A Rich Man's Touch. Anne Mather

of dishes from the shelf behind her. ‘And I’m sorry if I’m a bit late but I ran into Mrs Austen in the High Street and she couldn’t wait to tell me all about her trip to see Mark and Liz in Australia. I couldn’t shut her up, honestly, Rach. According to her, they’ve got this really lovely house in a Sydney suburb, and Mark’s going into business with someone who makes power boats, jet skis, that sort of thing.’ She glanced at her friend as she started unfolding sheets of pasta. ‘Pretty exciting, huh?’

      ‘What? Oh, yes.’

      Rachel managed a suitable response, but in all honesty she hadn’t really been listening to what the other woman was saying. Despite her protestations to the contrary, she was supremely conscious of Gabriel Webb’s presence, and the uneasy suspicion that perhaps he had come here to talk about Andrew couldn’t be denied.

      Her lips tightened. Surely that was ridiculous. She hadn’t seen Andrew for over a year. As far as she knew he was living in London, and although she’d heard recently that his father had come back to the mansion the Webbs owned in Kingsbridge, she hadn’t associated his return with herself.

      Nor did she wish to, she acknowledged grimly. Andrew had hurt her, in more ways than one, and she wanted nothing more to do with him or his family. His mother was dead, of course, but if Gabriel Webb had some idea about warning her not to try and contact his precious son again, he was wasting his time. Rachel had no intention of letting the younger man back into her life.

      ‘So how long has he been there?’

      Stephanie’s head was bent over her task but Rachel knew exactly who she was talking about. However, she didn’t intend to get involved in another discussion about Gabriel Webb, and, being deliberately obtuse, she said, ‘About five years, I think. He and Liz emigrated the year after Hannah was born. Did Mrs Austen say if she had any grandchildren yet?’

      Stephanie turned her head. ‘Oh, very funny,’ she exclaimed. ‘You know I wasn’t talking about Mark Austen. What is it with you? Are you afraid of the man or something?’

      ‘Afraid of Gabriel Webb?’ Rachel’s face suffused with colour. ‘Of course I’m not afraid of him. I just don’t understand what all the fuss is about. He’s just another customer, for God’s sake! Just because I once dated his son—’

      ‘You make it sound like a one-night-stand,’ protested Stephanie, sprinkling cheese on top of the pasta. ‘You and Andrew went out together for months. Everybody thought he was serious about you until his father got heavy and broke you two up.’

      ‘It wasn’t—’

      Rachel bit off her words before she said something she shouldn’t. It had been easier to let her friends think that Gabriel Webb had split them up than admit that Andrew had been to blame for the breakdown of their relationship. Kinder, too—to herself as well as Hannah, she conceded bitterly. No way had she been willing to involve her daughter in that sorry mess, and she had no doubt that Andrew’s father’s relief would have been as great as his son’s.

      ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ she said at last, aware that Stephanie was waiting for her to finish her sentence. ‘Oh, Patsy.’ She turned with some relief to the teenager who had just returned from clearing tables. ‘Can you clear these dishes away, please? And then go and ask—that gentleman by the window if he wants anything else.’

      ‘Okay.’

      Patsy was a willing helper and Rachel hoped her intervention had put an end to Stephanie’s gossip. Her eyes flickered reluctantly towards her unwelcome customer and then, squashing any doubts that still lingered, she took down the menu board to amend the day’s specials.

      ‘How much do I owe you?’

      His voice was low and attractive, deeper than Andrew’s had been and possessing a warm sensuality that prickled Rachel’s startled nerves. Despite the fact that she had gone out with his son for several months, Andrew had never introduced her to his family. And although most people in Kingsbridge knew who Gabriel Webb was, apart from seeing his picture in newspapers and magazines, this was the first time Rachel had seen him face-to-face.

      Her mouth dried. This close, she realised he was younger than she’d imagined. Probably mid-forties, she guessed, though he didn’t look well. His dark hair, which was shorter than his son’s had been, was liberally spliced with grey, and there were dark rings around eyes that were so dark as to appear almost black in this light. She wondered if he’d been ill and then chided herself for even caring. Just because there were hollows in his cheeks and his clothes hung on his lean, angular frame, he wouldn’t welcome her sympathy. Wouldn’t welcome anything from her—or her daughter.

      ‘I—’ Aware that Stephanie was probably listening to their every word, Rachel wished she could just tell him it was on the house and ask him to leave. But after spending the last few minutes trying to convince her friend that his presence didn’t bother her, she had to try and behave as if she had complete control of the situation. ‘Um—one ninety-five, please.’

      ‘One ninety-five?’ He nodded. ‘Right.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and came out with a five-pound note. He put it on the counter and turned away. ‘Thank you.’

      ‘Wait!’ Rachel wanted no charity from him. And when he turned to see why she had spoken she held up her hand. ‘Your change,’ she said, ringing the money into the till and extracting the necessary amount. ‘You forgot your change.’

      ‘I didn’t forget,’ he said flatly, heading for the exit, but Rachel went after him. Ignoring the fact that Stephanie was now staring after her with a look of disbelief on her face, she went round the counter and caught up with him at the door.

      ‘The service charge is included,’ she told him tightly, holding out the money. ‘If you’d wanted to leave a tip, you should have given it to Patsy.’

      Gabriel Webb’s gaunt face wore a resigned expression as he took the coins from her. ‘Is this necessary?’ he asked, and she was relieved that he spoke so quietly that even Stephanie’s sharp ears could not have heard his words. ‘I realise you probably don’t like me, Rachel, but I’d have thought you might control your antagonism for the sake of your staff.’

      Rachel was taken aback. Not just by his use of her name but by the fact that he evidently had expected her antipathy. ‘I don’t know you, Mr Webb,’ she declared when she could find her tongue, and he inclined his head.

      ‘No, you don’t,’ he conceded drily. ‘Which is why you might have given me the benefit of the doubt.’ Thick lashes veiled the glitter of those dark eyes. ‘I am sorry if you think my intention was to offend you. It wasn’t.’ His shoulders moved in a dismissive gesture. ‘But anyway, if I did, my apologies.’

      Rachel took an involuntary backward step. There was something about him that disturbed her and she didn’t know what it was. But it inspired a momentary feeling of panic inside her, as if her body sensed a connection she didn’t want to feel. She didn’t know why she should feel that way. His appearance was unexpected, that was true, but could that be responsible for her sudden unease? She decided rather tensely that it must be his resemblance to Andrew that was upsetting her.

      Yet she sensed it was more than that. They were both tall men, with dark hair and the olive skin of their Mediterranean forebears, but she could hardly compare this man’s haggard looks with his son’s handsome features. Besides, Gabriel Webb’s face had a much harsher cast than Andrew’s; less conventionally handsome, she conceded, even without the obvious aftermath of some shock—illness?—she didn’t know what. But compelling, even so.

      ‘It was good meeting you at last,’ he remarked now, but although Rachel managed a polite acknowledgement she doubted Gabriel Webb’s sincerity. He could have no positive thoughts about a woman whom he and the rest of his family had obviously never desired to meet.

      He left then, flicking up the collar of his overcoat as he stepped out into the crisp spring air. April had been unseasonably cold, but Rachel wouldn’t have thought an overcoat was necessary. Almost