Second Chance with His Cinderella Read online

  To his surprise, Sebastian was okay with that. He felt reassured his books would be packed—and unpacked—just the way he wanted them to be. His spirits—subdued since he’d awoken this morning, aware that it was the last day of his life as a lone wolf—lifted with the knowledge. There could be no doubt he was in good hands with PWP—and Kitty Clements.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ he said as he somewhat reluctantly left the room.

  * * *

  Kitty was fascinated by the contents of Sebastian’s bookshelves. The titles ranged from leather-bound first editions and histories of London to the latest bestsellers. She had to force herself not to get too distracted by them. She was here to pack, not to browse. While the books were mainly in English, there were titles in Spanish too. Surprisingly, there was an entire row of paperback romances all by one author, Marisol Matthew. Kitty held a title in her hand for a moment too long before she carefully placed it in the box with the others—in strict order of publication. Memories came flooding back.

  After her parents had died when she was fourteen years old, Kitty had been brought up by her maternal grandparents. Her beloved grandmother had been an avid reader of romance novels and Marisol Matthew one of her favourite authors. Towards the end of her battle with cancer, Gran had become too weak to read or hold a book. The last story Kitty had read out loud to her, as she’d sat by her bedside, was by Marisol Matthew—a rousing tale with a gorgeous Spanish hero. Gran had loved it.

  Sebastian Delfont didn’t seem to be the type to be a romance reader, but she had learned the hard way not to judge people by appearances. There was also a shelf packed with the latest thrillers. One thing was for sure, she wouldn’t ask him. Part of the PWP code of conduct was to keep up the illusion of privacy by never commenting on the client’s belongings. No matter the sometimes startling and strange things they might come across.

  Kitty was well into the rhythm of packing books, taking notes and coding boxes when Claudia arrived. Her best friend and business partner rushed to her side.

  ‘I’m so sorry to leave you alone with a new client, a man. But it couldn’t be helped. The fuel tanker blocking the way was in danger of exploding. We actually had to turn around and go back on the wrong side of the road until we could get onto a diversion. Are you okay?’

  Kitty brushed aside her friend’s apologies. Claudia had been there for her through the entire unpleasant time she’d reported the director of the big public relations firm where she’d worked for attempted sexual assault. She hadn’t been believed and the incident had been turned against her.

  ‘I’m fine. Seriously. Sebastian Delfont is okay. I feel safe with him.’

  ‘Good. I liked him too. Although I thought he might be difficult about the way he wanted things packed.’

  Kitty shook her head. ‘He’s exacting. But not difficult. Nothing we can’t handle.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  Kitty turned to her friend. ‘But you might have warned me about how good-looking he is. We’ve never packed for such a hot client. It’s quite distracting. I... I didn’t know where to look at first.’

  Claudia smirked. ‘Does it matter? As you haven’t dated for the last two years, in fact have sworn off dating for ever, I didn’t think you’d notice.’

  But Kitty had noticed, was intensely aware of Sebastian Delfont. Even though there was a strict rule against establishing personal relationships with PWP clients. Even though it was true she’d sworn off dating.

  She’d made that vow not just because of what had happened with the director, not because she’d lost her job and her reputation as a rising star in the PR world, but because her boyfriend had publicly doubted her word. To stand by her had meant he would be standing against his manager. He’d decided not to risk his own career in the company.

  His betrayal had hurt her more than anything else—the doubts cast on her honesty, the slurs on her character, even the lurid headlines in the tabloids. All those fervent words of love, their plans for a future together, had been destroyed by the fever of her ex’s ambition. How could she ever allow herself to trust in love again?

  CHAPTER TWO

  SEBASTIAN’S NEW HOME, the detached four-storey period mansion on Cheyne Walk, was magnificent. With a prime position on the Chelsea Embankment on the northern bank of the River Thames, it was worth untold millions. The building had come into Sebastian’s family’s hands as their townhouse more than one hundred and eighty years ago. But could he ever consider it home?

  He stood in the new library, a former bedroom he’d had gutted to accommodate the custom-made bookshelves. Despite the changes, his grandfather’s presence seemed to be embedded in the walls. The grandfather who had seemed to despise Sebastian’s very being because his father had married against his wishes. Sebastian’s beautiful, loving Spanish mother had been persona non grata and so, by extension, had been her son.

  He had never felt welcome in this house. Both sets of grandparents had been against his parents’ youthful marriage. His Spanish family had thawed somewhat when baby Sebastian was born. Not so his English grandparents.

  His father had been on a gap year in Spain after he’d finished university when he’d met his mother, an art student who had been working as a barmaid. They’d married in a hurry when they’d discovered Sebastian was on the way. The day his parents had exchanged vows, his wealthy English grandfather had revoked his second son’s trust fund. The birth of his grandson hadn’t softened his stance.

  Money had been very tight for the young couple, who’d existed on seasonal work that dropped dramatically at the end of each tourist season. In the hope of getting financial help, Sebastian’s father had taken his baby son back to London, staying in this house. Even as a toddler Sebastian had sensed the hostility from his grandfather and a puzzling lack of affection from his grandmother. Weren’t older ladies meant to swoop him up and smother him with kisses and cuddles?

