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      ‘And then what?’ She still sounded doubtful.

      He was over thirty. It was time to be a man, banish the guilt-ridden small boy, eager to please whatever the cost. ‘Then, after the ball, when he’s seen the difference we make, the difference I make, I’ll talk to him again. Honestly and firmly.’

      It wasn’t a foolproof plan by any means. Nor was it an instant answer. Raff would have to stick around for nearly two months—but he’d planned for that after all, booked Clara for up to six weeks.

      It felt like the best shot he had. And regardless of whatever his grandfather decided his own decision was made.

      It was only now that he realised just how heavy his burden had been: guilt, expectations, responsibility weighing him down. He wasn’t free of it, not yet, but freedom was in sight. It was strange how talking it through with someone, sharing his burden, had helped.

      Would anyone have done or was it Clara herself? Raff wasn’t sure he wanted to explore that thought any further.

      ‘It could work.’ She sounded a little more enthusiastic. ‘You better make sure your presentation is spectacular.’

      ‘Our presentation,’ he said silkily. ‘You’re the one who promised we’d be there, agreed to all this. I want your help with every aspect. You don’t just get to turn up late and leave early, Cinders. You have to work for your dress and glass slippers.’

      Talking of which, she had been a long time getting changed. ‘Are you okay in there?’

      ‘Ah...’ she sounded embarrassed ‘...is Susannah there?’

      ‘No, why?’

      ‘Can you find her?’ Embarrassment was replaced with curt impatience.

      Raff’s mouth quirked. ‘Are you in need of help? Maybe I can assist? I am fully trained, remember?’

      ‘Raff Rafferty, please find Susannah right now.’

      Grinning, Raff sauntered to the door and looked around. No sign. ‘I can’t see her,’ he called. ‘I can page her but she might be at the other end of the building, or I can help. Your choice.’

      He could almost hear the wheels turning as Clara deliberated her choices.

      ‘Okay. But not one quip, and no looking.’

      Interesting.

      ‘I’m a professional,’ he assured her. But he didn’t feel professional as he walked over; he felt more like an over-eager schoolboy who’d been promised an over-the-bra fumble. Inappropriate, he scolded himself.

      And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about creamy, bare shoulders and those three little freckles.

      Deep breath. Focus on the job at hand. Raff pulled the curtain a little to one side and stepped into the changing room.

      Where he stopped still. He didn’t want to stare, he knew it was wrong and yet, and yet...

      ‘Well, don’t just stand there.’ Clara gestured to her side. ‘Help me. It’s stuck and have you seen the price tag? I can’t exactly yank it.’

      She was wearing a floor-length strapless dress in a shade of blue so dark it almost looked black.

      Revealing both her shoulders and a generous amount of cleavage, the dress clung as tightly as a second skin, emphasising the dip at her waist, the curve of her bottom, the length of her legs. Raff swallowed.

      ‘The zip,’ she said with killing emphasis as he remained static. ‘It’s stuck.’

      Trying, with little success, to get some air into his suddenly oxygen-deprived lungs, Raff walked over. It seemed to take an eternity. He was a fool, to think he could walk in here, to the intimacy of a room where clothes were discarded, a room of lingerie and limbs and clinging silks. A fool to think he could step so close to naked arms, inhale the light floral scent she wore, watch one curl tumble down onto a bare shoulder. To touch her.

      ‘Just here.’ Hadn’t she noticed the effect she was having on him? ‘Can you see?’

      Raff put one hand onto her ribs, holding her still as with utter concentration his other hand worked at the tiny zip, trying to free it from the thread that held it prisoner. Her skin was hot, burning him through the silk; he wasn’t sure whether he could really hear her heart hammering or whether it was his imagination.

      Or if it was his heart he heard, deafening him with its beat.

      ‘I think I’ve got it.’ His voice was gruff. ‘There!’

      As he freed the thread the zip shot down with alarming ease, his hand skimming her waist, her hip, and as it did so the top of the dress collapsed into graceful folds.

      It all happened so fast, Clara didn’t manage to grab at the dress or shield herself, and he, God help him, he didn’t look away.

      I’m sorry, he wanted to say, wanting to turn, to walk away, allow her a chance to get herself together but he was glued to the spot, desire hot, sweet and dark burning through him. She was perfect, the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the faint silvery marks on her lower belly a badge of motherhood.

      She should pull the dress up, turn away, slap his face, scream, at least, at the very least she should cover herself up. She didn’t even sunbathe topless and here she was, standing like a glamour model, exposed.

      Only she was paralysed by the heat in his eyes, warming her through from head to toe, settling in the pit of her stomach, awakening a sweet, insistent ache she hadn’t felt for so long. The naked desire in his face provoking pride, need, want.

      And she wanted him too. She’d wanted him since the moment he had sauntered into her office, arrogant and demanding, making her think and making her do and making her feel. Not just because he looked so good, was so tall and so broad and so solid, not just because he had eyes that caressed and a mouth that made her knees tremble, but because he was a man who cared, hide it as he might.

      But he was a man who was leaving. A man with itchy feet, who lived his life on the edge of civilisation, risking his life every day.

      Right now it was hard to remember why that was a problem.

      For all the strength apparent in him, held tightly coiled in that strong, muscled body, Clara knew she had all the control here. One look, one word and he would walk away with a sincere apology.

      But one move forward and... Anticipation shivered through her.

      She had spent the last ten years playing it safe, hiding from any experience that might test her, pouring all her emotions into motherhood. But the moment she had swung off that platform yesterday, the moment she had agreed to Raff Rafferty’s offer, a new world had opened up. Not safe, not cosy, unplanned, a world that made her pulse beat and her blood hum and desire swirl sweetly inside her like honey.

      And, oh, how she wanted.

      Without thinking, without planning, she took another step forward, allowing the dress to fall to the ground as she did so. A wanton part of Clara, long locked away, smiled; the rest of her shivered in anticipation as she took in the expression on his face as Raff drank every inch of her in: fierce, hot need.

      She felt utterly desirable.

      Another step and she was close, so close. Millimetres separated them. Clara was trembling, tiny, anticipatory shivers running through her every nerve and sinew, her veins humming with excitement. She looked up at him boldly, allowing her want to shine out, and with a muffled growl Raff moved forward, closing the infinitesimal gap, pulling her hard against him. Clara found herself on her tiptoes, straining towards him.

      It could only have been a second, two at the most before his lips touched hers but it felt like an eternity and Clara was sure she would explode if he didn’t kiss her right there and then. And then his mouth was on hers sure and sweet, his hands were holding her close, one on the small of her back, holding her tight, the other in

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