by Tricia Jones
Chapter Two
Nathan rested his arms on the railing of his rented house and contemplated dawn breaking on the horizon. He never tired of the wonder of it, the way the light flickered on water, the promise of a new day with all its opportunities and surprises, and mostly the chance of an early morning sail before the business of the day claimed him. Except that today the billowing clouds and ominous reds and violets layering the sky like a giant bruise suggested his boat would remain securely moored on the private jetty below.
Sipping his coffee, he let the bite of it kick him awake. He wasn’t exactly happy about the way he’d handled the business with Chloe Greenwood. It wasn’t how he liked to negotiate. But if he was to salvage this mess, it was best to go along with the scenario his fool of a cousin had already set up. The fewer feathers he ruffled, the faster the rumors would die down.
The early chill lifted the dark hairs on his forearms. Not for the first time, he cursed his cousin for the stupid idiot he was. Put a pretty woman in front of Ryan, make her indifferent to his advances, and sit back and watch him destroy himself with the challenge she provided. Chloe Greenwood had probably reeled his feckless cousin in with that hesitant act and gotten a nice percentage over the market price for her trouble.
He’d have to swallow that one. A deal was a deal. Having seen the cottage, he had to agree it was perfect. So, with problem number one solved, he could instruct his solicitors to push forward.
As for problem number two? That shouldn’t be too difficult. He’d already gotten his team sussing out the backgrounds and potentials of the three largest agencies in the area, and all he had to do was check out their bids and make the decision. He still couldn’t work out why Chloe Greenwood hadn’t put in a bid—not that she’d have stood a chance against the big boys, but he was surprised nonetheless. From the little dealings he’d had with her, he knew she was ambitious. The sole agency contract was a major coup, and whoever won the bid would be set up for some time to come.
Whatever, it was no concern of his, and at least on that score Ryan had spared him any complications. The contract would go to the best company for the job.
All that remained was the meeting early next week to mollify and reassure the investors, finish looking over the contracts and agreements, and tighten up timescales.
Nathan muttered an oath, his breath misting in the early morning air. He couldn’t believe the mess his hapless cousin had left him. He had nobody to blame but himself, of course, and should have kept a firmer hand on the reins of his company, at least where Ryan was involved. He’d let family loyalties override his professional instincts, and because he had, he was stuck here for the duration, sorting out this bloody mess.
He’d do whatever necessary to reassure his board and recover investor confidence—and Chloe Greenwood was getting a great deal on her cottage, so what the hell did it matter what he planned to do with it? Hell, if she found out she might even try to jack up the selling price.
The thought made him smile. Beneath that frosty exterior was one shrewd and formidable woman. A man could get taken in by all those feminine curves, but he’d best keep one eye on business—even if the other wanted nothing more than to feast on long legs and satin skin.
He tipped back the last of his coffee and, with one lingering look at the sea, turned back to the house.
Dinner at Pam’s was always a gargantuan feast, and Chloe’s running shorts strained against the excesses of the previous evening. Early Sunday morning was her favourite time to pound the tracks around the North Bay area, and she figured that if she ran about fifty miles and didn’t eat for a week, she could probably work off last night’s pasta and Italian red.
With her thoughts firmly set on damage control, and the express intention of fitting into the little number she’d bought for the fast approaching Mayor’s Charity Ball, Chloe barely noticed the ominous grey clouds. She ran with steady purpose, timing herself to reach the little newsstand at Linnemans Jetty for its eight o’clock opening.
She made it with five minutes to spare and, leaning against what was little more than a glorified wooden hut, breathed in deep as she felt the first spots of rain. Dropping her head back, she closed her eyes, allowing the rain to cool and moisten her face. Running in the rain didn’t bother her. She enjoyed the squidge of soaked earth under her feet, the smell of nature saturated and energised, the soothing slick of rain against her flesh.
