He wanted to trust her, but he couldn’t afford to.

He couldn’t afford to trust anyone he didn’t know. He had learned that to his cost a long time ago. And he hated it, being suspicious of every passing stranger. And he was attracted to Sorrel, he admitted to himself for the first time. Not just liking her or amused by her—but attracted to her. Heavens knew why, he thought wearily. She wasn’t his type at all….

Emma Richmond was born during the war in north Kent, U.K., when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways non-existent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”

Books by Emma Richmond

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3609—THE BOSS’S BRIDE

3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS

The Reluctant Tycoon
Emma Richmond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE

MAD, THAT was what she was. Stark, staring, mad. She could have waited at the house. Possibly waited at the house, Sorrel mentally corrected. The woman who’d answered the door to her hadn’t actually invited her inside. She could have asked, of course, but, no, Miss Impetuous had to see him now. Why? Sorrel asked herself disgustedly as she hastily sidestepped what looked like something unsavoury. She’d been searching for work for months; another five minutes wasn’t going to make any difference. Nerves, that was what it was, which was stupid. She wasn’t normally averse to confronting complete strangers—she did it all the time. It was just that his name sounded somehow—intimidating, which was daft. What was in a name? Her own was pretty bizarre and she wasn’t intimidating. But Garde Chevenay sounded—superior. It was a French name, of course, which might have something to do with it.

Or maybe it wasn’t nerves, but desperation, and she was becoming desperate in her search for work. Not that she must let him see that. Perhaps he would interpret her behaviour as enthusiasm. That would be good, wouldn’t it? Prospective employers liked to see enthusiasm. So why hadn’t he answered her letter?

Much given to mental deliberations, Sorrel trudged up the muddy slope. Tall and thin with wild curly hair that wasn’t in the least improved by the misty rain that fell with such persistence, she halted a moment to catch her breath. And why was it, she wondered, that drizzle always seemed to soak you more than a downpour?

Staring round her, she surveyed the empty countryside. Not a soul to be seen. Somewhere over there, she’d been told with a vague point, which could, of course, mean anything.

Breasting the rise, she gave a little cry of alarm as she nearly stumbled over him. At least, she hoped it was him; much more of this hill-walking and she’d probably end up with pneumonia. He was lying flat, his arms inside a crack in the earth, his face in profile, and, yes, he definitely looked superior. And attractive. And young—well, younger than she’d expected, anyway. But did he look like a man who would give her a job? That was the question.

Assuming something had been lost in the hole and Mr Chevenay was trying to retrieve it, without much success by the look of things, she stated, ‘I’m skinny. Perhaps I can get it, whatever it is.’

He turned his head, stared at her with eyes the colour of slate. Expressionless eyes, eyes that gave nothing away. There was an air of tense exasperation about him, which didn’t bode well, and he was big, she discovered, as he got to his feet. Very big.

‘Take off your coat,’ he ordered peremptorily.

‘What?’

‘Your coat!’ When she hesitated, he added tersely, ‘Quickly. If he slips further, we’ll have to dig out the whole hillside.’ Without waiting for her to obey, he grabbed her, hauled her in front of him and began to undo her buttons.

‘He?’

‘A dog,’ he added even more tersely as he dragged her coat off and tossed it onto the grass. Bunching her long hair in his fist, he began stuffing it into the neck of her sweater.

‘A dog is down there?’ she asked in disbelief.

He didn’t bother answering—but then he didn’t look like a man who was going to repeat himself. ‘I’ll hold your ankles.’

‘Ankles?’ she demanded in alarm. ‘How far down is he?’

‘Too far for me to reach,’ he snapped as he forced her to her knees.

‘Well, can’t he get out by himself? Dogs usually—’

‘No.’

With a little tut, she peered into the hole. All that could be seen was a very muddy rear end. An agitatedly wriggling rear end.

‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, ‘how on earth am I to—?’

‘Never mind the Almighty,’ he ordered, with harsh impatience, ‘just grab hold of him.’

With obviously no choice in the matter, she pushed her arms in first, then eased herself into the narrow opening. She felt Garde take her ankles and grunted in fear and pain as he yanked her upright so that she slid more easily into the hole. Unable to see properly, unable to tilt her head, she groped around, felt the feather-light brush of the dog’s tail against her fingers and wriggled further inside. By touch alone, she forced her hands to either side of his haunches, gripped hard and, with a muffled yell, told Garde to pull her out.

He wasn’t gentle—but then, she didn’t suppose he was able to be. He grabbed her round the knees and tried to lift, and when that didn’t work grabbed her hips, and then the waistband of her trousers and gradually eased her up. Afraid her wet hands were going to slip on the muddy fur, she gripped harder, bit her lip at the dog’s whimper of pain, and then her body was dropped flat on the wet earth and she was dragged over the lip of the hole.

Her hands were ruthlessly uncurled, and she lifted her head to see Garde hoist the little Jack Russell into his arms and begin to check him over. ‘You’re all right,’ he said brusquely as he put him down. He sounded extremely bad tempered.

Certainly the dog looked all right as he shook himself before scampering off, nose to the ground. Sorrel hoped she was, too. It felt as though all the skin had been torn from her chest and stomach.

‘Shouldn’t you call him to heel or something?’ she asked absently as she rolled onto her back and sat up. Lifting her sweater, she stared down at herself.

‘No,’ he denied tersely. ‘Are you hurt?’

She shook her head. There was a slight redness across her ribs, but nothing else. Tugging down her sweater, she stared up at him. Tall and dark with broad shoulders, jaw unshaven and his hair wild, he looked dangerous. Sounded dangerous.

‘Thank you,’ he added grudgingly.

‘That’s all right,’ she said quietly. ‘Being skinny has its advantages.’

‘Yes.’ Moving away, he began trying to shift a large boulder that was embedded in the earth. He wasn’t skinny. He was large and well built. Even through his sweater she could see the bunch of his muscles.

‘Give me a hand with this, will you? I need to block the hole before he does it again.’

Getting to her feet, she went first to retrieve her coat, and then gave a cry of dismay at the state of it. Forgetting for the moment that this was a prospective employer, she demanded, ‘Did you have to throw it in a muddy puddle?’

