The Boat Builder's Bed (23 page)

“Excuse me.”

She stood there speechless as he strode away. He’d left her to the mercy of Faye and these near-strangers at the worst moment of her life?

“Ooops,” Faye said, looking delighted.

Sophie ignored her and watched as Rafe approached the bar and up-ended his glass. He swallowed the rest of his wine in one savage gulp. She saw the movement of his Adam’s apple...the stretch of the tanned neck she’d stroked and nipped and kissed with such tenderness.

She swung her attention back to Faye, and her fury at last boiled out.

“You sad disgusting cow! Why are you trying to break us up? He wouldn’t take you back if you were the last woman on earth.”

Faye smirked. “I wouldn’t have him back if he begged. Not after the stories that are spreading around town. How do you think I feel, hearing he’s run off with my assistant and set her up in her own business?”

“What?” Sophie almost shrieked. “Set me up? Never! Subtle is entirely my project, my money.”

Faye gave her a supercilious smile. “And how are you going to convince people of that? How do you think it looks? People assume the two of you have been carrying on behind my back for years. No-one does that to
me
.”
 

“Get real,” Sophie hissed. “Rafe’s got more class than that, and so have I.” She snatched a fierce breath and thrust her face closer to Faye’s. “And get this straight, too—there’s nothing second-hand about my daughter. Just because you don’t want children, you’ve no right to try and to spoil other people’s pleasure in them.”

To Sophie’s annoyance, Faye’s brittle smile grew wider and more complacent. “She was just the ammunition I needed, wasn’t she... He’ll never have you back now.”

“I don’t give a damn about that.” Sophie raised her voice to include the others. “Camille hasn’t been ‘disposed of’. What a stinking thing to say.” She rounded on Faye again. “You
know
what happened. Her father died, and my mother took care of her to help me through a terrible time.”
 

“But he’ll
never
have you now,” Faye repeated.

“You’ve totally twisted the situation,” Sophie snapped. “You wouldn’t recognize a kind deed if it bit you on the ass, Faye. And everyone who knows you feels the same.”

She whirled away and stared out the window. Was Faye’s ego really that fragile? Had she seriously launched her vitriol just to stop people thinking her husband might have cheated on her?
 

Her shoulders drooped in defeat. Oh, what did it matter now? The harm was done.

She turned around as Rafe strode back. He made an all-too-obvious point of standing away from her while he sipped the large whiskey he’d just collected.

Was his shock any worse than hers? She’d endured four long weeks of dread, knowing sooner or later he’d have to be told. As they’d gotten increasingly close it had become ever more impossible to confess. It seemed doubly unfair it should be Faye who’d dropped her in the putrid mud.
 

And wasn’t the woman just enjoying it! Another triumphant glance from her heavily-made-up eyes flashed in their direction.

Rafe moved closer so only Sophie could hear him. “You thought you’d found a wealthy sugar-daddy to spring your kid onto?” he demanded.

She stepped away a little and he followed.

“I thought I’d found a big enough commission that I could afford to bring her back home to live with me at last. You didn’t come into it on a personal level until you absolutely forced yourself into my life.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You grabbed me and touched me and kissed me every opportunity you got. I told you again and again that I needed to keep it just business.”

“You didn’t tell me
why
.” His eyes flamed with passion, and his beautiful lips compressed with resentment.

“Why should I? You were a client. My personal life had nothing to do with you. I gave you perfectly good business reasons.”

“You’re a cold little bitch, Sophie. Surely you could have told me?”

Her hopes shriveled even further at his accusing tone.

“When did you have in mind, Rafe? When you described your dysfunctional family while we ate that pizza on the deck? I was itching to tell you, but I had to balance your possible disapproval—”

“Possible?”
he sneered.
 

“All right, your
certain
disapproval, with the chance to reclaim Camille. And she won.”

A spoon rang out against someone’s glass.

“If everyone could take their seats for lunch please?”