The distant rumble of thunder and clammy atmosphere warned this was no mere shower. Her stomach dipped and the quickening of her pulse had little to do with the remnants of physical exertion. With a glance at the sea, she let the memories come. It was on such a morning that her safe and protected world shattered.
Clouds raced through the sky as if propelled by an unseen breath. Waves stroked the shore in a playful whip, masking the energy gathering beneath the water’s surface. Chloe watched now as a grown woman, but the anxiety filling her chest belonged to a child waiting on the shore for sight of that little yellow boat.
The newsstand would open any time now, Chloe assured herself with a quick check of her watch. She would just get her Sunday paper and head back home. A hot shower, some fresh fruit for breakfast, and she would settle down for a good long read. Later there was paperwork to do and some research on the internet.
She started running on the spot as her leg muscles tightened. It was a fair stretch back to the cottage, and the last thing she wanted was a cramp. Another glimpse at her watch said ten past eight, and the rain lashed down now, streaming off her face and plastering her hair to her scalp. It was unusual for the old boy who ran the newsstand to be late.
With the intention of patronising the newsstand closer to home, Chloe started back. Head down, she pounded along the quay. Puddles had formed, making visibility dire, but the thought of that hot shower made her pick up speed.
Absolutely soaked, the rain batting against her half-closed lids, Chloe barely registered the torrents of water gushing around her legs as a car sped past. Nor did she realise the vehicle had stopped until she almost banged into it at the next corner.
The passenger door flung open. “Get in.” Nathan leaned across and snapped the instruction again as Chloe peered at him through sheets of rain.
“I’m fine. Thanks anyway.” She yelled it over the heavy thump of rain against the car’s hood and considered picking her way between Nathan’s vehicle and a Land Rover parked in front.
Her running shoes squelched in protest and she could barely see in front of her, but for some absurd reason she feared what a sight she must look. That was just typical of course, trust him to catch her looking like a drowned rat.
No time to dwell on that since Nathan was calling from the curb again. “Will you just get in?”
Chloe stooped, facing him through the open passenger door. “Look,” she called out, “I’m soaked through anyway, and I’ll just ruin your upholstery.”
“It’s leather,” he called back. “Wipe it down later if you’re worried.”
She hunched her shoulders in defense as thunder cracked, then a spear of lightning forced her decision. Sliding into the sensual warmth of the car, she grimaced as her sodden flesh met pristine leather.
Nathan waited, watching as she pulled the seat belt across her soaked tee shirt and slicked wet hair out of her face.
“Do you always run in monsoon season?” He flicked the wipers on double speed, flashed her a grin, and pulled steadily onto the road.
“Very funny. What were you doing, anyway? Taking a nice Sunday drive in the country?”
“Nope, just cruising around, hoping to rescue the odd damsel in distress. Maybe buy a newspaper in the process.”
Chloe nearly groaned when he put the heater up to full, sending a current of muscle-relaxing warmth slicking over her skin like a lover. She would have settled her head back on the seat, but instead noticed the steady blue flash on the road ahead. “Oh, no.” It came out on a whisper as Nathan pulled onto the side of the
road in response to the police officer’s palmed salute.
The officer bent to peer through the window at Nathan. “Sorry, sir. We’ve had to block off the road ahead.”
Chloe leaned across. “Has anyone been hurt?” she asked, thinking about the old chap who ran the newsstand. He was never late.
“Lorry’s shed its load, but nobody’s hurt,” the officer assured her as rain slavered off the peak of his hat. “You’ll have to head up toward Sharp’s Point and get around the bay that way. It’ll take a while to clear this.”
As they headed back the way they came, the clouds, so low they almost skimmed the water, plunged the bay area into an eerie pocket of silence. Chloe braced as lightning, fierce and brutal, lit up the car. Thunder followed, crashing and vibrating around them.
“It’s crazy staying out in this,” Nathan called out as another flash split the sky and hail pounded the roof. “I’m renting the Fisher place, we’ll head there.”