  By all accounts, the early years of his parents’ marriage had been stressful, lack of money being a major issue, his father’s homesickness and alienation from his family another. Several times, his father had taken him to London to try and forge a connection between his son and his grandparents, to seek help.

  When he was nine years old his father had brought him here from their home in Barcelona to live for four months, the longest of any visit either before or after. The deal, brokered by his grandparents, had been that they would pay his father’s tuition fees for him to study for a postgraduate teaching qualification, if Sebastian attended a private boys’ school. His mother had stayed in Spain, working to help keep their little family afloat.

  That had meant four months of seeing his mother only once at half-term break. Four months of his grandfather’s harsh rules that had made him tiptoe around this house, terrified of angering the tyrannical old man. He simply hadn’t been able to fit into the rigid mould his grandfather had tried to force him into—then or later.

  In defiance of those expectations, he’d done very well treading his own path in the world of finance. He was independently wealthy. He’d never had to ask his grandfather for a penny. All the family obligations had fallen on the shoulders of his uncle, the first-born son, and his father, the ‘spare’ second son. The tragedy of both their premature deaths had established Sebastian as the reluctant heir. Although he had still been no closer to the grandfather who, it had seemed, would live for ever. Yet his grandfather had died six months ago—felled by a virus—and had left everything to Sebastian, his only living heir.

  Sebastian’s first thought had been that the inheritance was a hateful burden. He’d wanted to sell the house and put the memories it held behind him. And yet it was his heritage. Duty to his name, to his blood, reined in his impulse to shed them. He felt he owed it to his father and his uncle, whom he’d loved, to carry on the family traditions that had been so important to them both—despite the way his father had been treated. And he’d felt a link to the ancestors who had lived here since way back when his great-great-multiple times-great-grandfather had made his initial fortune in railways and textiles. Not all his ancestors had been the mean tyrant his grandfather was—he was proud to share their name.

  ‘Knock-knock.’ A sweet feminine voice interrupted his bitter memories of the past. Kitty Clements stood at the carved wooden doorway into the room. In her leggings and sturdy trainers, her cheeks flushed from exertion, she looked far from glamorous. But he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen a lovelier woman.

  ‘I wanted to check if you’re happy with the way we stacked the bookshelves,’ she said. ‘Because if—’

  The move to his late grandfather’s house was proving to be not as traumatic as Sebastian had anticipated. He put that happy circumstance down to the cheerful, matter-of-fact presence of Kitty and Claudia from PWP over the last two days. Especially Kitty. Her golden hair and bright eyes seemed to bring sunshine to the darkest corners of the house and the sound of her laughter banished memories of angry shouted words. He realised his interactions with her were not about checking the accuracy of her work but about simply enjoying her presence.

  ‘You’ve done a wonderful job,’ he said. ‘Perfect, in fact. Every book is in its correct place, exactly as planned. Thank you.’

  She smiled. ‘I’m glad. I knew how important it was to you to have everything just so.’ Again, he had that feeling of an unstated but real understanding. She seemed kind. Not a quality he’d often found in the women he’d dated. ‘It was a challenge, but satisfying. The work we did at the other end paid off.’

  ‘I appreciate that,’ he said. He also appreciated the way she behaved as if there was nothing unusual about his reques
t. There would be a generous bonus going PWP’s way.

  Sebastian couldn’t imagine that unpacking boxes and crates would be much fun, but Kitty gave every appearance of enjoying it. He’d like to ask her about her career before she’d become a person who packed but it would be inappropriate; she was what his grandfather would have called ‘hired help’. He’d like to know her personal status too—she didn’t wear a wedding or engagement ring but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. She and her business partner, while pleasant and courteous, were careful to maintain a professional distance. But surely it must have been a job where she’d dealt with people, as Kitty was so warm and engaging. Retail? Hospitality? Health care?

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘We’re on track to finish this afternoon. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do for you before we leave.’

  Kitty was leaving. Of course she was. He’d employed her to do a job and she’d fulfilled the terms of the contract most efficiently. He didn’t know why he railed at the idea of saying goodbye to her, but he did. He tried to think of something that could delay her departure.

  She glanced down at her watch. ‘I would particularly like to leave on time today.’

  Who did she go home to? A husband? Kids? A woman this appealing would surely not be single. Whoever held Kitty’s heart would be a lucky man.

  Sebastian felt saddened by the fact that, unless he decided to move house, he would never see Kitty Clements again. He didn’t like that idea at all.

  The light would go out when she left this house and he would be left to face the shadows on his own.

  * * *

  During her two years of business with PWP, Kitty had noticed the difference in people’s attitudes towards the stages of a house move.

  Packing up to leave was often tinged with sadness, especially if it was a move prompted by circumstances such as divorce or a landlord’s whim. Even in the wake of a much-anticipated move there was angst about what to pack and what to discard. Countless times she’d had to unseal a taped box to accommodate an impulsive inclusion of something rescued from the give-to-charity pile.

