Outbid by the Boss

by Stephanie Browning

  “That’s enough now,” Chas murmured.

  The big horse snorted in response and Max’s head shot up.

  Sam loosened the reins. Max crossed the yard and fell into step with Damien, their hooves clopping contentedly as Chas took the lead from the stable yard across a swath of grass.

  “How do you keep them exercised when you’re in London?” Sam asked. She knew animals like this needed more than a comfortable box stall and paddock.

  “They’re stabled at a horse farm a few miles from here,” he explained, “but when I’m home, they’re with me. Which, unfortunately, is not often enough…” he added. “Horses were by far the best part of my boyhood.”

  Remembering her own losses, buffered by the sure protection of her grandparents, Sam gazed at Chas with new understanding. He could have gone the route of his father and grandfather, but instead he had thrown himself into rebuilding the business, rebuilding the name he had inherited.

  Chas swung towards Sam. “How are you feeling?”

  “Apologetic.”

  “You weren’t to know,” said Chas. “At least it will help you understand why I might want to catalogue the estate.” He shifted in the saddle. “In fact, your little escapade yesterday solved a major problem for me. I now have an expert who is not connected to the Hall, and whose judgment I trust.”

  “Really?” Sam glanced over at him.

  “Really.” Chas smiled wryly. “I might keep my distance at Burton-Porter, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know you are both discreet and professional.”

  They walked on in silence. The gentle sway of the horse beneath her became more and more soothing. Chas Porter was a complex man with a complicated history, Sam realized. There must not be any more intimacies for both their sakes. But perhaps they could become friends.

  “How are you feeling now?” asked Chas.

  When she saw how blue his eyes were, the answer was easy. “Great.” And, suddenly she was. She was on a horse somewhere in Derbyshire with a man who she knew would look after her. Bruise her heart in the process, maybe, but he would ensure she came to no harm while she was in his care.

  Chas kept the pace at a slow walk until they were well beyond the stables.

  Burton Park unfolded in front of them, its formal lawns giving way to a soft green meadow which sloped away from the manor house. Sam gave herself permission to enjoy the day and raised her face to the wind.

  “Shall we pick up the pace a bit?”

  Sam smiled. “Yes, please.”

  As they crossed the meadow at a slow canter, Sam knew she’d made the right decision to follow the threads of her childhood back to England.

  No matter where she ended up.

  If only life were always this simple, thought Chas, as he watched Sam’s beautifully rounded bottom rise and fall in the saddle ahead of him. He had purposely dropped back to give her a bit of space, but the sight of her perfect curves held him in thrall. Ever since she had melted so wonderfully into his arms the night before he’d been unable to focus on anything else. This ride was supposed fix that, to clear their heads, and create a companionable distance. But when Sam chuckled at the antics of a scolding squirrel and turned her head to catch Chas’ reaction, he realized he was already in deep, deep trouble. How had he not been aware until yesterday, how full of life this woman was; he’d hired her for heaven’s sake! And then kept his distance. Why?

  Wrenching his thoughts back to safer ground, Chas cast a critical eye over Sam’s ability in the saddle. He needn’t have bothered. She rode well. Max was the perfect mount, and Sam was proving to be a natural, instinctively understanding the balance between controlling the horse and giving him his head. Maybe he should take lessons from Max, thought Chas ruefully. Despite his best intentions, his ill humour had jeopardized his relationship with Sam. All he’d wanted to do was put it back on a professional keel, but he had so little experience with women who touched him on a startlingly deep level, that he’d handled it all wrong.

  Handled her all wrong.

  Sam was saucy, stubborn and sexy. His eyes strayed to the boots she wore and grinned. And a tad jealous, maybe? She had definitely shown a spurt of temper over those boots. She would have known they weren’t his mother’s. Unfortunately, everyone at Burton-Porter knew the story. How his mother had cleared Porter Hall of everything she owned and then some, a week before she left for greener pastures. And that he rarely attended charity and business affairs without a beautiful woman on his arm. Obviously, Sam had drawn her own conclusion.

