The Heiress's Secret Baby

‘We were the first to unveil the latest trends, to sell miniskirts. We were always cutting edge and now we’re part of a tour that includes Buckingham Palace and Madame Tussauds.’ The contempt was clear in her voice. ‘We’re doing well financially, really well, but we’re no longer cutting edge. We’re safe, steady, middle-aged.’ Polly wrinkled her nose as she spoke.

It was true; Rafferty’s was a byword for elegance, taste and design but not for innovation, not any more. Even Gabe’s own digital vision could only sell the existing ranges. But it was fabulously profitable with a brand recognition that was through the roof; wasn’t that enough? ‘Can a store this size actually be cutting edge any more? Surely that’s the Internet’s role...’

‘I disagree.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘We have the space, the knowledge, the passion and the history. The problem is, it takes a lot for us to take on a new designer or a new range, to hand over valuable floor space to somebody little known and unproven—and if they have already established themselves then we’re just following, not innovating.’

‘So, what do you plan to do about it?’ This was more like it. Her eyes were focused again, sharp.

‘Pop-ups.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Pop-ups. Bright, fun and relatively low cost. We can create a pop-up area in store for new designers whether it’s clothes, jewellery, shoes—we’ll champion new talent right here at Rafferty’s. Sponsor a graduate show during London fashion week in the main gallery.’

That made a lot of sense.

‘But I don’t just want to draw people here. I want to go out and find them—it could be a great opportunity to take Rafferty’s out of the city as well. Where do we have the biggest footfall?’

It was a good thing he’d pulled those eighteen-hour days; he could answer with utter confidence. ‘The food hall.’

‘Exactly! The British are finally understanding food—no, don’t pull a superior gourmet French face at me. They are and you know it. There are hundreds of food festivals throughout the country and I want us to start having a presence at the very best of them. And not just food festivals. I want us at Glyndebourne, Henley, the Edinburgh Festival Fringe. Anywhere there’s a buzz I want Rafferty’s. Exclusive invitation-only previews to create excitement, with takeaway afternoon teas and Rafferty’s hampers—filled with a selection of our bestselling products as souvenirs.’

Gabe rubbed his chin. ‘Will it make a profit?’

‘Yes, but not a massive one,’ she conceded. ‘But it will revitalise us, introduce us to the younger market who may think we’re too staid for them. Make us more current and more exciting. And that market will be your domestic digital users.’

Gabe could feel it, the roar of adrenaline, the tightening in his gut that meant something new, something exhilarating was in the air. ‘It would create a great buzz on social media.’

She nodded, her whole face lit up. ‘It all works together, doesn’t it? I am presenting at the board meeting too. It’s less investment up front than you will need—but this is something untried and untested and the current board are a little conservative. You support me and, once I’ve checked your finances and conclusions, I’ll support your digital paper. We’ll have a lot more impact if we’re united. Deal?’ She held out her hand.

Gabe worked alone. He preferred it that way. Sure, he had good relationships with his colleagues, liked to make sure they were all onside but he didn’t want or brook interference.

Freedom at home and at work. That way he never had to worry about letting anyone down.

But this was a great opportunity—to be part of the team dragging Rafferty’s into a new age. How could he refuse? He took her hand, cool and elegant just like its owner.

‘Deal.’

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_3ef479d6-c9ff-54fe-89c6-3048bffbd34c)

POLLY KICKED OFF her shoes with a sigh of relief. She was home, the sun was shining and it was Friday evening. This was exactly what she needed to get over this pesky jet lag. Surely the tiredness, the constant nausea and the lack of appetite should have gone by now?

It wasn’t exactly a weekend break, she still had a lot of work to do if she was to wow the board in a week’s time, but she could do it at home either in the little sunshine-drenched study at the back of the cottage or in the timber-beamed, book-lined sitting room. Away from the office.

Usually her office was a sanctuary but right now it felt alien. Gabe seemed to fill every corner of it. His gym gear in her cloakroom, a variety of equally disgusting smoothies on the table and, worst of all, Gabe himself.

He was so active, always on the phone, pacing round, chatting to every member of staff as if they were his long-lost best friend.

Even his typing was a loud, banging, flamboyant display. She couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate when he was in the room.

