’ he began, then stopped as he saw Rafe. ‘I didn’t know you were here, Rafe,’ he apologised. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘Not at all. I’ve just been meeting Miranda’s sister here,’ said Rafe easily, indicating Octavia.
To Miranda’s surprise, Simon’s expression was disapproving as it rested on her sister. He nodded a curt greeting and turned immediately back to Rafe. ‘Come in,’ he said, and gestured towards his office. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Well!’ Octavia was distinctly put out. ‘He’s not very friendly, is he?’
‘Actually, he’s very nice,’ said Miranda.
‘You can keep him.’ Octavia tossed back her hair with a sniff. ‘I’d rather have Rafe any day. He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’
‘And no one knows it more than him,’ Miranda pointed out.
‘I think he liked me, don’t you?’

Miranda didn’t bother to answer that. Of course Rafe had liked Octavia. Men—with the apparent exception of Simon—always did.
She turned back to her computer. ‘Octavia, I’ve got to get on.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ said Octavia, getting gracefully to her feet. ‘I don’t want to look too keen. But if Rafe asks for my phone number, be sure and give it to him.’
Waggling her fingers in farewell, she strolled off, leaving Miranda alone with the scent of her perfume drifting in the air.
With a sigh, Miranda went back to her email.
It was nearly half an hour before Rafe emerged from Simon’s office. Miranda was alert to the sound of the opening door, and this time she was braced against the good looks and the dark-eyed charm. Less easy to ignore was the way his presence sent a charge zapping and crackling through the air and interfering with her breathing no matter how desperately she kept her eyes firmly fixed on her computer screen and pretended to be absorbed.
‘Have you got a moment, Miranda?’ said Simon, and, because it was him, she looked up. ‘Rafe has a proposal for you.’
Miranda looked wary. ‘What sort of proposal?’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going down on one knee,’ said Rafe, with one of those smiles calculated to set a female pulse racing. Miranda kept hers below a gallop, but it was an effort. ‘This proposal’s to do with work, but I think it will be fun too.’
‘Fun?’
Just as he’d thought, she sounded as if she didn’t know what the word meant.
‘I want you to work with me on a special assignment,’ he told her. ‘Organising a ball, in fact.’
Most girls would have been thrilled at the idea. Rafe was pretty sure her beautiful sister would have been, but Miranda just looked at Simon.
He beamed back at her, oblivious to her dismay. ‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you’ll be fantastic at it. I’ve just been telling Rafe how impressed we’ve all been by you.’
‘But…won’t you need me here?’ she asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.
‘Ellen will be back on Monday,’ Simon pointed out. ‘We’ll miss you, of course, but it’s great to know that you’ll still be around for a while. We’ll clear it with your agency, of course, but I’m sure they’ll be delighted to let you stay when they hear what a prestigious assignment it is.’
Miranda was sure they would be too. Her heart sank, and she glanced at Rafe, who was watching her with evident amusement, as if he knew exactly how reluctant she was to take the job.
It wasn’t the job that made her uneasy, it was him. He was too disturbing, too overwhelming. It was impossible to concentrate when he was around, making the atmosphere zing just by standing there, letting the corner of his mouth curl in a way that made it hard to breathe properly. She would never get any work done.
And even if she did manage to deal with those distractions, she would never be able to keep Octavia away once she found out what she was doing. Miranda had no intention of encouraging Octavia’s dreams of becoming Mrs Knighton. There was no way coming up smack against a man as superficial and self-absorbed as herself would make her lovely sister happy. She needed to be cherished for her beauty and charm, not broken on the wheel of Rafe’s ‘fun’ lifestyle.
But what could she say? She could hardly say that she didn’t like him, or thought that the whole idea of a ball was typically frivolous and silly. A ball, in the twenty-first century! Honestly!
She lifted her chin. ‘How long would this assignment last?’
‘That depends on when the ball is,’ said Rafe cheerfully. ‘Your first task will be to set a date. But let’s say a couple of months.’
‘You’ll never find a venue in that time.’ Miranda seized on the excuse. ‘Anywhere big enough to a hold a ball will be booked up years in advance.’
