Outbid by the Boss (20 page)

Rising from the bath, Sam dried herself thoroughly, trying not to think about the feel of Chas' hands as he explored every inch of her. He had showered her with kisses and made her proud of her curvaceous physique, dismissing any of her shyness with his soft lips and firm touch. His love had unlocked her natural reserve, and for that she would forever be grateful.

Wiping the steam from the mirror, Sam took a long, hard look at herself. Same face, lightly freckled, same green eyes, thick auburn hair, and same determined chin. The dark shadows would disappear in time, but the heartbreak never would.

That she would have to live with, and she knew exactly where to start.

With the candlesticks.

Padding barefoot into the flat’s teensy bedroom, Sam grabbed a pair of leggings and a t-shirt from the chest of drawers, and quickly dressed. She dug through her shoulder bag for the eleventh candlestick, which lay carefully wrapped in the same scarf she’d used to carry it from the auction rooms to Porter Hall. It might have belonged at the house at one time, but it was hers now. She hoped that whoever had owned it before her, had had a happy life. Beyond the reach of Randolph Burton-Porter and his like.

With the utmost care, she carried it into the sitting room and set it on the mantel next to her most precious belonging. They were a perfect match. Tears stung Sam’s eyes. Despite all the grief she now felt, her journey had been a successful one. She knew where she came from, and how the candlestick had come to her family.

Chas had been wrong to accuse her of knowing what she was doing all along, but Sam did wonder if something she’d overheard in an unguarded moment when she was a child, had planted a seed that would one day lead her into the past. She sank into her one and only armchair and stared at the pair of candlesticks, finally united.

"You ride him any harder, he'll not thank ye," said George coming up behind Chas as he wiped the sweat from Damien's back.

Chas stiffened. The old man was right. The big chestnut loved to gallop, but Chas had driven them both faster and farther than usual.

"What brings you here?" Chas asked wearily, although he already knew the answer. The last time George had chugged his way up to the Hall on his old tractor had been the previous Christmas. This was all about Sam. In fact, everything was about Sam. Evelyn Weekes was barely speaking to him. John would tell him no more than he waited until he saw "the young lady" safely on the train. Even Max was mooning in his stall.

All because he, Chas “bloody” Porter was an arrogant idiot who'd just made a terrible mistake. So terrible, he'd driven the woman he loved out of his arms and out of his life.

When George cleared his throat, Chas tossed the damp towel into a corner. "You can't make me feel any worse than I already do, George, so just spit it out."

"Right then."

The old man pulled out his hankie and wiped his face. “I suspect you already know you’re a fool, so I won’t tell you again. The young lass came to see me the other day. Once she knew her Gran had worked at the Hall, she were terrified that one of them candlesticks had been stolen.”

Chas grabbed a brush and began grooming Damien’s flank. “My father told me it was.”

“He were just a lad when all that happened,” harrumphed George. “I can blame him for a lot of things, but not that. No one knew, you see. Another missing candlestick meant…”

“You don’t need to remind me,” snapped Chas.

“No, I don’t suppose I do.” George stepped forward and reached up to lay a gnarled hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Chas hung his head. He’d known George his whole life; there was no room in this conversation for stubborn pride.

“Why wasn’t I told the truth?”

“Your grandmother went to her grave shielding Grace and Paddy. If your grandfather, or even your father, had discovered their whereabouts, they’d have tracked them down. They were that vindictive. Don’t ye see, lad? What Paddy did was unthinkable in those days. He made your grandfather the laughing stock of the valley. The old man made Eugenie’s life a misery, I’ll tell ye, but she stuck to her story.”

“But why did she give them a candlestick?”

George dropped his hand. “Perhaps it were a bitter-sweet revenge for her husband’s betrayals. A bit of summary justice. Paddy and Grace were leaving the country. Eugenie gave them what little money she had for their passage,” the old farmer paused, his voice rough with emotion.
“Grace was the best friend your grandmother ever had. And that young lady is her granddaughter.”

“She’s better off without me.”

“Don’t be daft,” snorted George. “She tell you that?”

