Читать книгу The Tycoon's Instant Family - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

IT WAS deathly quiet on the site.

Well, it would be, Georgie thought philosophically. She’d sent all the workmen home days ago, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she couldn’t sleep at night for worry, she wouldn’t have been here either, but she had nothing else to do and she’d cleaned the house to within an inch of its life since her father had gone into hospital, so she’d come down to go over the figures—again!—to see if there was a magic trick or two she’d missed.

There wasn’t.

She propped her head on her hands and sighed, staring out over the deserted site to the sea. No magic tricks, no way out, just the bank about to foreclose and her father’s health in ruins.

Not to mention her dreams.

She stood up and pulled on her coat. Sitting here was achieving nothing. She might as well check the buildings, make sure there hadn’t been any vandalism. She reached for the obligatory hard hat and wrinkled her nose. She hated the hat, but rules were rules.

Archie was at her heels, his stubby tail wriggling with enthusiasm, and his cheerful grin made her smile. ‘Come on, then, little man. Let’s go and check it all out.’

She shut the door of the site office, crossed the site in the biting March wind and unlocked the side door of the main house—the door that, without an unprecedented stroke of luck, would never now become her front door.

They climbed the stairs together, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness, Archie’s toenails clattering on the wooden treads, and finally they emerged into the room at the top of the big square tower. It wasn’t huge, but it was her eyrie, the room she’d hoped to have as her bedroom, with windows on three sides and the most stunning views over the bay and far out to sea.

It was also the best place to view the site, and she stared down over the mangled earth, the pegged-out footings, the half-finished coach-house conversions, the sanatorium as yet untouched, the chapel almost completely concealed by the trees that had grown up to surround it.

So much to do, so much potential—such a waste. Even if Broomfield came up with the money, the design was inherently flawed and horribly over-developed.

‘In your opinion,’ she reminded herself sternly. ‘You aren’t the only person in the world. Other people are allowed a say.’

Even if they had no vision, no imagination, no—no soul, dammit. She turned away in disgust, and her eye was caught by a lone figure standing on the edge of the lawn below the house, staring out over the sea.

‘Who’s that, Arch?’ she murmured, and the dog, picking up on her sudden stillness, flew down the stairs and out of the door, racing off across the site, barking his head off.

Rats. The last thing—absolutely the last thing—Georgie needed this morning was a visitor. She’d got yet more phone calls to make, because unless she could screw some kind of sensible answer out of Andrew Broomfield by the end of the day, the bank was going to take them to the cleaners.

Big time.

And now, she realised, running down the stairs after the dog, she had some random stranger wandering around all over her site, uninvited and unannounced, and the place was a minefield. The last thing—the other last thing, in fact—that she needed at the moment was someone slapping a lawsuit on her because he’d tripped over a brick!

‘Archie! Come here!’ she yelled, but the wind caught her voice and anyway, Archie had better things to do. The little terrier was on his back, legs in the air, having the tummy-tickle of his life, and obedience wasn’t remotely on his agenda. Knowing when she was beaten, she switched her attention to the man. Maybe she’d have more luck there.

‘Excuse me!’

He straightened up, to Archie’s disappointment, and turned towards her, his expression concealed by the wrap-around designer sunglasses shielding his eyes. They didn’t hide the smile, though, and her heart did a crazy little flip-flop in response.

‘Good morning.’

Oh, lord, his voice was like rough silk, and her heart skittered again.

‘Morning.’

It was the only word she could manage. She took the last two strides across the mangled drive, scrambled up beside him on the lawn and tilted back her head, one hand clamped firmly on her hard hat.

He towered over her—not that that was hard. If only he’d been on the drive, she could have positioned herself above him on the lawn; even that slight advantage would have helped, she thought, but then he peeled off the sunglasses and she found herself staring up into eyes the colour of rain-washed slate, and her breath jammed in her throat.

No. Flat on his back he’d still have the advantage. There was just something about him, something very male and confident and self-assured that dried up her mouth and made her legs turn to jelly.

If he was a representative of the bank she was stuffed. The last man they’d sent from the bank had been small and mild and ineffectual and she’d managed to bamboozle him with one hand tied behind her back.

