Rafaello's Mistress

‘What is it? What’s happened?’ she prompted breathlessly.

‘The police arrived first thing this morning with a search warrant.’

‘A s-search warrant?’ Glory stammered in horror.

‘They found that stolen snuff box hidden in our fuel shed,’ Archie Little told her heavily. ‘Sam was arrested. The police have charged him, but he didn’t do it. I know he didn’t do it!’

As Glory absorbed what her father was telling her, shock chilled her skin to the temperature of ice. ‘Sam was arrested…and charged?’

‘His best mate is the one who did the stealing,’ he asserted bitterly. ‘When Sam came to me for help during that party Joe was with him, but he insisted on staying outside. When I left the cottage to go up and turf their mates out of the Park I saw Joe coming out of the shed—’

‘Oh, Dad…’ Glory mumbled sickly, her heart sinking like a stone.

‘I wondered what the kid had been doing but I was too keen to get that party stopped to waste time asking him. But Joe must’ve panicked and hidden the box then. But who’s going to believe that when it was found in our shed?’ Archie Little demanded on the rising note of a man already taxed beyond his endurance level. ‘What are we going to do, Glory? I don’t know what to do or where to turn now—’

‘I’ll sort something out,’ Glory heard herself insist with forced confidence. ‘Tell Sam I’m thinking of him and that I believe in him—’

‘How are you going to sort out anything? It’s too late,’ her father groaned, and she could hear the thickness of tears and the defeat in his response. ‘The solicitor says we just have to wait until it comes to court.’

‘Trust me…I’ll arrange something, I swear I will. Don’t let Sam get too upset about this,’ Glory warned, because her kid brother was an emotional boy and now she was worried sick. Suppose he ran away or, even worse, became even more depressed and did something foolish? She shivered. Her father was not the rock that a scared teenager needed for support, nor the best person to persuade Sam that they could fight to prove his innocence.

Only when Glory came off the phone did she discover that she was shaking like a leaf. Momentarily she closed her eyes in anguish. She could have saved Sam from the ordeal of being arrested and charged. But now that the forces of law and order had got involved, was it even possible that the theft charge could be dropped? And even if it was possible, would Rafaello now be willing to do it?

She lifted out her purse and searched for the phone number she had used forty-eight hours earlier to contact Rafaello’s London office and ask for her appointment. She got passed through to his secretary, but there the trail as such threatened to go cold. Rafaello was not available, she was told starchily.

‘Has he gone abroad?’ Glory pressed fearfully. ‘Look, this is very urgent. I really need to know where he is.’

‘Mr Grazzini is at his country house and I’m afraid I’m not able to give you either the address or the phone number. However, I will pass on your message—’

‘No, please don’t do that!’ Glory interrupted in dismay, thinking that forewarning of her change of heart might only harden his. In another mood she might have smiled at the secretary’s mistake in mentioning Rafaello’s whereabouts. Naturally the woman had no idea that Glory would know exactly where that country house was situated.

An element of surprise might be the only thing she had going for her, Glory reflected in desperation as she yanked out her travel bag. She would catch the train down to Montague Park and try to see Rafaello before she went to see her family. What else could she do? Leave Sam facing theft charges? But would Rafaello even listen to her now?

After her senseless behaviour the afternoon before Glory knew that Rafaello would be furious with her. Her second visit to his office and her wild response to that steamy embrace, followed by her equally sudden flight, had been madness.

Even with the best will in the world, she knew she could never explain why she had gone back while still maintaining that she had no intention of accepting his offer. If she couldn’t explain that to herself, how could she possibly hope to explain it to him?

Zipping up her bag, she looked at herself in the mirror and almost had a heart attack! Her hair was falling down in messy strands from an unglamorous pony-tail. Her pale, anxious face was bare of make-up and her jeans and shirt were hardly of the ilk calculated to persuade a man that she was worth sacrificing a principle for. And, where principles were concerned, Rafaello could make a person feel distinctly uncomfortable. He had said the offer would be closed if she did not take it up in the time frame he had set. So if she was to persuade him otherwise she would have to look good, look seductive…?

Not a challenge Glory had ever taken on before, when her greatest need had always been to find one special man who would see her as a person rather than a sexual challenge and a trophy. Already painfully aware that her full-lipped face, blonde hair and hourglass shape encouraged men to assume that she would be an easy lay, Glory never wore provocative clothes. But provocative was the look required, wasn’t it? Reminding herself of her kid brother’s current plight, she left her bedsit to knock on her neighbour’s door.

Tania, a small, bubbly brunette, currently working nights in a busy city bar, opened her door. ‘Glory…did you get my message?’

‘Yes, thanks. Look, I was wondering, would you let me borrow one of your clubbing outfits?’ Glory asked hesitantly.

Tania surveyed her with an exaggerated dropped jaw.

‘I’d be really careful with it,’ Glory promised in a humble tone.

‘Are you the woman who told me you wouldn’t be seen dead flashing your legs in a short skirt just to give some sick bloke a cheap thrill?’

Glory reddened and nodded slowly.

‘Are you the same woman who told me boobs were made to be covered, not put out like cut-price fruit on a stall?’

Glory winced at that second reminder and nodded again in guilty confirmation.

Tania gave her cringing visitor a hugely amused grin and let Glory in. ‘So tell me…who’s the guy you’re hanging up your combat trousers and workman’s boots for?’