She was no longer his to cherish.
In the end, he’d left his scout to speak for him, and headed for Yorkshire without a word to anyone.
And now, at the end of another long day, it was time for a beer. And a wander about the property.
He left by the kitchen door, noting the walled garden with its overgrown fruit trees. A few herbs struggled to survive amid the weeds in a kitchen garden that must have once provided a fresh supply of vegetables for the household, but years of neglect had taken their toll.
From there, he swung left towards the abandoned outbuildings. He’d parked his car on the cobblestoned courtyard next to an old mounting block. The stable itself was in pretty decent shape and would make a good exterior setting for several scenes, but the interior was a mess of hay and rotting feed. Maybe after the shoot, he would clean out the stables and fill the place with ponies.
And then what? Invite the neighbourhood kids over?
Marc shook off his melancholy. He had everything to look forward to – except Alex. In a few weeks, Fallowfield would be a hive of activity. He would be totally occupied with pre-production, but without Alex to share the joys and challenges of the day, it felt hollow.
And so did he.
Retracing his steps as he sipped his beer, Marc skirted the kitchen garden and looped back around to the front of the house. The sunlight was slanting over the estate, casting late-afternoon shadows across the lawn. He heard birdsong and the low thrum of bees working the bushes near the house. But he must be way more tired than he thought, because he could have sworn he saw a distant flicker of movement near the bottom of the drive.
Shrugging it off as part of the natural habitat, Marc sat down on the flagstone porch and drank the last of his beer. The day was still warm. He set the empty bottle off to the side, and gazed into the distance. A shadow broke ranks and moved towards him.
There was something out there!
Heart pounding, Marc jumped to his feet and tore across the gravel, his hand raised to shield his eyes. Suddenly what was dark became light like a shimmering mirage. Marc moved faster and faster as it took shape, breaking into a run when he realized it was running towards him.
Alex! It was Alex!
She leapt into his outstretched arms and he swung her round and round until they collapsed on the lawn, dizzy with happiness.
“Please tell me it’s not too late,” Alex choked. “I couldn’t bear it!”
“It will never be too late for us. Ever. We belong together, you and I.”
Marc searched her face and found the promise he’d been looking for. There would be no more indecision, no more panic whenever the outside world threatened theirs, and no more waffling. It was time.
“I love you, Miss Alexis Kirkwood,” he said.
“I love you, Mr. Marc Daniels.”
He pressed his lips to hers, softly, then hard and hungrily. She flung her arms around his neck, sobbing with relief and laughing. They sank into the grass, a tangle of legs and arms and pressing needs. They kissed and caressed until the setting sun chilled the air. Then they calmed and simply gazed at each other. Alex traced the contours of his face.
Marc clasped her hand and kissed her fingers. She responded, leaning forward and touching his lips with hers.
Marc groaned. “You keep that up and I’ll have to ravish you right here one the lawn.”
When she laughed impudently, he cupped her bottom and drew her near. “How did you get here?”
“I commandeered a car.”
“Logical,” said Marc, rolling her over so that he could nuzzle the tender skin in the hollow of her neck. “I didn’t even know you could drive,” he raised his hand, “…just kidding!”
“I haven’t driven in a while,” Alex admitted. “Apparently, after x number of miles, you need to refuel.”
“Minor detail,” Marc murmured.
“I was this close to Fallowfield.” Alex held up her thumb and forefinger. “Then I was forced to abandon the car and run the rest of the way.”
“Then I had better take you in.” Marc drew her to her feet and they strolled towards the house, arm-in-arm.
“You were right,” Alex paused a moment to scan the elegant façade before her. “Fallowfield is magnificent.”
“It’s a little scruffy around the edges.”
“Somewhat like myself.” Alex leaned her head on his shoulder and yawned. “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get much sleep last night.
“Uh huh,” drawled Marc as they mounted the front steps together.
“Okay…except for that bit at my desk.”
He shook his head, teasing. “You were snuffling again.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
They’d entered the vestibule. Marc stood back while Alex did a slow spin taking in the beautifully crafted staircase and the grandeur of the reception rooms beyond. “Whoever built this house knew what they were doing. It’s perfectly proportioned. How many bedrooms are there?” she asked.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Could be….” Alex cocked her head and looked up at him seductively.
Despite her obvious fatigue, Alex was radiant. Sensual and flirtatious, and pushing all the right buttons. Marc knew he was helpless with desire, but he didn’t want any regrets this time. Alex was too important for him to take any risks that could reflect back on her. And leaving a luxury vehicle unattended on a country road was definitely not a good idea.
“Why don’t you freshen up,” he suggested, “while I get the car.”
Alex glanced towards the back of the house.
“Best not to use the downstairs loo,” Marc added, “seems there’s a bit of a problem with the pipes.”
“I know a good plumber….”
“I’ll bet you do,” growled Marc. “You’ll have to settle for me…Bert’s not available.”
“Mrs. Bert will be happy to hear that.”
Marc drew her close. “I’m not going until you kiss me good-bye.”
“I thought hello was pretty good.”
