Читать книгу The Reluctant Tycoon - Emma Richmond, Emma Richmond - Страница 8

HER mind suddenly blank, her whole body empty, Sorrel whispered in shock, ‘Dying? But he can’t be. He looks so healthy.’

‘Well, that’s what it says in the article I found. The one you didn’t have time to finish reading at the dentist’s. Hang on a minute and I’ll read it to you.’ There was a momentary silence at the other end, followed by the rustling of pages and then Jen’s voice again. ‘Er, blah, blah, blah. Oh, yes, here we are. At the end of the article it says—although I have to admit it’s a rather odd statement,’ she commented with brief puzzlement. ‘It mentions some of his business dealings and that he’s recently sold off his finance company to the Americans, and, bearing in mind,’ she added, ‘that the article is over six months old, it then says that perhaps it’s not surprising he’s so successful as he’s riven by cancer.’

‘Cancer?’ Sorrel echoed, and the alarm and pity she felt seemed out of all proportion to the fact that she barely knew him. ‘Are you sure that’s what it says?’

‘Of course I’m sure!’

‘But it doesn’t make sense!’

‘Well, no, but that’s what it says.’ There was another small silence, and then Jen stated in what sounded like exasperation, ‘You liked him.’

‘Yes, I did, but please, please, don’t tell me that I have screwed judgement, that I—’

‘But you do.’

‘Not always,’ she defended.

‘Yes, Sorrel, always!’ Jen insisted.

‘But Garde’s not in the least like Nick,’ Sorrel protested. ‘You begin to make me feel as though I should suspect everyone!’

‘Not everyone.’ Jen sighed. ‘It’s just that—well, I worry about you, Sorrel. Go on, then, tell me about him!’

‘You don’t need to say it like that! He really isn’t in the least like Nick.’

‘Then what is he like?’

‘Oh, large, abrupt, derisive. Quite rude, in fact.’

‘And you liked him?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed defiantly. ‘He was—different. And I can’t believe he’s ill! He looks so disgustingly well!’

‘Perhaps he’s in remission,’ Jen murmured. ‘Is he going to let you do his gardens?’

‘I don’t know. I’m to see him again in the morning.’

‘But why go all the way to Wiltshire?’ Jen demanded worriedly.

‘Because I didn’t think Nick would have any influence down here!’ Sorrel stated crossly. ‘And the girl I was covering for at the garden centre is coming back on Monday,’ she added gloomily.

‘Oh, hell, I’d hoped she wasn’t coming back.’

‘So did I.’

‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. Does the job look hopeful? Although, if he’s dying,’ Jen murmured worriedly, ‘it’s probably best not to get involved. I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt again.’

‘I’m not intending to get involved! All I said was that I found him interesting!’ Anyway, even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there probably wasn’t going to be an opportunity to get involved. Sorrel quickly changed the subject. She didn’t want to discuss Garde further, she found. Not even with her sister. ‘How’s my nephew?’

‘In disgrace!’ Jen laughed, but Sorrel could still hear the underlying worry in her sister’s voice. ‘He pulled the wallpaper off the wall behind his cot and when I told him off, the little wretch just looked at me with his big blue eyes and said softly, “Oh, dear.”’

Sorrel laughed. ‘I seem to remember someone else doing that. Must run in the family.’

‘The difference being I got a smack!’

‘Mmm, I remember.’

‘When are you coming home?’

‘Oh, tomorrow, I expect. Give my love to the naughty one, and to your delightful husband. I should be back about five—and I’m all right. Really,’ she insisted. ‘Take care of yourself. Bye.’

Slowly replacing the receiver, she continued to stare at it for a few minutes. She didn’t want him to be ill. She couldn’t believe he was. But was that why he’d said he didn’t give interviews? Possibly. Once the article had come out…Anyway, she wasn’t likely to see him again after tomorrow.

Sorrel tried to stop thinking about it, about him. She swung her legs to the floor and went to have a shower and wash her hair before going down for something to eat. But her mind wouldn’t leave it alone. All that evening and long into the night she continued to think about him, and the next morning, driving out to the house, she continued to think about it.

