Outbid by the Boss

by Stephanie Browning

  He signalled the waiter. "Red wine?"

  "I could use a drink," Sam admitted.

  Chas quickly scanned the wine list. "Bad day?"

  "Umm, I'd say 'mixed', at best."

  Amused, Chas quickly placed their order and then leaned back in his chair, unabashedly studying Sam as she discreetly took in the restaurant's opulent surroundings.

  Had she grown up in England, her accent, her schooling and her connections, often an important part of their business, would have told him everything he needed to know about her. Perhaps he didn't know his staff as well as he thought. An oversight he was determined to rectify. Beginning now.

  "So," he said, "Miss Redfern."

  Her green eyes drifted back to his. "Mr. Porter."

  "Lest we sit here like a long-married couple who have lost the ability to converse, try telling me something about you I don't know."

  Her left brow rose in a perfect arch. "Like what?"

  "Like why you would bid way beyond your pay grade to buy one silver candlestick?"

  He'd meant to be flip but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Chas realized his earlier fury was still close to the surface. He considered apologizing, but Sam cut him off.

  "You, sir," she hissed across the table, "have a lot of...."

  "What?" Chas shot back. "Leverage?"

  "Actually, what I was going to say was...." she stopped abruptly.

  Their waiter was hovering a few feet away with their wine.

  Chas waved him forward. The young man presented the bottle to Chas, then deftly removed its cork and poured a small amount in Chas’ wine glass.

  Casually swirling the ruby red liquid about the bowl of his glass, Chas tried not to think about Sam glaring at him from the other side of the table. She knew he'd watched her take a shawl from her suitcase and wrap it around the candlestick. She knew he suspected it was now in that oversized bag of hers resting on the floor next to her chair. But what she didn't know was how much he was enjoying every second he spent in her company.

  Raising his glass, he breathed in the wine's burgundian bouquet. It was superb. He took an appreciative sip and with a nod to the waiter, their glasses were filled.

  "Is there anything we might drink to without getting into a fight?" he asked Sam as the young man withdrew.

  "How about my impeccable taste in silver," suggested Sam raising her glass in mock salute.

  She touched the glass to her lips and took a slow sip, letting it linger as she savoured its bouquet. "This is delicious."

  "I'm glad you like it..." Chas sat quietly with his wine and waited.

  And then Sam began to speak. “I saw a painting when I was a young girl…called Five O’Clock Tea. It was only a picture in a book…about women silversmiths,” she blushed slightly. “Two young Victorian women sitting on a chintz sofa. There’s a silver tea service arranged on the table in front of them. One wears a hat and gloves and sips from a delicate porcelain cup. She’s the visitor. They’re just friends having tea, yet it was so…captivating.”

  Enchanted, Chas watched the memories play across Sam’s face. She really was beautiful, and so much more real to him than she had ever been before.

  She must have sensed he was looking at her. “I guess I was hooked.”

  “On silver?” asked Chas.

  Sam laughed. “Tea parties. My grandmother was a good sport.”

  Suddenly, Chas found he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Their gazes caught across the table, the one waiting for the other. Then the jagged ring of a mobile phone stole the moment.

  Chas sighed. "Yours?'

  Flushing, Sam groped beneath the table. "Mine." She popped back up with the offending device in her hand.

  Her forehead scrunched as she scanned the display screen.

  It was a text. And judging by the sudden flash of anger in those gorgeous green eyes, the word was out at Burton-Porter.

  Sam turned off her phone and put it away.

  What on earth was she thinking?

  Nattering on like that to a boss who was, without doubt, one of the most self-assured men she had ever met. Not to mention rich and well-educated, handsome, stylish...and, up until today, perfectly boring. She raised her glass.

  He probably had his own sommelier at boarding school, she thought crossly.

  "I started in the wine department," said Chas as though he'd read her mind. He continued to gently swirl the wine about his glass with perfect ease. "Probably because I was young enough to shift the crates and scared enough to be careful. The boss's son is not always the most popular person on staff...people tend to resent you..." he smiled ruefully, "and leap to conclusions.”

