‘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 felt 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 months… 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.’
It was half an hour before she got through to the farmer. He was just as truculent with her on this occasion as he had been the last time she saw him, but eventually Charlotte managed to make arrangements to go out and see him.
‘He must have changed his mind and realised that the only way he’ll get a good price is by selling the semis together. Oh, and while I remember, I’ve promised to do an inventory for a catalogue for auctioning some of Mrs Birtles’ furniture. I’m going to take Sophy with me…give her an idea of how to do an inventory.’
‘Was the house lovely?’Sheila asked wistfully.
‘Beautiful,’ Charlotte told her. ‘The kind of place everyone dreams of owning. I only hope we can find a buyer for it who will appreciate it.’
A frown furrowed her forehead. Oliver had been right when he’d said their first duty was to their client. Perhaps it was idealistic of her to hope that they could find a sole buyer for the house able to meet its price…someone who wanted to live in the house and not destroy or develop it.
‘Something wrong?’ Sheila asked sympathetically.
Charlotte shook her head. She knew that, had her father been alive, he would have agreed with every word Oliver had said. Her father had often accused her of being too sentimental.
‘No, not really. I was just wondering if I ought to leave a bit early. Oliver is moving in tonight, and the kitchen people started today.’
Sheila laughed. ‘Yes, I think you should. What about your car, though?’
‘I’ve rung the garage to order the two new ones, and they’ve promised me a loan car until they can provide them. I’m still not sure about that bright red,’ she teased Sheila. ‘Isn’t that supposed to be a dangerous colour?’
‘So what?’ Sheila retaliated. ‘At my age, I think I’m entitled to live a little dangerously.’
Was that what was happening to her? Charlotte wondered an hour later as she drove home in her loaned Volvo. Was this stupid infatuation she seemed to have developed for Oliver Tennant nature’s way of rebelling against the cautious, defensive way she lived her life? She hoped so…just as she hoped that these dangerous and unwelcome feelings of hers would fade quickly and quietly once they were confronted with the reality of sharing her home with him. There was nothing like a touch of realism for destroying idealistic daydreams, she told herself firmly as she turned into her drive.
The sun had gone in; the overgrown rhododendrons cast dark shadows over the drive, turning it into a secret, almost brooding place, so that she shivered momentarily, and then derided herself. She was letting Sheila’s mother-henning get to her. She had driven up and down this drive a thousand times without even giving it a second thought…
The workmen were on the point of leaving as she arrived, the chaos in the kitchen making her gulp and bravely swallow the dismayed words springing to her lips. Was it really possible for the pretty, warm kitchen she had visualised from the drawings Mr Burns had done for her to actually materialise from this mess of plaster, wood, exposed wires and heaven alone knew what else?
‘We’ve managed to turn the electricity back on for you,’ Mr Burns told her. ‘And your cooker’s fixed up in the pantry, like you asked. Seems like we’re going to have a problem with the plumbing, though. Lead pipes,’ he added succinctly, as though that explained everything.
Charlotte blinked and waited for enlightenment.
‘Not safe…not these days,’ he told her warningly. ‘They’ll have to be replaced.’
In her mind’s eye, Charlotte saw another nought being added to his original estimate and suppressed a faint sigh. ‘How long do you think it will be before you’re finished?’ she asked him fatalistically.
‘Well, provided we don’t come up with any more set-backs…should be all done middle of next week or so.’
Smiling weakly, Charlotte stepped over what she guessed were her old kitchen units and what now looked like a pile of firewood, and headed for the door into the hallway.
Mrs Higham should have been today. To Charlotte’s surprise she had been quite approving when Charlotte informed her about Oliver. Mrs Higham sometimes had a rather unconventional attitude towards her work, preferring to choose for herself which tasks she would and would not do, rather than be directed, and because Charlotte knew how difficult it would be to replace her she had put up with her eccentricities. She had already asked her to clean through the rooms which were going to be Oliver’s and make up the bed, but it might be as well to check that she had.
Charlotte heard the workmen driving away as she opened the room into the bedroom which her father had used as his study. The window was open, allowing the newly rehung curtains to move gently in the breeze. Her father’s old desk stood under the window to catch the best of the light. The house still retained its original bedroom fireplaces, thanks to her father’s refusal to entertain any modernisation, and Charlotte saw with a small start of surprise that Mrs Higham had left a fire laid in the grate, and filled a basket of logs.
Oliver was certainly getting star treatment, she acknowledged wryly as she saw the trouble the cleaner had gone to. She had certainly never left a fire laid in her bedroom, Charlotte reflected as she opened the door into the bedroom.
The bedroom still contained the heavy dark furniture that had originally belonged to her grandparents. Her father had never seen the necessity of replacing the cumbersome wardrobes with something more modern, even fitted. The darkness of the furniture, combined with the dark green carpet, gave the room an austere male aura, Charlotte thought, a frown furrowing her forehead as she moved towards the bed and saw that it wasn’t made up.
That meant that she would have to do it. Her father had not been a mean man precisely, but he had always hated waste, which was why Charlotte was still using the heavy linen sheets which again had come from her grandparents’ home. Since it was impossible to launder these at home in the way her father insisted upon, a weekly laundry service collected and delivered these items, and Charlotte prayed that she would find sufficient clean and aired linen in the airing cupboard to make up the bed.
