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She could imagine patience was not one of his virtues. The thought tilted her lips.
‘What?’ he asked, watching her.
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on.’ He leant towards her, refusing to admit it was because he had caught the scent of her perfume outside the restaurant and wanted to smell the light but elusive blend that hinted of magnolias and warm summer nights again. ‘Tell me.’
Marianne hesitated. She didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot or it was going to be a long night with indigestion at the end of it. ‘I wondered if you were normally impatient,’ she prevaricated.
‘Did you now?’ He grinned, shifting in his seat and taking a long gulp of his wine before he said, ‘There are those who would accuse me of that crime, yes. As I’m sure you can appreciate.’ He leant back in his chair, surveying her from the piercing blue eyes that seemed to penetrate her mind. ‘But we digress. I’d like you to take a look at these.’ He pushed a folder towards her. ‘Tell me what you think and don’t be shy about giving your opinion.’
‘About Seacrest? I won’t.’ Marianne opened the folder. Five minutes later, she said, ‘I’m sorry, Rafe, but he hasn’t caught what Seacrest is, what the house is about.’ The intensity of what she was feeling caused her thoughts to tumble out in a rush as she went on. ‘Seacrest can’t be made into just a money-making enterprise. It deserves better than that. The alterations need to be planned by someone who appreciates that the house lives and breathes, that it has a soul of its own.’ She stopped abruptly, a flush rising in her cheeks. ‘Take the bar, for instance. It should be incorporated into the drawing room, unobtrusive but there to serve a need. And the dining room. Removing most of one wall so as to make it lighter and see the view is all very well but the house can’t take that much glass. It’s not right. And the extension to the present kitchen…’ Her voice trailed away and he watched her struggling to find the words to express herself. ‘It’s practical and feasible but—’
‘But what?’ he asked quietly.
‘But it’s not what Seacrest is about. It should be on the left side of the house—a brand-new kitchen maybe, and the old one can become a small sitting room or a playroom for children. Seacrest could accommodate that.’ She stopped abruptly. ‘I don’t suppose any of what I’m saying is making sense to you.’
‘On the contrary.’ He sat up straighter, the tiredness that had dogged him for the last hour or two gone. ‘It makes perfect sense. And the extension on the right side of the house could take a couple of en suite bedrooms for people unable to climb stairs, perhaps? We could keep the extension a ground floor one but with a sloping roof and eaves, something that fits in with Seacrest’s persona.’
Marianne stared at him. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. Ideal.
‘So the proposed two-bedroomed flat for you and Crystal, do you still see that extending from the new kitchen?’ Rafe asked, reaching forward and scanning the architect’s sketch, which Marianne had laid on the table as she had begun to talk. ‘Which would now be on the left side of the house.’
Marianne looked at the head of crisp black hair. He wore it short—very short—and she suspected it had a tendency to curl. For an insane moment she wanted to run her hands through it.
She compressed her mouth, forcing herself to concentrate on the drawing. ‘I think so, yes. It’s more practical that way. Crystal is going to be chief cook and bottlewasher—that’s her forte.’
‘And you, Marianne? What’s your forte?’ he asked softly, suddenly raising his head and fixing her with his eyes. ‘Tom tells me you work as an occupational therapist. Is that right? How will you adjust to such a radical change of career?’
‘I don’t see it like that,’ she said stiffly. He’d hit a nerve. More and more over the last days, she had realised she didn’t want to give up her work completely. It wasn’t just that she had worked hard to qualify, although she had, but she loved her job, helping the patients to get back to active life after an illness or an accident, or helping them adapt with the minimum of heartache to any disability resulting from either. She enjoyed keeping the long-stay patients in hospital in touch with ‘normal’ life, trying to prevent them becoming institutionalised and dependent on hospital staff. Part of her work involved helping people to settle back into their homes and family after they had been in hospital, and suggesting and organising any necessary adaptations. Most of her patients became friends and she loved the fact that she could help in some small way for them to regain their self-confidence so they could plan for the future.
‘How do you see it?’ he asked quietly.
It was reasonable in the circumstances. After all, he and his father were investing an awful lot of money in Seacrest and they would want a good return. But she couldn’t promise that she was going to be a full-time hotelier for ever. She took a moment to gather her thoughts. She had to be honest here. ‘The work I do is very important to me,’ she said slowly, wondering how she could get him to understand that it was more than a job—much more. ‘And of course it’s totally with people. I spend most of my time with the patients, gaining their confidence and trying to find out what their problems are and what activities might best help to solve them. No two people react to illness or disability in the same way so it’s important to get to know the person really well and inevitably they become friends.’ She raised her chin a little. ‘I’ve found I’m quite good at making the right response to individual patients.’
He nodded. ‘So you’re saying what exactly?’
‘I wouldn’t want to give it up for ever. I could devote a couple of years to Seacrest full-time perhaps, but once everything is running smoothly I’d want to return to my work, even if it was just on a part-time basis to begin with. Before Mum and Dad died I was thinking—’ She stopped abruptly. She hadn’t meant to say so much.
‘What were you thinking?’ he asked curiously.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
His tone hardened. ‘If it involves what you’ve just been talking about, I think it does matter.’
Again, she supposed this was reasonable. Marianne took a deep breath. She didn’t quite know how they’d got on to this and she certainly hadn’t meant to bare her heart to Rafe Steed of all people. But it was too late now. ‘I seem to have a knack with children,’ she said flatly. ‘Some areas of a therapist’s work can need extra-special training, particularly with children with congenital handicaps for instance, and I was thinking I’d like to specialise in this if possible.’
She raised her head and looked at him as the silence grew. His eyes were narrowed on her face and she couldn’t quite read his expression but he wasn’t pleased, that was for sure. Defensively now, she said, ‘Of course this might not be possible now, I see that.’
Ignoring this, he continued to study her. ‘Wouldn’t that be…depressing? You’re a young woman. Don’t you want to have fun in your life?’
‘Working with handicapped children and having fun in my life aren’t necessarily incompatible,’ Marianne said steadily, ‘and you’re wrong about it being depressing. It can be upsetting at times, of course it can, but the children are so brave and determined on the whole and without self-pity.’
Why was he pressing her when he didn’t want to hear this? Becoming aware from her expression that he must be frowning, Rafe wiped his face clean of emotion. This woman was extracting herself from the neat little box in his mind labelled ‘Marianne Carr’ and it was unsettling.
He watched as the curtains of golden-blond hair swung either side of her flushed face as she bent to pick up her wineglass. Muscles clenched low in his stomach. Scented silk. Her hair, her skin—scented silk.
The kick from his manhood reminded him he was lusting after a woman who was undoubtedly not on the cards for him. If he believed her, and he found he did, she was too intense, too intelligent and too beautiful. Get involved with a woman like this one and you were asking for trouble, as his father had with Marianne’s mother. He had been wet behind the ear