He didn’t answer, merely continued trying to shift the boulder by rocking it backwards and forwards.

Pulling a face, she shoved her arms into her coat and went to help. Five minutes later they’d managed to roll it into the hole. He then dusted off his hands, and walked away.

‘Hey! Mr Chevenay!’ Hurrying to catch him up, she added breathlessly, ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘I don’t give interviews.’

‘I didn’t ask for one,’ she retorted automatically, and then halted, a little frown on her face. Was he normally plagued by journalists? Giving interviews, or not giving them, as the case may be, smacked of—fame. Seeing that he was now some way ahead, she ran to catch him up again. ‘Are you famous?’ she asked as she matched him stride for stride.

‘No. Who told you where I was?’

‘A woman at your house…’ she began, before registering the tightening of his lips. Someone was going to be in trouble for telling her, weren’t they? Damn. ‘Look,’ she began again, ‘I only wanted to ask you something.’

‘I don’t do favours, either.’

‘I don’t want a favour! In fact, I’m about to do you one! Well,’ she qualified, ‘maybe not a favour exactly. I’m here about my letter. You did get my letter? I’m—’

‘No.’ He continued on towards the house.

Taken aback, because he must have got it, hesitating only momentarily, she sprinted after him. ‘How do you know you didn’t get it?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t even know who I am! I sent it special delivery,’ she continued in the face of his silence. ‘You’d have to have signed for it.’

He didn’t answer.

‘Unless you were out when it came,’ she murmured, ‘and it went to the depot.’ Getting absolutely no response from him, she wondered if she’d got the wrong man. He hadn’t actually said who he was. ‘You are Garde Chevenay, aren’t you?’

He halted, looked at her, and then strode on.

Beginning to get cross, she grumbled, ‘Well, it surely can’t be a secret!’

He jumped the small ditch that divided the hill from the gravel drive—or, more accurately, what had once been a gravel drive, and was sadly now mostly devoid of its gravel and sprouting weeds—then crunched along it and round to the back of the old house.

Absolutely refusing to give up until she had a satisfactory answer, she trailed after him. ‘I wrote to you about your grounds. I’m a landscape gardener,’ she added for extra clarity as she followed him into what looked like a utility room. ‘So you see—’

‘You’re going somewhere?’ he enquired with hateful interest.

‘Yes,’ she agreed firmly, ‘I’m going to tell you what I can do.’

‘I wasn’t aware I’d shown any interest.’

‘You haven’t. Yet. But, Garde—’

‘Mr Chevenay, to you, and don’t tramp that mud in here,’ he ordered disagreeably.

‘You are,’ she pointed out.

‘I live here.’

With a little tut, Sorrel kicked off her ruined shoes and padded after him in her socks—wet socks—and bumped into his back as he suddenly halted to remove his own boots.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

He said something she didn’t catch, dragged off his wet sweater, tossed it aimlessly towards the corner, and opened the door in front of him. Striding through, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he went, he left it to swing shut behind him.

‘You are so rude!’ she complained as she yanked it open and followed him along a stone-flagged floor the colour of chestnuts.

‘Possibly because I didn’t invite you.’

‘But you must be interested! Your gardens are an absolute mess.’ Halting in pleased surprise, she stared curiously round her at white walls, a few highly polished pieces of furniture. Stark. Monastic—which was appropriate, seeing as it was an old monastery. A beautiful old staircase ran up the outside wall; a small half-moon table stood between it and the double front doors that were curved at the top. There was one door to her right, beneath the rise of the staircase, and three on her left. There was an empty niche between the first two doors and an old table beneath. ‘This is so nice—’ she began.

‘I’m glad you approve,’ he derided sarcastically.

With a little twitch of her lips, she halted before a large tapestry that hung above an old carved chest in the space between the next two doors. ‘A bit shabby,’ she added sadly, ‘but then it is rather old, I expect.’ When there was no answer, she looked round to find herself alone. The only indication of where he had gone was the muffled click of the door at the end. Hurrying towards it, she shoved it open and went into what was clearly his study. A very state-of-the-art study. Very modern, very functional, with, as far as she could see, every technological aid that had ever been invented.

‘I gather you work from home,’ she murmured as she continued to look round her.

He didn’t answer, merely seated himself behind a massive desk. But then he would need a massive desk; he was a massive man. It was nice to meet someone taller than herself.

Abandoning her evaluation of the room, she reverted to the subject in hand. ‘So, did you really not get my letter?’

‘I don’t read unsolicited mail.’

‘Not even out of curiosity?’ she asked in astonishment.

‘No.’ Linking his hands on the paper-strewn desk, he looked her up and down in a rather rude appraisal.

She stared back with humorous defiance. She knew exactly what he saw. A stork. Too tall, too thin; her strange-coloured hair would be even wilder than usual because it was wet. Even damp, it went into tight, impossible-to-comb curls. Her eyes were too light, lashes too dark, and her nose was probably red. Fine-featured, she wasn’t pretty but, at first glance, she was rather startling. She did not look like a gardener. Her eyes still alight with amusement, she headed for the linen-covered chair in the corner.

‘I do hope you aren’t intending to sit down in that muddy coat,’ he stated without inflexion.

‘And who made it muddy?’ she asked lightly as she removed it, looked around for somewhere to put it and, finding nowhere, folded it inside out and put it on the floor. As she sat down she curled her feet beneath her and stared at him once more. ‘Are you always this bad tempered?’ she asked curiously.

‘Yes, and only beautiful women can get away with being outrageous.’

‘Rubbish,’ she said dismissively. ‘Anyone can get away with being outrageous. People are so astonished at your crass cheek that they let you get away with it. And if you think this is outrageous, you should see me when—’

‘No, thank you,’ he interrupted. Holding out his hand, he waited.

She stared at his hand, then back to his face.

‘You have a copy of this letter?’

‘Well, of course I don’t have a copy!’ she denied in exasperation. ‘Why would I? It doesn’t work like that. I write, you respond…’

‘But, I didn’t.’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘There aren’t any buts. Why did you come?’ he asked bluntly.