  “Hardly surprising.”

  "Hey! I only broke one bottle. Unfortunately, it was a hundred-year-old claret. Very expensive."

  "Oops," Sam sympathized.

  "My father was less than amused..."

  There's a story there, thought Sam as a shadow flickered across his brow. She'd heard rumours, of course, but nothing out of the norm. Parents divorced, near financial ruin, and then according to one of the firm's most rabid gossips, along came Chas. And all was well.

  "Your turn," prompted Chas.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "I've done my fair share of filling in the awkward moments. Now you tell me something about yourself I don't know." Chas set his glass down and leaned forward, his left elbow on the table, his chin cupped in the palm of his hand. "Like why you have such a problem with authority?"

  "How about because you're rich and I'm not."

  "I don't buy it. You work well with everyone. In fact, the silver department has benefited enormously from your expertise. Try again."

  Neither his expression nor his oh-so-ever blue eyes revealed anything but a polite interest. Sam cleared the flutter from her throat. That her parents had been killed in an accident when she was a baby was none of Chas Porter's business.

  "So what about you?" she asked sweetly, "Any other bullies in your family, or are you the only one?"

  She'd tried to deflect the conversation, but all she’d done was hurt him. His fingers curled about the stem of his wine glass and he sat twisting it from side to side then he turned to gaze through the leaded panes of the restaurant's window.

  Sam sucked in a quiet breath. The old inn was an oasis of privilege, elegant place settings and soft music, well-dressed people enjoying a late lunch and quiet conversation.

  She felt Chas' eyes return to scrutinize her. The light had gone out of them; they were flat like the pre-storm stillness of the great lakes. "Is that how you see me?" he asked quietly. "Nothing more than a bully in a suit?"

  Sam shook her head. "No...not at all. I really don't know where that came from...I..."

  She felt small and ungracious. The man had given her an opportunity to make amends for her flagrant misuse of company funds and all she could do was poke at him like a picador jabbing a bull.

  The waiter appeared with their lunch. Sam murmured her thanks and then busied herself with her salad. It was a piquant mix of mustard greens and sun-dried tomatoes; and the steak and kidney pie was delicious. "You were right," she ventured after a few minutes. "The steak and kidney pie was an excellent choice."

  "Glad you like it."

  They ate in silence like the long-married couple Chas so obviously never wanted to be part of. Sam sighed. It was better than trying to undo the damage she’d already done. And besides, what did she know about marriage anyway? Or love, for that matter. Other than a burning need that never went away, and an embarrassing tendency to tear up whenever she heard a sappy song on the radio, Sam had always stayed clear of entanglement. It was safer that way.

  "Penny?" said Chas.

  Sam bristled beneath his gaze. "No."

  "All right then. Do you ride?" he asked.

  "Horses?" she asked, interest flaring.

  "That is what I had in mind."

  "I haven't b
een on a horse since I was twelve years old."

  "Pony club?"

  "Hardly." It had been at the Toronto race course where her grandfather had worked, but that would require another explanation she wasn’t going to share.

  "Besides, I have nothing to wear..." Sam said with an almost imperceptible flick of her fork towards their fellow diners, older well-dressed women for the most part, a few couples, and scattered about the room, several tables for four taken up with men and women in expensive suits. "I mean, really, do I look like I belong here?"

  "Actually, yes." Chas mouth twitched. "I'm sure Mrs. Weekes will be able to find something suitable," he said sizing her up with a practised eye. "Unless of course, you'd rather ride side saddle in one of the little black dresses you were undoubtedly taking to New York."

  Sam’s eyes twinkled. "Life was easier when you were simply Chas ‘bloody’ Porter."

  "Not well-liked, then."

  "Let's just say you are well-respected."

  "I suppose that's something..." he mused. When Sam didn't respond, he went back to his lunch.