Mutters of anticipation and general shuffling towards the dining room ensued. Rafe turned away from her, mouth tight, eyes furious.

So just like that it was over?

Sophie held back a little, reached for the clasp on her exquisite pearl and diamond pendant and undid it. She released each of the matching earrings and cupped them in her palm.

Many of the men had started removing their suit jackets in readiness for a relaxed lunch in the warm room.

Moving like an automaton, she approached the table Rafe had headed for. When he settled his jacket over his chair-back she slipped her briefly-owned treasures into one of its pockets, and kept right on walking.
 

His attention was already on someone else. She didn’t think he even noticed her leaving.
 

Unable to face food, and sick with desolation, she walked until she was back at the studio.
 

Every time she thought of that cold voice, her heart froze a little more. If she’d been the least bit important to him surely he’d have invited her to leave, and driven her somewhere quiet and neutral to talk reasonably about the situation?
 

One of the harbor look-outs would have been fine. They could have stared at the view if they couldn’t stand to look at each other. She might have been able to explain things better without Faye’s intrusive and gloating presence.
 

Without everyone else in earshot.
 

But it seemed he’d wanted a toy for his bed, not a real human being with a life and problems of her own. She was disposable.
 

Well, her daughter was
not
.

She bit down hard on the tip of her tongue, trying to make something else hurt more than her battered heart.

Overwhelmed by sudden worry as well as grief, she called up his file on her computer and reviewed her financial situation. God, she now owed more money than she could imagine! How would she ever repay it?
 

The advance Rafe had given her would not be used on chairs for clients. She’d ordered tens of thousands of dollars worth of carpet and ceramic tile in her own name, and so far he’d paid only the fifty percent deposit towards them.
 

She’d asked Roy to charge him direct for the paint and his labor, so at least that was out of the equation. One small mercy anyway.

If all the hours she’d spent consulting, sourcing and planning were never paid for, that was tough. Her valuable time would have been wasted but at least there were no outgoings attached, only total lack of income.
 

Because Faye had started negotiations with the kitchen supplier months previously, that account would land on Rafe’s plate for sure. She blew out a slow breath of relief— the kitchen had cost as much as a small house.

But hell, the electric roller-shades she’d ordered were mega-expensive. Some of the curtain fabrics were way at the luxury end of the spectrum too. They’d been cut and dispatched. They’d all be charged to Subtle Interiors, along with the huge rugs and heaven knew what else.
 

Sophie buried her head in her hands and felt her stomach beginning to roll and boil with terror.

What if Rafe dragged the chain on paying her? He could hold up his money for months. She’d be ruined before she’d properly started. Her business would die a painful premature death. She’d be declared bankrupt. Camille would never leave the South Island.
 

Sophie would hate him forever.
 

Rafe scraped an aggrieved hand through his hair and over his tired eyes. He surely hadn’t seen this mess on the horizon.

So that accounted for all the trips down to Picton? Guilt-trips because she’d deserted her daughter. What a fool he’d been to fall for her, and start imagining her as anything more than his decorator.
 

Of
course
she’d looked competent with Lucy in her arms—she was well-used to children, even if she’d pretended to be so career-oriented.
 

Scheming liar.
 

Of
course
she’d be taking part in baby showers and hanging childish paintings on her refrigerator door.
 

He should have seen the signs. He
had
seen the signs. And somehow persuaded himself to ignore them.

His cell-phone rang. He grimaced when he saw Sophie’s name on the screen.

“Severino,” he barked, wanting to hurt her, wanting her to know she meant nothing to him.

“Rafe?” She lapsed into silence.

“Yup.” Flat and cold. He’d be damned if he’d offer her any encouragement or help.

“We need to talk.”

“You might need to. I don’t.”

“You judged me, without knowing anything about me. You didn’t even let me explain.”