Because I was desperate. But she couldn’t say that, could she? No. ‘I was in the area,’ she lied glibly. Still staring at him, examining his harsh, rather square-cut face, and those slate-grey, expressionless eyes, she said hopefully, ‘Coffee would be nice.’

‘I dare say it would, Miss…?’

‘James. Sorrel James.’ Her lips twitched slightly at the expression on his face. ‘Daft, isn’t it? But my mother was into horses at the time and I was born with brownish-orange hair.’

‘It’s still brownish-orange,’ he commented.

‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and I don’t know how you have the cheek to sneer at my name when yours is even more bizarre. At least people have heard of Sorrel. I mean, Garde isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill, is it? A family name?’

‘No, and I have no idea what my mother was into,’ he returned rudely, throwing her own words back at her.

She grinned. ‘Coffee?’

He stared at her for a moment. Genuine, or ingenious? he wondered. It might be interesting to find out exactly what little game she was playing. He depressed a button on the intercom. There was a faint squawk and he said quietly, his gaze still on Sorrel, ‘Coffee for two, please, Mrs Davies.’ Still watching her, he asked, ‘Why were you in the area?’

Lowering her lashes, she scratched absently at the mud on the knee of her trousers. Don’t tell lies, Sorrel. Tell the truth. ‘Actually, that was a lie,’ she confessed. ‘I drove down to see you.’ Looking up, she stared at him once more. ‘I want to do your gardens. I’m a lot stronger than I look,’ she promised in the face of his obvious scepticism. ‘And I’m very good. You won’t be disappointed.’

‘Won’t I?’ he asked flatly.

‘No.’

‘And do you normally seek people out? Knock on their doors?’

‘Sometimes,’ she admitted quietly.

‘How many times? Come in,’ he called when there was a faint tap at the door.

A rather worried-looking woman in her early fifties entered, carrying a tray. It was the woman who had answered the door to her earlier. She smiled rather nervously at Garde, gave Sorrel a curious glance and put the coffee on the corner of the desk.

‘Thank you, Mrs Davies—and, in future,’ he added in a voice that was guaranteed to terrify a timid heart, ‘if anyone else calls, I’m not in. Neither do you know where I am, or what I’m doing. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Sorrel put in quickly, with a sympathetic smile for the other woman. ‘I told her I was an old friend.’

Eyes still on Mrs Davies, he said, ‘The same applies to old friends. Take their name and a contact number or address.’

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry.’ She gave another nervous smile and went out, closing the door softly behind her.

‘Bit harsh, weren’t you?’

He didn’t answer, merely waved his hand towards the tray, which Sorrel assumed meant she was to pour, and with a rather wry smile she got to her feet. ‘How do you take yours?’

‘Black.’

‘Figures.’

She poured his, then her own, adding a generous amount of cream and sugar, and then returned to her chair and stared at him. ‘You seem rather paranoid about your privacy,’ she commented. When he didn’t answer, merely returned her stare, she continued, ‘Because you’re—what? Famous? Wealthy? Important?’

‘No. How many times?’ he repeated.

With a comical little grimace, she confessed, ‘Well, none, actually. This is the first time.’

He looked as though he might believe it. She didn’t know why he might believe that, but…

‘How did you find me?’

‘Find you?’ she echoed. ‘You make it sound as though I was looking.’ Suddenly remembering his earlier comments, she added thoughtfully, ‘Up on the hill, you said you didn’t give interviews, as though I might be a reporter.’

He waited, and she gave a small smile. She was actually beginning to like this rather abrupt man, and she gave a soft, infectious laugh. ‘I found you at the dentist,’ she finally explained. ‘I was waiting, as one does, and leafing through a magazine, and there you were. Garde Chevenay, the new owner of Blakeborough Abbey. There was an aerial view of the grounds, and I yearned to do them,’ she said simply. ‘I did have a quick peep at the rear,’ she confessed. ‘That old paving needs some attention—but if you didn’t want or couldn’t afford to have the whole thing done at once,’ she added quickly, ‘I could do it piecemeal. Or even just the gravel. I’m very good at gravel.’

‘You do surprise me,’ he said sardonically. ‘The dentist is local?’

‘What? Oh, no,’ she admitted with a small grin. ‘London. I don’t have much work on at present.’

‘And one must grasp at opportunities as they arise?’

‘Yes, so you see…’

‘You have proof of your identity?’ he interrupted.

Puzzled, she shook her head. ‘Not with me, no. Why?’

‘Because I want to know who you are.’

‘But you know who I am. I just told you.’

‘Did you?’

Slightly bewildered, she nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t bring identification?’ he asked with drawled sarcasm. ‘Not very professional.’

‘No—I mean—yes.’ Taking a deep breath, she stated positively, ‘I brought my portfolio.’ Leaping to her feet, she said eagerly, ‘I’ll go and get it. It’s in my truck. Then you’ll be able to see what I can do…’ Before he could comment, she hurried out, walked gingerly across the gravel in her socks and collected it. Hurrying back, she laid it on the desk before him. ‘My card’s inside the front cover.’

He nodded and opened the photograph album. Pulling a piece of paper towards him, he jotted down her name and address and then closed it.

Watching him, she felt her eagerness begin to dissipate. ‘Aren’t you going to look at the photographs?’

‘No,’ he said dismissively.

‘Then why did you want it?’

‘So that I can check you out.’ Picking up the album, he tried to hand it to her.

She put her hands behind her back. ‘I’ll leave it with you. I can pick it up tomorrow. You never know, you might find some of the ideas useful…’

‘No,’ he said softly.

‘Yes. And if you really don’t—’

‘I don’t.’

‘You could post it back to me.’

‘It might get lost,’ he said blandly.

‘I’ll take that chance. Please? I really am very good.’

‘And cheap?’ he asked interestedly.

‘Well, no, but…’

Eyes holding hers, he dismissed her softly. ‘Goodbye, Miss James.’

With a little grimace, she quickly finished her coffee and picked up her coat. ‘At least look at them,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m open to suggestions…’ Realising what she had said, she gave a grunt of laughter. ‘Not those sort of suggestions, I just meant—’

‘I know what you meant.’