  If she could just get through the next few days, Sam decided as she polished off the last of her wine, she would be fine. Older and wiser. And fine.

  "At least, I know you like the burgundy. And no," Chas held up his hands, "that was not intended as a cheap shot." He reached for the near-empty bottle. "More?"

  Samantha felt her face redden. "No, thank you."

  "Good call." He checked his watch. "It's gone three. There is no rush but I would prefer to be there by dark."

  "And where exactly is there?"

  "The Peak District."

  "We're going to the Peak District!"

  Chas cocked his head. "Problem?"

  Sam shook hers. "No, no. It's just...I don't know..." She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "A long way away."

  If Chas was puzzled by her reaction, he hid it well, droning on about estates and how difficult it could be to catalogue them for sale. "Only to have them change their minds," she heard him say, "plays havoc with my schedule." He shrugged. "Occupational hazard, I guess."

  "And today's auction?" she asked, "Was that mere happenstance or were you searching for something in particular?" Not that she thought her employer did anything spontaneous. "You can imagine my surprise...." she continued, "...one minute I'm the lone bidder and the next I'm watching my bank account and my career go down the drain. And just to add insult to injury, you drop out of the bidding. Why was that?"

  "Because the game was wearing thin."

  "Oh." If only she could go back to her flat in London, unpack and pretend today never happened. Everything would be fine.

  But then Chas tossed his own napkin on the table, and leaned in close. The heady mix of his distinctive scent was hers for the taking. And she did, inhaling deeply. "What would you say," he said in an undertone, "if I told you I was at the auction hall today because I wanted to spend more time with you?"

  "I'd call you a liar," she said sweetly hoping her voice didn't betray the quiver in her belly.

  "And you'd be...partially right." He drew back, a sardonic grin on his face. "Nonetheless. You are stuck with me for the next few days. So let's drop the Mr. Porter. I'll be Chas and you'll be what... Sam or Samantha...which do you prefer by the way?"

  "Sam."

  Chas stuck out his hand. "Chas."

  Nodding as much to herself as to the man across the table, Sam placed her right hand in his.

  And instantly realized her mistake.

  His eyes might be shot with steel, but his skin radiated warmth. And strength. Her breath caught as his hand closed around hers...it felt so good, she couldn't hide the shiver of pleasure rippling its way through her body.

  And then she remembered. This was her boss, the man to whom she was seriously indebted. She tugged her hand from his grasp, grabbed her bag and pushed back her chair.

  "I have to go," she stammered. “To the toilets.”

  She took one look at the knowing grin on his face and bolted for the door.

  Outside the dining room, everything was quiet. Relieved, Sam hurried along the plush carpet of the hallway, past the reception desk and down the corridor to the ladies'.

  She really was bursting for a pee. And a little privacy because this, she fumed as she locked the cubicle door behind her, was probably her last chance for either.

  It would take several hours to get there, Chas had said before he decided they should break for lunch. Still, Sam was glad they'd stopped. She'd had no time to eat before the auction and now her stomach felt uncomfortable after the rich food and wine.

  Her jeans seemed to have shrunk accordingly.

  She gave them a final tug, then gathered her belongings and headed for the sink. She would have to watch her step. In two short hours, Chas Porter had managed to finesse more information out of her than anyone else she'd met since she had arrived in England.

  While in exchange she had learned virtually nothing.

  Or had she? A definite chink had appeared in his armour when she’d quizzed him about his family. Perhaps he wasn’t as cold as he let on. Sam peered into the mirror. She’d certainly detected a touch of warmth when he’d held her hand…

  Enough already, Sam scolded herself. She had the candlestick, now all she had to do was wiggle her way out of her current dilemma.

  She delved into her bag for her mobile phone.

  It rang as soon as she switched it on.

  “Hey, Mia.”

  “Don’t ‘hey’ me! Where are you? And why didn’t you answer my text?”