Marc stopped her with his mouth. The blood roared through his veins as he tasted the sun on her lips and the tip of her tongue. He teased with his own, forgetting everything that had transpired between them in his urgent need to recapture the woman he loved. Then, with reluctance, he released her.
She handed him the keys from her pocket and lightly touched his cheek.
“If you turn left at the top of the stairs,” he said. “and follow the line of dusty footprints along the corridor, you’ll find a bedroom with an adjoining bath. It’s not exactly the VIP suite at The Sadler,” he grinned, “but it is clean.”
Alex practically danced up the stairs.
She’d been terrified that she wouldn’t get it right, and now that she was here, and Marc still wanted her, anything was possible. It didn’t have to be one or the other. She could have a career and love, too.
Padding along the hallway’s threadbare rug, she caught a glimpse of the slight “disrepair” Marc had been talking about. Most of the bedrooms were half-empty, and what furniture remained was shrouded beneath voluminous dust covers. Still, it wasn’t hard to understand Marc’s fascination with the place. The old manor house echoed with happier days, and she found signs of its lingering elegance in the faded wallpaper and antique sconces lining the corridor.
The room Marc had chosen was at the back. He’d cranked open the mullioned windows to clear the air and obviously had done what he could to make the place feel like home, but what he really needed was a team of professionals – like the housekeeping staff from The Sadler.
Her eyes crinkled at the sight of his now familiar canvas holdall. It sat on the floor by the bed, and draped across the counterpane was the ratty old hoodie he always wore when he went “incognito.” As if a drop-dead gorgeous man like Marc, whose face had appeared on a million screens, could possibly go unnoticed.
>
Alex laughed – unless he just happened to run into the one woman in London who didn’t know who he was. She scooped up the hoodie and held it to her face, inhaling its musk. This was her Marc. Star, or no star, she wanted him, now and for always. Not just when they could find time in their schedules, but all the time.
And if his stupid hoodie didn’t last forever, she’d buy him another one. And then another one, and another one until he got the message. She wasn’t going anywhere, ever again, and she wasn’t going to let his celebrity freak her out.
Grannie was right – follow your heart, and the rest will follow.
Returning Marc’s hoodie to the bed, Alex nipped into the ensuite. It was surprisingly large, with tiny black-and-white tiles, porcelain fixtures and an old-fashioned bathtub. Marc’s kit sat on a nearby washstand. There was soap and shampoo, a few other bottles and a pile of fluffy towels still wearing their labels from the store.
Alex was feeling all warm and fuzzy until she glanced in the mirror. So much for romance. Her face was streaked with dirt, and bits of grass and twigs clung to her hair. There was nothing for it, she would just have to clean herself up as best she could before Marc returned.
She was reaching for the tap when a much better idea came to mind.
Batting away a swarm of gnats, Marc replaced the cap on the metal can and set it on the floor of the back seat. His intrepid sweetheart had not only driven all the way from London, she’d tackled the secondary roads that led to Fallowfield, and then hoofed it the rest of the way when the car had run out of fuel.
Cursing when he cracked his knee getting into the driver’s seat, Marc adjusted the setting and then tried the ignition. The engine purred into life. He knew it would, otherwise, it would never have been part of The Sadler fleet.
As he glanced towards the side mirror, Marc noticed that the seatbelt on the passenger side was buckled. Puzzled, he leaned over to release it. But damned if he didn’t end up roaring with laughter. The Dragoon was belted in and riding shotgun.
With the car carefully stowed next to his own, Marc grabbed Alex’s case and raced back to the house.
He took the stairs two-at-a-time. Part way down the corridor, his nose started to twitch. The stale smell of the upstairs had become surprisingly sweet. He remembered leaving the window open in the bedroom, but this was something more, much more.
Marc quickened his step.
Dropping Alex’s bag alongside his, he kicked off his boots and made a beeline for the bathroom.
The door was slightly ajar, but he had no intention of waiting for an invitation. With the tips of his fingers, he slowly pushed it open and stepped inside.
Alex lay in the tub, with her back to him, her long legs stretching towards the taps. She raised her hand and waggled the bottle of bubble bath in his general direction. “Expecting someone, were we?” she teased.
Marc didn’t answer. He was too busy stripping off his t-shirt and jeans and any other bits that might possibly get in the way.
She slid up to give him room, droplets of water and bubbles shimmering on her shoulders.
“May I?” said Marc advancing on the tub.
Alex handed him the bottle to put on the washstand. “Am I that predictable?”
“At the moment, I sure as hell hope so,” growled Marc. He eased himself into the warm water so that he could face her, and cherish another first in their lives. She was a vision. They held each other’s eyes and then Marc grasped her by the ankles and drew her closer. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t a mermaid,” he said as he kissed first one foot and then the other before sinking beneath the waves.
Alexis Kirkwood and Marc Daniels married two weeks later in a private ceremony at The Sadler Hotel. The bride wore something old, something new, something borrowed and carried something…small and blue.
The couple intends to divide their time between London and their new home in Yorkshire.
And now a sneak peek at…
Outbid by the Boss
Outbid by the Boss
CHAPTER ONE
Two thousand pounds!
