Rival Attractions & Innocent Secretary

‘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 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.