‘I’ve got an idea about that,’ said Rafe, looking directly into her eyes. ‘But before we talk about details, I need to know if you’re available, and if you’re willing to do the job.’
All she had to do was say that she had other commitments. She didn’t have to do any job if she didn’t want to.
But she needed the money, and there was no guarantee the agency would be able to find her another placement next week. Especially if she had turned down a plum assignment for no reason other than feeling unsettled by her prospective boss.
Don’t be so silly, Miranda told herself sternly. The hard truth was that she needed the money, and two months of regular income would make a big difference. If she carried on working in the evenings as well, she could even start to save.
She thought about Whitestones and how much it was going to take to make the house habitable. Then she thought about the sea and the smell of the air and how happy she always felt there. It would be worth putting up with Rafe Knighton for that, wouldn’t it?
And perhaps she wouldn’t have to have that much to do with him after all, she encouraged herself. A man like him wasn’t likely to involve himself in boring practicalities. She might never see him.
Taking a deep breath, Miranda looked steadily back into Rafe’s eyes. ‘I’m available,’ she said, ‘and I’m willing.’
* * *

On Monday morning, Miranda presented herself in the chief executive’s office at nine o’clock on the dot. She was wearing a grey suit with a neat white blouse, and sensible black court shoes. She looked, she felt, cool and professional, and that was what she was determined to be.
Miranda had had the weekend to think about it, and she had decided that she had been overreacting to Rafe Knighton’s unsettling presence. She had nearly refused this job because of him. How stupid would that have been?
It was humiliating to think that she had been rattled by glinting eyes and a wicked smile. Miranda squirmed whenever she remembered the way her pulse had jumped and jittered. She ought to be immune to his particular brand of good looks and charm, after all.
And she was, Miranda resolved. She was lucky to have a job at all, let alone the prospect of an interesting one. She was good at organising. A ball was a project like any other, and she was fairly sure Rafe Knighton would lose interest as soon as they got down to the tedious details. He would drift off to another idea, and she would be able to get on with the job.
It would be fine.
Rafe’s PA, an elegant woman called Ginny, was clearly expecting her and made her welcome. She had even cleared a desk for her, but before Miranda had a chance to pump her about exactly what she was expected to do Rafe himself breezed into the office.
It was extraordinary the way everything snapped into focus when he was in the room, Miranda thought, conscious of a hitch in her breathing in spite of all her sternest resolutions not to notice him at all. She hadn’t even been aware of how muted things had seemed until he appeared.
In place of his usual immaculate suit, he wore black jeans and an open-necked pink shirt, its sleeves rolled casually above broad, strong wrists. The colour should have made him look effeminate, but instead only emphasised the virile masculinity he managed to exude just standing there, and Miranda made herself look away while she concentrated on breathing steadily. Cool and professional, right?
Right.
Rafe was kissing Ginny on the cheek and teasing her about her weekend. His charm was relentless, Miranda thought, glad to be back in critical mode, encompassing everyone and everything in his path. She imagined it steamrollering over man, woman, child or dog, regardless of whether they wanted to be charmed or not. Was she the only one able to resist it?
Her father had been exactly the same. When he’d died, Miranda had lost count of the people who had told her that he was the most charming person they had ever met, but she had often wondered whether that expansive charm hid a desperate need for approval. It had always seemed to her that her father didn’t exist properly unless he had someone to amuse or impress or flatter with his attention.
Rafe Knighton came from the same mould, Miranda suspected, and she would do well not to forget it.
‘I’m glad to see you, Miranda,’ said Rafe, turning his attention to her at last. ‘And bang on time, too. I hope this means you’re keen to get going on the ball?’ His voice was warm with laughter and his eyes danced distractingly as they studied her, standing neat and composed by the desk.
What was so funny? Miranda thought crossly even as she reminded herself not to let him rile her. Lifting her chin, she returned his gaze levelly.
‘It means I believe punctuality is important,’ she said.
‘What about at the end of the day? Are you one of those clock-watchers who’ll drop everything and walk out at five-thirty, regardless of what needs to be done?’