Pulling a face at him, she slung her muddy coat round her shoulders. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Not if I see you first, hung in the air between them, and she gave a rueful smile. After opening the door, she returned for the tray. ‘I’ll take it back to the kitchen, shall I?’

‘It won’t do you any good.’

‘That wasn’t why I…Sorry, I tend to get a bit—’

‘Carried away?’ He was staring at her with an expression of such interested attentiveness that she laughed.

‘All right, I’m going.’ Don’t push your luck, Sorrel, she warned herself. Hastily escaping, she awkwardly closed the door behind her. She knew she did tend to get a bit carried away in other people’s houses, but then that was probably because she usually worked in other people’s houses. And he hadn’t forced her to take back the portfolio, so there was still hope, wasn’t there? Ever the optimist, smile still in place, she headed down the hall.

Assuming that kitchens were normally at the rear of a property, she pushed open the door beneath the staircase, and came to an abrupt halt. The room looked like something from the Middle Ages, and the contrast with the hall was—well, astonishing.

Mrs Davies was sitting at the long scrubbed table in the centre of the room. She looked as though she’d been crying. Putting down the tray, Sorrel asked gently, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing!’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t say! Mr Craddock, the last owner, was so—easy.’ Staring at Sorrel, she burst out, ‘I need this job. Clive’s out of work at present—my husband,’ she explained, ‘and although Mr Chevenay said I could stay on, I don’t know what he expects of me.’

‘Because he doesn’t say,’ Sorrel agreed sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, not really. Could you ask him?’ she pleaded. ‘What my duties are?’

‘Me?’ Sorrel exclaimed in astonishment. ‘But I don’t know him! I’m not really a friend…’

‘Please? If I Hoover, he asks me to stop; if I cook him meals, he doesn’t eat them. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to answer his phone! And now he wants me to redesign his kitchen! I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but redesign it how?’

‘Get some magazines,’ Sorrel advised. ‘That’s what people normally do, isn’t it? Show him some pictures. And surely it will be better for you to work somewhere, well, modern?’

‘I suppose,’ Mrs Davies agreed gloomily. ‘If I’m here that long. I don’t think he even likes me. I’ve asked him and asked him to call me Davey, like Mr Craddock used to, but he won’t. Mrs Davies, he says. So—so polite!’

With a little grin, and because Sorrel knew exactly what she meant and what it was like to have no job, no money, Sorrel agreed. ‘All right, I’ll ask him.’

‘Thank you,’ Mrs Davies said gratefully. ‘You must think me an absolute moron, but…I’m not usually like this,’ she confessed. ‘Or, I wasn’t. Perhaps it’s the menopause.’

‘Oh, dear,’ Sorrel murmured.

‘Yes. I keep getting hot.’ Mrs Davies sighed. ‘And he makes me so flustered. He’s so—well, angry-looking, isn’t he?’

Was he? Yes, Sorrel supposed he was.

‘And his voice is so…’

‘Derogatory?’ Sorrel offered, tongue in cheek.

‘Yes, as though he doesn’t have a very high opinion of anyone.’

‘Perhaps he doesn’t,’ Sorrel murmured. It was something she could well believe.

‘He makes me feel stupid,’ Mrs Davies continued, ‘and although I’m not very clever I can cook and clean and everything. I worked for Mr Craddock without any trouble. I wish he hadn’t left.’

‘Well, look on it as a challenge,’ Sorrel said bracingly. ‘You’ll soon get used to him, I’m su—’

‘And now, with the reporters and everything,’ Mrs Davies continued, as though she hadn’t heard, ‘I just don’t know what to do.’

‘The reporters?’

‘Yes. They all seem to hate him.’

Astonished, Sorrel just stared at her. ‘Why on earth would they hate him?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mrs Davies said wearily. Getting to her feet, she carried the tray over to the sink.

Staring at the housekeeper’s bent back, Sorrel asked hesitantly, ‘Is he famous?’

‘Famous? I don’t know. All I do know is that every time I go out I fall over the reporters clustering at the gate. I’m not allowed to talk to them,’ she added crossly, as though that were yet another bone of contention between them.

About to ask for clarification, Sorrel suddenly caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink. Diverted, she stared at her image in astonishment. ‘Good grief,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t know I looked that bad.’ Her face was filthy! And her hair, still tucked into the neck of her sweater, was liberally decorated with mud and grass. Untucking her hair and brushing off the worst of the debris, she scrabbled in her pocket for a tissue. Peering into the mirror, she began to clean herself up. ‘Not perfect,’ she sighed, ‘but better than it was. Oh, well.’ With a crooked smile at Mrs Davies and a little shake of her head, she walked across to the door. ‘I’d better be off.’

‘You won’t forget to ask—’ Mrs Davies began urgently.

‘No, no, don’t worry.’

‘Now?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Now?’ Sorrel queried in alarm. She didn’t think now was a very good idea.

‘Please?’

Too soft-hearted by far, Sorrel reluctantly agreed. ‘Oh, OK, but I can’t promise anything.’

Walking back to the study, she gave a brave little tap on the door, and quickly put her head inside. ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ she began.

He looked up from her open portfolio, which he’d obviously been perusing, and asked derisively, ‘Back again so soon, Miss James?’

‘Mmm,’ she agreed ruefully. ‘There was just one thing…’

‘I thought there might be.’

She widened her eyes at him. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree,’ she told him softly. ‘It’s about Mrs Davies. You seem to have frightened the poor woman to death. Not intentionally, I’m sure,’ she added quickly. ‘But if you could just tell her what her duties are, when she’s to Hoover, cook, etc…’

‘Thank you,’ he said without inflexion. ‘I’ll be sure to do so.’

‘Good.’ With a little grin, she added reprovingly, ‘And you might have told me I had a muddy face.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ she exclaimed. ‘Because…’

‘Go away,’ he ordered softly.

Grin widening, she put her coat more securely round her shoulders and walked out. She closed the door very softly behind her. And then she laughed. ‘Yes!’ she whispered with a little clenched fist. If he’d been looking at her work then he wasn’t totally disinterested, was he? And if she didn’t get the job, well, she was still rather glad she’d come. She’d really rather liked him. And it would be someone to dream about, wouldn’t it?

