Outbid by the Boss

by Stephanie Browning

  She smiled but her eyes were like ice chips. “Good idea,” she said. “I’ll take the back stairs. Throw Mrs. Weekes off the scent. And maybe, when I’ve showered and changed, we can meet in the library. I’ll be Miss Redfern, and you can be Mr. Porter. And we can pretend that neither today, nor yesterday ever happened.”

  “Sam!” Chas called, but she had swept away toward the house trying desperately not to limp in her borrowed boots.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The early evening sun was washing the cobblestones with streaks of pink and gold as Chas crossed the yard and entered the stables. He paused, letting the familiar cocoon of its shadowy interior wrap around him. There was no need to turn on any lights. Sam was exactly where he knew she’d be; in Max’s stall making amends. He could hear the rustle of straw and the soft swish of the brush as she moved about currying Max’s coat.

  Shortly after they’d returned from their disastrous ride, Chas had sent a note of apology up to Sam’s room, along with a pot of tea and fresh fruit, courtesy of Evelyn Weekes. She’d offered, and he’d thankfully agreed. Everything he had learned about “doing the right thing” had come from his housekeeper, not the self-centred actions of his parents. No matter how much fire sparked between him and Sam, Chas was determined not be like his father nor his father before him. If he could keep Sam at a distance, it would be better for both of them. Her stubborn refusal to do as she was bid would certainly help that along, Chas thought wryly.

  But regardless of any personal animosity that might exist between them, he’d been sufficiently worried about the tumble Sam had taken that morning to put off any thought of the work ahead of them. A hot bath and a restful afternoon might soothe both muscles and feelings. He knew his own were thoroughly bruised.

  Standing stock still, he savoured the orderly peacefulness of the stable. It had always been a place of solace for him; he hoped it was for Sam as well. Oblivious to his presence, she crooned a soft tune as she fussed over Max. Chas was loath to interrupt, yet if he didn’t announce his presence soon, they might get off on the wrong foot again and that was the last thing he wanted.

  “Hello?” he called advancing down the line of stalls.

  The singing stopped.

  “Sam?” Chas repeated. “Are you in here?” Aside from Damien shifting his massive weight through the straw on the other side of the stable from Max, there was an absence of sound. Beyond the pounding of his heart, of course, which seemed to be playing havoc with his mind. He’d give her another few minutes to compose herself, he decided, then he would pull rank. He’d fought long and hard to become his own man, and no employee of his, no matter how enticing, was going to worm her way into his life, leaving him cautious and unsure of his next move.

  Luckily, Sam chose that moment to step out of Max’s stall. She was wearing an old sweater belonging to Mrs. Weekes, and held a brush in her hand. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  Now that she was in front of him, his hard stance slipped away. They stood a few paces apart assessing each other’s moods. The silence seemed to stretch forever, then green eyes met his, and relaxed. Chas was rewarded with a tentative smile. “Thank you for letting me take the afternoon off,” said Sam. “This morning’s adventure was a bit of a shock.” She cocked her head. “Pleasant, but shocking.” she added.

  Chas surged forward, saw the mischief written all over her face, and felt relief ripple through him. She was okay, she wasn’t angry, and the world could go forward again.

  “You did a great job on Max’s coat,” she continued. “I couldn’t find a speck of mud anywhere.”

  “I spent most of my afternoon out here,” Chas admitted, “currying the life out of both of them. It seems to have settled us all down,” he added. He threw a puzzled glance towards Damien’s stall. “Usually, at this time of night, I come in here and find two long faces…it’s pathetic really the way they beg for attention. And treats.” He grinned at her. “I’ll bet Damien tossed his head towards that sack hanging outside the tack room until you took the hint.”

  “Ahh,” said Sam. “He was determined, but it was Max batting his eyelashes that did me in. And how many apples did you give them this afternoon, Mr. Porter?” she teased.

  “One or two…dozen,” Chas admitted.

  “They’re pigs, not horses,” laughed Sam. “Aren’t you Damien?” She asked as his big head swung over the rails at her approach.