Not this one, in his soft, battered leather jacket and designer jeans, with his searching eyes and uncompromising jaw. This one was a real handful. Well, tough. So was she, and she had more riding on it. If he was from the bank, she’d take him by the scruff of the neck and show him exactly why they needed so much money—and he’d listen. She wouldn’t give him a choice.

Anyway, he couldn’t be all bad, because Archie was standing on his back legs, filthy front paws propped up on that expensively clad thigh, his tail going nineteen to the dozen as he licked furiously at the hand dangling conveniently in range, the fingers tickling him still.

There was a possibility, of course, that he could just be an idly curious member of the public. She straightened her shoulders, slapped her leg for the dog and sucked in a breath.

‘Can I help you? Archie, come here!’

‘I don’t know yet. I was just having a look round—getting a feel for it.’

The tension eased, replaced instantly by irritation. The idly curious were the bane of her life, and this one was no exception. Even with those gorgeous eyes.

No. Forget the eyes. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t just look round without reporting to the site office,’ she told him firmly. ‘Archie, here! Now! There’s a sign there forbidding people to walk about the site without authority. Visitors must report to the site office on the way in. You can’t just crawl about all over it, it’s dangerous—!’

‘Don’t tell me—you’re the health and safety official,’ he said, that beautifully sculptured mouth twitching with laughter, and she felt her brows climb with her temper.

‘No—I’m the site agent, and I’m getting heartily sick of people wandering about on my site as if they own it! Why is it that everybody treats building sites as public open spaces?’ she continued, warming up to her pet hate. ‘This is private property, and if you refuse to follow procedures, I’ll have no alternative but to ask you to leave—’

‘That may be a little hasty,’ he said softly.

‘You think so?’ She raked him with her eyes, then met that cool, steely blue gaze again with mounting anger. ‘Well, I’m sorry, we don’t need you suing us, so if you won’t comply with site rules, you’ll give me no choice but to ask you to leave my site before you hurt yourself.’

‘Your site?’ His voice was mocking, and she had to struggle with the urge to hit him.

‘That’s right,’ she retorted, hanging on to her temper with difficulty. ‘Mine. Now, are you going to do this the easy way, or am I going to call the police?’

His head shook slowly from side to side, and the smile which had long faded was replaced by a slow, simmering anger that more than matched her own. ‘Oh, I’m going nowhere. You might be, though, and hopefully taking your dog with you before he licks me to death. Now, I’m going to have a look around, and while I do that, perhaps you’d be kind enough to tell George Cauldwell I’m looking for him. Although I’m beginning to think I may have very little to say to him. The name’s Barron, by the way. Nick Barron.’

Uh-oh. The name meant nothing to her, but it was obviously supposed to and she was beginning to get a sinking feeling about this man. If he was looking for her father, then he might well be someone from the bank, although his jeans and leather jacket made that seem unlikely, but if not the bank, then who…?

‘He’s not here,’ she told him. ‘Are you from the bank?’

‘Not exactly. Will he be back today?’

Not exactly? What did that mean? She shook her head. ‘No. I’m his daughter, Georgia,’ she said warily. ‘I’m in charge while he’s—away.’

‘In which case, since you claim to be in charge, perhaps you’ll be good enough, in your father’s absence, to give me a guided tour of the whole development. If I’m going to be foolish enough to proceed with the purchase, I want to see every last square inch. In triplicate.’

The purchase? The whole development?

Oh, lord, what had she done? This project was the biggest development her father had ever taken on, and standing in front of her was the man who had the power to make or break them. And she’d just threatened him with the police!

Fantastic. For the last two months they’d been throwing money into the site, forging ahead with the conversions and making a start on the new builds, and all the time waiting for instructions and—most importantly—funds. They’d been trying to get to the point of another stage payment, but all the way along they’d been delayed by a lack of detail in the specifications. Although Broomfield’s company seemed big on ideas, they were miserably short on detail, and the devil, in this case, was certainly in the detail. With the clock running on the penalty clause, it was debatable whose fault it would be.

And now the man who could have been the answer to her prayers was right here in front of her, and if she hadn’t already screwed up totally, she wasn’t going to let him leave until she’d had a chance to put their side of it and hopefully secure his promise to clear their debts, at the very least.

But her first move had better be an apology—a good one. She forced herself to meet his eyes and her heart sank. He was clearly running out of patience, and his eyes were sceptical and filled with doubts—doubts she had to get rid of at all costs.