Staring at the closed door, Garde gave a brief grunt of laughter. This procession of ‘wannabes’ was getting more bizarre by the minute. He didn’t think he had ever met anyone so—well—ingenious, he supposed. He’d have liked her to be genuine, but he very much doubted she was. How on earth had they managed to recruit a gardener? If she was indeed a gardener. He should never have let her in the house, of course. Wasn’t even sure why he had. And tomorrow she would be back. The so-very-different Miss James. And after Miss James there would be someone else wanting to do his garden, or clean his car, sweep the chimneys…Their inventiveness was endless. But, he suddenly thought, if he employed Miss James, the hassle might stop for a while, mightn’t it?

With a small, rather cynical smile, he thoughtfully moved his gaze back to the portfolio. His garden did need doing; maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. And if she was no good, then she wouldn’t get paid.

Turning back to the front page where her card was sellotaped, he decisively pulled the telephone towards him and punched out the number of a private detective.

Poking her head into the kitchen, Sorrel assured the housekeeper that she thought Mr Chevenay would be far more reasonable in future, and went to retrieve her shoes.

Crunching round to the front, she stared at the lowering sky. June was supposed to be flaming, not this perpetual drizzle. It was also the time of year when people were supposed to feel more cheerful. But not in this house. And not in the local press either, according to Mrs Davies. So why would a young man be hated? Well, not young young, she mentally corrected. She would guess that Garde Chevenay was in his mid-to late thirties. And extraordinarily attractive, despite his rather brusque manner. Or maybe even because of it. But hated?

Climbing into her old truck, and praying it would start the first time, she twisted the ignition key. Garde Chevenay. Definitely a name to conjure with. It seemed a long time since she’d had a light flirtation with an attractive man, and the thought of it definitely made her feel brighter. Not that she expected him to reciprocate, but it could be fun to tease him. If he would allow her to do his gardens, which she very much doubted.

Bit of a wild goose chase, really, which was a pity, because the front certainly needed attention. The grass, which had once, presumably, been a lawn, was waist-high and full of weeds. The trees, old and bent, were in dire need of pruning, or even removing. The drive needed attention, the stream that ran along the foot of the property needed clearing out, and the brief glimpse she’d had of the back, well…In your dreams, Sorrel, she sighed to herself. Even if he were interested, she had no references to prove her trustworthiness, and Garde Chevenay definitely looked like a man who would want references. Just like the others before him. The worrying thing was, she’d never needed references until after Nick. She’d always got her work by word of mouth; but now, suddenly, everyone wanted a reference from her last employer.

With a smile equally as cynical as Garde’s, she sighed. That was really likely, wasn’t it? A reference from Nick. And it had to be him behind it all. She’d had several enquiries from her advertisements, had given quotes, and everything had seemed fine—until the excuses started coming in. ‘Not quite what we want. Sorry.’ ‘Too expensive.’ ‘Too this, too that, and, of course, without a reference from your last employer…’ ‘One has to be so careful nowadays…’ And if she didn’t find a job soon…

Feeling despondent again, she drove to a small hotel where she would book in for the night. She went up to her room. She would ring her sister to see if she’d managed to get hold of that article Sorrel had started reading in the dentist’s, and even if she hadn’t she might have been able to find out something else about him, something that might give her a lever in persuading him that he needed her. Jen liked a challenge. They both did. Oh, do stop it, she scolded herself. Things would get better. They had to.

Making herself comfortable on the bed, she picked up the phone and punched out her sister’s number. It was answered on the second ring.

‘Jen?’

‘Sorrel! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!’

‘Have you?’ Sorrel asked in alarm. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

‘What? No! Are you at home?’

‘No, Wiltshire.’

‘Wiltshire?’ Jen exclaimed. ‘What on earth…? No,’ she said disgustedly, ‘don’t tell me. That’s why you wanted me to find the article, isn’t it? You went to see him! I don’t believe you, Sorrel! You can’t just go knocking on people’s doors!’

‘Of course I can,’ Sorrel argued softly. Easily conjuring up an image of Garde’s face, she smiled to herself. ‘You can meet the most delightful people.’

There was a little silence, and then Jen reproved meaningfully, ‘I don’t like the way you said that. What’s happened?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Sorrel,’ Jen warned, ‘you know I’ll get it out of you in the end so you might as well tell me now. What happened?’

‘Nothing happened!’ Her eyes lit up with sudden laughter. ‘I just found him—interesting,’ she murmured softly.

Her sister gave a snort of disgust. ‘Well, don’t get too interested,’ she cautioned brusquely.

‘Why not?’ Sorrel grinned. ‘I haven’t had a decent flirtation in ages!’

‘Because he’s dying!’

CHAPTER TWO

HER mind suddenly blank, her whole body empty, Sorrel whispered in shock, ‘Dying? But he can’t be. He looks so healthy.’

‘Well, that’s what it says in the article I found. The one you didn’t have time to finish reading at the dentist’s. Hang on a minute and I’ll read it to you.’ There was a momentary silence at the other end, followed by the rustling of pages and then Jen’s voice again. ‘Er, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yes, here we are. At the end of the article it says—although I have to admit it’s a rather odd statement,’ she commented with brief puzzlement. ‘It mentions some of his business dealings and that he’s recently sold off his finance company to the Americans, and, bearing in mind,’ she added, ‘that the article is over six months old, it then says that perhaps it’s not surprising he’s so successful as he’s riven by cancer.’

‘Cancer?’ Sorrel echoed, and the alarm and pity she felt seemed out of all proportion to the fact that she barely knew him. ‘Are you sure that’s what it says?’

‘Of course I’m sure!’

‘But it doesn’t make sense!’

‘Well, no, but that’s what it says.’ There was another small silence, and then Jen stated in what sounded like exasperation, ‘You liked him.’

‘Yes, I did, but please, please, don’t tell me that I have screwed judgement, that I—’

‘But you do.’

‘Not always,’ she defended.

‘Yes, Sorrel, always!’ Jen insisted.

‘But Garde’s not in the least like Nick,’ Sorrel protested. ‘You begin to make me feel as though I should suspect everyone!’