  Chas went to stand beside her. With her auburn hair up in a ponytail, and her ragamuffin outfit, it was hard to believe she wasn’t still in her teens. A shaft of sunlight caught the sheen in her hair, he saw Sam for the natural beauty; she didn’t need cosmetics and designer clothes. It wouldn’t matter if she were mucking out the stable or shepherding a wealthy client around the silver department, she would be gracious and poised and…totally, totally desirable.

  He rubbed Damien’s whiskered muzzle. “Nice try,” he told the big horse, “but your breath smells like cider.”

  “We did give them a good workout,” he teased her.

  “That we did.” Suddenly, Sam’s face puckered. She turned away and half-raised her arm to indicate she was going back to finish grooming Max who was making his displeasure known against the wooden sides of the stall.

  “Sam…wait.” Chas touched her lightly on the arm.

  She twisted her face towards his, uncertainty written where a few minutes earlier, he’d seen pleasure, and he knew he was responsible for this myriad of feelings which had engulfed them since the second he’d picked her out at the auction hall. It was up to him to reassure her, to close the distance between them, and he had to do it now.

  Before the damage was too deep.

  “It’s obvious we can’t go back to the way things were before yesterday.” Chas cleared his throat. Talking about how he felt was so much harder than having a conversation in his head. Here, in front of the woman who had unleashed a passionate longing he had never known before, he was as tongue-tied as a schoolboy. And about as emotionally mature. But those days were over. His urge to protect her overrode his natural reluctance to share his heart with anyone. He would say his piece. As a man who was finally, thanks to this woman, able to express his feelings, no matter how halting and awkward the delivery.

  “…And I don’t want to,” he said finally, “but I do want us to be friends. Perhaps, under different circumstances, we could be more…I don’t know what else to say...you’re a beautiful woman and…hell, I don’t know what else to say!”

  He held his hand out. “Miss Samantha Redfern, would you please do me the honour of being my friend?” It sounded foolish to his ears and certainly wasn’t the phrase he’d practised earlier, but it made Sam laugh.

  And then her chin went up, and she stuck out her hand. “Yes, Mr. Porter,” she said. “I would very much like to be your friend.”

  Her voice wavered, and he could have sworn her eyes were wet with tears as he took her hand in his, but he stood strong. He had to…they were close enough for him to sweep her into his arms and forget all her stubborn, cantankerous traits while he savoured the lushness of her lips once more.

  He released her hand.

  Dusk was throwing shadows into the corners of the stable. A dangerous desire to make love to this woman on a bed of straw was making him crazy. “Shall we see to the horses?” he asked instead. “Nice wellingtons,” he added noting the knee-high rubber boots she wore as they worked together to bed down the horses.

  “Turns out Evelyn and I are the same size.”

  “Really,” said Chas, opening the door for her. “Too bad she doesn’t ride.”

  Sam gave him a playful punch on the arm and they strolled in companionable silence back to the house.

  As the morning light filled her bedroom, Sam rolled over with unaccustomed luxury, stretched and yawned. Her bottom might be tender from yesterday's fall in the mud, but it was nothing compared to the pains in her legs. And she’d thought she was in good sha
pe, walking around London’s parks on the weekends, and getting off the underground ahead of her stop when the weather was nice. If she wanted to continue riding Max, she would have to up her game.

  At least, she’d slept much better, despite knowing that, for her, every minute she spent in Chas’ company would be fraught with danger. There was no denying his touch thrilled her, his kisses aroused her, and his playful courtship and backtrack towards friendship had impressed her. To be so close to falling in love, and then having to pretend it never happened, was going to be a challenge.

  Don’t think about it, she scolded herself; you’ve got work to do.

  In fact, she was looking forward to the day, not just because of Chas, but because he was offering her a chance to pore over the treasures at Porter Hall. And that was like catnip to an antique specialist like her. Really, it was amazing. A few days ago, Chas could have presided over a board meeting without either of them giving each other a second look. His reserve ran deep and his employees respected his privacy. Sadly, it also meant they had never seen his vulnerable side, or the way his ice-blue eyes softened when he was aroused. At least, she hoped they hadn’t. That particular pleasure had been all hers. And she’d like it to stay that way. Forever.

