Cinderella's Wedding Wish. Jessica Hart

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      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.

      ‘Excellent,’ said Rafe. ‘In that case, let’s go.’

      ‘Go?’ Miranda stared at him. ‘Go where?’

      ‘I want you to see the ballroom I’ve got in mind and tell me what you think. You can’t start organising the ball until you know where it’s going to be.’

      ‘Rafe, you can’t drag the poor girl off before she’s even had a chance to sit down!’ Ginny protested.

      ‘Poor girl? Poor girl?’ Rafe shook his head. ‘Don’t let that demure look fool you, Ginny. Miranda isn’t a poor girl. The entire communications department was terrified of her efficiency, and I’ve seen her beat their photocopier into submission with my own eyes! I won’t tell you how she did it or what kind of language she used. You would be shocked!’

      Out of the corner of his eye he saw Miranda’s mouth twitch and, although she quickly suppressed her smile, he was conscious of a spurt of triumph at having got through to her at last. It was a relief to see that glimpse of humour, too. Perhaps he hadn’t made such a colossal mistake after all.

      He had been dismayed when he’d first walked in that morning to see her looking prim and proper in that dull suit and far more colourless than he had remembered. This ball was important, and if it was going to be a success it would have to be run by someone who had some sense of humour as well as excellent organisational abilities.

      Rafe had liked Miranda’s astringency when he had met her the week before, and that combined with the glowing references Simon had given her had made her seem like the perfect candidate. This morning, though, he had begun to wonder if the sharp Miranda he remembered had been a mere figment of his imagination. Now, seeing the curl at the corner of her mouth, he was reassured. She might not want to let on that she was amused by his nonsense, but Rafe knew better.

      ‘At least have a cup of coffee first,’ Ginny was urging, but now that he was sure Miranda was the girl he had remembered he was impatient to be off.

      ‘You don’t want coffee, do you, Miranda? I bet you don’t even touch the stuff.’

      ‘On the contrary,’ she said. ‘I depend on coffee to get me through the morning.’

      Her eyes met his blandly, and meeting that clear green gaze, Rafe felt his pulse kick unexpectedly.

      ‘We’ll stop on the way,’ he promised, turning back to Ginny. ‘There’s nothing that won’t keep until tomorrow, is there?’

      ‘Tomorrow?’ Miranda repeated as she followed him out of the office. ‘How long are we going to be?’

      ‘We’ll be away most of the day,’ said Rafe casually. Pushing the button to call the express lift, he caught her look of dismay. ‘Why, do you have to be back for a certain time?’

      ‘Well, no…’ she admitted. She had worked every evening over the weekend and was looking forward to a night in.

      ‘Good. I hate having to be somewhere at a set time, don’t you?’

      ‘No,’ said Miranda as the lift doors slid open and they stepped inside. ‘I prefer to have a plan.’

      Rafe glanced at her. As before, her hair was pulled tightly back from her face. A practical style, maybe, but not a flattering one, even if it did expose the pure line of her jaw and the chin tilted at what he suspected was a characteristically determined angle.

      Her lips were pressed together in a tight line and she kept her eyes firmly fixed on the lights above the door. In that suit she looked neat and tense and far too controlled for comfort.

      ‘Don’t you ever feel like being spontaneous?’ he asked.

      The lift sighed to a halt on the ground floor and the doors opened once more. ‘I grew up in a family of spontaneous people,’ said Miranda. ‘In my experience, nothing ever happens unless you plan it.’

      ‘There’s nothing wrong with a bit of organisation,’ Rafe agreed, holding open the door for her, ‘but if you plan too much it takes away all the fun. Take today,’ he went on as they stepped out into the spring sunshine. He gestured around. ‘It’s a beautiful day. If we had planned meetings we’d end up sitting in an office all day. As it is, we can do whatever we like with it.’

      ‘You may be able to, but I can’t afford to do that,’ she pointed out crisply. ‘I’m being paid to do whatever you want to do. If not, I wouldn’t be here.’

      ‘Where would you be? If you could do whatever you liked today?’

      That was easy. Miranda thought of Whitestones on a day like today. The house would be full of sunshine, and at the bottom of the cliff the sea would be a-glitter in the bright light. ‘I’d be at the seaside,’ she said.

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