He must have been watching for her, or maybe it was coincidence, but he answered the door himself before she even had a chance to tug at the old bell-pull. Then she realised that it wasn’t either of those things as the little dog they’d rescued the day before trotted out.

‘He got home all right, then,’ she murmured inanely.

‘One can only assume so.’ At her look of astonishment, he added brusquely, ‘He isn’t mine.’

‘Oh.’

‘He visits.’

‘Oh,’ she said again. ‘Have you, er, had a chance to look at the photographs?’

‘Yes. You’d better come in.’ Holding the door wide, he waited for her to step inside and then closed the door behind her and led the way to the study. He was having second thoughts about this. Overnight, he’d almost convinced himself that she’d looked calculating. But she didn’t. She looked almost as eager as the damned dog. She also looked surprised, as though she’d expected him to hand the portfolio back at the door.

Moving to sit behind the desk, he looked down at the album that lay in front of him. There was still time to change his mind. He glanced at her, trying, perhaps, to analyse a face that defied analysis, then returned his attention to the album.

‘Did you find anything you liked?’ she asked eagerly. Moving to stand beside him, she flipped over the cover. ‘They all show before and after…’

He stared at her.

‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, her face rueful.

‘Sit,’ he ordered.

Obediently turning away, she walked to sit in the chair she’d used previously. Her eyes on his strong face as he flipped the cover closed and began tapping a fingernail on it, she tried to see signs of illness, and couldn’t. He didn’t look thin, or pale, and certainly his hair wasn’t falling out—but then perhaps he hadn’t had chemotherapy. Or maybe it had grown again. Maybe he was now better. Jen had said that the article was over six months old. Certainly he looked really rather—well, rugged, she supposed. He was freshly shaven, and wearing an expensive-looking light grey, short-sleeved shirt with his long legs encased in clean jeans. There was an aura of strength, determination about him. No way did he look like a man who was dying.

The phone rang, and she gave a little start. Garde ignored it; when she couldn’t bear the intrusive ring any longer, she demanded, ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘No.’

‘Well, don’t you have an answering machine? Surely all this equipment isn’t just for show?’

He ignored her. The phone, thankfully, finally stopped ringing.

‘Did you see the letters of—well, praise, I suppose you could say, in the rear pocket?’ she asked him. Best to mention them and perhaps, hopefully, he wouldn’t notice that the last one was more than a year old.

He didn’t answer, but then he didn’t seem to answer anything he didn’t want to, including his phone. It seemed a funny way to run a business. If he had a business. She should have paid more attention to what Jen had been saying.

Holding his eyes for long, long moments, unsure of what message, if any, he was sending, she rushed into speech. ‘I rang my sister last night, to tell her about you. I’d asked her to try and get hold of the magazine I didn’t have time to finish reading in the dentist’s. It said you had cancer,’ she blurted.

Amazingly, he laughed. Derisively, admittedly, but still a laugh. ‘And that accounts for your worried air this morning?’ he mocked.

‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I was awake half the night thinking about it. I’m so sorry.’

‘No need to be,’ he said with an indifference that startled her. ‘It was a misprint.’

‘Misprint?’

‘Yes. It should have said I was driven by Cancer, the birth sign, not riven by it. The reporter was obviously into horoscopes. The printer or typesetter wasn’t.’

‘Oh,’ she commented inadequately, and then she smiled in relief. ‘I’m so glad.’

‘So am I,’ he agreed drily.

‘I didn’t think it made sense! It said you were successful.’

‘Did it?’ he asked with even more indifference.

‘Yes.’ Hiding a smile, watching his large, capable hands as he moved the album and began squaring papers on his desk, she felt comforted. Turning her attention to his profile, she decided that she liked very much what she saw. A strong, well-sculpted face. A man who made decisions and stuck to them. Perhaps. A man not given to small talk. A man who didn’t cheat? Someone who was perhaps slightly intimidating to anyone other than Sorrel—who was rarely intimidated by anyone.

‘Who took the photographs?’ he suddenly asked.