  "I'm in Coventry," drawled Sam wrinkling her nose at her own reflection.

  “Where?"

  "Coventry. It's in Warwickshire, I'm told."

  "Whatever. You should see this place...there hasn't been this much action since Nigel smashed that vase." It was easy to picture Mia, headset on, arms flapping dramatically as she described the scene at Burton-Porter & Sons.

  Sam ran a finger over her eyebrow.

  "...your replacement tore out of here an hour ago looking like she'd just won the Grand National! And Chas’ secretary had to close her door. She never does that."

  “Whoa, slow down," said Sam. It was worse than she thought. "Please tell her I am really, really sorry about the upset."

  "This is so not in my job description," Mia muttered. "Where are you exactly? ...You are still in England, yeah?"

  "Actually, I am in a very posh toilet...hang on..."

  She could hear male voices in the corridor. One of which sounded exactly like Chas. Unfortunately, she couldn't make out what they were saying. The conversation stopped, footsteps resumed and she heard the pneumatic sound of a heavy door closing.

  Sam retreated into the cubicle and locked the door.

  "Talk louder..."

  "I can't," hissed Sam. "There is one thin wall between me and you-know-who and I can't afford any more issues."

  "So it's true...you really did blow off New York..."

  And possibly my career, thought Sam. "...there was this country auction ...unfortunately; I wasn't the only one from Burton-Porter in the audience.”

  "Then the rumours are true..."

  "What rumours?" Sam scrubbed her forehead. It was full of creases which would turn into wrinkles. Next thing she knew she would be prematurely grey. Anxiety did that to a person.

  "The word is you've gone rogue otherwise you would have never have gone to an auction when you're supposed to be in New York and everyone thinks you're playing the boss cause you want a pay rise."

  "That is so not true." Sam's cheeks burned at the thought.

  "Ah, well. Don't worry about that,” continued Mia. “The smart money is on you and Chas having a romantic getaway somewhere in the wilds of Scotland."

  Sam rested her forehead against the wall of the cubicle.

  "While it is true that Mister Porter and I did bump into each other a
t an auction," she froze...there was a rat-a-tap-tap on the outside door. Had to be Chas. Sam covered the phone. "Go away!" she shouted.

  "And given," she continued her conversation with Mia through clenched teeth, "that we were already halfway to Derbyshire, Mister Porter suggested that I help him catalogue an estate in the Peak District."

  "Regardless," said Mia stiffly. "It would have been nice if you'd told your friends what you were up to...we thought you were already in New York."

  "Look, Mia. I am sorry but it all happened so fast."

  "Y’uh, huh. A guy I could understand...but an auction..." Mia's voice trailed away and Sam knew she was thinking about the young man she'd met at a club a few weeks back. "I'll explain it all when I see you?"

  "Full disclosure?"

  Sam hesitated.

  Whatever did, or did not, happen between her and Chas Porter was no one's business but theirs. And as his behaviour had been so totally in keeping with his image at the office of a cold, arrogant man, to-the-manor-born and don't you forget it kind of guy, there would be nothing to tell. So why was she all tied up in knots?

  Sam sighed. Mia was her closest friend at Burton-Porter. She’d even invited Sam to go home with her the previous Christmas. A kindness Sam would never forget.

  "Deal." Sam replied, "Only you don't tell anyone we talked....no matter what. But see if you can find out anything about a big estate coming on the market. Name of Weekes. The boss is a little vague on the details."

  "The man's such a control freak."

  "That's a whole other issue.” All of a sudden, Sam felt herself itching to join the man waiting for her in the car. Perhaps spending time in a remote part of England wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

  "Mia..."

  "Yeees?"

  "Repeat after me...this is strictly business, right?"

  "Absolutely," Mia replied. "If anybody asks, I'll tell them you are on a strictly-business trip. With Mister strictly-business Chas Porter."

  "Don't you dare! Mia!"

  But all Sam got back was raucous laughter.