  Unpacking at the new dwelling, on the other hand, was sometimes a resigned acceptance of changed circumstances but more often a time of excitement at new beginnings. Of people rushing about oohing and aahing as they fitted belongings from an old life into an exciting new one.

  Not so with Sebastian Delfont. His new home on Cheyne Walk was, hands down, the most amazing house she’d ever seen. And in her former life in public relations she’d seen inside more than a few grand residences, used for location shoots and product launches. Sebastian’s house was four storeys of traditional luxury, high ceilings, ornate staircases and spacious rooms furnished with priceless antiques. It faced the Thames, glorying in a part of London that boasted the millionaire postcode of SW3.

  Yet in the two days she’d spent there unpacking, her client had showed little excitement at his change of circumstances. His attitude seemed decidedly glum. Kitty couldn’t understand why. Did he have no idea how the other half lived? How fortunate he was? Her entire rented flat where she’d lived in Camberwell would have fitted into one of the reception rooms.

  Since the day she’d first met him she’d seethed with curiosity about this gorgeous man. Spoiled rich boy, so used to this level of privilege and wealth it simply didn’t make an impression? Perhaps. That would go with the posh accent. Yet he struck her as being more down-to-earth. For one thing, he’d organised coffee and tea for her and Claudia in the vast old-fashioned kitchen, which was not something all clients thought to do.

  She stood facing him in his refurbished library, the only newly decorated room in the house, having passed his inspection of the books placed in their correct order.

  ‘What next?’ she asked. ‘I believe you have the people we recommended coming to hang your pictures tomorrow. We’ve stacked them against the walls in the same places they were hung in your Docklands apartment. We’ve also sent them the photos of how they looked there.’

  ‘Well done. I’d put them up myself but hanging pictures is an art form in itself.’

  ‘That’s a good way of putting it.’

  Kitty paused, knowing she shouldn’t be chatting with him, but unable to stop herself. There was something about this man that interested her. Okay, be honest, attracted her. She couldn’t deny that he’d occupied rather too much space in her thoughts than a client should. But she’d never see him again after today. She didn’t move in the same elite circles as people who lived in Cheyne Walk.

  She indicated the paintings in this room, lined up along the wall. ‘I love those pictures. They bring a splash of Mediterranean colour into gloomy old London. Where are they from?’

  ‘The island of Mallorca.’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ she said.

  ‘I think so,’ he said.

  There was another question she ached to know the answer to and this was her last chance. ‘I notice you have a lot of books here by Marisol Matthew. My grandmother loved romance novels and was a real fan of hers. I also loved them. With all those books on the shelf, you must be a fan too.’

  ‘You could say that,’ he said.

  His tone was oddly neutral but still Kitty ploughed on; if she didn’t, she would always wonder about the presence of those books on this man’s shelves.

  ‘When my gran was ill, she got me to read her favourite books out loud to her. Her very favourites were by Marisol Matthew; they were a great distraction in her...in her last days.’

  She cursed under her breath. What had possessed her to say something so personal? Claudia would want to fire her. She wanted to fire herself. Personal details unwisely shared could be used as ammunition; she knew that only too well.

  ‘She would have liked that.’

  Kitty looked up at him. ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Marisol Matthew was my mother,’ he said.

  Kitty was so taken aback she struggled to find words. ‘Your mother?’ was all she was able to stammer out. ‘I... I had no idea.’

  ‘Why would you?’ He politely didn’t state the obvious: that she knew nothing about him either. ‘Her true identity was a well-kept secret.’

  Kitty knew the author had died some years ago; her grandmother had mourned the fact there would be no new books.

  ‘Really and truly? Marisol Matthew was your mother?’

  He smiled. Kitty realised it was the first time she’d seen him smile. It was the merest lifting of the corners of his mouth, but it lit his grey eyes and lightened his expression. He was even more handsome than the handsomest of the heroes in his mother’s books. She caught her breath as awareness tingled through her.

  ‘Really,’ he said. ‘I’m very proud of her. Of both of them. Not many people knew, but she worked with my father on her books. She came up with the stories and the characters and he helped her with the English as it wasn’t her first language. Her name was Maria and his was Matthew. Marisol is a combination of Maria and the Spanish word for sun.’

  ‘Was she Spanish? I only ask that as she wrote about such wonderful Spanish heroes.’ But none so utterly gorgeous as her son. The thought intruded, despite Kitty’s insistent jumping down on it.

  ‘She was very Spanish.’ His smile deepened.

  ‘And your father was English?’ She paused. ‘Of course he must have been.’

  He nodded. ‘Matthew Delfont.’

  She should leave it at that; she’d overstepped the boundaries already. But Kitty felt an urgent desire to grab as much knowledge about this intriguing man as she could while the clock ticked down to her departure.

  ‘Did your parents live here?’

  ‘No. But my father grew up in this house.’

  ‘And you?’

  He scowled. ‘Only briefly.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, realising that she might have strayed into a story where she had no right to be. But she couldn’t help but register that he looked even more handsome in an intense, brooding way when his dark brows drew together in that forbidding scowl. She wondered whether he always wore black, because it certainly suited him.