‘I did.’

He nodded.

‘You don’t believe I’m a landscape gardener, do you?’ she asked quietly. She’d often had this rather dubious response before.

‘I believe you know about gardens,’ he qualified.

With a little frown on her face, remembering his almost paranoia about secrecy the day before, she continued, ‘You don’t think I did the gardens in the photographs?’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. Yesterday,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘and even now, you seem to be implying that I might be something else. Is that it?’ Had Nick got to him? Had he somehow found out she was coming down here? No, he couldn’t have done. So why was Garde Chevenay being so suspicious? ‘I don’t understand why you seem to suspect me of ulterior motives.’

‘Your behaviour?’ he prompted.

‘But I’m always like this. Or do you mean because I turned up so unexpectedly? But that was because—’

‘I didn’t answer your letter—yes, you said.’

‘And I’m sure you’re quite capable of snubbing any pretensions I might have, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘It isn’t. Do you?’ he asked drily. ‘Have pretensions?’

‘No,’ she denied slowly and really rather worriedly. She had never thought she looked like a person on the make, and yet, this last year…

‘And now?’ he asked.

‘Now?’ she echoed in confusion.

‘Yes. What will you do now, Miss James?’

So he didn’t want her, she thought despondently. Why invite her in, then? Why prolong the agony? ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want me to do your gardens, I go away, back where I came from.’

‘To do what?’

Wavering between honesty and pride, she stated almost defiantly, ‘Whatever I can. I’ve been helping out in a garden centre for the past few months.’ There was no need to tell him she was no longer required, and, remembering why she’d been forced to eke out her existence in such a manner, and in no mood now to prolong a conversation about her work, or lack of it, she got to her feet. ‘Well,’ she added abruptly, ‘I’d better be going. I have a long drive ahead of me. It was nice to have met you, Mr Chevenay.’ Reaching out, she picked up her portfolio.

‘You no longer wish to do my gardens?’ he asked blandly.

‘Well, of course I want to do them! But you aren’t going to let me, are you? So there’s really no—’

‘Aren’t I?’

She just stared at him.

‘You aren’t the only one who grasps opportunities, Miss James.’ Without waiting for her to comment, he got to his feet.

‘You’re going to let me do them?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

‘Then why all the verbal games?’ she demanded. He must have known how much this meant to her. ‘If you knew when I came—’

‘I didn’t. I spoke to Mrs Davies,’ he added briefly as he led her out and back through the front door.

‘And that cemented your opinion, did it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘And she asked you to call her Davey.’

‘What shall I call you?’

‘Miss James,’ she said promptly.

He gave a small grunt of laughter. It sounded reluctant.

Irritated, she demanded, ‘Why do you want me to landscape your gardens? You didn’t yesterday.’

‘Perhaps I feel the need to keep an eye on you.’

She snorted.

‘Or perhaps I thought you needed the work.’

‘You don’t strike me as philanthropic,’ she retorted dismissively.

‘You don’t want to do them?’

Of course she wanted to do them! But he would want references, wouldn’t he? Any minute now he was going to ask for one. A man like Garde wouldn’t take on just anyone. She had hoped—naively, she knew—that she could convince him of her capabilities so that he wouldn’t ask. As she had hoped several times over the last few wretched months. And it had to be Nick behind it all, didn’t it? But how could she prove it?

Sorrel was still staring at Garde, her gaze blank, when she suddenly realised that he was waiting for an answer.

‘Yes, I want to do them,’ she confirmed quietly, and then thought she’d better say something else to explain the long silence. ‘I was just wondering why you hadn’t used a local firm. There must be some.’

‘There are. I even got a list of reputable landscapers. Countrywide,’ he added softly. ‘Your name wasn’t on it.’

Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? It had been taken off months ago. At Nick’s instigation.

‘You have references?’

No point in beating about the bush. ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I’ve never needed them,’ she stated defiantly. Until recently.

He nodded. ‘So what’s the procedure?’

‘Procedure?’ she echoed. Astonished that references had been dismissed so lightly, she opened her mouth to query it, then hastily closed it again. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Sorrel.