‘Not everyone.’ Jen sighed. ‘It’s just that—well, I worry about you, Sorrel. Go on, then, tell me about him!’

‘You don’t need to say it like that! He really isn’t in the least like Nick.’

‘Then what is he like?’

‘Oh, large, abrupt, derisive. Quite rude, in fact.’

‘And you liked him?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed defiantly. ‘He was—different. And I can’t believe he’s ill! He looks so disgustingly well!’

‘Perhaps he’s in remission,’ Jen murmured. ‘Is he going to let you do his gardens?’

‘I don’t know. I’m to see him again in the morning.’

‘But why go all the way to Wiltshire?’ Jen demanded worriedly.

‘Because I didn’t think Nick would have any influence down here!’ Sorrel stated crossly. ‘And the girl I was covering for at the garden centre is coming back on Monday,’ she added gloomily.

‘Oh, hell, I’d hoped she wasn’t coming back.’

‘So did I.’

‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Does the job look hopeful? Although, if he’s dying,’ Jen murmured worriedly, ‘it’s probably best not to get involved. I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt again.’

‘I’m not intending to get involved! All I said was that I found him interesting!’ Anyway, even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there probably wasn’t going to be an opportunity to get involved. Sorrel quickly changed the subject. She didn’t want to discuss Garde further, she found. Not even with her sister. ‘How’s my nephew?’

‘In disgrace!’ Jen laughed, but Sorrel could still hear the underlying worry in her sister’s voice. ‘He pulled the wallpaper off the wall behind his cot and when I told him off, the little wretch just looked at me with his big blue eyes and said softly, “Oh, dear.”’

Sorrel laughed. ‘I seem to remember someone else doing that. Must run in the family.’

‘The difference being I got a smack!’

‘Mmm, I remember.’

‘When are you coming home?’

‘Oh, tomorrow, I expect. Give my love to the naughty one, and to your delightful husband. I should be back about five—and I’m all right. Really,’ she insisted. ‘Take care of yourself. Bye.’

Slowly replacing the receiver, she continued to stare at it for a few minutes. She didn’t want him to be ill. She couldn’t believe he was. But was that why he’d said he didn’t give interviews? Possibly. Once the article had come out…Anyway, she wasn’t likely to see him again after tomorrow.

Sorrel tried to stop thinking about it, about him. She swung her legs to the floor and went to have a shower and wash her hair before going down for something to eat. But her mind wouldn’t leave it alone. All that evening and long into the night she continued to think about him, and the next morning, driving out to the house, she continued to think about it.

He must have been watching for her, or maybe it was coincidence, but he answered the door himself before she even had a chance to tug at the old bell-pull. Then she realised that it wasn’t either of those things as the little dog they’d rescued the day before trotted out.

‘He got home all right, then,’ she murmured inanely.

‘One can only assume so.’ At her look of astonishment, he added brusquely, ‘He isn’t mine.’

‘Oh.’

‘He visits.’

‘Oh,’ she said again. ‘Have you, er, had a chance to look at the photographs?’

‘Yes. You’d better come in.’ Holding the door wide, he waited for her to step inside and then closed the door behind her and led the way to the study. He was having second thoughts about this. Overnight, he’d almost convinced himself that she’d looked calculating. But she didn’t. She looked almost as eager as the damned dog. She also looked surprised, as though she’d expected him to hand the portfolio back at the door.

Moving to sit behind the desk, he looked down at the album that lay in front of him. There was still time to change his mind. He glanced at her, trying, perhaps, to analyse a face that defied analysis, then returned his attention to the album.

‘Did you find anything you liked?’ she asked eagerly. Moving to stand beside him, she flipped over the cover. ‘They all show before and after…’

He stared at her.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, her face rueful.

‘Sit,’ he ordered.

Obediently turning away, she walked to sit in the chair she’d used previously. Her eyes on his strong face as he flipped the cover closed and began tapping a fingernail on it, she tried to see signs of illness, and couldn’t. He didn’t look thin, or pale, and certainly his hair wasn’t falling out—but then perhaps he hadn’t had chemotherapy. Or maybe it had grown again. Maybe he was now better. Jen had said that the article was over six months old. Certainly he looked really rather—well, rugged, she supposed. He was freshly shaven, and wearing an expensive-looking light grey, short-sleeved shirt with his long legs encased in clean jeans. There was an aura of strength, determination about him. No way did he look like a man who was dying.

The phone rang, and she gave a little start. Garde ignored it; when she couldn’t bear the intrusive ring any longer, she demanded, ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, don’t you have an answering machine? Surely all this equipment isn’t just for show?’

He ignored her. The phone, thankfully, finally stopped ringing.

‘Did you see the letters of—well, praise, I suppose you could say, in the rear pocket?’ she asked him. Best to mention them and perhaps, hopefully, he wouldn’t notice that the last one was more than a year old.

He didn’t answer, but then he didn’t seem to answer anything he didn’t want to, including his phone. It seemed a funny way to run a business. If he had a business. She should have paid more attention to what Jen had been saying.

Holding his eyes for long, long moments, unsure of what message, if any, he was sending, she rushed into speech. ‘I rang my sister last night, to tell her about you. I’d asked her to try and get hold of the magazine I didn’t have time to finish reading in the dentist’s. It said you had cancer,’ she blurted.

Amazingly, he laughed. Derisively, admittedly, but still a laugh. ‘And that accounts for your worried air this morning?’ he mocked.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I was awake half the night thinking about it. I’m so sorry.’

‘No need to be,’ he said with an indifference that startled her. ‘It was a misprint.’

‘Misprint?’

‘Yes. It should have said I was driven by Cancer, the birth sign, not riven by it. The reporter was obviously into horoscopes. The printer or typesetter wasn’t.’

‘Oh,’ she commented inadequately, and then she smiled in relief. ‘I’m so glad.’

‘So am I,’ he agreed drily.

‘I didn’t think it made sense! It said you were successful.’

‘Did it?’ he asked with even more indifference.

‘Yes.’ Hiding a smile, watching his large, capable hands as he moved the album and began squaring papers on his desk, she felt comforted. Turning her attention to his profile, she decided that she liked very much what she saw. A strong, well-sculpted face. A man who made decisions and stuck to them. Perhaps. A man not given to small talk. A man who didn’t cheat? Someone who was perhaps slightly intimidating to anyone other than Sorrel—who was rarely intimidated by anyone.

