by Penny Jordan
Charlotte stared at him. This wasn’t what she had expected. She had been waiting for Oliver to go all out to sell himself and his services to Mrs Birtles. Instead he was saying something about Charlotte’s having the advantage over him in local knowledge, and then he paused, as though giving her the opportunity to take advantage of her cue.
No, this wasn’t what she had expected at all. Where was the hard-driving, ambitious, unscrupulous sales technique she had expected? Where was the sharp cutting edge of the London-trained businessman?
Honesty had always been one of Charlotte’s strongest virtues. It niggled at her now, forcing her to confess to Mrs Birtles, ‘Lovely though your home is, I’ve got to admit I’ve never handled this kind of sale before.’ She looked instinctively towards Oliver as though seeking his support. ‘Mr Tennant is probably far better placed to advise you on the best way of achieving a sale.’
She saw a faint hint of respect tinging Oliver’s eyes. Had he really expected her to behave less professionally and honestly than he had himself? Now he spoke again.
‘To be honest with you, Mrs Birtles, this is a prestigious property, and would be best handled in conjunction with one of the agents who specialise in handling such properties on a countrywide basis.
‘As it happens, I know one of the partners in one of these agencies, and I’d be delighted to arrange for him to come down here and see you.’
‘No,’Mrs Birtles told him firmly. ‘My husband always believed in giving his business to local people and I have carried on that tradition.’
‘Well, then, in that case,’ Oliver said with a smile, ‘perhaps I could suggest that you appoint both Miss Spencer and myself as joint agents. That way you could have the benefit of our joint expertise.’
‘Joint agents…that’s a marvellous idea,’ Mrs Birtles enthused, while Oliver looked across at Charlotte, one eyebrow lifted as he awaited her comments.
Joint agents… That was the last thing she had expected him to suggest. There was a hard lump of emotion in her throat. Honesty compelled her to admit that he had probably far more experience in this field than she did herself, and he must know that, and yet he had still suggested a joint agency.
She swallowed and said huskily, ‘We’ll both do our best to obtain a good sale for you, Mrs Birtles.’
There were various arrangements to be made. The items to be sold would have to be catalogued. Charlotte had had experience of this while working for an auction house during her university holidays, and offered to take over this chore.
‘It will give me an opportunity to teach Sophy how to prepare a catalogue,’ she explained, when Oliver said quietly to her,
‘Cataloguing is a bit of a chore—are you sure?’
‘Sophy is working for you?’ He frowned.
‘Just on a part-time basis at the moment,’ Charlotte told him. ‘To fit in with the twins.’ Pride forbade her to add that Sophy’s job would be more temporary than she had planned if he succeeded in taking the major part of her business.
He was still frowning. ‘I shouldn’t have thought your business merited taking on extra staff at the moment.’
Mrs Birtles had left the room to instruct her housekeeper to bring them all some coffee, and so there was no one to overhear them as Charlotte forgot how grateful she had been to him not five minutes before and hissed bitterly, ‘What do you know about my business? For your information, until you decided to open up in this area—’ She bit her lip, suddenly aware of what she was giving away, but it was too late.
Oliver was saying softly, ‘You took Sophy on because you knew, if she didn’t have a job, she’d lose her home.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Charlotte denied. ‘I’m a businesswoman, not a charitable organisation.’
There was no opportunity for them to say any more because Mrs Birtles had returned.
After they had finished their coffee, Charlotte offered to drive over the following week to take the necessary measurements on a day when Mrs Birtles had informed her that the house would be empty.
When Oliver shook his head, Charlotte stared at him. Didn’t he trust her to do the job properly?
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come to an empty house, especially one that’s so remote,’ he told her calmly. When she started to object, he said quietly, ‘Yes, perhaps I am overreacting a little, but you forget, I’m from London. Few agents there can forget that Suzy Lamplugh disappeared after ostensibly showing a prospective client around an empty property.’
Charlotte stared at him, confused by the conflicting emotions she was experiencing. He was so compassionate, so caring, and she was so unused to this kind of protective concern from anyone, least of all from a man.
‘But I shan’t be showing anyone around,’ she told him when she had got herself under control and subdued the sudden rush of helpless pleasure his concern brought.
‘No, but you will be here alone. I’m glad you’ve taken Sophy on. Not just for her sake, but with two of you working together it should be much safer for you both.’
Charlotte opened her mouth to correct his misapprehension that she took Sophy with her when showing prospective customers around properties, and then closed it again.
Half an hour later, when they had completed a tour of the gardens, and Oliver offered to drive her back to town, Charlotte found herself agreeing easily and with a sudden sharp, exhilarating rush of pleasure.
She wanted to be with him, she recognised as he opened the car door for her. She wanted to be with him; she wanted to have him looking at her the way he was doing right now, smiling into her eyes and making her feel as though she were something fragile and precious, as though…
Stop it, she warned herself. Just because he’s being friendly, it doesn’t mean that… That what? That he found her attractive…desirable… What on earth was she thinking? Of course he didn’t.
He had kissed her, had held her. But he was a Londoner, a city dweller, sophisticated and worldly—kisses were common currency in his world and meant nothing.
