Sam shivered. Chas was lucky. On him, those harsh features were an enhancement. They made him look strong and commanding, and virile.
“Boo!”
Sam whirled around to see her boss standing directly behind her! “You scared me,” she charged.
“Sorry about that,” grinned Chas. “But I’m not surprised. You looked as though you’d fallen under the spell of Agnes the miserable, the elder sister of my great-great uncle. Direct action was required.”
“She is rather…austere,” said Sam.
“When my grandmother arrived at the Hall, she took one look at the portrait, and banished Aunt Agnes to the attic where she languished for,” Chas shrugged, “sixty years or more.”
Sam nodded in heartfelt agreement. “I can see why your grandmother packed poor Agnes away. The question is why bring her out again?”
Chas grimaced. “Even the best of families get down to the dregs when money’s tight. In our case, it was Aunt Agnes. A bad artist and a sour expression are a deadly combination, don’t you think?”
“I can’t argue with that.” Sam turned to smile at Chas, feeling the heat of attraction once again. Even the baleful glare of his ancestor couldn’t dim the flare of feeling she had for this man. Their eyes met and the moment stretched.
With a slight jerk, Chas stepped away. “Lunch in an hour?”
“Perfect.” Despite her resolve to be professional, Sam’s body rebelled. She watched him walk the length of the gallery, shamelessly ogling his muscular physique from head to toe, taking care to note how the tailor-made, fawn-coloured trousers accentuated his trim waist and perfect backside. Mia would be so proud of her, thought Sam. She knew her office buddy thought she was a prude, but here she was with her eyes glued to her boss’s behind. And what a behind.
As Chas neared the end of the gallery, Sam quickly switched her concentration back to Aunt Agnes and started scribbling in her notebook. A good thing as she saw him look back briefly out of the corner of her eye before he disappeared from sight. Sam checked her watch. Fifty-five minutes and they’d be together again.
“Pull yourself together, Sam,” she muttered. “Next thing you know you’ll be talking to Aunt Agnes.” She raised her eyes to the portrait. “I guess I already am.” The elderly woman stared down at her, in sympathy or in admonishment, Sam couldn’t decide. Perhaps she, too, had lusted after a man like Chas in her youth, maybe even stolen a kiss by the stream as she and Chas had when Max and Damien had sent them both tumbling into the mud. Even now, beneath the condescending gaze of Chas’ great-great aunt, all Sam could think about was the feel of Chas’ lips on hers and the warm weight of his body as he lay on top of her. She shuddered. “You probably don’t approve of me, do you, Aunt Agnes?”
Sam got nothing in return but a haughty stare.
Confirming what she already knew. Every woman she had ever seen at her boss’ side had screamed money and breeding. “I guess I wouldn’t cut it in his world anyway,” she told the portrait. At least, she consoled herself as she jotted down Aunt Agnes’ particulars, she’d had a nibble from a former colleague at Sotheby’s a few weeks back. He’d strongly suggested that if England didn’t work out for her, she would be more than welcome in New York City. It wouldn’t be difficult to slip back into her former life, thought Sam, but the funny thing was she’d rather be in Derbyshire talking to Chas’ long-dead relatives.
By the third day, they had settled into a well-established routine. Breakfast on the terrace if the weather was warm enough, and then off to work. With Chas concentrating on furniture and the family’s private quarters, they were often in separate parts of the Hall. But by mid-morning, they would reconvene in the library for coffee and to compare notes. It felt a bit like a treasure hunt to Sam as they cross-referenced their finds with the old, and often incomplete, handwritten records.
Lunch, then back to work with Evelyn Weekes reappearing around four with tea and biscuits. Her thoughtfulness was touching. “I like the company,” she confided to Sam one afternoon. “Porter Hall comes alive when he’s here…” And so she baked him Bakewell tarts and lemon cake and beamed with pleasure when the plate came back empty.
Neither of them mentioned going back to the city.
