by Sara Wood
‘Pretty awful of your mother to leave you in this situation,’ he observed casually.
‘She couldn’t help it!’ flared Tessa. ‘She would never have fled unless things were desperate.’
‘But surely no decent mother would deliberately leave her daughter in that same, desperate situation, would she?’ His quietly clipped words hung in the air between them, the truth of what he’d said quite painful. Tessa stared ahead, her breath shallow in her breast. An awful suspicion came into her mind that she had been left to carry the can-but then, dismayed by the thoughts Guy had put into her head, she jerked her head up, her eyes aglow with hot violet fire. ‘You’re biased! You would think the worst of her!’
‘God! You really are blind and stubborn-’ he began irritably. ‘I give people the benefit of the doubt till I know all the facts! Mother had a reason for doing what she did,’ she flung at him, clinging to a forlorn hope that this was true. ‘She’ll contact me and tell me soon-’
‘And if she doesn’t?’
That wouldn’t happen. Her mother had promised. ‘Then I’ll make my own arrangements,’ Tessa said stiffly.
Guy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Ah. Until then?’
‘It’s early days,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ll see how things go for a week or so. I can take the flak. I’ve taken plenty before.’
It seemed as if she were back at school, being blamed for things that weren’t her fault just because she was an easy target. Crossly she rummaged inside her bag for the bar of chocolate she’d spotted when she’d reached for her wallet, and proceeded to demolish it angrily.
Guy watched her furious progress through the defenceless bar. Her small white teeth drove into the dark chocolate and all the time she scowled at him defiantly.
‘You turn to food for comfort. I know better ways to release the emotions,’ he drawled.
She had a large chunk of chocolate in her mouth and it was several seconds before she could reply. ‘This is my mid-morning snack,’ she defended.
‘I go to the gym,’ he confided. Her gaze whipped up and down his perfect body. ‘I need strenuous activity after sitting around in board meetings and on transatlantic flights,’ he explained. ‘I’m a very physical man and I hate being confined.’ She could believe it. Energy leapt from him in waves to batter her with its force. And she could imagine another way he’d release some of that excess energy, over and above a heavy indulgence in sit-ups and bench presses. She felt sure he’d enjoy the physicality of sex: Her eyes glazed over as her treacherous mind produced a clear image of him in all his muscular perfection, sweat glistening on his thighs. . . ‘Try a marathon-right now,’ she suggested grumpily. ‘And leave me in peace to organise one or two things.’ Her teeth snapped off another piece of chocolate.
‘I probably will. I need physical release rather badly.’ His mouth was far too suggestive for Tessa to cope with. She glared, knowing he wasn’t interested in her and furious that he should still flirt and try to provoke her.
‘You have a lot to organise,’ he remarked. ‘The cottages need urgent attention and a lot of money spent on them. What will you do?’
Tessa knew what he was getting at. A quick, cheap sale. It was tempting; she’d be free of all hassle. But until she spoke to her mother and explained the situation her hands were tied. ‘They need’ a bit of work,’ she said grudgingly, between mouthfuls.
‘Face reality! You’ll have to sell. No one will buy them on the open market. Why don’t you let me do what I was intending to do for your mother?’ Guy suggested, pushing his hands casually in his pockets.
‘She wouldn’t have sold to you,’ Tessa declared belligerently.
‘I don’t think she would have had any choice,’ he answered with an airy wave of his hand. ‘Why? You’re not the only buyer in France.’
‘I’m probably the only one who’d be prepared to offer a reasonable price for three collapsing, beetle-ridden, mouldering piles of stone,’ he countered, studying her hot, angry face with maddening insolence. ‘There’s a sentimental value involved where I’m concerned. No one else would show any interest. French villagers are voting with their feet and moving into smarter, modernised accommodation with larger gardens.’
‘I bet someone back home would be interested,’ she said, feeling an urge to goad him into thinking that he’d never get his hands on the cottages.
‘Possibly,’ he agreed sardonically. ‘The British have a manic attachment to the picturesque and a passion for restoring the unrestorable.’