A trickle of cold sweat worked its way down Samantha Redfern's ribcage and lodged itself in the waistband of her well-worn jeans. Two minutes ago, she'd been the only one bidding on a rare, 18th-century candlestick and now some yahoo she couldn't even see at the back of the auction hall had managed to double the stakes in less than half the time.
No matter. Tucking a stubborn strand of auburn hair behind her ear, Sam scanned the other bidders. Antique silver was her area of expertise. It had won her a coveted position with Burton-Porter & Sons, and now here she was, moments away from owning a piece of the past. Her past. And nothing, not even an amateur collector with more money than brains, was going to stop her now. All she had to do was stay calm.
"I have two thousand pounds..." called the auctioneer. His practised gaze rested on Sam for the briefest of seconds before moving on in search of wealthier prey "...do I hear two thousand, one hundred..."
What was she waiting for? She'd been searching for a candlestick exactly like this since she'd first arrived in England and this one had it all...London hallmarks, date marked 1749, manufactured by a well-known silversmith, and rumoured to be part of a larger collection once belonging to the king himself.
It was a wonder half of London hadn't shown up to bid on it. She’d known about the candlestick since she was a child growing up in Toronto. A family secret, her grandmother had told her. Sam frowned. Maybe not so secret after all…
"....going once....going twice..."
"Come on, lovey!" The middle-aged woman in the seat beside Sam gave her a jab and up shot Sam's hand startling both her and the auctioneer.
"I have two-thousand, one hundred pounds!" he crowed. "Do I hear two-thousand, two?"
The auctioneer, Sam thought, was having way too much fun.
While she decidedly was not.
A flood of guilt washed over her. She should so not be here. She should be in New York City. Attending an important sale on behalf of her London employer. Not perched on the edge of a folding wooden chair in a cramped auction hall in a teeny, tiny village in the West Midlands that, while very picturesque, belonged on top of a biscuit tin. Her colleagues at Burton-Porter wouldn’t believe it. They saw her as the consummate professional. Cool as a cucumber, that’s me, thought Sam, as she wiped her damp palms along her thighs.
An excited buzz rippled through the room. The phantom bidder had just upped the ante by another hundred pounds. Sam twisted in her seat, trying to catch a glimpse of her competitor, but there were too many bodies in the way.
She swung back to find everyone watching her, waiting to see what she would do. "I have two thousand, two hundred pounds," the auctioneer repeated. "Do I hear three....?" he asked looking directly at Sam.
This was absolutely crazy. Her budget was stretched to the max. She was living in a central London flat so small, she could barely bend over the sink to brush her teeth without butting up against the shower door. And the bidding had already soared past her credit limit.
Maybe if she sat on her hands...
"Going once...."
"....going twice...."
It was no good, thought Sam raising her hand one more time.
She just had to have it.
The auctioneer acknowledged her bid with a twitch of his moustache. "I have two thousand, three hundred pounds. Do I hear four?" he peered down the length of the room.
Sam held her breath.
Please, please, please, don't bid.
He didn't, and the next thing she heard was the smack of the auctioneer's gavel. "Sold to the young lady in the second row for two thousand, three hundred pounds."
Sam leapt to her feet, green eyes sparkling in triumph. She tossed her bag over her shoulder, gave her neighbour a hug and set off, hurriedly picking her way through the tangle of legs and carry-alls to the end of the row.
>
With her long hair caught up in a clip and her favourite blazer topping jeans and boots, Sam strode towards the rear of the building to pay her bill and pick up her prize. It was the happiest she’d felt since wrangling her way to England.
If everything went according to plan, she would have just enough time to swing by the flat with the candlestick. Her suitcases were in the car, she’d downloaded her boarding pass that morning, all she had to do was drop off the rental and catch the shuttle to the airport.
It was going to be tight, but totally worth the risk.
The candlestick was hers!
From where he stood, leaning against an immense mahogany armoire, thirty-six-year-old Chas Porter had a clear view of Samantha Redfern as she bounded down the length of the hall.
What was she doing here?
And why would she be bidding against him?
Unless… Chas shook his head. No, that was crazy. She couldn’t possibly have known his interest in the candlestick. Or that the auction house had tipped him off before the sale.
At first, he hadn’t even recognized the young woman bidding against him. He’d arrived late and been unable to get a seat, but his commanding height had ensured his bid was noticed. And allowed him to see his opponent.
In the office, Miss Redfern’s hair was always neatly pulled back. Not threatening to spring from its pins into a shoulder-length wave of shining auburn. In London, her clothes were boringly routine, charcoal grey and conservative, if he remembered correctly, which suited her position as a buyer for one of the country’s most exclusive dealers, but did little to enhance her physical appeal. Soft voice, an unexpected uptilt of her chin when a valuation she had made was questioned -- he had barely noticed her.
Until now.
Chas pulled out his mobile. If she’d wanted his attention, attending an out-of-the-way sale when she should be in New York, was a sure-fire way to get it. Sending a quick text to his office confirmed it. Samantha Redfern had been booked to fly out last night, but had rescheduled.
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