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."
"Marry you!"
Sam's jaw dropped.
And so did her shawl.
"You have got to be kidding."
Chas smiled. "I thought I was," he said raking her with his eyes, "but not anymore."
Sam instinctively raised her hand.
Chas grabbed her wrist, the firm warmth of his fingers gently holding her in his grasp. She should have pulled away. She could have, easily. But instead she stood there, gazing up at the face of the man who had fought with her, laughed at her and tormented her. Made her feel more alive than anyone she had ever met. His scent filled her nostrils. The gleam of his eyes dove into her very being. She should have run away. But instead she stepped closer.
His hands slid up her bare arms to the milky whiteness of her shoulders. She leaned into him, her palms pressed against his chest, feeling the rough fabric of his shirt and the hard muscles beneath. Then her arms reached up and wrapped themselves around his neck, just as his hands dropped down around her waist to pull her hard against him. Unconsciously, she lifted her face. For a moment her eyes slid over the strong line of his jaw, the high cheekbones and firm lips that made Chas Porter the handsomest man she had ever seen. Then he leaned down to meet her desire, at first gently, brushing her mouth tenderly with his lips and then as the heat rose and crackled between them, pressing his mouth demandingly against hers.
She moaned softly, opening her lips to invite him closer and he responded. His kiss became harder, more insistent. All of Sam’s senses swirled into that one perfect kiss. Clinging to him, wanting more and more, a small voice hidden deeply within her began to protest. Sam clung to Chas and then with a groan, wrenched herself away.
She grabbed up her discarded shawl and again wrapped it tightly around her.
Chas leaned against the cabinet and scrubbed a hand fiercely over his face. He forced a smile.
"Shall I take that as a yes or as a no?"
Using all her willpower, Sam straightened her shoulders. "Good night, Mr. Porter."
"Miss Redfern."
One last lingering look, and then she tore from the dining room.
She sped through the entrance hall over the icy flagstones, up the stairs and down the darkened corridor. It wasn't until the door to the guest room was well and truly closed behind her that she realized she hadn't actually said no.
Damn and blast the man.
No way she was going to marry him!
Not even if he was the last man on earth.
Then why, Samantha dear, is your mouth dry, your heart pounding and your loins throbbing with desire?
Telling herself, a.k.a. the goddess of single women, to shut it, Samantha Redfern dove under the covers and turned out the light. But it was a long time before she fell asleep.
CHAPTER FIVE
Chas was waiting for her in the stable yard, Mrs. Weekes had told her, as she presented Sam with a breakfast tray of tea, croissant, and a poached egg. A pair of riding boots dangled precariously under the housekeeper’s left arm.
“And he hates to be kept waiting. But I guess you know that already,” she added with a wry smile. “He set off to fetch the horses about an hour ago.”
Sam smiled an acknowledgement, but said nothing as Mrs. Weekes set the boots down at the foot of the bed and produced a pair of riding gloves to go with them before she bustled away. It had taken Sam ages to fall asleep last night and she was loath to get into a conversation with the housekeeper. The searing kiss she had shared with Chas had left her in a fever of longing and indecision. She was an interloper in a grand house, and the housekeeper’s presence had reinforced that one irrefutable fact. Chas Porter might be the most exciting man she had ever met, but he was her boss. And she should never, ever forget that he was the one who had tricked her into coming to his home in the country.
Her eyes flickered across the room to the candlestick.
Not that she was without guilt. Another fact she would do well to remember.
Suddenly anxious to be outside, Sam drained the last of her tea and threw back the duvet.
Her wardrobe had not been planned for a week in the country, so the best she could do was jeans and a beaded sweater. It might be a bit too chic for a gallop. Sam shrugged. But it would have to do. She picked up the boots and examined them.
Beautifully made, hardly used, and designed for a more delicate foot than Sam possessed. Grimacing, she forced her feet into the boots and stuck the gloves in her pocket.
Finding her way through the house, Sam blinked as she stepped through the terrace doors and into the gentle sunshine of mid-morning. Roll
ing lawns spread before her. Beds of old roses in desperate need of a good pruning defined the formal flagstone terrace. Their current neglect was a sad reflection of just how unhappy a house Porter Hall had become. She was beginning to suspect a well-hidden pain behind Chas’ cool exterior. But that, she reminded herself sharply, was none of her business.