As uncomfortable as she felt, cold and wet and aching, there was even more discomfort in knowing they were heading for his place. Any protest was childish in the extreme, she realised, and surely the storm couldn’t last that long. She could maybe get a hot drink and a dry towel and head back home in an hour or so.
The Fisher house sat proud and majestic on the promontory that was Sharp’s Point, looking out over the Solent like a protective warlord. It was as close to a mansion as Cleeve Bay boasted, and ever since she could remember, Chloe had loved its rich, red brick, angular lines and solitary nobility. She imagined a warren of rooms, quirky and dishevelled, faded but comfortable, and not in the least likely to attract the man who swept his jacket over her shoulders as they hurried from the car. Surely a man who could command this type of house as a rental wouldn’t be prepared to settle for her cottage.
She leaned into him as thunder crashed around them and Nathan searched his pockets for the door key. Accompanied by a lightning flash, he pushed the key in the lock while his other hand found the small of her back. With a gentle push, she was in a huge, welcoming atrium, dripping water over limestone tiles as the storm demonstrated its power by lashing the high windows on either side.
While Nathan slipped his sodden jacket from her shoulders, she fell into estate agent mode, registering the spacious interior with its bright, contemporary feel juxtaposed with lush furnishings and mouth-watering antiques.
Then his hand was on the small of her back again, steering her toward the polished oak staircase with its rich, red carpet. “Excuse me, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Showing you the bathroom.”
They were halfway up the stairs before Chloe thought to wiggle free. “I don’t need the bathroom,” she protested. “Just give me a towel and let me call a taxi. I have to get home, I’ve things to do.”
“I’ll take you as soon as the storm clears.” He pushed open a solid oak door and stepped back. “There’s fresh towels on the rack, and if you’re bashful there’s a robe behind the door.”
She might have let it go if he hadn’t flashed her that grin. “I have no intention of wearing a robe.”
“Suits me.” The grin widened. “How do you like your eggs?”
“I don’t… Look, I don’t want a shower and I don’t want eggs.”
“Fine. Take a bath if you prefer.” Nathan was already halfway along the landing. “I’ll see if I can rustle up some porridge.”
As he headed down the stairs, Chloe ordered her chest to loosen. She’d had plenty of experience handling men who didn’t take no for an answer, but this one’s ears seemed permanently blocked. What she should do was stick to her guns and tell him exactly what he could do with his bath and porridge, but the warmth of the house was shifting into her bones, and she didn’t relish the prospect of venturing back out to brave the elements. Besides which, she would probably have to wait until the storm eased before a taxi would tackle the minor roads of Sharp’s Point.
And a shower would be wonderful. Shuddering, she peeled herself out of clammy running gear, draping each item over the radiator in the faint hope they would dry by the time she had finished.
Of course they didn’t, and fresh from the shower, she slipped on the robe, tugging the belt tight and rolling the collar high around her throat. She tested her damp underwear. If only that had dried out.
She was perfectly decent, she assured herself, heading down the stairs toward where the heavenly smell of bacon wafted through the air. But when she entered the kitchen and Nathan’s gaze skimmed over her, she felt anything but decent.
She pulled the toweling fabric higher around her throat, almost strangling herself in the process, while she clutched the ball of wet clothes to her like a precious child. What was it about him that made her feel so off centre? What was it about his scrutiny that made her feel so naked?
“See you opted for the robe.” He gave her another quick once-over, his mouth curving as he turned back to the cooker and flicked something from pan to plate. “I couldn’t find any oats, so maybe you’ll change your mind about the eggs.”
Now that he had his back to her, she could scrutinise him. That was a big mistake. Her gaze fell across the broad shoulders beneath a fresh grey tee shirt, and the tight butt encased in dry jeans.