‘I’m sorry, I hadn’t been told anything about a buy-out,’ she confessed. ‘My father’s been in hospital for nearly two weeks, and I’ve been dealing with Andrew Broomfield—or trying to. He’s been avoiding me.’

‘I wonder why?’ he murmured.

She swallowed her pride. The first apology obviously hadn’t worked. She’d have to try harder, and she forced herself to hold his eyes.

‘Look, I’m sorry. I was really rude, I apologise. I’m not normally like this, but I thought you were just being nosy, so I took it out on you. We’ve had some vandalism and thefts on the site, so I’m a bit edgy when I’m here on my own—’

‘I look like a vandal?’

No, she thought, you look like an avenging angel, and this is going from bad to worse. She shook her head, closing her eyes and wondering if he’d still be there when she opened them.

He was. Damn. She tried again. ‘No, of course you don’t, but it’s been a rough day so far and I wasn’t thinking. Can we start again?’

For a moment he just studied her, then his face softened almost imperceptibly. ‘Sounds like it’s been a rough month.’

She laughed a little hysterically. ‘You could say that. Look, I’m really sorry. I had no idea you were taking it over, Andrew’s been really cagey recently. Of course you can see the site, I’d be delighted to show you round, but I do need to get you kitted out with a hard hat and you need to sign in, and maybe while we do that I can answer some of your questions.’

‘It sounds like you have more questions than I do.’

She gave a wry, slightly bitter laugh. ‘Only one that matters, and I guess that’ll have to wait. We’re owed a stage payment, and the bank’s beginning to get edgy. And I’ve just hit a brick wall with Andrew. Yesterday I got some garbled message about money in the pipeline, but nothing I can take to the bank.’

His lips tightened. ‘That may be my fault. I’ve been out of the country and I haven’t given him an answer yet.’

‘And I’ve done my best to put you off,’ she said heavily. ‘Oh, God, what a mess. I’ve sent the men home with nothing to do and I was going to have to lay them off at the end of the week because I couldn’t give them any instructions—’

‘I’m sorry.’

Her jaw dropped. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said, I’m sorry—that it’s been so difficult for you. I would have come sooner, but I’ve been in New York. I had them fax me the details of the deal when they came through, but to be honest I had no idea it was such a big site. We’ve acquired it as part of a company takeover, and I only saw the site plans this morning. Maybe I can give you some answers now, if you can spare me the time?’

She stared at him. She’d been that rude and he was apologising? ‘Of course.’ She nodded, but she didn’t really have any time, because she had things to do—not least getting back to the bank with this latest bit of news—once she had worked out what the news was! She checked her watch. ‘I can give you half an hour but I’ve got phone calls I have to make today, and footings that need to be marked out if I’m not going to get behind schedule,’ she said, but he shook his head.

‘No footings—and if you want this contract you can give me as long as I need, Ms Cauldwell. I don’t want another brick laid or footing dug until I OK it. You can make your phone calls, but that’s all. The rest of the day I want—and if I’m happy with what I hear, you get to keep the contract. If I’m not, you’re out. Either way, there are going to be changes.’

She opened her mouth, shut it again and shook her head. Lord, it got worse, not better! ‘I’ll make sure you’re happy, but I have to point out we’re on a penalty clause—’

‘Not if I stop you working. That would be unfair. Anyway, I don’t believe in penalty clauses, not if you trust your workforce. They shouldn’t be necessary.’

Her jaw sagged again. ‘Can I have that in writing?’

And to her utter amazement, he laughed. It changed his face completely, softening the harsh lines and crinkling the corners of his eyes and making them dance. And his mouth—that slow, lazy kick to one corner—

‘By all means. Perhaps we could start again?’ He stuck out his hand. ‘Nick Barron. It’s good to meet you, Ms Cauldwell.’

‘Please, call me Georgie,’ she said, putting her hand in his and wishing, just wishing she’d remembered to drown it in handcream that morning.

And then she forgot everything except the firm, hard grip of his hand, the warmth of his fingers and the sense of loss as he let it go.

‘Right. I suppose you’re going to want me to put on one of those silly hats and wear a badge that says Visitor or something.’