Chas was on the far side of the stable yard, standing, with his back to her. He looked magnificent in his boots and riding clothes, like a modern-day Mr. Darcy. Remembering the night before, Sam’s breath quickened. How was she going to face him? Ducking behind the garden wall, Sam watched Chas cinch the saddle of a massive chestnut while another, smaller horse waited nearby, his reddish-brown coat glistening in the sun. If this moment was her penalty for outbidding the boss, Sam thought, then she was deliriously happy.
And no longer tired despite her restless night full of erotic dreams and unfulfilled desires that, until yesterday, were unimaginable. Before last night, Sam had always believed that those kinds of daydreams were for the beautiful. That she would be better off hoping for a man who would appreciate her for who she was and come to know her passionate side. She never would have guessed that a single kiss could rouse her to such unsuspected heights.
The memory brought a soft smile to her lips as she admired the snug fit of Chas’ breeches, the fine leather of his riding boots, and the broad reach of his muscular back and shoulders. She couldn’t wait to see him in the saddle.
Chiding herself for being a silly goose, Sam left the security of the wall and strode across the cobblestone courtyard with forced confidence. She might look like a waif in yesterday’s jeans and today’s borrowed boots, but she’d never felt as womanly as she did that morning.
Until Chas dropped the saddle flap and turned towards her.
The scowl on his face was so fierce, she came to a crashing halt.
“I see Mrs. Weekes gave you my message.” He said it in a tone so matter-of-fact Sam knew in an instant she’d made a terrible mistake -- nothing between them had changed. She’d forgotten her place and now he was determined to return her to where she rightfully belonged. Not an equal -- an employee, with neither fame nor fortune. This was so not what she was expecting after last night’s intimacy. The depth of Chas’ kiss had gone way beyond light flirtation with nothing between them but a slip of a nightgown.
Sam hesitated, then straightened her spine. Well, phooey, on him. He wasn’t the only one who could play this game. Times had changed even if this lord of the manor had not.
She might want to kick herself for being such a romantic fool, but she would be damned if she’d let Chas Porter see how hurt she was.
“And good morning, to you, too,” she snapped, neatly sidestepping him. From the back pocket of her jeans, she pulled the gloves Mrs. Weekes had given her and tugged them on as she walked towards the stables.
The smaller horse shone with good health. Saddled and waiting, she saw his ears prick forward at her approach and slowed. He seemed placid enough, but Sam knew she needed to take a calming breath.
“And what’s your name?” she cooed. He swung his magnificent head towards her showing the flash of white between his huge brown eyes.
Sam heard footsteps.
“Max,” said Chas. “His name is Max.”
“Hello, Max,” said Sam softly. She reached up and gently stroked his gleaming coat. Max rewarded her with such a soft whinny, she could have wept. As if sensing her distress, he lowered his nose and nuzzled her neck.
Sam breathed in the familiar aroma of horse and hay. It had been years since she’d ridden a horse, but the pungent smell took her back to her childhood, following her grandfather around as he trained high-bred horses at Woodbine race track. Little girls rarely got to even sit on the back of one of those magnificent creatures, but she had always felt comfortable around them, and instinctively knew Max was the one for her. He nodded his agreement as she stroked his long neck.
“You seem to have made a conquest,” said Chas, drawing up behind her, his scent mingling with horse and leather. It was overwhelmingly male. And beyond reach.
Sam tamped down the lump in her throat, and turned to face her boss.
“Thank you,” she said simply. “He’s a beautiful horse.”
Their gazes met this time and held, a thousand signals flying between them without a single word spoken. Chas cleared his throat. “I thought if we went for a ride, we could put a bit of distance between yesterday’s…adventures and getting down to work.”
What he really means, Sam thought miserably, is us. The flirtatious banter, the sparring with the boss, it all had to go. She was saddened by his words, but somehow consoled by the thought that he was acknowledging the emotional spark they had shared the night before. It went beyond the physical attraction and into dangerous territory. Territory she had always carefully avoided in her past. She did not intend to ever be at the mercy of anyone. This was the twenty-first century! Chas might be her boss, but he was not her master and commander.
“Good plan,” she replied keeping her voice as neutral as possible.
It might pain her to bury her feelings for him, but better to do it now before they could blossom beyond her control. She had already jeopardized her career; she was not going to risk her heart. A truce, no matter how uneasy, was in order. For both their sakes.
