A Rich Man's Touch

He was wearing dark trousers and a leather blouson jacket this afternoon, and a dark blue tee shirt that highlighted the olive cast of his skin. His face was still drawn but Rachel was uneasily aware of the hard strength in his lean features. It was an awareness that had come to her gradually, but she couldn’t deny he possessed a sort of magnetism that no amount of self-denigration on her part could dismiss.

She didn’t want to notice these things but she couldn’t help it. It was her mother’s fault, she thought crossly. And Stephanie’s. They had put these thoughts into her head. Yet in her heart of hearts she knew that it wasn’t anything either of them had said that had reduced her to this state of nervous apprehension every time he came into the café. And she was very much afraid he knew it, too.

‘I understand,’ he said, when she recovered herself sufficiently to glance at the clock. ‘You’re closing.’ He paused. ‘I hoped you might be.’ He pushed his fingers into the waist-line pockets of his trousers and she instantly noticed how his thumbs pointed to the taut fabric that shaped his sex. ‘I wondered if you’d like to have a drink with me for a change.’

Rachel swallowed, dragging her eyes away from that part of his anatomy and avoiding his disturbing appraisal by straightening a chair at a nearby table. Then, because she had to say something and she couldn’t possibly accept his invitation, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Webb. I’m just on my way home.’

‘My name’s Gabe, as I believe I told you,’ he said, standing squarely between her and the door. ‘And I’m sure you could spare me a few minutes of your valuable time. The Golden Lion’s just across the road.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Why not?’ His impatience was carefully controlled. ‘Have you got another appointment?’

‘No.’ Rachel sighed. ‘I’ve just told you. I’m on my way home.’

‘So why can’t you humour me and save me from a lonely half-hour in the pub?’

Rachel caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I can’t believe you have to rely on a perfect stranger for company,’ she said, and saw the way his jaw compressed. She was angering him, she could tell that, and she thought perhaps that was the way to go. Whatever impulse had caused this unexpected petition, it couldn’t possibly survive a blank denial. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You still haven’t given me a convincing reason why not,’ he persisted. Then, harshly, ‘Am I trespassing on another man’s property? Is that it?’

Rachel’s jaw dropped. ‘I just don’t want to have a drink with you, Mr Webb.’ She picked up the navy jacket she had dropped over the back of a chair and pushed her arms into the sleeves. ‘I’m tired and I’m looking forward to having a long soak in the bath. Does that answer your question?’

Gabriel didn’t move. ‘You don’t like me,’ he said flatly. ‘I had thought, after our conversation the other afternoon, that you’d realised that I am not my son.’

‘Oh, I do realise that, Mr Webb.’ Rachel was getting angry now. ‘But what you don’t seem capable of grasping is that I run a café. I have to be polite to all my customers, even those I—I—’

‘You don’t like,’ he finished for her drily. ‘Yes. I get the picture.’

Rachel doubted that he did. And there was such a look of defeat in his night-dark eyes now that she felt dreadful. When he’d come into the café there’d been a different expression on his face, but that anticipation—that expectation—had all been extinguished now. He looked greyer, older, and when he turned abruptly towards the door she wanted to flay herself for destroying his mood.

‘Wait…’

Without giving herself time to have second thoughts, Rachel went after him. Her hand reached for his sleeve, but her fingers brushed his wrist instead, the leather strap of his wristwatch so much warmer than his chilled skin.

And, instantly, she wanted to take him into her arms. To hold him and warm his cold flesh with her body that was suddenly hot and pulsing with life. But of course she didn’t. Instead, her hand fell awkwardly to her side, and when she met his guarded stare she wondered what in God’s name she had been thinking of.

‘Yes?’ he said, and now it was her turn to face his closed gaze.

‘I—perhaps we could have a drink together,’ she said with difficulty, and his mouth took on a mocking curve.

‘Don’t do me any favours, Mrs Kershaw,’ he said, his features cold and withdrawn. ‘I don’t need your pity.’

‘It’s not—it’s not pity,’ protested Rachel, wondering somewhat incredulously why she was persisting with this. Why hadn’t she let him go when she’d had the chance? ‘However, if you’ve changed your mind…’

‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ he said heavily, his hand resting on the handle of the door. He paused. ‘Do you want to follow me over?’

‘I—no.’ Rachel realised he was giving her one final chance to escape. ‘I can come now. Just let me turn off the lights and set the alarm.’