  Enough daydreaming. She really should get up.

  A discreet knock on the door ended her procrastination. The doorknob turned and in walked Evelyn Weekes carrying the now-familiar silver tray.

  “Chas thought another morning with breakfast in bed was in order.”

  Sam struggled into a sitting position. “I could get used to this you know, and then where would you be.”

  “Down in the kitchen watching your breakfast get cold.” The woman smiled.

  “Touché,” said Sam stretching out her arms to receive the tray. Like yesterday, the housekeeper had come bearing gifts. “I see my jeans under your arm, all clean and ready for another fun-filled day in the country, but what else have you brought?” Sam asked suspiciously. “Not more hand-me-downs, I hope.”

  “Oh, I suspect you’ll like these ones,” said the housekeeper setting a pile of men’s shirts on the end of the bed. “They belong to Chas. He thought they’d be more suitable than, and I quote ‘a suitcase full of little black dresses.’” She put her hands on her hips. “Nuff said.”

  Sam snorted. “Men have no idea. And he’s waiting where?”

  “In the library. Been hauling boxes back-and-forth for an hour now.”

  Shaking her head at life’s mysteries, the housekeeper left the room. As soon as the door snugged shut, Sam set her breakfast to one side, and drew the pile of shirts towards her. Most were light blue, button-down and long sleeved. She fingered the soft cotton marvelling at her boss’s thoughtfulness.

  She put the shirts back down, but found she could barely take her eyes off them. If the gang at Burton-Porter & Sons ever caught wind of the special treatment she was receiving, they’d be aghast. For more reasons than one, Sam realized. She poured herself a cup of tea, plastered her croissant with butter and damson jam and ate like it was Christmas morning.

  She slipped out of bed and padded across the room. It was only after her chat with Chas at the stables, that she’d come to realize how badly she wanted to stay at Porter Hall. As soon as she’d returned to her room, she’d emptied her suitcases. Her clothes were now in the armoire, her toiletries in the cabinet, and with the candlestick on the dresser, she felt at home.

  It was odd really, how comfortable she felt at Porter Hall, thought Sam as she brushed her hair, now that she and Chas had come to an agreement. Even having Evelyn Weekes fuss over her seemed somehow acceptable. Sam paused mid-stroke, trying to work it out. She usually guarded her privacy. Maybe, she thought as she resumed her brushing, it was because the housekeeper was a calm and friendly presence. It was a nice change.

  Sam laid her brush on the table and set about deciding what to wear…

  … Holding out her shirttails with her fingertips, she did a little pirouette in front of the mirror, and then bowed to her reflection. Her grandmother would have said she was “do-lally” dancing about in her leggings, and ballerina flats. But what she really was, Sam decided, was happy. Unfortunately, she couldn’t share it with anyone else.

  Chas rubbed his temples while he waited. A couple of late-night scotches had kept his mind off Sam while he organized the files they’d need to catalogue the estate, but they’d done nothing to help him sleep. If anything they’d added fire to the flame and he’d woken with a splitting headache that even Evelyn’s extra strong coffee couldn’t cure.

  A discreet clearing of the throat alerted him to Sam’s presence. “Come in.” He got to his feet carefully. Despite his dark mood, he couldn’t deny the rush of warmth he felt seeing Sam in one of his old school shirts. “You’re looking very elegant this morning, Miss Redfern.”

  “Thank you.” She acknowledged the compliment, her voice so cool and composed they might as well have been in the showrooms at Burton-Porter.

  All of which was fine with him.

  “I thought we’d make the library our headquarters,” said Chas drawing another chair up beside his own. “Cushion?” he asked, holding up a needlepoint pillow. At Sam’s nod, he positioned it on the seat for her. They were back in the safe and comfortable world of work. He had his laptop open at one end of the oak table and when she had arrived, he had just begun to pour over the haphazard collection of documents they would need for listing the items he considered saleable when she arrived.