Privately, Miranda thought Rafe Knighton was a fine one to talk about clock-watching when he had barely done a stroke of work in his life. Easy to sneer at people who were paid by the hour when you could drift around amusing yourself all day.
‘No,’ she said coolly. ‘If anything needs to be dealt with urgently, then of course I will stay—and include any extra hours on my timesheet,’ she added, just in case he expected her to work for free.
‘Excellent,’ said Rafe. ‘In that case, let’s go.’
‘Go?’ Miranda stared at him. ‘Go where?’
‘I want you to see the ballroom I’ve got in mind and tell me what you think. You can’t start organising the ball until you know where it’s going to be.’
‘Rafe, you can’t drag the poor girl off before she’s even had a chance to sit down!’ Ginny protested.
‘Poor girl? Poor girl?’ Rafe shook his head. ‘Don’t let that demure look fool you, Ginny. Miranda isn’t a poor girl. The entire communications department was terrified of her efficiency, and I’ve seen her beat their photocopier into submission with my own eyes! I won’t tell you how she did it or what kind of language she used. You would be shocked!’
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miranda’s mouth twitch and, although she quickly suppressed her smile, he was conscious of a spurt of triumph at having got through to her at last. It was a relief to see that glimpse of humour, too. Perhaps he hadn’t made such a colossal mistake after all.

He had been dismayed when he’d first walked in that morning to see her looking prim and proper in that dull suit and far more colourless than he had remembered. This ball was important, and if it was going to be a success it would have to be run by someone who had some sense of humour as well as excellent organisational abilities.
Rafe had liked Miranda’s astringency when he had met her the week before, and that combined with the glowing references Simon had given her had made her seem like the perfect candidate. This morning, though, he had begun to wonder if the sharp Miranda he remembered had been a mere figment of his imagination. Now, seeing the curl at the corner of her mouth, he was reassured. She might not want to let on that she was amused by his nonsense, but Rafe knew better.
‘At least have a cup of coffee first,’ Ginny was urging, but now that he was sure Miranda was the girl he had remembered he was impatient to be off.
‘You don’t want coffee, do you, Miranda? I bet you don’t even touch the stuff.’
‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘I depend on coffee to get me through the morning.’
Her eyes met his blandly, and meeting that clear green gaze, Rafe felt his pulse kick unexpectedly.
‘We’ll stop on the way,’ he promised, turning back to Ginny. ‘There’s nothing that won’t keep until tomorrow, is there?’

‘Tomorrow?’ Miranda repeated as she followed him out of the office. ‘How long are we going to be?’
‘We’ll be away most of the day,’ said Rafe casually. Pushing the button to call the express lift, he caught her look of dismay. ‘Why, do you have to be back for a certain time?’
‘Well, no…’ she admitted. She had worked every evening over the weekend and was looking forward to a night in.
‘Good. I hate having to be somewhere at a set time, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Miranda as the lift doors slid open and they stepped inside. ‘I prefer to have a plan.’
Rafe glanced at her. As before, her hair was pulled tightly back from her face. A practical style, maybe, but not a flattering one, even if it did expose the pure line of her jaw and the chin tilted at what he suspected was a characteristically determined angle.
Her lips were pressed together in a tight line and she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the lights above the door. In that suit she looked neat and tense and far too controlled for comfort.
‘Don’t you ever feel like being spontaneous?’ he asked.
The lift sighed to a halt on the ground floor and the doors opened once more. ‘I grew up in a family of spontaneous people,’ said Miranda. ‘In my experience, nothing ever happens unless you plan it.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of organisation,’ Rafe agreed, holding open the door for her, ‘but if you plan too much it takes away all the fun. Take today,’ he went on as they stepped out into the spring sunshine. He gestured around. ‘It’s a beautiful day. If we had planned meetings we’d end up sitting in an office all day. As it is, we can do whatever we like with it.’
‘You may be able to, but I can’t afford to do that,’ she pointed out crisply. ‘I’m being paid to do whatever you want to do. If not, I wouldn’t be here.’
‘Where would you be? If you could do whatever you liked today?’
