CHAPTER THREE
"You are not going to be sick, are you?”
Sam curled her fingers around the edge of the passenger seat and forced a smile. Now was not the time to betray any weakness to her boss. "No of course not.” She swallowed hard. “Shouldn't have had all that steak and kidney pie."
Not to mention the wine. Or most of all, the emotional rollercoaster of the last few hours spent with a man like Chas Porter. The rich smell of fine leather mingled with the fresh scent of the clean, virile male beside her threatened to overwhelm her senses as much as the overly rich meal had overwhelmed her stomach.
Seeking relief, Sam pressed the side of her face against the cool glass of the passenger window as they zipped along on the B64-something-or-other. They were near Bakewell, or was it Buxton? She'd lost track. She caught a flash of blue in an otherwise blurry landscape as they raced beneath a giant railway trestle and then rose from the gorge as though they were shooting the rapids. A controlled flick of his wrist and Chas steered the car around a curve, breaking away from the cleft valley into the heart of the Peak District.
Here, the scene was more familiarly pastoral. Sheep dotted the hillsides. Endless miles of dry stone walls delineated the boundaries of every field and holding as far as the eye could see. A few trees punctuated the landscape, and in the far distance, she could see a man striding across the acres with a pair of dogs bounding ahead of him. Sam had a sudden picture of Chas and Chas’ ancestors doing just that, the lords of all they surveyed, walking their land. The upper-crust reserve he displayed in London had its roots in a place like this, Sam mused. Perhaps hers lay in similar ground. As her eyes strayed across Chas’ high cheekbones and determined jaw, testimony to generations of breeding, she let out a soft, involuntary sigh and forced herself to look back at the scenery.
It was, Sam decided, ruggedly beautiful. And a welcome change from worrying about how she was going to spend several days in close proximity with a man who had half the female staff at Burton-Porter tracking him like hunter/warriors whenever he entered a room. Didn’t they realize how dangerous it was to hunt the hunter?
"You've gone silent on me again." Chas interrupted her thoughts.
"I've been busy watching my life flash before my eyes."
"You're lucky it's not the weekend." Chas deftly geared down for another hairpin turn. "You would not believe the number of motorcyclists through here on a Sunday…even I find it unnerving."
"Good to know," muttered Sam. She didn't care anymore. “These roads just get smaller and smaller.” Sam lowered her window all the way and laughed. "Driving in England is not for the faint of heart," she called. "The criminally insane maybe..."
She was rewarded with the same deep chuckle she'd heard earlier.
"You have a nice laugh," she shouted over the rush of the wind.
He smiled back at her and she realized what an amazingly attractive man he was. As their eyes met, the air in the car sizzled. Sam felt the tingle deep in her being as his hot gaze dove into her soul.
She was lost and then she caught sight of the curve ahead.
Suddenly, it was upon them. A Land Rover barrelled directly towards the car, its massive grill bearing down on them at top speed. Sam let out a piercing scream and grabbed for the dash.
Chas’ head whipped around. Startled, he hesitated. Barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough. The sickening screech of metal rubbing on metal as the driver of the Land Rover jerked his wheel. At the very last second a break appeared in the wall, and Chas yanked the car into the space.
He hammered the steering wheel with the flat of his hand as the Land Rover sped away.
Chas switched off the engine. Silence. They sat staring straight ahead, Sam burning with humiliation. She stole a glance at Chas’ profile. An angry muscle worked in the corner of his cheek.
“There seems to be no end to your talents, Miss Redfern,” seethed Chas, his voice barely in check. His stormy eyes swung toward her. Sam felt herself shrinking into the seat.
“I thought he was going to hit us,” she muttered.
“And thanks to your interference, he did.” Chas flung open his door and went to inspect the damage.
Sam froze. Tears of indignation rose to her eyes. Despondent, she dashed them away. One minute, they were on the verge of something special and in a nanosecond it had vanished and she was left with Chas “bloody” Porter again. “What does he expect?” she muttered furiously to herself. “Driving like a maniac.”