  Chas purposely chose his dates wisely, and whether they liked it or not, the women in his world understood that his only commitment was to his business. Yet, in less than twenty-four hours, determined, passionate Sam had trampled over his boundaries. She had drawn things out of him that he had never, ever shared with anyone else. His housekeeper wasn’t blind, and had often kept a close eye when Chas was home from boarding school, but she had never pried.

  What then was it about Miss Redfern?

  And his sudden need to be near her. Chas cleared the cobwebs from his head and urged Damien forward.

  “It’s so lovely,” breathed Sam as he approached her side. “I don’t see how you can bear to leave this for the hustle and bustle of London.”

  They had come to the rise above what was once the home farm and stopped to admire the view. He could see George on the near side of the next field mending a fence. His sheep dotted the slope beyond, their woolly bodies kept in check as usual by Robbie, George’s sharp-eyed border collie.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to go down and say hello to George,” he said.

  “Is he the man we saw last night?” Sam flashed him a spectacular grin. “The one with the handkerchief.”

  Chas nodded. “That’s the one.” His expression darkened. “I want to have a word with him about my plans for the Hall…before he hears it from somebody else.”

  “Will he lose his land?”

  Chas shook his head. “The home farm was deeded to him years ago. According to local legend, George’s ancestors arrived here long before ours did.”

  “Ah, then he’ll know every skeleton in the Burton-Porter closets.” Sam grinned mischievously.

  Chas groaned. “’You have no idea. You wouldn’t be thinking of adding blackmail to your rap sheet, would you Ms. Redfern?”

  Sam laughed and kicked Max to a canter. Chas rode beside her. Sharing his history with someone like Sam felt incredibly natural, as though they’d known each other for years. It was a thought that both comforted and unsettled him.

  Hearing their approach above the sheep bleating in the field beyond, the old man straightened, rubbing his lower back as he turned to greet them. “Morning, George,” said Chas.

  “Morning.” George tipped his cap, his gaze settling on Sam.

  “Hello,” said Sam.

  George stepped forward as Chas made the introductions. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Redfern.”

  “Call me Sam,” said Sam as she stretched out her gloved hand for George’s calloused one. “I work for Mr. Porter. In London,” she quickly added.

  “That so?” George released Sam’s hand and glanced at Chas. “Old paintings and the like, is it?”

  Chas was opening his mouth to answer when he heard Sam laugh. “I can tell a Gainsborough from a Turner,” she proceeded to tell George, “but my speciality is antique silver.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the old man his gaze lingering on Chas for a moment before shifting back to Sam.

  Before the conversation could go any further, Chas took charge. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, George…”

  “Aye, laddie. I believe there is…” he replied without turning.

  Damn, thought Chas, no wonder George was out of sorts when they spoke last evening. Evelyn Weekes, or more likely her husband, John, had alerted the man that there were changes ahead. Having Sam by his side confirmed i
t.

  But sly old George was busy chatting to Sam. “You’re sure you’ve never ridden Max before?”

  Sam smiled down at him and patted the horse’s gleaming neck. “I haven’t been on horseback for years.”

  “Then you must have a bit of the Irish in you,” the old smoothie added, “Chas’ grandfather wouldn’t have a groom from anywhere but Ireland. Isn’t that right, Chas?” he said over his shoulder.

  “My grandfather was from Ireland…originally,” Sam cut in, unconsciously tucking a tendril of auburn hair back under her helmet while she spoke. “And when I was a little girl, he worked at a racetrack in Toronto.”

  “Is that so,” mused George.

  His keen and well-weathered eyes met Sam’s, but then he turned to Chas with a question of a muddy field that needed to be drained.

