Cinderella's Wedding Wish

‘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.