Damien whinnied and tossed his head. Apparently, he was in full agreement. “She might as well have,” Chas mumbled. Sam’s parting words had proven to him just how much he’d injured her, and himself, in the process. “I’ve tried calling her,” he confessed to George, “but her mobile’s turned off.”

“Then get in that fancy car of yours and go find her.”

Chas nodded, too embarrassed to reveal how little he knew about Sam’s life in London. She had a flat somewhere in Notting Hill, that much he knew, but without an address, he’d be wandering the streets like the lovesick fool he was. Besides, even before George’s kind counsel, Chas had made up his mind. His bag was already packed. He would drive down to London this evening, but he’d let Sam have her space tonight.

It was tomorrow he was worried about, wondering whether he’d be able to see her again without striding across the office, sweeping her into his arms and begging her forgiveness in front of the staff. He might not be as bad as his forefathers, but humble pie was best eaten in private.

Sam had decided the night before to stick to her normal routine. Shower, coffee, smart suit and out the door by eight. At exactly nine o’clock, she entered the hushed premises of Burton-Porter & Sons carrying an oversized leather briefcase. With her head held high and not a single strand of her glorious auburn hair out of place, Miss Samantha Redfern, senior silver appraiser and expert in her field, filled her lungs and strode on stage.

If she was aware of the curious eyes tracking her every move through the delicate porcelain and fine art discreetly displayed in the company showrooms, she gave no sign other than a polite nod or two in response to a colleague’s friendly hello.

Once inside her office, she went directly to her corner filing cabinet and unlocked the bottom drawer. She placed the briefcase inside the drawer and slid it closed. It locked automatically.

Proud to have made it this far, Sam staggered to her desk. She had just sat down when Mia appeared in the doorway carrying a steaming mug of tea. Today’s tights were striped, Sam noted
with awe, the perfect foil for Mia’s polka-dot sweater and Sam's black mood. “Long time no see!" trilled Mia, all wide-eyed innocence.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Who tipped you off?”

“My buddy, Cyril. You walked right by his newsstand without even saying hello. He sent me a text.”

Sam groaned. “Is there anybody in London who doesn’t know?”

“Are you kidding me?” Mia walked in, handed the tea to Sam and then perched on the edge of a cherry wood side table. “This is headline news. The company’s two most glamorous people shacking up together in a remote castle for days on end!” She frowned. “Hey! Wait a minute! Aren’t you supposed to look happy?”

Sam felt her lower lip quiver. “Don’t ask.” She raised the tea to her lips and took a tentative sip. If she could just get through the day, she would be okay. The job in New York was still hers for the asking. But Mia was such a romantic at heart, if Sam wasn't careful, she would burst into tears and that would be a disaster. “So, Mia,” Sam said firmly, “talk to me about anything but…you know who…” This was terrible; she couldn’t even say his name out loud without fear of breaking down.

“Right,” said Mia, taking her cue from Sam. “Um, nothing new on the social scene. But then when does that ever change… Miss Bossy Boots came back from New York like she was the only person who mattered…but you probably don’t want to hear about that either.”

Sam gave her a wan smile. “To be honest, I don’t really care. But I do need you to help me keep it together in front of..." she waved her hand about, "...everybody else.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You look great and besides, who needs a...” Mia’s brow creased. She jumped up and went to stand in front of Sam’s desk. “I know. We'll go to that Greek place for lunch. It’s really cheap…that’s not why I like to go there…but the food’s really good and Stavros is so cute…”

“You’re babbling, Mia.” And blocking my view, Sam was about to add when a deep male voice cut through her thoughts.

“Mia, can you give us a minute, please?”

A stricken Mia stared at Sam and then stepped aside to reveal the head of Burton-Porter & Sons standing in the doorway. “Miss Redfern,” said Chas. “Nice to see you back in the office.”

“Mr. Porter.” Without shifting her gaze, Sam caught a glimpse of Mia out of the corner of her eye, her head turning from one side to another like she was watching a match at Wimbledon. “Thanks, Mia,” said Sam, marveling at the steadiness in her voice, “I’ll take you up on that offer later.”