Nothing at all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘IT WAS generous of you to suggest to Mrs Birtles that she appoint us as joint agents,’ Charlotte said hesitantly.
She had been conscious of the occasional glances Oliver gave her as he drove, and her own conscience prodded her now into thanking him for what he had done.
‘Not generous at all,’ he replied promptly. ‘Just good business practice.’ As though he had felt her stiffen and withdraw from him, he added easily, ‘You’ve got entirely the wrong idea about me, Charlotte. I have no intention of trying to usurp your place in the business community, but this area is growing fast, and I honestly believe there is room for both of us—’
‘You aren’t planning to stay here,’ Charlotte broke in. ‘You just want to drain the area dry while there’s a boom on, and then you’ll move out.’
‘No.’ His response was sharp and decisive. ‘It’s true that originally when my partner and I decided to go our separate ways I wasn’t sure if I could afford the luxury of a country office as well as one in London, but I like it here. I’ve decided to sell out my share of the London office. I know someone who’s keen to buy me out—for a very generous sum. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I wanted—’ He broke off to overtake a man on a bike, and Charlotte wondered what he had been about to say.
‘I’m tired of London life,’ he told her when he had successfully passed the wobbling bike. ‘I’ve reached a stage in my life when I want to put down roots, establish a firm base.’
Marry and have children, Charlotte wondered as her heart suddenly thumped frantically. But of course those were questions she could not ask. Instead she returned to a subject which was still plaguing her a little.
‘I’m not sure I’ve got the expertise to deal with a property like Mrs Birtles’.’
‘Don’t you want to do it?’ Oliver asked her.
Charlotte stared at him and then said firmly, ‘Of course I do, but I fel
t I ought to be honest with you…I don’t think it will be easy to sell. Even with the influx of London buyers. Had you thought of any kind of valuation?’
‘Yes,’ he told her, and named a sum that made her gasp a little.
‘As much as that?’
‘More,’ he told her crisply, ‘if it was sold to a group enterprise.’
‘A group enterprise?’ Charlotte faltered.
‘Mm. You know, one of these conglomerates that specialise in turning large old properties into desirable smaller units. The fact that it isn’t listed would make the necessary planning permission easier to acquire, of course.’
‘You mean destroy the house and build an estate,’ Charlotte fired up immediately. Suddenly all her pleasure in his company, in his treatment of her as an equal in matters of business, had turned to ashes in her mouth. She had thought that, like her, he had felt a genuine desire to find exactly the right buyer for the house—someone who would love and cherish it as it deserved to be loved and cherished—and now here he was casually talking about its destruction.
How wrong she had been. She could have sworn as she watched him gently smoothing his palm against the polished wood of the carved banister that he had felt the same way about the house as she had done, but it had all been just an act.
‘That’s sacrilege,’ she told him bitterly, and then added, ‘That was why you asked Mrs Birtles if it was listed, wasn’t it? Oh, God! Stop the car!’ she demanded furiously.
‘What?’
‘I want to get out—out of your car, and out of any joint selling agreement. I thought you felt as I do, that you wanted to find the right purchaser for the house, when instead—’
‘I do,’ he interrupted her ruthlessly, ‘but you seemed to be forgetting that our first responsibility isn’t to the house but to Mrs Birtles. It’s obvious that she is having difficulty maintaining the house now that her husband is dead. It’s her sole investment.’
Charlotte blinked at him, suddenly and shamingly aware of how much she had missed. She had seen the house and fallen in love with it, but now he made her remember the small touches of shabbiness she had seen but not really registered.
‘I suppose you’re saying that it will be much easier to find a conglomerate buyer than a private one.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed emotionlessly. ‘But that doesn’t mean that a private buyer isn’t possible. You know, you’d find life much less fraught if you learned to trust people a little, Charlotte. You’re always so ready to believe the worst of others.’
A dark flush stained her skin. His accusation was justified, but that didn’t make hearing it any easier.
‘I’m sorry if I misjudge you,’ she said stiffly.
‘Are you?’The look he gave her made her feel uncomfortable, guilty in some way. ‘I’ve got to go up to London for a couple of days, to finalise things with the buyer of my agency there. While I’m there I’ll have a word with a couple of people I know—see if they know of anyone who might be interested in the house, strictly off the record.’
‘I suppose the best thing will be to auction it,’ Charlotte suggested tiredly.
Oliver had ripped the veils of naïveté from her eyes. Every word he had said to her had been true. They did owe it to their client to get the best possible price for her, but she could not bear to think of the house being destroyed.
‘Possibly,’ Oliver agreed, and then changed the subject, saying, ‘I was wondering if it would be convenient for me to move my things into your place tonight, then I could get an early start for London in the morning.’
There was no real reason for her to object. It was crazy to feel suddenly as though the ground was falling away under her feet, as though she wanted to protest that things were happening far too fast for her, that she needed more time…
‘The men started work on the kitchen today,’ she warned him. ‘Everywhere will be in a bit of a mess.’
‘I only want somewhere to sleep tonight. And I’ll be gone early in the morning.’