But, although he had been living in Hopeford, in her house, for several weeks there was no trace of Gabe in the living areas of the cottage; his few possessions were kept neatly put away in the guest bedroom. Not that she’d snooped, obviously, but she had felt a need to reacquaint herself with her home, visiting every room, reminding herself of its quirks and corners.

It was odd being back after such a long absence. The cottage was clean, aired and well stocked, the rambling garden weeded and watered all thanks to the concierge service she employed to take care of her home. Mr Simpkins, the handsome ginger cat she’d inherited when she’d bought the house, was plump and sleek and bearing no discernible grudge after their time apart. But everything felt smaller, more claustrophobic.

For three months she had been someone else. Someone with no purpose, no expectations. It had been disconcerting and yet so freeing.

But that was over. She was home now and she had a lot to do. Friday night usually meant her laptop, a glass of wine and a takeaway. Polly put her hand to her stomach and swallowed hard; maybe she’d forego the latter two this week.

And think about a doctor’s appointment if the tiredness and nausea didn’t go away soon.

Hang on a second, what was that? Polly had visitors so rarely that it took another sharp decisive peal of the doorbell before she moved. Probably Gabe.

‘If he can’t keep hold of his keys how can I trust him with Rafferty’s online strategy?’ she asked Mr Simpkins. He merely yawned and turned over, stretching out in a patch of early evening sunshine.

Walking down the wide stairs towards the hallway, she took a moment to look around; at the polished, oiled beams, the old flagstoned floor, the gilt mirror by the hat stand, the fresh flowers on the antique table. It had all been chosen, placed and cared for by someone else. She lived here but was it really hers?

The doorbell rang again, impatiently. ‘I’m coming,’ she called, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. It was hardly her fault that he had forgotten his keys. Unlocking the door, she pulled it open.

It wasn’t Gabe.

Tall, broad, hair the same colour as hers and eyes the exact same shade of dark blue. A face she knew as well as she knew her own. A face she hadn’t seen in four years. Polly clung onto the door frame, disbelief flooding through her. ‘Raff?’

‘I still have a key.’ He held it up. ‘But I didn’t think you’d want me just walking in.’

‘But, what are you doing here? I thought you were in Jordan. Or Australia?’

‘Sorry to disappoint you. Can I come in?’

‘Sorry?’ Polly gaped at him as his words sank in. ‘Yes, of course.’

She stepped back, her mind still grasping for a reason her twin brother was here in her sleepy home town, not trying to save the world, one war zone at a time.

Raff faced her, the love and warmth in his eyes bringing a lump to her throat. How on earth had four years gone by since she had last seen him? ‘Come here.’ He took her in his arms. It had been so long since he had held her, since she had allowed herself to lean on him.

‘It’s so good to see you,’ he said into her hair. Polly tightened her grip.

It wasn’t Raff’s fault their grandfather had favoured him, wanted him to take over the store. Yet somehow it had been easier to hold him culpable.

‘Hi, heavenly twin,’ she murmured and took comfort in his low rumble of laughter. They had been named for the Heavenly Twins, Castor and Pollux, but Polly had escaped with a feminine version of her name. Her brother had been less lucky; nobody, apart from their grandparents, used it—Raff preferred a shorter version of their surname.

‘Thanks for looking after everything.’ She disentangled herself slowly, although the temptation to lean in and not let go was overwhelming. She led him down the wide hallway towards the kitchen. ‘Looking after the house, Mr Simpkins.’ She swallowed, hard and painful. ‘Taking over at Rafferty’s.’

‘You needed my help, of course I stepped in.’ He paused. ‘I wish you’d called, Pol. Told me what was going on. I didn’t mind but it would have been good if we had worked together, sorted it out together.’

‘After four years? I couldn’t,’ she admitted, heading over to the fridge so that she didn’t have to face him. ‘You stayed away, Raff. You went away, left me behind and you didn’t come back. Ever.’ She swallowed painfully. ‘I didn’t even know whose side you were on—if you had spoken to Grandfather, knew what he was planning, if you wanted Rafferty’s.’ That had been her worst fear, that her twin had colluded with her grandfather.

Raff sounded incredulous. ‘Surely you didn’t think I would agree? That I would take Rafferty’s away from you?’

‘Grandfather made it very clear that nothing I had done, nothing I could do was enough to compete with your Y chromosome.’ She turned, forced herself to meet the understanding in his eyes. ‘It destroyed me.’