He was waiting outside when she emerged from the café and locked the door. He was standing, staring across the road at the warm brown stone of the Golden Lion’s walls, his hands pushed into the pockets of his jacket. It wasn’t a cold evening, but there was an errant breeze that whipped tendrils of dark hair across his temple and he lifted his hand and raked long fingers through his hair as she joined him.

They crossed the street in silence and entered the public house beneath the creaking sign of King Richard’s lion. A carpeted foyer with swing doors opened into a discreetly lit bar that at this hour of the afternoon was virtually deserted. Only a couple of regulars occupied stools at the counter, discussing racing form with the bartender, and Gabriel indicated that Rachel should find a seat while he got their drinks.

‘Just an orange juice for me,’ she murmured when he asked what she wanted, and he raised a resigned brow before approaching the bar.

Windows overlooking the street outside were set high in the walls, giving privacy to anyone seated in the booths below. Rachel chose a corner location, sliding onto the padded banquette with a feeling of mild disbelief. What was she doing here? she wondered. And with Gabriel Webb! Her mother would never believe it.

Or rather she would, Rachel acknowledged, glancing towards the bar to find her companion exchanging a casual greeting with the bartender. Evidently he was not unknown here, and Rachel wondered if anyone had recognised her as well. Oh, God, she should have insisted on them going somewhere where they weren’t immediately recognisable.

‘One orange juice,’ murmured Gabriel, sliding into the booth opposite, and she was glad he hadn’t attempted to sit next to her.

Not that he would, she assured herself, once again aware that she was attributing far too much importance to the situation. He had invited her for a drink. So what?

He had got himself a beer and now he raised the bottle to his lips and drank some of the foaming liquid. Unwillingly, her eyes were drawn to the strong column of his throat and the way his muscles moved under his dark skin. Everything he did caused a quiver of awareness deep inside her, and she wondered why he affected her this way. It couldn’t only be pity, could it? No! Pity had never felt like this.

He lowered the bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before saying softly, ‘What made you change your mind?’

That wasn’t easy to answer, particularly after her thoughts of a few moments ago, and she bent her head, seeking inspiration in her glass. The truth was, she didn’t know why she had abandoned all her principles and accepted his invitation. It was far too complex for her to understand.

‘I—I suppose I was curious,’ she said at last, confessing the least of her sins. ‘Why did you invite me?’

Gabriel’s mouth twisted. ‘Why does a man usually ask a woman to go out with him?’ he asked lightly, and Rachel’s skin feathered with apprehension.

‘You don’t mean that,’ she said, her fingers nervous on the base of her glass. ‘If Andrew put you up to this—’

‘I haven’t seen Andrew in weeks,’ retorted Gabriel harshly. ‘He and I have little in common. And why would you assume I must have some ulterior motive for my invitation?’ He paused. ‘Unless you think I’m too old to enjoy your company.’

Rachel caught her breath. ‘Your age has nothing to do with it.’ She moistened dry nervous lips. ‘I just find it hard to believe that you’d have any interest in me. And I’d rather you didn’t insult my intelligence by pretending you were irresistibly attracted to my womanly charms.’

Gabriel gave a small smile. ‘You don’t have a very high opinion of yourself, do you?’

‘So my mother is always telling me,’ replied Rachel tightly. ‘Shall we talk about you instead? Like why have you come back to Kingsbridge, for example?’

‘That’s not important.’ He cradled his beer between his palms. ‘For the moment I’d like to explain why I wanted to see you again. I realise this is an unusual situation, and I understand that you might be suspicious of my motives.’

‘I didn’t say that—’

‘As good as,’ he insisted softly. ‘After all, my son did a pretty good job of making you despise him, and because my name’s the same you probably think I’m just like him.’

‘And you’re not?’ Rachel sounded sceptical.

‘You don’t believe that?’ He shrugged. ‘No, why would you? I’ve done nothing to prove otherwise. Not yet, anyway.’ His eyes narrowed on her soft mouth. ‘But if you’ll let me, I will.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘Why would you want to?’

‘Because I like what I know of you,’ he said steadily. ‘Because I admire you. Because I’d like to get to know you better. Does that answer your question?’

It did, but Rachel didn’t know if it was what she wanted to hear. Her reaction to Gabriel Webb troubled her, and she had the distinct feeling that he could hurt her far more than his son had ever done.