‘Something like that,’ she said, her heart pitter-pattering at his smile and completely forgetting that only a few minutes ago she’d been ready to kick him off the site! Well, she’d got one more chance with him, one last chance to sort out this sorry mess and emerge from it with her father’s dignity and business intact, and she had no intention of blowing it.

She straightened her shoulders, threw him a dazzling smile and gestured towards the site office. ‘Right, let’s go and get you kitted out and then we can start.’

It was amazing.

Nick stood on what in better days might have been a lawn, looking out over the sea and listening to the waves crashing onto the beach below. They were pounding the rocks of the sea defences, sending up great plumes of spray high over the prom, and the cold salt-laden wind was tugging at his hair and making him feel alive.

He laughed, just with the sheer exhilaration of the moment, and turned to Georgie, to find her watching him with a thoughtful expression on her face.

‘What is it?’

‘You love it too—the sea,’ she said slowly, as if it really meant something to her, and he nodded.

‘Especially at this time of year, when it’s wild and windy and untamed.’

She turned and stared out over the pounding waves, and a little shiver ran over her. ‘It scares me, but I can’t live without it. It’s dangerous and deceptive and wonderful and powerful and I wouldn’t live anywhere else if you paid me.’

‘So where do you live?’

She gave a rueful laugh. ‘In my father’s house in Yoxburgh at the moment, but it’s only temporary. I’m going to buy one of these when they’re finished. It’s one of the reasons I agreed to help.’

Turning his back on the sea, he returned his attention to the site, studying it and trying to get a feel for it, and he began to think Tory might be right to be so excited.

A once-lovely Victorian house sat at the top of the slope, majestic in a rather shabby-chic kind of way, with bay windows and French doors facing the sea, and because of the curve of the bay they’d catch the sun all afternoon. He swivelled. The plot ended at a high retaining wall that held the garden back above the under-cliff road. The wall was about waist high on the inside of the garden, but well over head high on the other side, giving privacy without interfering with the view.

And the view from all the rooms must be spectacular, he realised, studying it again, but as if that wasn’t enough, there was a square three-storey tower at the right-hand end, soaring up over the roof level of the main house, and the room at the top had windows on three sides.

It would make a fantastic look-out, a perfect place to sit and watch the ships going in and out of Felixstowe and Harwich further down the coast. There would be yachts, as well, and dinghies. He hadn’t been here for years, but he’d been brought up only thirty or so miles away and he knew from day trips in his youth that it was a popular spot for sailors. He could picture the races that would take place in the summer, hear the children playing on the beach below, dogs chasing sticks into the sea—

And he was a romantic fool.

‘Can we get into the house?’

‘Sure. It’s a mess—we’ve started stripping it out, so you have to look where you’re going—’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t sue you. I’m a firm believer in people making their own mistakes and taking responsibility for their own actions. The litigation culture we’re all getting into makes me livid. Whatever happened to common sense?’

Georgie snorted. ‘Tell it to my father’s insurers. They’d have hysterics if they could hear you talking.’

‘No, they’d probably agree with me—or their underwriters would.’

She laughed. ‘Maybe. Come on, we’ll go in this way.’

They went in through an open door at the bottom of the tower, their footsteps echoing in the empty rooms, loud on the bare boards, and he tried to concentrate on the building, but the pint-sized fireball beside him was demanding his attention in ways he hadn’t expected at all, and he was utterly distracted.

At first glance he’d mistaken her for a girl, but in here, without the sun in his eyes, he could see she was all woman. Not that the women he usually associated with would appreciate her charms. Oh, no. There was no urbane sophistication, no glitter and glamour and not a designer label in sight, but this small, energetic woman was so vitally alive she’d put all of them in the shade.

‘So what are the plans for this building?’ he asked, dragging his mind off the subtle curves he could barely make out under her oh-so-sexy luminous jacket.

‘Two apartments in the original house, and a small town house at this end with the tower, and then the extension is destined to be four more apartments. Come, I’ll show you. The tower’s wonderful.’

It was. It was everything he’d imagined and, as he’d thought, the view from the room at the top was spectacular. It was nearly as spectacular from all the principle rooms at the front of the house, as well, but as his guide took them down a corridor and into the rear extension it took a serious downturn.

This bit of the building was a much later addition, a dull rabbit-warren, the rooms small and uninteresting and not a patch on the front. He was much more interested in studying the way her hips swayed, the way she tossed her hair out of her eyes, and he could tell she wasn’t interested in this part of the building either. This whole later addition to the house needed flattening, frankly, and he couldn’t believe they weren’t going to do that.