She scrambled out through the driver’s side to inspect the damage for herself and gasped. It was awful. Paint was skinned from the front all the way to the rear bumper. The back door was creased, and the fender had a distinct tilt that had not been there before.
Chas ran his fingers lovingly along the car’s ruined finish, felt the dent in the door, and then pushed on the bumper in a vain attempt to straighten it.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said in a small voice. When he didn’t even look at her, let alone answer, her apology gave way to anger. “Of course if you hadn’t been driving like a crazy person, this wouldn’t have happened.”
He looked at her then, a long icy stare of rage and contempt. Sam stiffened.
“What?” Chas thundered. “Your ill-timed shriek like your ill-timed foray into your own plans this morning is a pattern for disaster! And you accept no responsibility?”
“That’s not what I meant!” Sam jammed her hands into her hips, in full battle mode. “You were driving too fast for a narrow road like this. And you should take responsibility for your actions instead of blaming your minions.”
“I’ll have you know, Miss Redfern, that I have driven this road a thousand times and this is the one and only time my passenger’s hysterical screams caused me to have an accident.”
“Then your passengers were blind idiots,” Sam raged. “I didn’t scream for the fun of it! It was a simple reaction to death coming straight for me! Which your driving caused!”
“And I suppose it’s my fault you delayed your trip to New York to do a little business on the side, and pay for it with company funds?” Chas snapped back. He swung his arm towards his damaged car. “And shall I add this to your tab as well, Miss Redfern?” he added mockingly. “You are a rather expensive employee, and while you are definitely not a minion, the question is…are you worth the trouble?”
Sam glared at him mutely, spun on her heel and crawled back into the passenger side of the car. Slouching down in her seat, Sam ran through a dozen scenarios when her boss would be brought to his knees and beg for her help. And she would walk away laughing. Hah!
But when Chas at last got into the car and silently turned the ignitions key, her rage drained away into despair. Maybe it was a little her fault for shrieking. But only a little. He shouldn’t drive like he owned the road, like he was better and stronger and more accomplished than everyone else in his vicinity.
Sam stole a glance at his uncompromising profile. Despite herself, she could not help admiring the strength of his grasp on the wheel, the way he handled the high-speed automobile. How oddly challenging it was having a boss who looked as though he would be at home on the page of a high-end magazine advertising Tag watches or Burberry weekend wear. His dark hair was just long enough to curl over his collar and the few strands of grey at his temple emphasized the controlled strength he radiated. The accident had not caused him to reduce his speed, Sam noted. If anything he was driving faster.
Chas eased up on the accelerator as they approached a small village; little more than a cluster of cottages really. Ahead, Sam could see an old man, bent and weathered, steadfastly herding a flock of sheep across the road in front of them.
Chas slowed to a crawl and lowered his window.
As they drew nearer, the farmer raised his fingers to his cap.
A pungent combination of damp earth and barnyard wafted through the open windows. Chas stuck his head out as they crept past the hindquarters of a
particularly large-bottomed ewe. The old man stood by the gate urging the stragglers with his stick. A black-and-white border collier ran alongside, nipping at the heels of any sheep who thought to stray.
"Evening, George," said Chas.
The old farmer eyed the ragged damage to the car but made no comment. "And here I was thinking you were too good for the likes of us."
Sam gave an almost inaudible snort. Chas gave no sign of hearing beyond a slight tightening of his hands on the wheel. "London keeps me busy."
"You'll need a better excuse than that, lad. Evelyn Weekes is beginning to fret."
"I suspect her angst has more to do with her husband."
"Aye. Still, John's better than nought."
"It’s hard work being an estate manager these days," retorted Chas. He shoved the car back into gear and began to inch his way past the old man. They exchanged another nod. George tipped his hat to Sam. She raised her hand to wave but the moment was lost.