At the end of each afternoon, Chas would push himself back from the desk and say, “shall we head for the stables?” and Sam would race upstairs to change. She cherished these off-duty moments. Chas would boost her into the saddle and while she fought down the pure joy of his nearness, he would give her pointers on how to improve her natural skills. She still winced over the boots, but kept it to herself. It was a small price to pay for the thrill of his touch every time he repositioned her hands, or her legs, or adjusted the stirrups. From time to time, Sam had the sense that something serious was troubling him, but she knew better than to invade his privacy.
“Are you up for a real-life hurdle?” Chas asked late Wednesday afternoon. He had just coached Sam through a series of practice jumps and there was still a lot of light left in the day. When Sam nodded, he swung up on Damien’s back. “We could ride across a different part of the estate. I’d like to check the upper fields. See if they’re suitable for grazing.”
Hiding her flash of anxiety over the prospect of another tumble, Sam readily agreed. What Chas had taught her was designed to increase her confidence. And she didn’t intend to let either of them down with a sudden case of nerves.
“Lead on,” she smiled brightly.
As they cantered along the edge of yet another sheep-filled pasture, Sam wrinkled her nose. Their musky smell was overwhelming sometimes. And then she caught sight of the new lambs. Her heart melted as she watched them struggle to find a foothold close to their mothers. The combination of their soft bawling and the thud of the horses’ hooves was a perfect moment. Chas glanced over to see how she was doing and then held her gaze as they shared the warmth of the scene before them. It was, Sam thought, a moment of pure bliss.
At the end of the pasture, a low stone wall blocked their path. Chas urged Damien forward and effortlessly sailed over the fence. He guided the huge chestnut back around and stood waiting for Sam.
“All right?” he called.
Sam’s answer was to kick Max forward. And then suddenly she was soaring, her body leaning into the jump, one with the horse as Max took flight over the stone wall. They landed perfectly, the jar so slight that Sam barely felt it.
She drew up beside Chas, her face beaming with pride. “You’re a good teacher,” she told him, “and you…” she bent down to pat Max’s long neck, “are a champion.”
When she looked up she saw that Chas’ eyes were smouldering with heat. The air seemed to swirl around them as they gazed at each other in silence. Birds sang in the background, the horses bent their heads to the grass, but Sam and Chas were oblivious, locked in an emotional embrace that ignored the chasm between them.
Then Damien shook his massive head and broke the spell. “We should be going,” said Chas. All Sam could do was nod. Her resolve was obviously not as strong as his. Disappointment seemed to go hand-in-hand with hope. Did he regret his openness of a few moments ago, or had his natural wariness caused him to draw back at the last minute.
She sighed. It was all part of the mystery that was Chas Porter.
They rode in single file hugging the edge of the field. Wildflowers bloomed amidst the tall grass and birds were busy building their nests in the branches of an old apple tree, chirping as they flew back and forth with tiny sticks, all of which Sam saw, but didn’t register. Her heart was in a knot. Beyond the tree, she could see that the stones had crumbled away, leaving a wide break in the wall. Chas paused as if he were making a mental note to have it repaired and then they passed through to the meadow leading back to the house.
“Ready for a gallop?” asked Chas turning in the saddle. He had reverted to the carefully guarded tone he had adopted after their falling out by the stream.
She tried to rea
d his eyes, but to no avail. Whatever turmoil he was going through presumably mirrored her own. She needed to be as kind and understanding as he had been with her, but tell that to the constant thrum of longing she felt whenever he was near.
“Let’s go,” she said urging Max forward until he was neck and neck with Damien. The rush of wind lifted Sam’s spirits and she flashed Chas a brilliant smile. Enjoying the moment was the secret to life, she decided, not agonizing over what could and could not be. Had she not slammed into Chas at the auction, she would have been trudging the streets of New York.