His hair was damp and slicked back, his bare forearms tanned and muscled. The easy, relaxed way he moved around the kitchen made her think of a gypsy. Which was ridiculous, of course. He was every inch the civilised, controlled businessman.
Was there anything more dangerous than a civilised, controlled man with the edge of gypsy about him?
The image flashed through her mind. She could see him at sea, the gypsy soul unleashed as he pitted himself against the elements, power whipping through him as he took control of his boat—or the woman in his bed…
Where had that come from?
Panic escalated as he turned and she was caught in the heady pull of that ebony gaze. Just what did she think she was doing? With a relative stranger, in a strange house, half-naked, and her heart thumping like a boxer’s fist against a training ball.
Okay. So he was attractive. Ridiculously so. It was no reason to feel so vulnerable.
“Sit.” He slid scrambled eggs onto a plate and placed it next to platters of bacon, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes on a rectangular oak table that ran almost the length of the kitchen.
She gave the bundle of clothes a little shift. “Can I dry these?”
“Of course. I’ll take them.”
“No.” She snapped the bundle against her chest. Good Lord. The man wasn’t about to get his hands on her wet underwear. “I can do it.”
With an easy tilt of his dark head, he motioned her to the utility room. “Help yourself.”
Chloe set the drying cycle to twenty minutes, and if the clothes were still damp after that, she would jolly well wear them if it meant getting home sooner. She didn’t want to be here. No, correction. She didn’t want to be here with him.
Back in the kitchen, and choosing the chair farthest from his, Chloe gripped the edges of the robe as she sat.
She sniffed appreciatively at the coffee he handed her, then sipped. “It’s the first time I’ve been in this house,” she said, looking around the kitchen and avoiding the thick, damp hair falling across his forehead that made her think of a gypsy again. “I have a couple of buyers who would jump at the chance of a house like this. Those same buyers would have been interested in the old white house on the other side of the cliff, but that’s being demolished by your company.”
Nathan obviously picked up on the sneer in her voice. “I take it you don’t approve.”
“It just seems a shame to me. I mean, that old house has been there since I can remember, and it’s like a landmark. This marina complex is great for the town, but we have to keep some of the old places, otherwise Cleeve Bay will lose its character and traditions.”
He folded his arms. “Some people would call it progress. A lot of those old places are falling down
anyway. It makes perfect sense to replace them with properties more user-friendly and economical to run. In your line of work, you must appreciate that.”
Which was true, of course. The sale of her cottage to Poseidon and the purchase of her new premises had assured her the sole agency to sell those user-friendly and economical-to-run marina apartments. “I do appreciate the need for progress. I don’t necessarily believe that progress has to be at the expense of tradition. Surely there’s a way for each to exist alongside the other?”
“Ah. A traditionalist.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Chloe stiffened in defense. “Tradition grounds people, makes them feel secure. Knowing something solid and timeless will always be there is comforting. Whatever else is ripped away, whatever else happens, it will always be there.”
That little patch of earth in the back garden popped into her head, the patch where she had planted two rosebushes. A pink rose for her mother, a white one for her father. They had planted them, her grandmother and she, on the first anniversary of her parents’ death. Each year those roses blossomed—and kept her rooted.
Chloe cleared her throat, willed away the tightness there. She would carefully dig those bushes up, she decided, and take them with her. She could plant them in big pots and keep them on the small balcony of her new flat over the shop. No problem.
“Is that why you kept the cottage after your grandparents died? Because you like old things?”
“Partly. But I’ve lived there since I was eleven. My grandparents looked after me when I lost my parents.” Since she wasn’t used to spilling out personal details to perfect strangers, she decided to turn the tables. “So, what exactly do you do at Poseidon Holdings?” Obviously something to warrant a house like this.
An uncomfortably long silence followed. “Troubleshoot, mostly.”
“Does that mean the rumors are true?”
“What rumors are those?”
“That Poseidon might be pulling out of the development. I believe I heard the word “embezzlement” bandied about at one stage.”