‘We appreciate character!’ she defended. ‘And the cottages aren’t beyond all hope. You’re exaggerating!’ I’ve a good mind to test the market-’
‘Know much about it, do you?’ he taunted. ‘The legal aspects, the surveys, the land searches ... No. I thought not. You’d never do it, Tessa. It’s far too complicated. Why make work for yourself? It must be obvious to you that I’d like to unite the village under the Turaine umbrella again.’ He smiled at her appealingly. ‘Sell up to me. That’s your easiest way out. And then you can go home with money in your pocket-before you’re bankrupted by irate visitors.’
Unreasonably stirred by the persuasive, velvety timbre of his voice, Tessa did her best to switch him off. She leaned back against the cold stone wall and gazed gloomily at the happily chatting villagers in the bar.
Someone was offering a flat wicker basket filled with strawberries to the owner. An ancient tractor rumbled by, bearing a driver in the ubiquitous blue checked shirt that most of the locals seemed to favour.
Swallows and swifts flew in and out of the church bell tower, the church looking more like a fortress with its massive stark facade and grim entrance. Little halftimbered houses virtually surrounded the square on three sides, with Guy’s chateau walls and entrance gates making up the fourth. ‘ It was all quite fascinating and she didn’t want to go. Of course, she couldn’t leave anyway till she’d heard from her mother, but apart from that she wanted to have some fun exploring the lovely countryside. It was her first time abroad, her first holiday away even. How unfair, then, that she’d been branded as an undesirable, along with her mother, and had been landed with her debts!
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she admitted morosely.
Guy’s hand rested on her shoulder in a deceptively warm and friendly gesture. ‘Let me help you. I can get you out of this mess by taking the properties off your hands. I can deal with the visitors’ complaints and compensate them if that’s what they want. All you need to do is to let me pay you a good price. You’d be mad to refuse, you know that.’
True, she thought, wishing she could say yes. But she’d given her word and she couldn’t go back on that. There must be a way.
And although she’d promised not to sell the cottages to Guy she could sell one of them-to someone else! ‘Give me a day or two,’ she said calmly, lowering her eyes so that he wouldn’t see her excitement. ‘I’ll think about it.’ A scheme began to form vaguely in her mind. Daring. Exciting. Sell one-and do up the others to bring in an income for herself. It was an idea she’d need to give some careful thought. But, for the moment, she’d deal with the most urgent problems presented by the visitors. And Guy could cool his heels for a while!
He patted her shoulder and smiled into her eyes. ‘You know it makes sense,’ he said, making her legs shake with the husky warmth of his voice.
She nodded meekly. ‘I know,’ she breathed, puzzled to find that her chest had tightened up inexplicably. There was the lightest of touches on her cheek. ‘I’ll wait. Two days. Then I’ll come to see you.’ It was several long seconds before he moved.
Tessa felt unable to answer. The tension of being near him was too much. His promise filled her with a strong sense of excitement. He seemed to be waiting for a response but she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. It seemed to her that an electric charge was leaping between them and it was all she could do to stand there with her head lowered and fight her attraction for this man who intended to use her for his
own ends.
‘Bye, Tessa,’ he said softly.
She searched for something-anything-in her bag. And dragged out a barley sugar. ‘Bye,’ she said, frowning in deep concentration as she unwrapped it. And he was gone.
Tessa hurried back to the Rue Boulangerie and Oven Cottage, where she checked over the Kennedys’ cooker. It was a simple case of a burnt-out element. The job would be fiddly, but not beyond her capabilities-though it would make a hole in her finances. Then she went outside to the garden and lifted the manhole cover of the septic tank, with the Kennedy couple looming over her, their hands pressed over their noses. ‘Well?’ asked Mrs Kennedy, her voice muffled. Tessa replaced the cover. It didn’t fit very well. ‘I’m going into town,’ she said decisively. ‘We need some activator. If you could refrain from putting bleach or disinfectant down the sink till I get back-’
‘It stinks!’ protested Mrs Kennedy.
‘The bleach is killing the bacteria which make the system work.’
‘Good Lord! I never heard of such a cock-eyed system!’ Tessa smiled. ‘It’s the only method possible in rural areas,’ she explained. ‘It’s the same in England, I can assure you. And it’s eco-friendly. Why don’t you go out? I’ll have everything sorted when you return.’
