Ruthless Tycoon, Innocent Wife

Yes, it was a bit. Marianne let Crystal have her moment of joy but her main feeling was one of trepidation. It was a wildly generous offer and she was grateful to Rafe Steed—eternally grateful—but something didn’t sit right. She didn’t know what, but she’d bet her bottom dollar there was more to this than met the eye.

A little while later, as she walked up to her bedroom to get ready for the lunch date, she was no nearer to finding an answer for her inward unease. Whatever way she looked at this she couldn’t lose, could she? It was a win-win situation. On one side of the scales she lost everything, on the other she kept a fifty per cent stake in Seacrest and in the future might even be able to buy the Steeds out if all went well. OK, it might take years, decades even, but it was a possibility and one she would work towards.

Opening the bedroom door, she walked over to the wardrobe. She needed to look businesslike, she told herself firmly. Cool and businesslike and in control. She always left a selection of clothes at Seacrest for holidays and weekends with her parents, but they were much less formal than her things in London. She must have something that would do. She glanced at the charcoal dress and black jacket, which were still where she had thrown them on the night of the funeral.

No. She couldn’t bear to wear them again. Silly and emotional perhaps, but that was the way she felt.

The June day was a warm one, the sky blue and cloudless with just the slightest of breezes whispering over the garden and through the open window. Pulling out the most sombre dress in the wardrobe—a sleeveless sheer twisted tulle dress with attached dress underneath in pale brown—Marianne quickly divested herself of the jeans and vest top she was wearing.

Hair up or down? She surveyed herself critically. Up. More tidy and neat.

It only took a few seconds to loop her shoulder-length hair into a sleek shining knot, and she spent the remaining five minutes before she left the room applying careful make-up to hide the ravages a night spent crying had wreaked. True, her eyelids were still on the puffy side but only the most discerning eye would notice it.

By the time she joined Crystal, who was waiting for her in the hall, Marianne was satisfied that her overall persona was one of cool efficiency. Tom’s last words, although spoken lightly, had hit a nerve. With salvation just a lunch away, she didn’t want to blow this. She needed to instill in Rafe Steed the assurance that she could cope with whatever was necessary to get Seacrest up and working as a successful hotel.

‘Annie. Crystal.’ Tom stood up as they approached him and his companion in The Fiddler’s Arms lounge bar, the tall dark figure at his side rising also.

Marianne kept her eyes trained on the middle-aged face in front of her until Tom had hugged her briefly. Then she forced herself to turn polite eyes to Rafe Steed. ‘Hello, Mr Steed,’ she said carefully. ‘I didn’t expect we would meet again so soon.’

‘Likewise, Miss Carr.’

His voice was just as she remembered—silky, cold—but his face was as unrevealing as a blank canvas.

In spite of herself she was slightly taken aback and that annoyed her more than his coolness. She had expected…What had she expected? she asked herself silently. Some shred of warmth? Enthusiasm? Something, for sure.

Clearing her throat, Marianne said flatly, ‘I appreciate the fact you might be interested in a business proposal involving Seacrest, Mr Steed.’

His eyes were very blue and very piercing. ‘It’s a little more than a might, Miss Carr.’

‘Good, good,’ Tom intervened, his voice brisk. ‘But, in view of the circumstances, I think we can do away with such formality and move on to Christian names?’

Crystal nodded her agreement. Marianne’s inclination of her head was less enthusiastic and Rafe Steed could have been set in granite. However, when he next spoke it was to Marianne that he said, ‘I think our table is ready in the restaurant. Shall we?’ and he took her arm in a manner that brooked no argument, leaving the other two to follow them as he walked her out of the lounge bar and through wide-open doors into the inn’s restaurant.

Taken aback, Marianne didn’t object but she was unnervingly conscious of the warm hand on her elbow and the height and breadth of him as he escorted her to a table for four in a secluded spot at the edge of the room. Once seated next to Crystal with the two men facing them across the table, she tried to relax her taut muscles but it was difficult. She didn’t think she had ever felt so tense in all her life. Part of the problem was that she could feel Rafe’s eyes moving over every inch of her face although she purposely hadn’t glanced at him, pretending an interest in the room in general.

‘So, Marianne…’ He brought her eyes to his as he spoke, the deep voice with its smoky accent giving her name a charm she’d never heard before. ‘What would you like to drink?’

‘Drink?’ She flushed as she realised she must sound vacant. Praying he hadn’t noticed, she said quickly, ‘A glass of wine would be nice.’

‘Red or white?’

‘Red.’ Why had she said that? She never drank red. Was it because she felt he had expected her to say white? But that was ridiculous. He probably hadn’t been thinking any such thing.

She watched as Rafe raised a hand and a waitress immediately appeared at his side. She had lunched at this particular pub many times in the past and she had never seen anyone get such prompt service before, not in the summer when the restaurant was always packed to bursting.

Once Rafe had given the order for drinks and they were settled with a menu in their hands, Marianne forced herself to raise her gaze as casually as though it wasn’t taking all of her will-power and meet Rafe’s eyes as she said, ‘I understand you’ve bought the Haywards’ place for your father. It’s a beautiful old cottage, isn’t it, and the garden is wonderful. I’m sure he’ll love it.’

‘I hope so.’ It was flat, the tone contrary to the words. He swallowed some wine before he said, ‘Personally, I think it is a mistake, this desire to come back to a country he left some four decades ago. All his friends and colleagues are in the States, that’s where his life is.’

‘What about his heart?’ She hadn’t meant to say it; the words had popped out of their own volition.

‘His heart?’ The blue eyes had iced over still more.

‘Maybe his heart has never really left the area he was born in.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I could understand that, to be honest. I live and work in London, as you know, but I’ve always known I’d come back here one day to put down roots. Cornwall…well, it gets in the blood somehow. It can hold a person. But of course you would know your father far better than me,’ she added hastily, sensing she

was treading on thin ice.

‘Quite.’