Twisting in her seat, she watched him through the rear window as he grew smaller and smaller and then faded from sight.
"Who was that?" she asked turning back round.
"A former tenant...estate worker."
"How quaint."
"Don't go there," growled Chas.
Sam opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. There was something here she wasn't picking up on, but for the life of her, she had no idea what it was.
And when they crested the ridge a few minutes later, she forgot all about it.
The evening sun had burst through the clouds, bathing the valley which lay before them in layers of red and orange and neon pink. All thoughts of the dreadful day vanished in the ineffable magnificence blending man’s work and nature before her.
"It's so beautiful," breathed Sam.
Despite the fact that his pulse was racing and his teeth were clenching of their own accord, Chas felt himself relax a little at Samantha’s words. He had been driving too fast earlier, determined not to give in to his reluctance to face all the memories which permeated the walls of the great house before them. And somehow, he was even more sure now that Sam’s buoyant spirit would be the shield he needed against the ghosts of his past.
Stretching the truth, he had done, but everything was going to be fine.
Besides, with her expertise and experience, it shouldn't take more than a week to get the massive job of cataloguing everything from books to portraits to porcelain underway. The detritus of generations past.
He risked another glance at the woman beside him as they entered the gates of Burton Park. She rewarded him with a luminous smile, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. Even the setting sun was on her side, spinning her hair into strands of copper and gold as they flitted in and out of the rippling shadows along the oak-lined drive.
The house had long since been swept clean of the wrangling demands of his father’s last girlfriend and his mother’s reappearance and demands for more money. It had been three months since he'd been here. And even then he had only stayed a couple of nights despite Mrs. Weekes' roast lamb and the promise of curry to come.
Story of his life.
Just popped in to collect my hiking gear, he would say, kissing Mrs. Weekes on the cheek and vowing to return very, very soon. For her. Never for his family, such as it was.
He hadn't intended to come today, but Sam’s courage in the face of the candlestick disaster had prodded him to see how he could face the demons of his past and the practicalities of his inheritance. And if she could stand there with her chin up, like David taunting Goliath, he could certainly do the same.
He was very glad of Sam's company even if he had forced it upon her in a most unusual way. She hadn’t been kidnapped, he told himself with a twinge of guilt, simply redeployed. And of course, he had been amply repaid for his misdeeds by the ruin of his car. Yet as they emerged from the trees, and the wide expanse of parkland unfolded before them, he knew that whatever lay ahead of him, he wouldn't regret it.
"What is this place?" breathed Sam.
"Wait. Just another minute or two."
He drew up in front of the manor house and shut off the ignition.
They sat in silence, listening to the metallic tick of the engine as it settled and cooled. For a moment Chas watched Sam’s wide eyes dance over the beauty of the old house. Then as the comfortable silence continued, he turned his attention from her to the manor. The copper gutters on the far wing of the stable needed tending, Chas noted. Last autumn’s leaves had gathered in the corners, left to form small pyramids of brown and russet compost.
His estate manager was getting older, still trying to do everything single-handedly, and not quite achieving it.
Yet another in a long list of issues Chas knew he must resolve.
He fought against the echoes in his head that plagued him every time he returned; the shouting, the recriminations, the furious arguments as his parents' marriage disintegrated into a slogging match of who did what to whom. Boarding school had been a sanctuary. And then there was peace, peace cloaked in desolation for him when his mother had left and started another family without him.
He had to tell Sam the truth and he had to tell her quickly, before the tide of bitter emotion washed over him. "Welcome to Porter Hall," he said softly.
Sam stiffened in the seat beside him.
"Porter Hall..." she whispered.
Chas could almost feel her turning it over in her mind. "I don't understand. You said we were going to catalogue an estate sale." Her eyes flashed her anger.
"We are,” snapped Chas, “And while we’re at it, you are going to work off your debt to Burton-Porter.”
"But Porter Hall is your home, isn't it?"
“It is.”