‘Who took the photographs?’ he suddenly asked.

‘I did.’

He nodded.

‘You don’t believe I’m a landscape gardener, do you?’ she asked quietly. She’d often had this rather dubious response before.

‘I believe you know about gardens,’ he qualified.

With a little frown on her face, remembering his almost paranoia about secrecy the day before, she continued, ‘You don’t think I did the gardens in the photographs?’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. Yesterday,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘and even now, you seem to be implying that I might be something else. Is that it?’ Had Nick got to him? Had he somehow found out she was coming down here? No, he couldn’t have done. So why was Garde Chevenay being so suspicious? ‘I don’t understand why you seem to suspect me of ulterior motives.’

‘Your behaviour?’ he prompted.

‘But I’m always like this. Or do you mean because I turned up so unexpectedly? But that was because—’

‘I didn’t answer your letter—yes, you said.’

‘And I’m sure you’re quite capable of snubbing any pretensions I might have, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘It isn’t. Do you?’ he asked drily. ‘Have pretensions?’

‘No,’ she denied slowly and really rather worriedly. She had never thought she looked like a person on the make, and yet, this last year…

‘And now?’ he asked.

‘Now?’ she echoed in confusion.

‘Yes. What will you do now, Miss James?’

So he didn’t want her, she thought despondently. Why invite her in, then? Why prolong the agony? ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want me to do your gardens, I go away, back where I came from.’

‘To do what?’

Wavering between honesty and pride, she stated almost defiantly, ‘Whatever I can. I’ve been helping out in a garden centre for the past few months.’ There was no need to tell him she was no longer required, and, remembering why she’d been forced to eke out her existence in such a manner, and in no mood now to prolong a conversation about her work, or lack of it, she got to her feet. ‘Well,’ she added abruptly, ‘I’d better be going. I have a long drive ahead of me. It was nice to have met you, Mr Chevenay.’ Reaching out, she picked up her portfolio.

‘You no longer wish to do my gardens?’ he asked blandly.

‘Well, of course I want to do them! But you aren’t going to let me, are you? So there’s really no—’

‘Aren’t I?’

She just stared at him.

‘You aren’t the only one who grasps opportunities, Miss James.’ Without waiting for her to comment, he got to his feet.

‘You’re going to let me do them?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

‘Then why all the verbal games?’ she demanded. He must have known how much this meant to her. ‘If you knew when I came—’

‘I didn’t. I spoke to Mrs Davies,’ he added briefly as he led her out and back through the front door.

‘And that cemented your opinion, did it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘And she asked you to call her Davey.’

‘What shall I call you?’

‘Miss James,’ she said promptly.

He gave a small grunt of laughter. It sounded reluctant.

Irritated, she demanded, ‘Why do you want me to landscape your gardens? You didn’t yesterday.’

‘Perhaps I feel the need to keep an eye on you.’

She snorted.

‘Or perhaps I thought you needed the work.’

‘You don’t strike me as philanthropic,’ she retorted dismissively.

‘You don’t want to do them?’

Of course she wanted to do them! But he would want references, wouldn’t he? Any minute now he was going to ask for one. A man like Garde wouldn’t take on just anyone. She had hoped—naively, she knew—that she could convince him of her capabilities so that he wouldn’t ask. As she had hoped several times over the last few wretched months. And it had to be Nick behind it all, didn’t it? But how could she prove it?

Sorrel was still staring at Garde, her gaze blank, when she suddenly realised that he was waiting for an answer.

‘Yes, I want to do them,’ she confirmed quietly, and then thought she’d better say something else to explain the long silence. ‘I was just wondering why you hadn’t used a local firm. There must be some.’

‘There are. I even got a list of reputable landscapers. Countrywide,’ he added softly. ‘Your name wasn’t on it.’

Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? It had been taken off months ago. At Nick’s instigation.

‘You have references?’

No point in beating about the bush. ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I’ve never needed them,’ she stated defiantly. Until recently.

He nodded. ‘So what’s the procedure?’

‘Procedure?’ she echoed. Astonished that references had been dismissed so lightly, she opened her mouth to query it, then hastily closed it again. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Sorrel.

‘Yes,’ he agreed with a slight edge of impatience. ‘You make sketches? Dig holes? What?’

‘Oh, sketches. You can then approve, or disapprove, let me have your own suggestions. Some people know exactly what they want. Others don’t.’

‘Then you may do some sketches for my approval.’

‘Thank you. When would you like me to begin?’

‘As soon as possible.’

Staring out over the front garden, she wondered why she didn’t feel delighted. She should have done. Instead, she felt—wary. ‘I’ll need to know your likes and dislikes, whether you want trees, water features…’

‘I don’t know what I want. Be—inspirational, Miss James. You need to walk the course?’ he asked, and then cursed.

Startled, she looked ahead and saw a young man leap out of a car by the broken gate. He had a camera slung round his neck.

‘Who is he?’

‘Very good, Miss James,’ he mocked.

‘What?’ she asked in confusion.

‘Your bewilderment looks almost genuine.’

‘It is genuine! Why on earth would I—?’

‘He’s a reporter,’ he interrupted. Come to check up that his protegé had gained access? he wondered. Possibly. Probably. Irritated with himself, and irritated with her, he added harshly, ‘Just ignore him, and if he speaks to you don’t answer.’

‘But what does he want? Hey!’ she exclaimed in shock as a flash went off, nearly blinding her. ‘He just took my photograph!’

‘Gilding the lily,’ he muttered to himself. Ignoring the shouts for his attention, he directed her round the side of the house and out of sight.

‘Gilding what lily?’ she demanded in confusion.

‘It’s not important.’

Maybe not, but something was. ‘Will he follow us?’

‘No,’ he denied grimly. ‘Not if he values his equipment.’

‘But what does he want?’

