Outbid by the Boss (7 page)

He had never met a woman like her.

At lunch, when he told her he wanted to spend more time with her, he was speaking the truth. She did not have the elegant beauty and perfect demeanor of the women he had had relationships with in the past, but not one of them had ever affected him the way this stubborn, warm, talented woman had. It occurred to him that perhaps the reason she could spot the genuine article was because she
was
the genuine article.

Maybe that was why she had made that disastrous detour to the auction. It was incredibly rare to see a piece by such a fine silversmith. In the past, of course, if one had come on the open market, the family would swoop in and buy it back often using a third party. But this one had appeared so unexpectedly, he’d been caught off-guard. Funny that Sam should be the one bidding against him. Was it professional interest, he wondered, or something closer to home?

Chas frowned.

Sam knew as well as he did that provenance was an important part of their business. Knowing who owned a piece and when, could ratchet up the price tremendously. But the auction house had been unable to trace the candlestick’s history.

Make that recent history, Chas reminded himself.

So where did Samantha Redfern fit in?

Stifling a yawn, Chas got to his feet. There was nothing more he could do tonight. Burton Park had stood unscathed for centuries; it was a glorious swath of land and wood and it would still be there when he woke up in the morning.

Pity it had to go.

His mother would rail against him selling his birthright. But that was no longer any of her concern. When he'd come of age, Chas had added to the divorce settlement Sylvia Porter, now Harker, had received from his father. He totally understood her decision to put as much distance as possible between herself and her first husband. Since then he had refused her continued financial requests.

But enough of that for now.
In the morning, he would make amends for being less than forthright with Sam; he would show her around the estate, and maybe even take her for a ride.

And then they would have a chat.

About candlesticks.

And all things Samantha Redfern.

It was no use, thought Sam, she couldn't sleep. The cup of tea and two shortbread cookies Mrs. Weekes had brought up to her, had taken the edge off her hunger, but that was not enough to keep her going through the night. Plucking her cashmere shawl from the foot of the bed, Sam wrapped it around her shoulders. The thin nightgown she wore would be no match for the cool night air.

A soft breeze was ruffling the curtains. Sam padded over to the window and snugged the lock down on the casement.

The sun had long disappeared beneath the horizon but in its place, the moon cast its own particular brightness across the fields. So different from the hustle and bustle of the city, thought Sam. An owl hooted in the distance. For a girl who had grown up in a two-bedroom clapboard house, Porter Hall was the stuff of dreams.

Or was it nightmares?

As she turned, she caught sight of her own reflection in the dressing table mirror, soft and wide-eyed with the candlestick in the foreground. It looked at home on the dressing table, thought Sam, probably because when Porter Hall was first built, there would have been no electricity or gas.

She had originally set the candlestick atop the ornate fireplace on the far side of the room but that had made her feel sad. If her grandmother had remained in service instead of abruptly
emigrating
to Canada, it would have been someone like her who cleaned the hearth before the sun was up and tended the fire at night.

Sam frowned.

Romance for one meant hard work for someone else.

Like Mrs. Weekes.

Remembering the promise of a plate of sandwiches downstairs, Sam was suddenly quite ravenous. 

She went to the door and gingerly turned its handle. Grateful, it didn’t squeal, Sam looked up and down the dark hallway. The moon shining in the window at the end of the corridor cast long, distorted shadows. Telling herself not to be such a ninny, Sam stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

And felt the familiar tingle of childhood, sneaking about in the dark, tiptoeing past her grandmother's door barely able to suppress the giggles as she and her best friend went on a midnight raid. Knowing that her grandmother likely knew exactly what was going
on, never lessened the adventure.

As she glided down the half-lit corridor, Sam felt such a frisson of excitement that when her stomach gurgled, she froze and then laughed at her own folly.

Thirty-one-years-old and as giddy as a schoolgirl.

She skipped down the main staircase. The flagstone floor was as cold as ice. She sprinted to the thick carpet a few steps away and followed its path.

Had Mrs. Weekes said the second door on the right?

Or the left.

Left.
A strip of light showed ahead; the door was ajar. Sam pushed it open with the tips of her fingers and peered around the corner.
Definitely the dining room.

And, on the sideboard, a platter full of sandwiches under a glass dome.
And...
Sam's nose twitched...there was coffee.
And a carafe of tea, of course.

She started with a cup of coffee and then quickly scoffed two ham and cheese sandwiches. The bread was fresh and well-buttered, the ham thickly sliced and the cheddar was old and sharp and left a trail of crumbs.

She studied the plate while she ate. The display of sandwiches was uneven; someone had been here before her.
Chas most likely.
She topped up her coffee. He was probably brooding
somewhere about the castle or maybe walking the parapets, whatever they were. Not that she had any interest in seeing him.

She set her cup down and reached for an egg and cress, nibbling carefully as she strolled about the room. Three enormous windows, or maybe they were French doors, dominated the far wall, draped from floor-to-ceiling in a pale yellow silk with repeating peacock designs. All fourteen dining chairs were covered in the same material and placed at precisely the same distance from the perfectly polished mahogany table. The centre of the table was dominated by a huge silver epergne showing a scene with elephants carrying rajas while servants waved fans. It had probably been acquired during the India trade. Smiling wryly, Sam wondered if it had been acquired as a symbol of the family’s growing social status. During her years in the fine art business, Sam had seen many beautiful pieces and visited all the museums and estate houses she could, but never had she been in a private home like this.

She was slightly awed. Make that incredibly awed.

The carriage clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight as Sam swallowed the last of her coffee, belatedly wondering if it was decaf.

Regardless, it was time for bed.