That was easy. Miranda thought of Whitestones on a day like today. The house would be full of sunshine, and at the bottom of the cliff the sea would be a-glitter in the bright light. ‘I’d be at the seaside,’ she said.
CHAPTER THREE
A GLEAMING convertible sports car was waiting at the bottom of the steps, engine idling, its soft top invitingly open. The moment Rafe appeared, the driver got out and handed him the keys before opening the passenger door for Miranda.
As she got in with a murmur of thanks Miranda thought about her trip to work that morning. She had had to walk to the Tube, then wait for a train. Engineering works had caused delays all along the line, and by the time she had eventually managed to squeeze onto a train she had had to spend the entire journey pressed up against all the other blank-faced, Monday-morning commuters.
Now, barely an hour later, transport had been brought to the door so that all she had to do was sink into the soft leather seat. The contrast was dis-orientating.
Rafe had finished exchanging racing tips with the driver and got in beside her. He smiled at her as he pulled on his seat belt and started the car.
‘Which sea?’
Miranda blinked. ‘Sorry?’
‘You said that if you had a choice you’d be at the seaside. I wondered which coast you were thinking of.’
‘Oh. The south coast,’ she told him, watching as he pulled expertly out into the traffic. ‘In Dorset.’
Her eyes took on a faraway expression as she pictured Whitestones. ‘There’s a house on a cliff, and steps that lead down to a shingle beach.’ She sighed a little, remembering. ‘I love it there.’
‘Then we’ll go.’
There was a strange note to Rafe’s voice, and Miranda turned to stare at him. ‘I thought we were going to look at a ballroom?’
‘We are. We’re going to have lunch with my grandmother who lives in Hampshire, but after that we’ll drive on and find your beach.’ He slanted her one of his smiles. ‘There you are, we’ve got a plan after all.’
‘You’re not serious!’
‘Of course I’m serious. I’m always serious,’ said Rafe, but the navy blue eyes glinted in a very unserious way.
‘We’re going to Hampshire? For lunch?’
‘And to see a ballroom. Don’t forget this is work,’ he said with mock reproof.
‘But…does your grandmother have a ballroom?’ This was turning into such a strange Monday morning that Miranda was beginning to find it all surreal.
‘Indeed she does,’ said Rafe cheerfully. ‘Knighton Park is a monstrosity built by my great-great grandfather when he made his fortune. He was a typical bad boy made good, and once he’d made some money he was determined to flaunt it. He built a pile that everyone else must have thought was impossibly vulgar, with every mod con of the time…including a ballroom that’s hardly been used since. My grandmother has lived there since she was married.’
‘I thought the ball would be in London,’ said Miranda, frowning slightly.
‘That would be ideal, but, as you pointed out, we’re unlikely to find anywhere if we don’t want to wait until next year now…and I don’t.’
No, Rafe would never want to wait for anything. He was a typical trust fund baby, expecting that he could have whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it, thought Miranda, conveniently forgetting that she had grown up in a family that acted on very similar assumptions.
‘What’s the big hurry?’
The traffic lights chose that moment to turn red, and Rafe pulled up with a little sigh of frustration. Yanking on the handbrake with unnecessary force, he turned to look at Miranda, sitting straight-backed beside him. ‘Don’t you ever wake up with an idea and want to make it happen straight away?’
‘If it’s a good idea, it’s worth taking the time to make sure it happens right,’ she said, thinking of Whitestones. ‘We can’t always snap our fingers and have exactly what we want immediately,’ she added reprovingly.
‘No, but if we don’t at least try to make it happen, we may never have what we want,’ Rafe pointed out. He might have known she wouldn’t understand. Look at her, buttoned up so tightly it was surprising she could breathe! She didn’t look as if she had ever done anything spontaneous in her life. On the other hand, the seaside had been an interesting choice. He’d have expected her to opt for something dull, like a library or a museum.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ he said, his eyes on the lights and his foot on the clutch, ready for the off. ‘Maybe it would be best to leave it for another year, but if there’s any chance of arranging something for this summer, I want to make it happen.
