Anne Mather - A Rich Man's Touch

‘Not yet.’

‘Not ever,’ she declared unsteadily, suddenly in a panic to get out of there. ‘I have to go,’ she added, sliding to the end of the booth. ‘Thank you for the drink—’

‘Rachel!’ Before she could get to her feet, lean brown fingers closed about her wrist. ‘Please. Hear me out.’

‘I can’t.’ Her agitation was too great to allow her to accept his request. ‘I’m sorry. I—my mother will be expecting me. She gets worried if I’m late.’

‘I’ll take you home,’ he said flatly. ‘Don’t ask me how, but I know your mother uses your car to take Hannah to and from her school. You either walk home or take the bus. Am I right?’

Rachel stared at him. ‘You’ve been following us?’

‘Not me, no,’ said Gabriel reluctantly, releasing her arm and sagging back in his seat, as if the effort of restraining her had exhausted him. ‘Now I suppose you’ll accuse me of stalking you?’

Rachel didn’t know what to say. The panic that had appeared so abruptly had given way to a curious sense of anticipation, and although she knew she ought to be angry with him, there was something about his sudden capitulation that was oddly appealing.

‘Why?’ she asked helplessly. ‘Why are you doing this?’

‘I wish to God I knew,’ he said in response, a mocking twist to his mouth. ‘Believe me, I’m not in the habit of pursuing my son’s ex-girlfriends. And, although I was curious about you, I had no intention of making a nuisance of myself.’

‘You haven’t…’ Rachel spoke impulsively and then wished she hadn’t. ‘I mean—I didn’t say that.’

‘But you probably thought it, hmm?’

Rachel shrugged. ‘I don’t understand what you—what you want of me.’

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. ‘Is it so inconceivable that I might find your company enjoyable?’

‘Frankly, yes.’ Rachel was honest.

‘Because you think I’m too old to have a sexual relationship?’

A sexual relationship!

Rachel swallowed, too shocked to offer a rational defence. Falling back on platitudes, she murmured, ‘You’re not old.’

‘I wish I could believe you meant that.’ He paused. ‘How old are you, Rachel? Twenty-four? Twenty-five? I can give you twenty years at least.’

‘I’m twenty-eight,’ said Rachel shortly. ‘Andrew is three years younger than me.’

‘And I’m seventeen years older.’ He arched a dark brow. ‘Twenty years! Seventeen! It’s still an awfully long time, isn’t it?’

‘Who are you trying to convince?’ she asked, forced to argue with him, and then flushed at the familiarity in her tone. ‘I’m sorry. But you did ask.’

‘Hey, don’t apologise.’ Gabriel was unconcerned. ‘I’m encouraged that you feel able to relax with me.’ He lifted his beer to his lips, watching her the whole time. Then, after putting it down again, he added, ‘I like it.’

Rachel felt totally out of her depth. ‘You know, I really do have to go,’ she said at last, glancing at her watch. ‘There’s a bus that leaves in exactly five minutes—’

‘I’ve said I’ll take you home,’ Gabriel reminded her. ‘Please. Let me. I want to.’

Rachel’s limbs melted. It was all too easy to imagine him using those same words in an entirely different context—an entirely sexual context, she acknowledged unsteadily—and it was incredibly difficult to remember that this man was—could be—her enemy.

‘It’s not necessary,’ she began, but he was already out of the booth and offering her his hand to help her to her feet.

‘Let me be the judge of that,’ he said, the expression in his eyes telling her that he knew exactly why she’d pretended not to see his gesture. ‘Shall we go?’

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