After shopping, she changed into her most disreputable clothes-an ancient T-shirt and threadbare jeans. Gathering up the tools she needed in an old curtain, she grabbed the key to Oven Cottage and found to her relief that the Kennedys had taken her advice and gone out for the day. The new element was a piece of cake to fit. Pleased with herself, she then distributed the activator. As she reached for the kitchen tap something flashed past the kitchen window. A woman. Long blonde hair.
Tessa flung open the door just as a shout came from the other side of the garden. Whirling, she saw Guy standing over the open manhole, a bottle of bleach in his hand and a look of surprise on his face. Sabotage, she thought in fury. Caught in the very act!
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘WHAT,’ Tessa demanded, folding her arms menacingly, ‘do you think you’re doing?’
‘Checking the drain,’ Guy replied, with insolence. She wanted to hit him. Her hands clenched into tight fists. ‘You don’t check septic tanks by dumping bottles of bleach in them!’ she said scathingly. ‘You’re trying to ruin it! And what was that woman doing? Miss Palazzo Pants, was it? Is she in this with you? Are you both trying to run me out of town?’
‘Have we succeeded?’ he enquired lazily, unconcerned enough to be examining her ragged T-shirt with interest. Tessa squashed the warm feeling that that produced, and flung up her head, pushing oily fingers through her hair in a defiant gesture. ‘Like hell, you have!’ she spat, striding forward intimidatingly. ‘I’ve decided to stay in Turaine. I might settle here even. Now get out of my garden and don’t let me catch you or your accomplice anywhere near these cottages again!’ It seemed that Guy couldn’t believe his ears. ‘You you can’t stay!’ he said, appalled. ‘Tessa ... it’s not a good idea.’ From his expression, it looked as if he was casting around for reasons. ‘There are ... regulations.’
‘I know,’ she said confidently.
He frowned. ‘You can’t live in this squalor. You can’t afford to restore the cottages-’
‘Yes, I can. I have found the means,’ she said happily. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he muttered. His dark eyes glittered as his chest rose and fell. She imagined he must be very angry that his plan wasn’t working out. ‘I think
you ought to know, Tessa,’ he said quietly, ‘that if you stay both you and I will regret it!’
Her stomach contracted. ‘Is that meant to be a threat?’ she demanded, more bravely than she felt. ‘The truth,’ he growled.
There was a silence while his anger poured over her like boiling oil. He was very powerful in Turaine. A force to be reckoned with. But, _darn it, she wasn’t going to be pushed around by anyone! She jutted out her chin aggressively. ‘So you’re going to make life difficult for me?’ Guy impaled her with his hot, penetrating gaze. ‘Life will be difficult for both of us.’
‘Because?’ she challenged.
‘Because of who and what you are. And I think there are plenty of people here who’ll make your life hell without my help.’
‘I’m sure,’ she said crossly. ‘Miss Palazzo Pants for one.’ His mouth tightened.
‘Leave her out of this. Take my advice and leave.’
‘I can’t walk away from this, Guy,’ she said soberly. ‘You talked about duty and responsibilities; I have those too. Mr and Mrs Donovan and the Kennedys have booked holidays which have turned out to be less than perfect. While I’m waiting for news from my mother I want to make that up to them-and not only financially. My first act will be to clean The Bakehouse and Oven Cottage through for them-cheering up the rooms with flowers, mending what can be mended and slapping a coat of paint over the kitchen units where they’ve been left bare.’
‘You think that’ll make any difference to the disappointment they feel about their holidays?’ he asked scathingly. ‘Not much, at this stage, but I’ll feel I’ve done what I can and they’ll see I’m doing my best.’
She felt happier than before, happy enough to smile. ‘I want to see the whole season out. It’s a matter of pride. I feel ashamed of the conditions the visitors are living in, Guy. I have to do something to ease my conscience. Besides, I think it’ll be fun. I’ve already repaired the cooker-’
‘You?’ he scoffed.