They were approaching the town now, and after she had said quietly, ‘Very well, then, if you’re sure you still want to go ahead,’ he gave her a sharp look, but said nothing for a few seconds as he negotiated the traffic.
‘What will you do about your car?’ he asked her as he swung into the empty town square. There was no market today, and plenty of car parking spaces.
‘I’ll ring the garage and see if they can keep it going for me until the new one is delivered,’ she told him wryly.
‘Mmm. Well, you’re perfectly welcome to use this while I’m in London, if you’d care to. My insurance does cover other drivers.’
Use this? Charlotte stared at him, unable to believe her ears, and then said shakily, ‘Good heavens, I couldn’t possibly. What if anything should happen to it?’ She looked in awe at the immaculate upholstery and gleaming bodywork.
Perhaps he had heard the note of regret in her voice because, instead of accepting her refusal, he said easily, ‘It’s only a car, you know—and besides, I’ve every confidence in your driving.’
Charlotte looked at him. Was this all a part of the softening-up process Vanessa had mentioned, the deliberate and ruthless clinical sabotage of her defences?
This afternoon she had been stunned by his generosity, by his business ethics, so very, very different from what she had imagined. He had seemed so honest, so direct, so completely without any ulterior motive… Was she being too gullible, too trusting?
‘Look, I’ll leave you the keys and then it’s up to you,’ she heard him saying.
She protested uncertainly, ‘But won’t you need it…to get to the station?’
‘I’ll use a taxi. Much safer than leaving it in some station car park all day.’
He had stopped now. All she had to do was to get out, thank him for the lift and arrange for him to move in his things, and yet as she opened the car door she felt a sharp reluctance to leave.
Firmly quelling it, she got out. This was ridiculous. Any more of this foolishness and she’d be in danger of falling in love with the man.
Falling in love… She froze as the shock of it iced through her. Falling in love with a man like Oliver Tennant. She couldn’t be so foolish, could she? Could she…?
Could she?
Unaware of the way Oliver was frowning after her, she got shakily to her feet and headed for her office.
* * *
‘Well, come on. How did it go?’ Sheila asked her excitedly.
Almost absently Charlotte explained how they had been appointed joint agents.
‘Well, I must say that was very generous of Oliver Tennant,’ Sheila approved.
‘Yes,’ Charlotte agreed vaguely, unaware of the look of concern that crossed the older woman’s face at her lack of enthusiasm. Her insides felt like jelly. She badly wanted to crawl away somewhere where she could be alone to sit and think. In love with Oliver Tennant… It was ridiculous. It couldn’t be possible. She had only seen him on half a dozen or so occasions. And there had never once been anything in his manner towards her to encourage such crazy emotions.
She tried to remember if she had felt like this when she had first met Gordon. But that had been different. Their relationship had grown slowly. Their decision to get engaged had been made after a good deal of mutual consideration of their aims in life, and then, when she had told Gordon that she intended to give up her London career to return home, the ending of their engagement had come after equally mature discussions.
Never at any time had Gordon made her feel the way she felt when she was with Oliver.
Without knowing she had done so, she had linked her fingers together, gripping them tightly as she tried to fight off the immensity of her despair. If only she had realised what was happening to her before she had agreed to take him as a lodger. How on earth was she going to endure living so intimately with him?
She would just have to endure it, she told herself firmly. After all, it would not be for long. Six months. Six mont
hs… It had taken her far less than six weeks to fall in love with him. She could only pray that her love was of the virulent and short-lived type that would quickly burn itself out like a tropical fever. It was so out of character for her to feel like this…so…so unsuitable and indignified. She was a businesswoman who had long ago recognised in her lack of sexual appeal the enormity of the barrier between her and the things she had once wanted from life: a husband, children, the kind of family life she herself had craved as a child and never had.
Equally she had recognised the danger of allowing herself to believe that her idealised daydreams of that kind of family life were anything other than exactly that; relationships, marriage, children—all required a one-hundred-and-fifty-per-cent input from all parties concerned, and even then they so often failed.
How long ago was it now since she had first consoled herself with the knowledge that she was probably better off on her own, that she had a good life, good friends…that she had the enjoyment of her friends’ children without the heartaches…that, with her own lack of a strong physical response to those men who did ask her out, it was probably just as well that the romantic, idealistic side of her nature made it impossible for her to settle for a relationship which could not match up to her ideals?
Now, when she had long ago accepted that the kind of man she had once dreamed of did not exist, she had met him…or was she simply allowing herself to be blinded to reality? Was Oliver Tennant the compassionate, caring man he seemed, or was Vanessa right? Was he simply going to use her for his own ends?
‘Did you have a word with Oliver about Dan Pearce, to see if he had appointed him?’ Sheila asked her, breaking into her thoughts.
Charlotte had forgotten all about the farmer. She frowned and said crisply, ‘No, I didn’t.’
Seeing her friend’s expression, she added firmly, ‘Look, I might not like the man, Sheila, but that doesn’t mean I can afford to turn away his business. If he chose to come back to us, well, then that’s our good fortune. I’d better give him a ring and arrange to go out and see him again.’