  Relieved, Chas dismounted, tied Damien’s reins loosely to the fence and the two walked off for a few moments to discuss the farm’s needs. Sam sat still, gazing outward at the brilliant green land, and absently stroking Max’s velvet neck. She passed over George’s hint, to the memory of the Irish lilt in her grandfather’s voice. He’d met her grandmother in England, that she knew, and somehow the candlestick they had brought with them to Canada had come into play.

  Wouldn’t that be ironic, thought Sam, if they had worked in the area at one time. She looked towards Chas tramping the field alongside the old farmer; seeing Chas hold his pace to accommodate George’s slower gait warmed her heart. His athletic grace and his courtesy marked him as a true gentleman. Just watching him made the breath catch in Sam’s throat. Face it, Sam, she chided herself, it doesn’t matter how wild your dreams get, this is your boss you’re drooling over. She had seen the women he’d brought to company functions and the charity auctions they held. Only rarely had he escorted the same woman twice. If none of them had been able to hold his attention for more than a week or two, what chance did she have? You’re a full blown idiot, she told herself. You know very well a hint of passion does not a relationship make and no amount of wishful thinking will make it any different.

  When Chas returned, his mouth was drawn into a tight line and George was scowling. Apparently the news that the house might be sold had not gone down well. As Chas swung himself into the saddle, George stroked Max’s nose. He smiled wryly up at Sam.

  “He’s a good lad,” he told her quietly. She thought he was going to say more, but he held back.

  “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime,” Sam said impulsively.

  “I hope so,” said George. He tipped his cap in farewell. Sam waited as he ambled back to his fence.

  Max was chomping at the bit so she nudged him gently and they turned to follow Chas and Damien.

  A short while later, they were skirting the back of the estate with Chas in the lead, heading towards the woods Sam had seen from her window the night before. When they reached a path by a tree-shaded stream, Sam held back, sensing that Chas’ need to be alone. For better or worse, Porter Hall was his home. It had been in his family for generations and now he was thinking about letting it go. His feelings must run deeper than he’d let on; she wondered briefly about his teenage encounter with his father’s mistress, but decided it had to be far more complicated than that. For a man so committed to restoring the family business and protecting the Burton-Porter name, it seemed odd to her that he would choose to abandon his family heritage.

  Ahead of her, Damien’s trot had been kicked into a canter and then a gallop as Chas relieved his anger in time-honoured fashion. Maybe she was reading him the wrong way, thought Sam. Maybe what he needed was a friend. He’d spent half his life alone, and he was about to make a decision that would change that life forever!

  Forgetting how long it had been since she’d done any serious riding, Sam urged Max to a faster pace. She and Chas weren’t exactly friends, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be supportive. She should be by his side. Besides, she might never get a chance to ride a horse like this again. Leaning over the neck of the magnificent animal, she flew along the path untethered, revelling in a sense of freedom as she raced through the crisp green countryside.

  The gap closed.

  The path curved and she lost sight of Chas.

  They were so close to the stream, she could see her reflection as she and Max tore through the underbrush, hooves thundering and spirits soaring as Chas and Damien came back into view. And then suddenly, it all went bad. A panicked rabbit darted across their path. Max reared, and Sam found herself truly flying through the air. A sickeningly brief sight of spinning green ended in a jarring thud as she crashed into the bank of the stream.

  Max’s sharp whinny brought Chas up short. He jerked Damien around and tore back down the path to where Sam lay unmoving on the ground. He flung himself from the saddle and kneeled beside her.

  “Sam,” he called. “Sam, can you hear me?”

  She opened one mud-encrusted eye and then closed it again. “I think George was wrong about the Irish,” she groaned.

  “Where does it hurt? Can you get up?” Chas gripped her hand, afraid to move her in case there were serious injuries.

  “It hurts in too many places to name,” Sam murmured. “And my pride. My pride is damaged beyond redemption.” Her right eye fluttered open. “I think the mud saved the rest of me. Thoughtful of you to put the mud right here.” She sighed. “Isn’t this where the handsome prince kisses the princess and makes it all better.”