‘Who’s the architect?’ he asked, cutting across a stream of facts that left him cold.

‘Oh. Um—a man my father’s never worked with before. He’s a friend of Andrew Broomfield’s, I believe.’

Nick nodded. That made sense. Another bad decision, taking on a friend to save money and ending up with a design without vision, cramming in as much profit-making potential as possible and losing the plot in the process.

‘Can you go over the plans with me?’

‘Of course. If you’re very good, I might even conjure up a cup of tea.’

‘Oh, I’m good,’ he murmured without thinking, and she looked away, but not before he saw her eyes widen and soft colour touch her cheeks.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ she said under her breath, and then, turning on her heel, she clomped out of the building in her ridiculous boots and vile yellow jacket, the little dog at her heels, and he followed her across the messy, stony site to the tin shed she called her office, feeling more alive than he had in years…

‘You mentioned a phone call,’ he said, and she wondered if she should tell him just how close the bank was to pulling the plug, or if she should spend a little more time getting him on-side and see if she could sweet-talk the bank for another day.

No. The time for that was over. ‘The bank,’ she said, and he nodded slowly and folded his arms, propping his long, beautifully proportioned body back against the wall and regarding her thoughtfully.

‘Are they pressing you very hard?’

She nodded. ‘We’ve had to pay bills and wages. Andrew said the money was coming—’

‘But it hasn’t, and you’re in the doo-doo?’

She felt her lips twitch. ‘You could say that. They’ve given me until close of business today.’

‘How much?’

‘Pardon?’

‘How much do you need now to get them off your backs and enable you to clear existing debts?’

She sat down at her desk a little abruptly. Was he seriously going to write her out a cheque for thousands of pounds just like that?

‘A lot,’ she said bluntly. She pulled the figures towards her, did a few calculations and turned, to find he was looking over her shoulder at the calculator.

‘Is that it?’

‘Roughly. For now,’ she said, and he nodded.

‘I’ll round it up a bit, give you some working capital and a bit of breathing room.’

She felt her jaw start to sag. ‘But I thought you were going to decide if we were to complete the build—’

‘I just did.’ He punched buttons on his mobile, spoke briefly to someone called Tory and handed her the phone. ‘My PA. Give her the details of your bank account,’ he instructed. ‘She’ll get the money moved before close of business today.’

She could hardly speak for relief. Her father was lying in hospital waiting for open-heart surgery, worrying himself senseless, the workforce had been fantastic but they were running out of patience, the bank had done all and more that could be expected of them, and she hadn’t drawn any salary for weeks.

With tears threatening, she gave Tory the details she needed, handed back the phone and stared hard out of the window.

‘Thank you,’ she said, and sucked in a huge breath. It was meant to steady her, but it turned into a sob, and after a moment of stunned silence he propped his hips on the desk beside her, pulled her head against his chest and rubbed her back gently.

‘Hey, it’s OK,’ he murmured.

She fought it for a moment, but the scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart were too much for her, and she gave in and let him hold her as the tension of the last few weeks freed itself in a storm of tears the like of which she hadn’t cried since her mother died.

Then, suddenly overcome by embarrassment, she pushed away, stood up and went outside, pausing on the steps and staring at the sea while she sucked in great lungfuls of the wild, salty air and felt it fill her soul.

It was going to be all right. It was. With Nick Barron on board, maybe the project would succeed after all and her father’s whole career wouldn’t go down the pan…

A tissue arrived in her hand, and she blew her nose vigorously and scrubbed her cheeks on the back of her hand. It was going to be all right. She wanted to scream it out loud, to run into the sea yelling it to the gulls screeching overhead—

‘Would this be a good time for that tea?’ he murmured.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ she said, turning to him with a smile that wouldn’t be held down any longer. ‘There’s a café round the corner—nothing fancy, no barista making designer bevvies, just good, strong filter coffee and the best BLT baguettes in the world. I reckon I owe you that at least—and I haven’t had breakfast yet.’

‘It’s ten to twelve.’

‘I know. My stomach’s well aware.’

He grinned, dumped his hard hat on the desk and held out his hand towards the door.

‘In that case, what are we waiting for?’