“So explain. You had a baby, you farmed it out to your mother, you went on living your own sweet life as far as I can see. Not a million miles different from Huia.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! Don’t be so judgmental. You saw me as a talented designer before you knew about Camille. And that’s how I had to keep things. Now you see a selfish solo mother who didn’t look after her own child?”

“That’s exactly it, Sophie, you’ve summed yourself up beautifully.”

“
No!
I’ve only told you what you’ve assumed. What you’ve
wrongly
assumed. You have no idea of the situation. I’m nothing like your mother—and at least her husband stood by her.”

There was another deathly silence. He was damned if he’d tell her how gutted he was.
 

That he’d hoped to explore making a life with her.
 

That he’d found the jewelry in his pocket and seen it as a cruel brush-off and a sign she wanted no more to do with him. He’d spent a lot of time finding a perfect gift to please her, and already she’d thrown it back in his face.

“If that’s the best you can do, then goodbye,” he said, breaking the connection.

Bastard, bastard, bastard!
Sophie thought.
Rotten bastard. Filthy bastard. Unfeeling bastard.
 

Earlier that morning he’d hung pearls and diamonds on her, bitten her neck and told her she was his woman. Now she was pond-scum?

She slapped her phone down, leaned her elbows on her desk, and buried her face in her hands.

I mustn’t cry. I cannot let him make me cry. I need to stay civil and calm so he’ll pay me what he owes
.

After a few minutes she drew a long shuddering breath and raised her head. Everything outside on Thorndon Quay looked summery, carefree, relaxed. Everything inside her beloved studio seemed tense and shadowy and dismal.

She cupped her chin in one hand and used the fingers of the other to peck around the keyboard and compose him a slow and careful invoice.
 

The carpet was all laid. That would
have
to be paid for. The electric blinds were ordered and probably half-made by now. They couldn’t be cancelled. There were also the fabrics and the specially woven rugs for the living areas. And the wet areas on the middle and lower floors were already tiled.
 

At least she could cancel the tile installation on the big main floor and send all those heavy boxes back for a refund, even though the cartage would be a cruel extra expense. She had to assume there’d be no more work.

She wrapped her arms across her body and rocked to and fro, trying to find some comfort. Trying to gain some confidence back. Trying to suppress the awful hot burn in her throat. She
would not
cry.

Finally she sighed and sat up straighter. Her eyes barely functioned, blurred with pain and unshed tears. She corrected mistake after mistake as she keyed in wrong numbers, but no way would she give him any excuse to question her invoice. She concentrated harder until it was perfect in every detail. After she’d printed it she creased it carefully, slid it into a heavy cream envelope and positioned her Subtle Interiors address label in the corner.
 

But how did she get it to him? She really didn’t want to post it to the boatyard because that would take extra time. There wasn’t a mailbox at the house yet, unless Chris had incorporated one into the big garage by now.

She hadn’t been there since Thursday. Maybe she could hand-deliver her envelope and have one last look while Rafe wasn’t there? One last look at what might have been.

Rafe took the long way home, avoiding as much civilization as possible so he could let the Ducati have its head. He needed to do something violently physical to burn Sophie out of his brain and body, but killing himself on the road wasn’t the answer. He coasted into the almost-finished garage and locked the bike.

Five minutes later he’d changed his suit for shorts and started hacking away at the fennel and blackberry that choked the timber steps from the cliff-top down to the far end of the deck—the alternative access if the cable-car failed. Right now even a cat would have trouble slinking through.
 

Every chop and hack and heave helped to dispel his anger a fraction of a degree. After an hour he’d calmed from savage to simmering. Sweat rolled off him. He was dirty and scratched, and feeling the burn in his arms and legs and back. As he scrambled down to the deck to grab another bottle of water he heard the winch mechanism of the cable-car switch on. And then saw Sophie starting to descend.

He stood, feet apart, knees braced as he sucked the liquid down. He drank half; tipped the rest over his chest and shoulders.