But not before she had one last look around.

A rosewood cabinet with brass fittings drew her eye. It was not unlike a piece which had come up for auction in London last spring stood in the far corner of the dining room, its delicate lines almost lost in the shadows.

Furniture wasn't Sam's forte but she recognized the cabinet as either Regency or Georgian. Up close, it was even more exquisite.

The key was in the lock.

It was solid brass. As was the escutcheon plate behind it.
Which, on closer inspection, proved to be badly scratched.
If a servant had been responsible for such carelessness, they would have been dismissed on the spot.

Curious, Sam reached for the key. It felt warm in her hand. She turned it to the right and heard the snick of the lock a split second before she heard the voice behind her.

"Looking for something?" drawled Chas.

Sam's head fell forward and she dropped her hand.

A perfect end to a perfect day.

She drew in a breath and turned round to see Chas leaning against the door jam. "This is becoming a bad habit," she said.

"Of mine?"
Chas quirked a black brow.
"Or yours?" He took a few steps into the room and paused, his face almost expressionless, only his eyes gleaming in the half-light.

A rush of heat suffused Sam’s face as she became suddenly conscious of the silky blue nightgown she wore beneath her shawl. That was
all
she wore beneath the shawl.
Which immediately slipped off her right shoulder.
Chas' eyes fell along with it coming to rest on her right breast.

Hidden by the thinnest of material.

Which was held up by the thinnest of straps.
Why
hadn’t she packed her pyjama pants and a t-shirt? Maybe because she’d expected to be alone in the climate controlled room of a five star hotel in New York, not confronting the mysterious lord of the manor in an ancient country house – at midnight. Sam fought a sudden hysterical urge to giggle. Instead, she tugged her wrap back where it belonged and held it tightly against her chest.

"I see you’ve finished your business," she charged.

Chas cleared his throat.
"For the moment."
The corner of his mouth twitched as he raised his gaze to meet her scowl. He advanced further into the room. "Do you know that before today I'd never seen you in anything other than a charcoal suit or a demure little black dress with
pearls.
And now this...not conventional of course, but I must say I approve."

The light from the sideboard threw his shadow across the room so that it lay at her feet.
Her bare feet.
Sam curled her toes in embarrassment. "Actually, I was about to leave."

"Finished poking about have we?" His eyes were almost black in the half-light.

Sam fought the flush of guilt but it was, as always, written all over her face. The set of his jaw showed her that he had seen, and correctly interpreted her reaction.

“I beg your pardon?” Sam asked, feigning innocence. “I just put the key back in. It had dropped out.”

You'll never be a good liar, her grandmother had told her, clucking her tongue when Sam tried to get away with an extra cookie or when she was older, an illicit cigarette. Her complexion was a telltale she had inherited from her mother, a slight flush that would start at the base of her neck and rise to the roots of her hair.

Chas Porter was a completely different judge.

“This cabinet,” she cleared her throat, "it's rosewood, isn't it? Like the Regency cabinet we have coming up for auction next month."

"You've broadened your area of expertise." Chas moved closer.

Sam picked up a hint of whiskey. Chas still wore the oxford cloth shirt he'd had on earlier. There was not an after shave, nor cologne nor musk in a bottle that could compete with the intoxicating scent of warm cotton, male testosterone and well-aged whiskey.

Her own breath, on the other hand, was ragged. 

Sam shrank back. In London where the Chas Porter she knew neatly fit into everyone's perception of an unemotional, cold, calculating yet devilishly handsome boss, it had been far easier not to see the intense reality of this man.

The brass key nudged into the small of her back.

"I…I haven't actually agreed to work with you yet," she stammered.

Chas head cocked to one side. "I don't remember you having any choice. Slight thing with that candlestick we were both after. We really must talk about that. The silversmith’s wife was equally talented as I recall."

He moved in still closer, and his scent became stronger. Her heart was speeding up. The air between them had thickened with the silence between their words.
The sound of their breathing.

Sam nodded,
her mouth suddenly dry. "Hattie," she whispered. "Her name was Hattie. She specialized in small work, teaspoons,
buckles."

Chas ran his hands gently over the gleaming wood of the cabinet. "You do know your history, don't you?" His lips barely brushed the top of her hair. "Only the inlays are satinwood by the way," he murmured tracing the fine grain of the wood with his fingertip, "the carcass is rosewood. Superb craftsmanship, don't you think?"

He was so close,
Sam could feel the heat coursing through her veins.

She had goals and dreams and an agenda he mustn't know about; getting involved with Chas Porter was not an option. Not now.
And not ever.

Despite the temptation.

And the nearness of his mouth as he bent his head towards her.

With a fierce will, she ducked under his arm.

A mixture of disappointment and relief rolled over her when he didn't press his suit. Yet neither of them made a move for the door.

Chas swung around to face her.

She stepped back, clasped her shawl with her left hand and steadied herself with her right, resting it on the curved back of a nearby chair. "You must be really tired," she said desperately, "after everything that happened today..."

"Do you mean the strain of your embezzlement or the destruction done to my car?" The chill had crept back into his voice, but Sam was determined to broach the subject. If she didn't, it would be hanging out there for them, not that she expected to be with Burton-Porter much longer.

"Actually," Sam said, "I wanted to say I was sorry if my behaviour didn’t seem entirely professional."

Her apology was met with several long moments of silence.

Sam gnawed her lower lip.

The next few words out of his mouth might very well determine her future.

"You do realize you'll have to make good those losses," said Chas. He moved into the light and she could see that his eyes weren't cold at all. In fact, he almost looked feverish. "On the other hand, you could just marry me."