It was her own fault, of course; she should have checked on these things instead of leaving it to Mrs Higham.
To her relief she found what she wanted in the airing cupboard. Carrying the sheets and bedding through into the bedroom, she put them down on the bed. Before she did anything else, she would make herself something to eat and have a cup of coffee. That was, if she could find the coffee.
It was impossible for her to eat in the kitchen, of course, and so she took her omelette and coffee through into the small sitting-room on the side of the house. From here she could look out into the back garden with its tangle of overgrown lawns and flowerbeds.
It had rained just after she had come in, a short, heavy shower, and now the late spring flowers drooped sadly under the weight of the raindrops. On impulse, after she had finished her meal, she opened the french windows and stepped outside. Half an hour later, her arms full of flowers she had had no intention of picking, she went into the pantry and deftly arranged them in two large jugs. She left one jug in the sitting-room, and took the other upstairs with her.
Until she had actually set it down on the polished desk, she had had no idea why she had picked the flowers, and now, standing back from the bright warmth of them, she felt her skin burn with self-knowledge. She was just about to snatch the jug back and remove it when she heard Oliver’s car.
The bed still wasn’t made, and, ignoring the flowers, she went quickly into the bedroom, hurriedly covering the bed in the crisp linen sheets.
She heard the car stop just as she finished, and, giving the rooms one last assessing glance, she hurried downstairs to welcome her new lodger.
‘I’ll take you upstairs,’ she told him as she opened the door to him, wondering if he would register her nervousness and guess at the cause of it, and then telling herself not to be so stupid. The way she was acting, she was practically begging him to guess how she felt. ‘Then I’ll leave you to get settled in, if you’ve got an early start in the morning.’
They were halfway upstairs, and she paused and added uncertainly, wondering if he would expect a meal, ‘The kitchen is in chaos. I’m using the pantry to cook in.’
‘It’s all right. I ate before I left the Bull.’
Charlotte opened the door to the study and walked in, waiting for Oliver to follow her. She saw the way he looked at the made-up fire and from it to the flowers on the desk.
‘It all looks very welcoming,’ he told her softly, walking over to the desk. ‘I don’t think I’ve enjoyed having garden flowers in my room since I left home. There’s something very evocative of a real home about garden-cut flowers rather than bought ones, don’t you think?’
‘Mrs Higham put them there,’ Charlotte lied, wishing she could do something about the frantic race of her heart. When he reached out and touched one of the tell-tale wet petals of one flower, she was glad he wasn’t looking at her to see the rich tide of colour burning her skin.
‘I’ll leave you to get settled in,’ she reiterated, and then fled to the door before she could make even more of a fool of herself.
Why on earth had she lied to him like that? It would have been simple enough to say that she had brought the flowers in to save them being battered by further rain, but no…she had had to go and behave like a love-crazed adolescent.
For a moment, making up the bed, she had actually lifted one of the linen-covered pillows to her face, imagining how it would feel against her skin if it carried his scent. The sharp twisting sensation that had coiled through her stomach had alerted her to what she was doing…what she was thinking. She hadn’t thought about a man in such sexually explicit terms since…since she had left her teenage years behind; and it shamed her now that her body should react so swiftly and so wantonly to the mental image of Oliver’s naked body.
* * *
While Oliver made several journeys up and down the stairs with his possessions, Charlotte worked diligently on some paperwork she had brought home with her, determined to keep out of his way and not to embarrass either herself or him by trying to put their relationship on anything other than a business footing.
When he had finished, he rapped briefly on the sitting-room door and then came in.
‘That’s finished. I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a drink somewhere…to celebrate our joint appointment this afternoon.’
Charlotte felt her heart leap, but almost immediately she shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ she told him dampeningly.
He was just being polite, she told herself, trying to ignore the possibility of a more sinister purpose in his invitation. She was almost sure that Vanessa was wrong…almost sure. His offer of a drink was simply a polite gesture, which she was pretty sure he expected her to refuse.
Certainly he didn’t look particularly disappointed when she did.
‘Well, perhaps another time,’ was all he said, and then he cheerfully excused himself, going back upstairs, leaving her to wish that she weren’t the sort of person she was and that she had the kind of self-confidence so evident in women like Vanessa. That she was the kind of woman who knew that no man would ever ask her out simply out of compassion or good manners, but because he was attracted to her and found her desirable.
The thought of Oliver finding her desirable sent such a charge of sensation through her that her body tensed against it. How was it possible for him to make her feel like this? Desire…it was something she had comfortably assumed would never dominate her life. She had thought that, if she didn’t inspire sensual need in men, than at least she had the advantage of being free from experiencing it herself, but now she was discovering that all her comfortable and safe beliefs about herself were being swept aside…that she could indeed experience desire, and that it was a sharp, raking, painful sensation which made her body ache restlessly and her mind fill with such wanton mental images that she could feel the heat they generated crawling up under her skin.
It was a relief when she was finally able to go to bed, but sleep didn’t come easily. She was far too conscious of Oliver sleeping so close to her.
So close physically, maybe, but so very far away emotionally and mentally.
She had to get a grip on herself before it was too late, she warned herself. But too late for what? She wasn’t merely in love with Oliver Tennant—she loved him, which was infinitely worse. She sat bolt upright in bed as the truth burst upon her—irrefutable and inescapable. She loved him!