‘Yes,’ he agreed with a slight edge of impatience. ‘You make sketches? Dig holes? What?’

‘Oh, sketches. You can then approve, or disapprove, let me have your own suggestions. Some people know exactly what they want. Others don’t.’

‘Then you may do some sketches for my approval.’

‘Thank you. When would you like me to begin?’

‘As soon as possible.’

Staring out over the front garden, she wondered why she didn’t feel delighted. She should have done. Instead, she felt—wary. ‘I’ll need to know your likes and dislikes, whether you want trees, water features…’

‘I don’t know what I want. Be—inspirational, Miss James. You need to walk the course?’ he asked, and then cursed.

Startled, she looked ahead and saw a young man leap out of a car by the broken gate. He had a camera slung round his neck.

‘Who is he?’

‘Very good, Miss James,’ he mocked.

‘What?’ she asked in confusion.

‘Your bewilderment looks almost genuine.’

‘It is genuine! Why on earth would I—?’

‘He’s a reporter,’ he interrupted. Come to check up that his protegé had gained access? he wondered. Possibly. Probably. Irritated with himself, and irritated with her, he added harshly, ‘Just ignore him, and if he speaks to you don’t answer.’

‘But what does he want? Hey!’ she exclaimed in shock as a flash went off, nearly blinding her. ‘He just took my photograph!’

‘Gilding the lily,’ he muttered to himself. Ignoring the shouts for his attention, he directed her round the side of the house and out of sight.

‘Gilding what lily?’ she demanded in confusion.

‘It’s not important.’

Maybe not, but something was. ‘Will he follow us?’

‘No,’ he denied grimly. ‘Not if he values his equipment.’

‘But what does he want?’

‘To give me grief,’ he said dismissively. ‘You can use the utility room to store your tools or whatever,’ he added as he halted to survey the tangled wreck of his walled rear garden. ‘The gate at the end leads to a paddock—leased out to a local family for their horses. There’s a lower field for vegetables, and this way…’ He led the way across the broken terrace towards another wrought-iron gate that hung drunkenly by one hinge. ‘There are half-demolished greenhouses, an old brick storeroom and a rubbish tip that is currently in the process of being cleared. But all that need concern you at the moment is the front.’

‘And if you like what I do?’ she prompted.

‘Then you may do the back. I read something about parterres but, seeing as I wouldn’t know a parterre if I fell over one, the point is moot.’

She doubted it. She suspected he knew very well what a parterre was, and anything else she might mention. He looked like a man who knew a great deal about a great many subjects.

‘Come,’ he ordered, still tersely, as he led the way back to the rear door. ‘You’ll need a room for sketching in.’

‘I can do that outside or from the truck…’ she began worriedly.

‘Well, if you change your mind, you can use the old refectory,’ he murmured as he led the way back inside. ‘From when it was an abbey, of course.’

He threw open the first door on his left.

Stepping inside the long, empty room that echoed rather unnervingly, she stared round her. It was tiled in the same flags as the hall, but, unlike the hall, the room had yet to be restored. The arched leaded windows were uncurtained, the massive fireplace dusty. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in a long time.

‘I’ll get a chair and table put in here for you to work at.’

‘Thank you.’

‘There’s good light in here, and I imagine light is important for your sketching.’

‘Yes,’ she agreed as she walked over to the windows and stared out at the tangled rear garden.

He joined her. ‘Once the cloisters, I believe, or cloistery—I’m never sure if it’s singular or plural. There were other buildings originally—a chapel, sleeping areas, a dairy, a room where they made wine, stored their vegetables. There are still cellars…’

‘Yes,’ she agreed automatically as a sudden sparkle of light caught her eye. Sunshine reflecting off a piece of broken glass maybe, which reminded her of the reporter. ‘Why would he take my picture?’ she asked worriedly.

‘The reporter? Who knows? Keeping up appearances?’

Bewildered, she began, ‘What appear—?’

‘It bothers you?’