By the time they reached the stable, Sam’s cheeks were flushed with colour. She was ready in equal parts for both a shower and dinner, but the horses had to be seen to first. Stick to routine, she told herself, you can think about the way Chas had savoured you with his eyes at a later date. Right now, she needed to walk Max around the yard to cool them both down. Being desirable was a good thing, she decided, but honestly, she could scream with frustration.
Just then John Weekes appeared in the stable yard to interrupt her thoughts.
“I’ll take care of the horses,” he announced to Chas who was over by the mounting block removing a clump of mud from Damien’s back hoof. “The wife has your supper near ready and she says you’ve just time to clean up before it spoils.”
“Excellent,” said Chas lowering Damien’s leg to the ground. “Sam? Would you pass Max over to John?”
Gratefully, Sam relinquished the reins with a murmur of thanks and unclipped her helmet. While Chas described the break in the wall to John Weekes, Sam headed for the tack room. She ran her fingers through her damp hair as she walked, relishing the cool breeze against her skin.
Stepping inside the stable, she felt a pang of loss. Sooner or later, she would be leaving Porter Hall. If she stayed at Burton-Porter & Sons, she would still see Chas, but there would be no more afternoon rides, no more Max, and no more Damien. Walking past the empty stalls, she realized just how attached she had become to everyone, and everything at the Hall. Evelyn Weekes couldn’t have been more welcoming, and Chas…despite their rough beginning, had been a wonderful host.
She had barely reached the tack room when she heard him come in behind her. They set their helmets down on the shelf. Then, without a word, Chas took her by the arm and spun her around. He cupped her face in his hands and gazed down at her. “Don’t ever mistake my reticence for anything but respect, Sam.”
His hooded eyes bored into her very being as he lowered his face, his lips seeking hers with a surety of purpose. No more denial, no more disciplined retreat, nor more distance between them. She was his to plunder.
Only the opening of the stable door and the clip-clopping of hooves drew them apart. “We’re not finished you and I,” growled Chas as he stepped back. His eyes raked her from head to toe and Sam heard herself groan in response. “You go ahead,” he said abruptly, “John’s no fool.”
Sam was lost in space when Chas returned to the terrace with a tray of after-dinner drinks. “Sorry to take so long,” he shook his head. “I had another phone call from London.”
“Here,” said Sam, rising from her chair, “let me take that.” She reached for the tray, careful not to brush his fingers with hers. Every time they “accidentally” connected, a jolt of electricity would race through her body, a tantalizing reminder of how perfectly suited they were. If she weren’t careful, they would be right back where they started from, although after their brief encounter in the tack room, she wasn’t sure they would be able to maintain the delicate balance of their relationship much longer.
Seated again, with a glass of wine in her hand, Sam stole a glance at her boss and found his blue eyes watching her over the rim of his glass. Did he feel the same way, she wondered as she sipped her wine, and did that explain why he hadn’t made a move to rekindle the passion they’d felt from the beginning before now? She was sure it had begun before they’d even left the auction hall. In fact, from the moment she’d run smack into him with the candlestick pressed between her breasts, she’d been drawn to him like a moth to a flame.
Had she not postponed her trip to New York so she could attend the auction, she would never have known Chas Porter for the man he really was, nor seen this magnificent estate and come to learn more about his family history. She shivered; it was all worth it, not matter how they parted. She blinked and quickly averted her gaze. The thought of their relationship, however unusual, coming to an end was beyond thinking about. But sooner or later, as sure as spring turned to summer, it would. London was already beckoning.
Best shove it to the back of her mind and enjoy whatever time they had together.
“I have to go into the city tomorrow, drop the car off at the dealership,” Chas announced after downing the rest of his whiskey “and meet with a couple of our biggest clients who need reassuring.” His expression darkened. “Apparently one of our competitors is trying to entice them away with a rumour that we’re in financial difficulty.”
“But why…” she began.
“Because we’re down here cataloguing the estate.”
Sam rubbed her forehead. She hadn’t spoken to anyone at the office in nearly a week. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“If Porter Hall comes on the market, people will wonder why.”
