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‘And, besides, we can’t afford to let the competition get the jump on us. The place is crawling with press. The TV networks have all got crews roving around out there, but if we get the best pictures, we can beat them out with their own networks, and maybe even CNN.’
Dave’s dark blue eyes suddenly focused suspiciously on Rafe, who still had one arm around Jennifer’s tense waist, preventing her from easing away.
Rafe grinned, reading his mind. ‘It’s OK, I’m not a member of the Fourth Estate. Your story lead is safe.’
There was a small, expectant pause, and Jennifer forced a smile. ‘Dave and Celia, this is—’ How to describe him? She simply couldn’t push out the words, and settled for a lame, ‘Uh, this is Raphael...’
Rafe had no such qualms. As he shook hands with the couple he paraded the outrageous truth as a silly joke. ‘Rafe Jordan—since this delicious hussy claims to be my wife, I guess that leaves me no alternative but to admit that we’re related by marriage.’
A faint puff of air punctuated his last word as Jennifer discreetly jabbed a warning elbow into his solar plexus.
‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, levering herself away with the elbow as he rubbed the tender spot. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘Winded rather than wounded, darling,’ he said, his tigerish smile carrying a warning of its own. ‘And I’m rapidly adjusting to your wicked knack for taking my breath away.’
Celia commented on the heavenly aroma of roast, and, on learning that the Wrights hadn’t eaten since they had gulped a hamburger on the run around noon, Paula persuaded the pair to join them for dinner before they rushed off again. It was with relief that Jennifer heard them agree, on the understanding that they would pay extra on the tariff.
At least with Dave and Celia present the conversation wouldn’t get too personal, she thought, as the pair went away to clean up and she set two extra places, while Rafe was roped into carving the lamb.
The reality was somewhat different.
Paula explained as they all sat down at the extended oak table, to a succulent roast with all the trimmings, that although Beech House operated as a bed and breakfast, they were willing to negotiate for the provision of other meals, as long as the guests concerned didn’t mind eating en famille.
‘So, if you want a packed lunch, or to eat here in the evening, Celia, you only have to let us know in time to organise it.
‘Your father used to have most of his dinners with us, Rafe,’ she reminisced, putting Jennifer’s nerves immediately onto alert. ‘Right from the first time he came here—which was what, Jenny? Just over five years ago now? I suppose she told you the story.’ Her thin face softened with her gamine grin as she told the Wrights, ‘There was some mix-up at the expensive hotel Sebastian was booked into so he stormed out in a huff and we were the first place he’d phoned that had a vacancy—it was the height of the season.
‘I don’t think he’d ever stayed at a B&B before, he usually went everywhere first-class, but he really appreciated the personal touch and what he called
our “homespun charm”.’ She laughed, with a rueful look at Jennifer. ‘The surroundings were a bit shabby in those pre-renovation days, but he said he liked being made to feel he was part of the family.’ She preened faintly. ‘He even used to say that it was my fabulous cooking that kept him coming back year after year!’
‘Five years?’
Sitting beside Rafe, Jennifer was able to avoid his hard stare, but she couldn’t help feeling the tension that entered his body as he sipped from his glass of water—having declined, on the grounds of jet lag, Paula’s offer to open a bottle of wine.
As far as anyone in London, including Rafe, had been concerned, she had met Sebastian only weeks before she had married him. He had asked her not to mention their previous, intermittent acquaintance, smugly enjoying the notion of thwarting all attempts to discover any motive in his apparent madness. Since the whole point of his annual month-long overseas holiday had been to get completely away from the stresses and strains of his daily life—including his demanding, dysfunctional extended family—he had always refused to leave a fixed itinerary behind. And Rafe had been unfairly included on his father’s information blacklist not, Jennifer suspected, because he had been curious to know where his father went on his trips, but because he so resolutely hadn’t.
‘I don’t remember you telling me you’d known him quite that long, darling,’ Rafe said with studied casualness, and under the table Jennifer felt his long legs shift, his knee brushing up against hers. When she tried to angle her leg away she suddenly felt his hand curling over her wool-clad knee, clamping it to his.
Above the tablecloth he serenely continued to wield his fork, and it became a matter of pride to show that she was unmoved by his threatening touch.
Jennifer shrugged, strands of her silky hair catching against the red angora sweater. Much to her mother’s dismay she hadn’t changed for dinner—not only because she hadn’t wanted to go into her room while Rafe was still there, but because she didn’t want him to think she was doing it for him...and she would have been, for in the casual tradition of Beech House they rarely dressed for dinner.
‘Don’t you? I’m sure I must have,’ she said off-handedly, taking a sip of her own water, half wishing it was a hefty slug of whisky, except she knew that she needed an exceptionally clear head when dealing with Rafe.
Her punishment was to feel the warm, heavy weight of his hand slide further up her thigh, and she hastily pressed her legs together, unfortunately trapping his fingertips between the tender cushions of her upper thighs. He wiggled his fingers, sending ripples of sensation thrilling up her legs, and when she tried relaxing her muscles just enough to let his fingers slip free he insinuated his touch even higher, so that she quickly had to lock them tight again.
She casually put her hand under the table to fend him off, but even the gouge of her neat, short fingernails into the tender joints of his wrist didn’t make him flinch.
Nobody else at the table seemed aware of her impotent squirming, but Jennifer could feel herself beginning to glow like a beacon with anger and embarrassment.
‘Gravy, Rafe?’ She snatched up the steaming boat and hovered it above the edge of his plate—and his vulnerable lap.
‘I already have some, thank you,’ he said politely, his green eyes meeting her silent challenge, his hand remaining firmly in possession.
She tilted the gravy boat fractionally but his gaze remained steady, showing not even a flicker of concern that his manhood was in imminent danger of being scalded. What made him so damned certain that she was bluffing?
Maybe the fact that they both knew he held all the cards.