‘Oh, yes, me!’ she said airily, sure of herself now. Handling men wasn’t her forte. This, however, was something she could do. ‘At home in our flat, the cooker was constantly in need of repair. It was a case of learning how the thing worked and what usually goes wrong or eating cold food. We couldn’t afford to get someone in. That’s how I knew what to do here. And now I’m doing the drains.’
‘That’s one of your talents too?’ His eyebrow crooked up in disbelief about as far as it would go.
She smirked and knelt beside the manhole in a proprietorial way. ‘Alarmingly versatile, aren’t I?’ she said serenely. ‘I helped in the installation of the septic tanks for the big house we were working on. Plus the laying of all the pipes from the bothy and the coach house. I don’t want to blind you with science,’ she added patronisingly, ‘but I don’t think there’s a serious problem providing you and Miss Whatsis Drawers don’t empty any more bleach down the tank,’ she remarked, and he had the grace to shift uncomfortably. ‘I’ll probably replace the manhole cover when I can. It isn’t airtight like the British ones.’
‘I’ll be damned!’ he said faintly.
‘Very likely. So,’ she said, feeling rather perky and quite capable of tackling the world, ‘there’s not much wrong with this particular cottage that I can’t put right quite quickly and bring up to a saleable standard. It could be idyllic. There’s such a lovely view of the river from here, and from the bedrooms at the back of the house.’
Her quick, triumphant glance caught Guy’s frown before it was wiped off and replaced by neutrality.
‘But the others need considerable attention,’ he warned her. ‘I’m sure the mayor could be prevailed upon to slap a ban on your holiday lets till they’re up to standard-’
‘You’d do that?’ she asked, appalled. -
‘If I don’t, someone else will,’ he said grimly. ‘Let me know if you do decide to sell. I might still be interested. But the price drops every day you hold out,’ he drawled, and turned on his heel, heading for the gate at the bottom of the garden which led to the open fields.
Tessa fumed, incensed at his threat to close her down. Anger made her reckless. Too many people had crushed her in the past. Too many men had scorned her ideas and her eagerness. This was one man too many and she was going to stand up to him.
‘I am selling,’ she called, loud and clear so that he didn’t miss a word. ‘Definitely. I’m putting this one on the market.’ When he froze, then looked back over his shoulder, she wasn’t sure she�
�d done the right thing. He wanted to claw back the properties so badly that when she carried out her hastily formed plan of luring him into making an offer for one-and then refusing-he’d be as mad as hell.
But, as he’d pointed out, she knew nothing about selling property in France. He did. He’d know about prices, taxes, surveys ... and she needed to be thoroughly armed with that information before she tackled the French equivalent of an estate agent. So she’d pick his brains on the pretext of making a deal.
Sneaky. But he deserved to be slapped down. He’d threatened her. And he had slunk into her garden to sabotage the septic tank. She was justified in giving him no quarter. Besides, she had to get some money together and improve the remaining two cottages before the mayor intervened. Her eyes gleamed.
‘I wish you luck,’ he replied coolly, giving her a moment’s alarm. What if he didn’t repeat his offer?
Yet he didn’t walk away. That gave her some hope. Despite his nonchalant pose, there was tension in the air. She’d hooked him. She knew that in her bones, and felt something of a triumph.
‘Would you come closer? I have something to say and I’d like it to be private,’ she said casually.
Obediently he strolled to within a centimetre of her knees, forcing her to crane her neck up. ‘Close enough?’ he drawled. Her pulses raced. The sun touched his cheekbones with a shimmering light. He radiated power and a compelling masculinity. It was a battle of wills, she thought. But she’d win. He had no idea she could be devious.
‘Perfect,’ she said sweetly, resigning herself to a crick in her neck because she didn’t have the courage to stare directly at his loins. ‘I wanted you to know as a matter of courtesy,’ she went on. ‘As I said, I intend to sell Oven Cottage on the open market-complete with the asset of one season’s holiday visitors-to whoever gives me the best price. Maybe a builder will be interested in knocking down the place, come to think of it. He might want the tiles on the roof, or to take away the stone,’ she improvised, aware of the fleeting expression of glazed horror on Guy’s face.
