Outbid by the Boss (11 page)

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 explains 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 19
^th
-century. This old girl was definitely a Porter. She peered at Sam through hooded eyes, punctuated by a familiar hawk-like nose.

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.