‘See what you think about the ballroom at Knighton Park,’ he went on, enjoying the sense of leashed power as the engine revved. ‘It’s not that far from London. It might work. If you don’t think it will, OK. We can look around for a venue for next year, at which point you’ll have organised your way out of a job, but in the meantime we may as well make the most of a day out, don’t you think? You’re getting paid for it, after all.’
Miranda felt the pressure against the small of her back as the lights changed to green and the car accelerated away. They were heading down Park Lane. On their right, Hyde Park looked bright and inviting, with the trees decked out in fresh green. It had been a long, grey winter and an even greyer spring, and now London was unfurling in the sunshine.
This was not the Monday morning she had expected, cocooned in the comfort of a luxurious car, driving out of town for lunch in the country and, as Rafe pointed out, getting paid for it. She didn’t often get a day off, so she might as well make the most of it, just as he’d suggested. Settling back into the leather, Miranda tipped her face to the sunshine, closed her eyes and smiled.
Rafe nearly went off the road. He had been aware of that rigidly prim pose slowly relaxing, and, glancing sideways, was struck afresh by the beautiful skin and the fine brows, by the clean lines of her face and throat. Last week, her hair had seemed dull and brown and straight, but the sunlight turned it to myriad shades of gold and honey, and made him wonder what it would be like if she let it fall around her face, whether it would feel as smooth and silky as it looked if he tangled his fingers in it.
And then she had smiled. She wasn’t even smiling at him. It was just a smile of sheer pleasure in the moment, but Rafe was startled. It was as if he had lifted a curtain, expecting to see a plain, ordinary girl behind it, and instead found himself staring at a lush, sensuous woman.
Had her mouth always been that wide? That sensual? Had it always curled in that tantalising way?
Thrown, Rafe gripped the steering wheel and concentrated fiercely on the traffic. Who would have thought that prim Miranda Fairchild would have a smile like that? And if that was how she smiled at the feel of sunshine on her face, how would she smile if she were happy? In love?
In bed?
Rafe dragged his mind away from the image with difficulty. He was more shaken than he wanted to admit by that brief glimpse of a different side to Miranda Fairchild. He wished he hadn’t seen that smile. He didn’t want her to be attractive and distracting. Although he hadn’t put it into words, he had decided that she would be ideal for this job precisely because he had thought she was neither. She was supposed to be intelligent and practical and unassuming, and nothing else. She wasn’t supposed to smile.
Not like that anyway.
‘Dreaming you’re back at the photocopier?’ he asked, keeping his voice determinedly light.
To his relief, Miranda laughed and opened her eyes. ‘No, I’m not missing that copier at all.’ Straightening, she looked around her. ‘It’s not a bad way to spend a Monday morning, I suppose! This reminds me of when my father used to drive me down to see my godmother in Dorset. He had an open-topped sports car, too.’
How long was it since she had thought about that? Miranda wondered a little guiltily. She ought to remember the good times with her father more often. Much better to remember him when he was the golden, carefree father she had idolised, than to think about the foolish vanity and obstinacy that had brought the entire family to ruin.
She pushed the dark thoughts determinedly aside. ‘It’s hard to believe I’m at work,’ she said brightly. ‘It feels like being on holiday!’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Rafe. ‘We used to drive this way when I was taken to stay with my grandparents at Knighton Park as a kid, so the route reminds me of holidays too.’
Miranda could imagine Rafe as a little boy, dark-eyed and mischievous. ‘Was it a family outing?’
‘Not really. I’m an only child, and my parents were glad not to have me underfoot in the school holidays. Sometimes my mother would drive me down, but more often the chauffeur would take me, sitting in solitary splendour in the back of the car.’
Rafe’s voice was light, but Miranda felt her heart twist. She would never have thought she would feel sorry for Rafe Knighton! Poor little boy.
‘It sounds a bit lonely.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mind as long as I got there. I liked staying with my grandparents. It was more fun at Knighton Park than London. There were lots of places to get lost or get into trouble, or both, and I always seemed to find some other kids to play with.’
He probably started charming at a very early age, Miranda thought. It would have been one way of making sure that he always had a companion.

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