Rags To Riches Collection. Rebecca Winters

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СКАЧАТЬ on the heels of that private admission she felt a lump in her throat at the thought of them being friends. She had been so offended by his suggestion that they become lovers for no other reason than they were still attracted to one another, and so hurt that he only wanted her in his bed as a way of exorcising old ghosts … She had positively done the right thing in telling him just where he could take that selfish, arrogant proposal, and yet …

      Had she reacted too hastily?

      Sarah hurriedly sidelined that sign of weakness and scooped Oliver’s toys onto her lap as the car finally slowed down and then swept up the picturesque drive to the house.

      Raoul was waiting for her inside.

      ‘I would have brought you here,’ he said, picking up Oliver, who demanded to be put down so that he could explore, ‘but I’ve come straight from work.’

      ‘That’s okay.’ Sarah stepped inside and her mouth fell open—because it bore little resemblance to the house she had last seen.

      Flagstone tiles made the hallway warm and colourful, and everywhere else rich, deep wood lent a rustic, cosy charm. She walked from room to room, taking in the décor which was exactly as she would have wanted it to be, from the velvet drapes in the sitting room to the restored Victorian tiles around the fireplace.

      Raoul made a show of pointing out the bottle-green Aga which took pride of place in the kitchen, and the old-fashioned dresser which he had had specifically sourced from one of the house magazines which had littered her house.

      ‘You had a crease in the page,’ he informed her, ‘so I took it to mean that this was the kind of thing you liked.’

      Oliver had positioned himself by the French doors that led from the small conservatory by the kitchen into the garden, and was staring at the swing set outside with eyes as round as saucers.

      ‘Okay,’ Sarah said on a laugh, holding his hand, ‘let’s have a look outside, shall we?’

      ‘I don’t remember the garden being this well planted,’ she said, looking around her at the shrubs and foliage that framed the long lawn. There was even a rustic table and chairs on the paved patio, behind which a trellis promised a riot of colour when in season.

      ‘I had it landscaped. Feel free to change anything you want. Why don’t we have a look upstairs? I can get my driver to keep an eye on Oliver,’ he added drily. ‘We might have a fight on our hands if we try and prise him off the swing.’

      Raoul had had considerable input with the furnishings. He had hired the very same mega-expensive interior designer who had done his own penthouse apartment, but instead of handing over an enormous cheque and giving her free rein he had actually been specific about what he wanted. He knew that Sarah hated anything modern and minimalist. He’d steered clear of anything involving leather and chrome. He had stopped short of buying artwork, although he had been tempted by some small landscapes that would have been a terrific investment, but he had done his utmost with a bewildering range of colour options and had insisted that everything be kept period.

      ‘I can’t believe this is going to be our new home,’ Sarah murmured yet again, as she ran her hands lovingly over the Victorian fireplace in what would be her bedroom. A dreamy four-poster bed dominated the space, and the leaded windows overlooked the pretty garden. She could see Oliver on the swing, being pushed by Raoul’s very patient driver, and she waved at him.

      ‘Did you choose all this stuff yourself?’

      Raoul flushed. How cool was it to have a hand in choosing furnishings for a house? Not very. Especially when there had been a million and one other things clamouring for his attention at work. But he had been rattled by her rejection, and had realised that despite what he saw as an obvious way forward for them he could take nothing for granted.

      ‘I think I know what you like,’ he prevaricated, and received a warm smile in response.

      Sarah squashed the temptation to hug him. He did things like this and was it any wonder that her will-power was all over the place? She had expected to find a house that was functioning and kitted out in a fairly basic way. Instead there was nothing that wasn’t one hundred percent perfect, from the mellow velvet curtains in the sitting room to the faded elegant wallpaper in the bedroom.

      Oliver’s room, next to hers, was what any four-year-old boy would have dreamt of, with a bed in the shape of a racing car and wallpaper featuring all his favourite cartoon characters.

      Yet again she had to remind herself that she had done the right thing in turning her back on what had been on offer. Yet again she forced herself back onto the straight and narrow by telling herself that, however good Raoul was at being charming, going the extra mile and throwing money at something with a generosity that would render most people speechless, he was still a man who walked alone and always would. He was still a man with an inbuilt loathing of any form of commitment, which in his head was the equivalent of a prison sentence.

      Yet again she was forced to concede that his invitation to be his lover would have sounded the death knell for any ongoing amicable relationship they might foster, because she would have been the one to get hurt in the end. She knew that if she got too close to him it would be impossible to hold any of herself back.

      But the steps he had taken to ensure that she walked into a house that was brilliant in every way moved her.

      ‘We’ll have to sit down and talk about visiting.’ She strived to hit the right note of being convivial, appreciative but practical.

      Raoul looked at her with veiled eyes. Had he hoped for a more favourable reaction, given the time and effort he had expended in doing this house up for her? Since when did quid pro quo play a part in human interaction? Was this the legacy that had been willed to him courtesy of his disadvantaged background?

      He thrust aside that moment of introspection, but even so he knew that she was sliding further and further away from him.

      ‘I don’t want to have weekly visits,’ he told her, lounging on the ledge by the window and surveying her with his arms folded.

      ‘No … well, you can come as often as you like,’ she offered. ‘I just really would need to find out exactly when, so that Oliver isn’t disappointed … I know your work life makes you unpredictable …’

      ‘Have I been unpredictable so far?’

      ‘No, but …’

      ‘I’ve come every time I said I would. Believe me, I understand how important it is to be reliable when there’s a child involved. You forget I have intimate experience of kids waiting by windows with their bags packed for parents who never showed up.’

      ‘Of course …’

      ‘I know how damaging that can be.’

      ‘So … what do you suggest? He’ll be starting school in September … maybe weekends might be a good idea. Just to begin with. Until he gets used to his new routine. Kids can be tetchy and exhausted when they first start school …’

      ‘I’m not in favour of being a part-time father.’

      ‘You won’t be.’

      ‘How am I to know that would be a continuing state of affairs?’

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