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The crush around him slowly parted to allow her a clear return avenue of approach. Aware that the gesture on his part had made her very much the centre of attention, her face burned. But at the same time she was secretly pleased that in spite of that crazy difference of opinion minutes earlier he had immediately noticed her absence and set about remedying it.
Rafael then dealt her a wonderfully cool appraisal that ensured she was in little danger of his attention going to her head. Within an hour her mind was a whirl of extravagant impressions and slices of conversation in several different languages. He introduced her as, ‘Harriet’, but only when someone pushed for that information—and few took that strong a lead in the conversation. She talked happily about horses at every opportunity, and soon picked out the social butterflies from those to whom breeding, training and running horses was a source of all-absorbing interest. She got on with the latter section of the guest list like a house on fire, and several admirers spoilt Samson rotten.
For the first time since she had got to know Rafael, however, Harriet was hugely conscious of his vast wealth and status. In his radius people often talked in hushed, respectful tones. He was approached with extreme caution, exaggerated humility or a grandiose male jocularity that made her squirm. But Rafael remained impassive, and although his manners were flawless the depth of his reserve intimidated his guests. He was often silent. He did not try to entertain people. His guests instead worked hard at entertaining him.
She was also quite astonished by the manner in which some women blanked her while offering Rafael languorous looks of invitation, suggestive double entendres and flattering, flirtatious remarks. He did not respond. It was like it wasn’t happening—as if he was so accustomed to those constant encouraging female signals that he no longer noticed them. Then she caught the glimmer of contempt in his screened gaze as yet another man’s wife appraised his darkly handsome features with flagrant longing, and she blushed for her own sex.
After a leisurely sit-down lunch served by caterers, the guests left the table to mingle. Harriet was helping herself to coffee when she became aware of a conversational exchange taking place somewhere behind her.
‘Now I think I know why Rafael doesn’t even flirt with me. It’s quite obvious that he goes for girls with generous hips,’ a woman was saying, in a meaningful undertone that her very precise diction made clearly audible.
A wave of dismayed incredulity gripped Harriet. A couple of feet closer to that dialogue, but concealed by the door that opened on to the balcony, Rafael turned his handsome dark head with the efficacy of a laser beam locking on to its target.
‘She’s definitely not small, is she?’ a second female voice remarked in answer to the first, and Harriet breathed in so hard she almost burst. ‘Not shy about displaying her advantage either. That silk emphasises every voluptuous curve.’
‘Rear cheek implants are all the rage in North America. It would certainly make me take a fresh look at my hip profile,’ the first woman countered, with deadly seriousness.
Vibrant enjoyment burnishing his eyes, and an outrageous smile on his firm mouth, Rafael strolled back to Harriet’s side. He was very much amused. Her face was a feverish shade of pink. He drew her back against him and lowered his head to murmur huskily, ‘Is this the perfect moment to tell you that I do think that you have the most fantastic derrière?’
‘When you say anything of that nature you’re more likely to get told off!’ Harriet warned him in a waspish whisper, trembling slightly in the strong circle of his arms, but determined to maintain as much dignity and composure as could be grasped after being forced to eavesdrop on such an embarrassing snatch of dialogue.
‘Harriet…the secret of your attraction lies in the truth that nothing about you is fake,’ Rafael confided, angling her head back against him.
He let his lips drift down the vulnerable curve of her neck and she quivered in sensual shock, her entire body coming alive. He brushed her throat with the tip of his tongue in a contact so fleeting she almost thought she had imagined it when he straightened again. She blinked rapidly and registered that absolutely nobody had noticed, yet her every nerve was singing at high frequency, and her legs did not feel quite strong enough to support her.
‘Let’s go down to the track,’ Rafael urged lazily. ‘When I have a horse running I don’t watch from the balcony. I like to be at the sharp end.’
Having released her from his hold with the same underplayed lightness of touch, Rafael directed her towards the exit.
CHAPTER SIX
RAFEAL’S HORSE, Fearless, was a handsome chestnut with a white star on his forehead, and the jockey engaged to ride him was a champion. While Rafael talked to his trainer, Harriet watched the horses break from the starting gate. In spite of every intention to the contrary, she got caught up in the thrill of the race, and when Fearless pulled ahead she surrendered to frantic excitement and cheered him on.
‘Brilliant, brilliant horse…he was really flying there!’ she carolled, starry-eyed with satisfaction when the chestnut romped over the finish line, a clear winner by several lengths.
Rafael reaped almost as much pleasure from Harriet’s innocent enthusiasm as from seeing yet another of his thoroughbreds triumph. ‘You really do appreciate a winner. I’ll buy you something special to mark the occasion.’
Harriet flung him a dismayed glance. ‘No, thanks. You don’t need to buy me anything.’
‘Need…no. But want—yes,’ Rafael declared immovably.
‘Rafael, I—’
‘If you still don’t want to be photographed with me, I would advise you to stay out of the winners’ enclosure.’ With that smooth warning, he concluded her protest with his own departure.
Watching from a discreet distance, Harriet received no satisfaction whatsoever from having excluded herself. A curvaceous blonde in a white suit so short and tight that it should have carried a government health warning flung herself at Rafael with giggling gusto. Harriet’s eyes widened. Rafael did not push his beautiful assailant away. Indeed, he curved an arm round her while the cameras flashed like mad. Harriet gritted her teeth, wondered who the blonde was, and decided that she would not sink to the revealing level of asking that question.
Following victory there was great celebration in the private suite. The drinks flowed. A recording of Fearless’s race was run and re-run, and every detail of his performance and that of his competitors eagerly dissected and discussed. When the party was at its height, Rafael took her to one side and suggested that they leave for his stud farm. Having recognised his increasing boredom as high spirits and alcohol loosened his guests’ inhibitions, Harriet was not surprised.
‘Don’t you like parties?’ she asked on the way out.
‘When I was a child, Valente partied every night. I picked up a preference for sobriety and rational conversation,’ he confided softly.
Harriet turned an embarrassed pink. ‘I can imagine what you must’ve thought when you found me by that bonfire, swigging from a wine bottle and talking a lot of nonsense.’
Rafael studied her with intense amusement. ‘That you’re in a class of your own.’
He piloted the helicopter to Kildare, flying with the same assurance with which he drove. He landed the craft a hundred yards away from a gloriously symmetrical Queen Anne house set in formal gardens.