“But it’s not about the money…” Sam frowned. “Can’t you…” Her voice trailed away. The irony was, Chas was so much happier at Porter Hall than she’d ever seen him in London, it didn’t make sense for him to sell unless...
“Sam!” Chas cut into her thoughts. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not as though I haven’t been here before. When I inherited, there were dealers up and down the country expecting me to fail.” He picked up his glass. “How about a toast to Burton-Porter & Sons?”
“To Burton-Porter & Sons,” said Sam, clinking her glass against his.
From there, they chatted about everyday things, told a couple of funny stories from their childhoods, and admired the view, bathed in the softening light of a spectacular sunset.
“I don’t ever remember the weather being this consistently beautiful,” breathed Chas, “it’s been perfect.” He was reaching for her hand when his mobile went off, destroying the moment. Chas picked it up and checked the call display. His eyebrows snapped together. Standing, he nodded to Sam.
“Sorry,” he said, “I won’t be long.”
She sighed.
Now that the sky had lost its colour, she felt chilled. She should go inside, she decided. There was always more to do. She picked up the tray and took it inside with her, setting it down in the library, while she reviewed today’s inventory. Chas had said he was satisfied with their progress on the artwork and the library. But much of that progress had to do with his intimate knowledge of the wealth he’d grown up with. Tomorrow, he would be in London and she would be on her own. With the silver collection.
Suddenly anxious that there might be questions she needed to ask, Sam turned to the ledgers which itemized the collection. The once extensive silver had obviously meant easy cash to the previous owners. Much had been sold or simply disappeared from the books. Sam’s brows knit as she tried to puzzle out whether she was looking at just bad bookkeeping or if someone had deliberately made off with the family silver. It didn’t make sense. Just as Chas’ insistent bidding on that single silver candlestick didn’t make sense.
She closed the ledger and pushed back her chair.
He’d given her carte-blanche from day one. Why should the locked silver cabinet be any different?
The dining room was as it had been on their first evening at the Hall. Goose bumps ran up and down her arms when she remembered tiptoeing into the room wearing nothing but a thin nightgown beneath her shawl. Their first kiss. She could almost feel the key pressing against her back when he’d leaned in to take his first taste of her.
Crossing the room to the silver cabinet, she stopped cold. The key was gone. Her forehead
creased in a frown. Had Chas removed it? What was going on here? What had seemed to be a simple inventory was taking on undercurrents that put her on edge. She put her fingers into the handles and jiggled the door. Yes, it was thoroughly locked.
Mild irritation began to rise into anger. Deep breath, Sam, she whispered. Just because you have a history with this silver, doesn’t mean that Chas does.
Stepping closer to jiggle the door again, her foot caught something just under the lip of the cabinet. The key. It had simply fallen from the lock. Chas had not been trying to hide something from her.
Feeling foolish, she stood up and slid the key into the lock, turned it, pulled open its beautifully crafted doors, and then gasped. There, sitting boldly at the front, stood ten exquisite silver George II candlesticks. Identical to the one she had just purchased. Identical to the one she had inherited from her grandparents.
Anger and confusion welled from some place deep within her, pounding through her veins, roaring through her head into a tidal wave of rage.
At that moment, Chas entered the room.
He scowled. “I see you’ve gotten ahead of me,” he bristled.
“It’s about time,” Sam snapped, “as I’ve apparently been behind you up until now.” She pointed to the candlesticks. “You’ve been lying to me,” she said flatly. “Did you plan to remove them before I saw the rest of the silver collection?”
“No, of course not,” Chas said. “Let me explain…”
“I don’t want explanations,” Sam cried out. “You tricked me! You tricked me into coming here, you tricked me into falling for you, and now…this!”
Chas’ eyes hardened. “I’ve been trying to put things right,” he seethed. “Trying to repair what my father and grandfather destroyed. I admit I should have told you why I needed you here. Why I need an expert to authenticate what I’m not sure of.”
Outbid by the Boss Page 9