  Keeping his tone guarded, Chas asked how she was feeling.

  “Tender, but fine,” said Sam, gingerly lowering herself into the chair. She did her best to make her answering smile nothing more than a polite acknowledgement, but oh how she wanted to lean in toward him, casually touch the strong forearm that was pulling the files closer to her. She wanted those wonderfully sensitive fingers to smooth across her aching back and shoulders, easing away the knots in her muscles as they untangled the knots in her emotions. Instead she leaned back, flipped open the notebook she carried and looked at Chas calmly.

  Chas fought the impulse to slide his chair closer to Sam. The distance between them felt wrong, but it was necessary. In a few days, they would be heading back to the reality of London and their careers. She would remain the perfect Burton-Porter agent and, assuming there were no other disasters ahead of them, resume her personal life. It occurred to him then, that he had no idea about her personal life. Was there a boyfriend? He fought down a surge of jealousy. There couldn’t be a lover or she would never have kissed him the way she did – there was too much honesty in those green eyes to be playing fast and loose with anyone…and besides he told himself ruthlessly, it was none of his business if she had ten lovers. She was his employee, his valued employee. Nothing more. Once they returned to the city, he would reclaim his solitary existence, invite a suitable woman out to dine and forget all about Samantha Redfern.

  The idea was utterly depressing. It would be nigh impossible to forget Sam. Her very scent was enough to have him quivering with desire. No other woman had ever affected him this way. He shifted in his seat. He should be furious with her, not lusting after her.

  “So where do we start?” Sam asked.

  Her business-like manner ended his flight of fancy. He handed her a copy of the original architect’s drawing of the manor and a family tree. He spoke while she scanned the documents. “There are three reception rooms, a study, library, and conservatory, six principal bedrooms and a warren of storerooms. After that we begin on the record books, loose receipts and an itemized list from my grandfather’s estate.” He gestured toward the dusty stack of folders and documents spread out on the table. “Inheritance taxes changed everything. And cost the estate a fortune.” Not to mention his grandfather’s inept handling of the land and philandering ways. “A lot of the best art was sold off. The smaller holdings were sold to tenants who could afford them. And needed repairs were left undone. Which explai
ns these,” he said pulling a half-dozen old ledgers towards them. “The account books track paintings sold and what was hung in their place.”

  Sam blinked. “Wouldn’t someone from the art department be a better choice?”

  Chas shook his head. “Only if we go to auction. Until then, it doesn’t matter if they’re fakes or not. Besides, from the First World War on, the estate records are less than meticulous. We have to sort out what we can.”

  “And the family portraits?”

  “The best ones are down in London. No doubt you’ve seen them lining the halls of Burton-Porter glowering down at the staff.”

  “I thought I recognized that look.”

  He shot her a quelling glance. “You’re teasing me, right?”

  She grinned. “And the portraits here?” She gestured to a dark painting in an even darker corner of the library.

  “That’s one of our tasks – identifying the ones without much documentation. Quite a few were unearthed from the attic to cover the empty spots on the wall. Faded wallpaper is a great giveaway. And there you have it,” said Chas getting to his feet. He held out the chair for Sam. “Will you be okay on your own?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” Even though she was moving slowly, her eyes sparkled. “This is proving to be the most excellent adventure.” He rather hoped she meant being with him, but he knew better than to discount the impact his wealth had on the opposite sex. He watched Sam gather her notes. If he was reading her correctly, she was as excited about him as she was about the job at hand. He should be pleased, Chas reminded himself, but he’d seen the passion lurking beneath the surface and he wanted more of it.

  After a dizzying morning of foxes, hounds and horses, punctuated by the odd landscape, Sam found herself in a little used reception room on the second floor staring into the stern eyes of a dour woman wearing the dark finery of the late 19th-century. This old girl was definitely a Porter. She peered at Sam through hooded eyes, punctuated by a familiar hawk-like nose.