Chas reached past her for Max’s bridle. “That big bruiser over there is Damien, by the way,” he said leading Max into the open expanse of the stable yard. “Can you manage while I fetch a couple of helmets?” He handed the reins to her. She nodded and he headed to the tack room.
“So what do you think, Max?” Sam murmured.
But the chestnut had nothing to say. They stood together companionably until Chas returned a few moments later wearing a helmet and holding one out for her.
“Try this one for size,” he said.
Sam surrendered the reins and took the hard hat from Chas. It was surprisingly lightweight. She tucked her hair up and after a few minor adjustments, snapped the chin strap and snugged it into place.
Chas placed his hands on either side of her helmet and gave it a wiggle. “How does that feel?”
Sam swallowed. “Perfect.”
“You missed a piece,” he said reaching for a strand of her hair. He slipped it under her helmet, then stepped back to assess his handiwork. “Nervous?”
All Sam could do was shake her head. “I’m fine.”
He nodded, satisfied. Chas might be over their shared passion, but the memory of that kiss still thrummed in her blood. How on earth she was going to retain her composure around him, when those broad shoulders and his intoxicating scent demanded that she fold into his arms and feel the protective strength of his muscles? She had no idea now how to deal with him. It had been so much easier when he was simply her boss. Just that brief brush of his fingers, was enough to rebuild the fire banked in her belly. A moment of pure silence engulfed them, broken a moment later by Max’s snort and tossed head. He was ready to gallop through this glorious morning, even if these two puzzling humans were not.
“Okay, Max, we hear you,” said Chas. He looked down at Sam.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she croaked. Last night was nothing but a brief encounter with a feudal lord. A modern man, the head of Burton-Porter, faced her this morning.
“Good. Let’s get you in the saddle. I’ll need to adjust the stirrups.”
“I can do it,” she told him. “I’m fine.”
“No.” Chas drew the reins over Max’s head. “We do it my way,” he declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
Sam had no choice. She all but snatched the reins from Chas, gripping them tightly with her left hand as she reached for the saddle.
“Left leg,” ordered Chas moving in behind her. Sam felt his strong shoulder press into the middle of her back as he bent down and cupped his hands.
It took all her concentration not to
picture him behind her as she lowered herself into his care. But the image was overwhelming and fraught with overtones. Heaven forbid Max should sense the rush of her heartbeat as she felt Chas’ hands support her. It was almost comical.
“Easy, boy,” murmured Chas as Sam concentrated her weight onto her right leg. If she’d been a drama queen, she could feign distress and slide down into his arms, weeping with fear. Sadly, that was not her style. Besides, she was excited at the prospect of riding again, no matter what the circumstances.
“Up you go.”
On Chas’ command, she sprang up and into the saddle.
Max shifted uneasily. Damn, thought Sam. She was shaking. She willed herself to sit calmly while Chas positioned her foot in the stirrup.
“How are the boots?” he asked.
“A little tight.” Her toes were pinched together. But then the boots had probably belonged to one of Chas’ old girlfriends, who would have been, Sam thought bitterly, slim, willowy, and a perfect rider. With lots of money, judging by the buttery softness of the gloves. Or perhaps more than one of Chas’ women had worn them. “Left behind, were they?”
Chas tugged on the strap and glanced up at her. His eyes narrowed. “If you must know, those boots you are wearing belonged to a woman named Daphne. She was blonde and spectacularly beautiful. Unfortunately, she had the brain of a gnat and even lower morals than my father…how’s that feel?” he asked.
“Fine.” squeaked Sam.
“…so low, she thought it might be fun,” Chas added as he went around to adjust the other stirrup, “to tease a naïve seventeen-year-old. That would be me.”
Sam didn’t know what to say. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and sat there feeling like the fool that she was while Chas fiddled with the leathers. Her flash of anger had died down, giving way to empathy for that eager, humiliated boy.
“Try that.” Sam dutifully slid her boot into the stirrup. He buckled the straps into place and then mounted up.
Sam snuck a peek at Chas’ near-perfect physique. No surprise, he mounted Damien with ease. The stallion pranced and reared playfully. Chas’ muscles rippled beneath his tight-fitting clothes as he controlled the magnificent creature with ease. The sight of the sun gleaming on the velvety coat of the horse and the interplay of two magnificent specimens made the breath catch in Sam’s throat.
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