“Right,” said Mia still entranced by the drama unfolding in front of her.

Then Chas gave her the look, and the younger woman bolted for the door.

“Business, as usual, I see,” said Sam. She was glad that, like her, Chas had come to the office in full uniform. Perfectly tailored suit, crisp white shirt, silk tie and cuff links. She knew he was the same man beneath his business attire; in fact, she knew exactly what lay beneath his suit, but while he was wearing it and holding a sheaf of papers in his hand, she had a better shot at staying in control.

She pointed to the papers. “For me?”

She could tell her aloofness had caught him off-guard. His jaw tightened and his eyes changed hue, from the coolest of blues to glacier grey. The lines had been drawn. But he knew as well as she did that their private lives were on full display. Sticking to business was what they did best. Keep it professional was never more apt than today, thought Sam. Hopefully, her expression matched her resolve.

“The Manners collection. The curator is not happy with the insurance company’s evaluation. He’d like you to review the paperwork and submit an independent appraisal. End of day if possible.”

Sam held out her hand for the file.

Chas stepped forward, but when she grasped the file, he refused to let go. “Sam...I want to apologize and tell you how much…”

“Please, not now…” said Sam stiffly. “I couldn’t bear it.”

She tugged the paperwork from his hand. “I have a meeting later this morning," said Chas, "with a prospective client. And another this afternoon,” he added checking his watch. “I should be back no later than five.”

“The file will be on your desk.”

“That’s not what I meant, Sam, and you know it,” said Chas. She could hear the mounting frustration in his voice.

“That’s not what I meant either,” whispered Sam.

“Then what?”

When she didn’t respond, he spun on his heel and marched out of her office. Sam yearned to go after him and half-rose from her chair, but Mia had appeared out of nowhere chasing after Chas with a chit of paper. Sam watched him take it from her and after a cursory glance, shove it in his pocket. He’d barely broken stride.

She sat back down and wearily pulled the file towards her. It would be the perfect diversion for what was bound to be the most difficult day of her life.

It was nearly six when Chas strode through the deserted showrooms at Burton-Porter, hoping against hope that the Manners account had kept Sam so busy, she’d still be in her office. Waiting for him. He’d spent most of his afternoon doodling like a school boy while the client’s lawyer droned on about estate values and tax breaks. At the end of the afternoon, Chas saw that he had covered his notepad with pictures of Sam, on the terrace, in the window seat, sitting on the paddock fence.

He knew he had it bad, but never, ever had he sleep-walked through a meeting before, especially one with as much potential as this one had to swell the company coffers. It was another sign of how deeply in love he was with Samantha Redfern.

Just thinking about her made his heart race faster than a thoroughbred.

But the lights were out in her office.

Chas stood in the doorway, berating himself for thinking she’d be waiting for him. Just as she had when he’d driven back from London to find her tearing across the meadow to meet him. But this was not Porter Hall. And they were no longer an item. Either they repaired their relationship before it was too late, or they found a way to work together again.

He slung his suit jacket over his shoulder and loosened his tie. All he wanted to do was lean against the door jam, close his eyes and soak up the lingering scent of Sam's perfume. But that only made him realize how impossible it would be to spend his days this close to the woman he loved without holding her in his arms each night.

With a deep groan, he forced himself to face up to the one irrefutable fact. He couldn’t live without her; he didn’t want to live without her, and he certainly wasn’t going to.

Decision made, he headed into his office with renewed vigor, determined to make things right, no matter what. At least he had Sam’s address now, thanks to Mia. He’d call Sam first though, offer to take her out. Then beg her forgiveness. He’d even grovel if that’s what it took. Anything, if only she’d give him a second chance. But when he flicked the lights on and saw what was on his desk, the briefcase slipped from his hand. Sam was gone. And in her wake, she’d left a letter with his name on it, propped against two perfectly matched silver candlesticks.

He strode to the desk, grabbed the envelope and tore it open. Inside was her resignation, and regret, that she could no longer remain at Burton-Porter & Sons. Like hell, she couldn’t. Chas tore her letter to shreds, scooped up the candlesticks and stormed out of his office.