  “Absolutely,” said Chas.

  But it was Max who leaned over her and snorted, his whiskers brushing her face with slobber.

  “Yeow!” Sam shot into a sitting position. “Okay. Serves me right. Now my pride is completely shattered.”

  Chas exploded with laughter.

  “You, Miss Redfern, are full of surprises…but, seriously, are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine, Chas. A little stunned, but nothing’s broken.” She wiggled her fingers for emphasis and then smiled at him, the sun twinkling in her eyes and the laughter bringing a glow to her cheeks that no cosmetic could ever achieve.

  Still, Chas assessed her carefully. He should never have left her. He saw the splash of mud on her forehead, the way her hair twisted wildly from underneath her helmet and that tiny sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Without doubt, he concluded, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

  “I’m not a prince,” he murmured, “but I do want to make it all better.”

  Eyes locking on hers, he leaned in for a soft kiss. He did not demand as he had the night before; he offered the sweetness of his lips, fuelled by the admiration that was growing in him for this unexpected woman. He felt her hesitate only a second and then she drew herself toward him, her hand slowly reaching for his shoulder. His kiss became firmer, more demanding and joyfully she parted her lips to take in as much of him as he offered. The earthiness of their surroundings mingled with Sam’s natural freshness. She wound her arms around his neck. Chas pulled her closer to him relishing the soft curves of her body, the supple firmness of her form. His kiss became stronger and deeper; his hands stroked her back, their passions twined. Dimly, he knew he should pull back, stop himself. But he had never been as drawn to any woman as to Sam…his employee…off limits…

  The thought froze as twelve-hundred pounds of horseflesh bumped his shoulder hard, propelling him forward. With a woof, Sam landed back into the mud, only this time Chas was on top of her.

  “Apparently,” he drawled, “our behaviour is unbecoming.”

  He glanced back to see his massive chestnut had joined his buddy by the stream. Their big brown eyes looked on disapprovingly as Chas reluctantly rolled off Sam and drew her to her feet. She reached up to wipe a streak of mud from his face. He caught her by the wrist. “Are you really all right?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” she said. Her eyes slid beyond him. “But we do have the most unusual chaperones.”

  Their eyes met again, and
Chas felt his pulse speed up, but Sam shook her head.

  “I don’t know how we’re going to explain this to Mrs. Weekes,” she said brushing ineffectually at the mud caking her backside.

  Fighting a feeling of rejection, Chas pulled his eyes away and reached for Damien’s reins. “Unfortunately, I think Mrs. Weekes will figure things out without any kind of explanation.”

  Sam’s smile suddenly became brittle. “Seen this before, has she?” She grabbed Max’s reins and leading him to a fallen tree, stood on it while she gingerly raised herself into the saddle.

  Chas mounted up and walked Damien beside the seething Sam. “No, never from me,” he said evenly. “It’s obvious there is an attraction between us.” He hesitated. “But I do have to apologize…again. There’s been no excuse for my behavior. You are my employee and should not be subjected to this.” His words were harsh, but they had to be said.

  He urged Damien ahead of Sam, not wanting her to see his embarrassment, and above all, not wanting her to see how much he yearned to take her in his arms. But he was not his father or his grandfather. He owed it to her to protect her – even from himself.

  They rode this way to the stable yard, Sam slightly behind him and stonily silent. Wearily, Chas wished that he had not made such a muddle of things, had not let his attraction for her drive his actions. Every example in his life shouted that letting passion rule led to emotional and financial disaster. He had almost repaired the financial disaster. He didn’t know how to repair the emotional mayhem. The honourable thing would be to discharge Sam’s debt, and let her go, candlestick and all. He was quite capable of dealing with his own estate. But he couldn’t bear the thought of staying at the Hall without her. He needed her help, but most of all, he needed her. He swung off Damien and silently steadied Sam as she slid down from Max. “Go on in and clean up,” he told her. “I’ll groom the horses.”