‘No-o,’ she denied slowly, ‘but he might think…’

‘We have a romantic interest?’ he asked derisively.

‘There’s no need to say it like that,’ she scolded. ‘Some people find me attractive.’

‘I dare say they do,’ he agreed flatly.

She gave a small grin. He didn’t sound as though he was one of them. ‘Like your women with full figures, do you?’ she asked tongue in cheek.

He looked at her, his eyes flat, unreadable. ‘I like them silent.’

She gave a small snort of laughter and returned her attention to the garden.

‘If the photograph is published,’ he continued, ‘is there someone close to you who might be—offended?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

Before she could ask him why it was good, he turned away and walked out, leaving her no choice but to follow. And, bizarrely, as though the room knew they had left, the door closed silently behind her. All by itself.

Staring at it, and then after the retreating Garde, she hurried to catch up with him. As though needing the reassurance of something solid, she trailed her hand across the uprights of the staircase and glanced up at the old maps decorating the rise to the landing. ‘You collect them?’

He didn’t answer. But then she hadn’t expected him to. No doubt it was a hobby, or something. What other hobbies did he have? Apart from taking on unknown landscape artists and allowing dogs to visit? ‘Do you really not believe I am who I say I am?’

He ignored her question, and she sighed. Subject closed? And why hadn’t he pursued the subject of references? He wasn’t a fool, so why take on someone—unknown? It didn’t make sense.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he ordered with the same indifference as he turned at the study door. ‘Just think of all that money you’re going to charge me.’

‘It isn’t the money,’ she denied quietly.

‘Isn’t it?’ he asked as he opened the door and indicated for her to go inside. ‘What else will you need?’

‘Need?’ she queried as she took two steps into the room and turned warily to face him.

‘Yes.’

‘Nothing until the sketches are approved.’

‘Labourers?’

She shook her head. ‘I usually do all the work myself.’

‘Accommodation?’

‘I’ll book myself into the little hotel where I stayed last night.’

He nodded. ‘An advance?’

Staring at him, feeling awkward—because she always hated this part, talking about money—for some silly reason her heart began to beat extraordinarily fast.

His regard was direct, penetrating, and those slate-grey eyes seemed to see into her soul. ‘Why have you been working in a garden centre?’

Avoiding his gaze, she mumbled, ‘Oh, well, you know, the winter and everything. People don’t usually start thinking about their gardens until the spring.’

‘It’s now summer,’ he pointed out drily.

‘Yes, well…’

‘Which presumably means your cash flow is—’

‘Non-existent, right,’ she interrupted staunchly. She still had a little in her savings account—what had been left from the sale of her house—but with rent and bills to pay for her tiny flat, it was being eaten away at an alarming rate. Her wages from the garden centre hadn’t been very much.

‘Then I’ll arrange to pay your bill at the hotel, and when you’re ready for any outlay—turfs, plants—let me know.’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘Why so troubled?’

‘I don’t know.’ And she didn’t, not really, but Jen’s words kept coming back to haunt her. Was she such a lousy judge of character? From wanting the job so badly, she now felt extremely troubled. Something just wasn’t right about this. ‘I didn’t expect…I mean, I thought I would be leaving today. That I wouldn’t see you again…’ With a funny little shrug, she added, ‘I’ll need to go home, get my things…’

‘When will you be back?’

She’d need a few days to get herself organised, do some washing and ironing… ‘Monday?’ she offered.

‘Monday’s fine.’

‘I do know what I’m doing,’ she insisted.

‘I hope you do.’ It sounded like a warning.

‘But what I don’t understand is why!’ she exclaimed.

‘No,’ he said unhelpfully as he stared down into her wide eyes, ‘I don’t suppose you do.’

‘And you aren’t going to tell me?’

‘Not yet. Don’t worry about it, Miss James,’ he mocked. ‘I thought they were green.’

‘Sorry?’ she murmured, beginning to feel almost mesmerised.

‘Your eyes. I thought they were green, but they aren’t; they’re blue with green flecks.’

‘Yes.’

He gave a small, slow, smile that held not a trace of warmth, and then he kissed her.