"And Mrs. Weekes?" Sam demanded. "What about her?"
"My housekeeper." Chas yanked on the hand brake. "But you needn't worry. We'll be well-chaperoned. The Weekes have a flat above the coach house."
But Sam was having none of it. "What kind of game are you playing at?" Her voice was steady but the accusation was loud and clear.
He was the worst kind of lowlife.
Just another in a long line of Burton-Porter males who manipulated everyone around them.
Sam reached for the door handle.
Chas grabbed her other arm. "Wait." His heart was hammering in his chest. "Let me explain."
"No. You wait," she hissed, spitting the words at him as though they left a bad taste in her mouth. "You used your position to take advantage of me. You purposely misled me. And now you're holding me against my will.”
She wrenched her arm from his grasp and kicked open the door with the heel of her boot. "And to think you were threatening me with fraud," she shouted back. “You will not get away with this.”
Chas felt the blood drain from his face. Just like his father and grandfather had done so often, he had tricked a woman into doing what he wanted. How on earth could he have been such a fool?
If Evelyn Weekes had been put out by their unexpected arrival, she hid it well. Taking one covert look at Sam’s flaming face and Chas’ set expression, she sidestepped what could have been an extremely awkward moment by herding them through the flagstone entrance way and into the grand hall, all with brisk murmurs of pleasure at seeing Chas back in his home.
"This is my colleague, Miss Redfern," said Chas stiffly. He lowered the larger of Sam's two cases to the floor. "She'll be staying a few days. Helping me catalogue the antiques and silver."
Mrs. Weekes seemed to take it in stride. “Your room is ready for you. I'll see to Miss Redfern."
“Thank you, Mrs. Weekes,” Chas said. “If your husband is about, I’d like to have a quick word with him. Hopefully, he can recommend a good body shop in the area.” Ignoring Sam, Chas nodded to Mrs. Weekes, and then headed toward the back of his house.
"This way, please." The housekeeper picked up the suitcase Chas had carried in from the car and start
ed up the broad staircase toward the galleried upper floor.
Sam sighed. What choice did she have? She could hardly run after Chas and demand to be taken to a hotel, even if there was one anywhere within miles. Resigned, she hefted her second bag and followed the sturdy figure up the stone stairs.
The landing was large and foreboding with dimly-lit corridors heading off in three directions. “Shades of Jane Eyre,” Sam muttered, but smiled brightly when Mrs. Weekes eyebrows arched.
“The main part of the house was built in the late eighteenth century by William Porter,” the housekeeper said. “He made a fortune as one of the new agriculturalists. But by the time, Reginald Porter, Chas’ grandfather came along, the estate had fallen on hard times. That’s when he married Eugenie Burton, Chas’ grandmother.”
“The Burtons were in the East India trade, weren’t they?” That was all Sam knew; the Burton-Porter website contained a very short and carefully-worded family history.
"The Burtons were always well-travelled," said Mrs. Weekes. "But the Porters had the lineage. This way." Her stiff manner relaxed as they walked the corridor. She pointed out a small study by Constable which begged for better lighting; there were several fine Victorian pastorals and a few mediocre portraits but it was the exquisite porcelain vase on a nearby table which caught Sam in its thrall. She gently touched its magnificent finish. It was as exciting as being in any of the New York showrooms. Speaking of which, she wondered what on earth was being said back at the London office.
“There were a great many treasures in this house,” continued Mrs. Weekes. “The family always appreciated beautiful things and enjoyed a large circle of friends. When I first came to work at Porter Hall," she went on, "the housekeeper, that would have been Mrs. Betts if memory serves, always said a grand house should keep a guest room ready at all times. One never knows when the family will arrive..."
"...or with whom," muttered Sam.
"Precisely. And which are you, Miss Redfern?" A twinkle in the housekeeper's brown eyes softened the enquiry. "Colleague, paramour, or third-cousin twice-removed?"
Outbid by the Boss Page 4