‘To give me grief,’ he said dismissively. ‘You can use the utility room to store your tools or whatever,’ he added as he halted to survey the tangled wreck of his walled rear garden. ‘The gate at the end leads to a paddock—leased out to a local family for their horses. There’s a lower field for vegetables, and this way…’ He led the way across the broken terrace towards another wrought-iron gate that hung drunkenly by one hinge. ‘There are half-demolished greenhouses, an old brick storeroom and a rubbish tip that is currently in the process of being cleared. But all that need concern you at the moment is the front.’

‘And if you like what I do?’ she prompted.

‘Then you may do the back. I read something about parterres but, seeing as I wouldn’t know a parterre if I fell over one, the point is moot.’

She doubted it. She suspected he knew very well what a parterre was, and anything else she might mention. He looked like a man who knew a great deal about a great many subjects.

‘Come,’ he ordered, still tersely, as he led the way back to the rear door. ‘You’ll need a room for sketching in.’

‘I can do that outside or from the truck…’ she began worriedly.

‘Well, if you change your mind, you can use the old refectory,’ he murmured as he led the way back inside. ‘From when it was an abbey, of course.’

He threw open the first door on his left.

Stepping inside the long, empty room that echoed rather unnervingly, she stared round her. It was tiled in the same flags as the hall, but, unlike the hall, the room had yet to be restored. The arched leaded windows were uncurtained, the massive fireplace dusty. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in a long time.

‘I’ll get a chair and table put in here for you to work at.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There’s good light in here, and I imagine light is important for your sketching.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed as she walked over to the windows and stared out at the tangled rear garden.

He joined her. ‘Once the cloisters, I believe, or cloistery—I’m never sure if it’s singular or plural. There were other buildings originally—a chapel, sleeping areas, a dairy, a room where they made wine, stored their vegetables. There are still cellars…’

‘Yes,’ she agreed automatically as a sudden sparkle of light caught her eye. Sunshine reflecting off a piece of broken glass maybe, which reminded her of the reporter. ‘Why would he take my picture?’ she asked worriedly.

‘The reporter? Who knows? Keeping up appearances?’

Bewildered, she began, ‘What appear—?’

‘It bothers you?’

‘No-o,’ she denied slowly, ‘but he might think…’

‘We have a romantic interest?’ he asked derisively.

‘There’s no need to say it like that,’ she scolded. ‘Some people find me attractive.’

‘I dare say they do,’ he agreed flatly.

She gave a small grin. He didn’t sound as though he was one of them. ‘Like your women with full figures, do you?’ she asked tongue in cheek.

He looked at her, his eyes flat, unreadable. ‘I like them silent.’

She gave a small snort of laughter and returned her attention to the garden.

‘If the photograph is published,’ he continued, ‘is there someone close to you who might be—offended?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

Before she could ask him why it was good, he turned away and walked out, leaving her no choice but to follow. And, bizarrely, as though the room knew they had left, the door closed silently behind her. All by itself.

Staring at it, and then after the retreating Garde, she hurried to catch up with him. As though needing the reassurance of something solid, she trailed her hand across the uprights of the staircase and glanced up at the old maps decorating the rise to the landing. ‘You collect them?’

He didn’t answer. But then she hadn’t expected him to. No doubt it was a hobby, or something. What other hobbies did he have? Apart from taking on unknown landscape artists and allowing dogs to visit? ‘Do you really not believe I am who I say I am?’

He ignored her question, and she sighed. Subject closed? And why hadn’t he pursued the subject of references? He wasn’t a fool, so why take on someone—unknown? It didn’t make sense.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he ordered with the same indifference as he turned at the study door. ‘Just think of all that money you’re going to charge me.’

‘It isn’t the money,’ she denied quietly.

‘Isn’t it?’ he asked as he opened the door and indicated for her to go inside. ‘What else will you need?’

‘Need?’ she queried as she took two steps into the room and turned warily to face him.

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing until the sketches are approved.’

‘Labourers?’

She shook her head. ‘I usually do all the work myself.’

‘Accommodation?’

‘I’ll book myself into the little hotel where I stayed last night.’

He nodded. ‘An advance?’

Staring at him, feeling awkward—because she always hated this part, talking about money—for some silly reason her heart began to beat extraordinarily fast.

His regard was direct, penetrating, and those slate-grey eyes seemed to see into her soul. ‘Why have you been working in a garden centre?’

Avoiding his gaze, she mumbled, ‘Oh, well, you know, the winter and everything. People don’t usually start thinking about their gardens until the spring.’

‘It’s now summer,’ he pointed out drily.

‘Yes, well…’

‘Which presumably means your cash flow is—’

‘Non-existent, right,’ she interrupted staunchly. She still had a little in her savings account—what had been left from the sale of her house—but with rent and bills to pay for her tiny flat, it was being eaten away at an alarming rate. Her wages from the garden centre hadn’t been very much.

‘Then I’ll arrange to pay your bill at the hotel, and when you’re ready for any outlay—turfs, plants—let me know.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Why so troubled?’

‘I don’t know.’ And she didn’t, not really, but Jen’s words kept coming back to haunt her. Was she such a lousy judge of character? From wanting the job so badly, she now felt extremely troubled. Something just wasn’t right about this. ‘I didn’t expect…I mean, I thought I would be leaving today. That I wouldn’t see you again…’ With a funny little shrug, she added, ‘I’ll need to go home, get my things…’

‘When will you be back?’

She’d need a few days to get herself organised, do some washing and ironing… ‘Monday?’ she offered.

‘Monday’s fine.’

‘I do know what I’m doing,’ she insisted.

‘I hope you do.’ It sounded like a warning.

‘But what I don’t understand is why!’ she exclaimed.

‘No,’ he said unhelpfully as he stared down into her wide eyes, ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

‘And you aren’t going to tell me?’

‘Not yet. Don’t worry about it, Miss James,’ he mocked. ‘I thought they were green.’

‘Sorry?’ she murmured, beginning to feel almost mesmerised.

‘Your eyes. I thought they were green, but they aren’t; they’re blue with green flecks.’

‘Yes.’

He gave a small, slow, smile that held not a trace of warmth, and then he kissed her.

CHAPTER THREE

A SLOW deliberate kiss that left her reeling.

‘Why did you do that?’ she gasped.

‘Checking the height differential. What’s the name of the garden centre?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.