Just Say Yes

‘Oh, Georgia, you’ve really lost the plot,’ she said disgustedly, stomping upstairs. ‘Murderer, indeed!’ Although he did have disturbingly piercing eyes…

‘You’re mad,’ she told herself, snatching open the wardrobe door and frowning at the contents. ‘Now—what is there? Something demure, simple, elegant—what a dazzling choice.’

She took out her black dress—her only dress that answered at least some of her criteria—and hung it on the front of the wardrobe. Excellent. Now, shoes, and did she buy a miracle have a decent pair of tights? Glossy, for preference, barely black—

‘Aha!’ She snatched the new packet victoriously from the drawer, pulled on her underclothes, dried her hair, slapped on a thin layer of light foundation and did something clever with her eyes to widen them a little. Then a streak of lipstick, a quick smack and wriggle of her lips together to spread it evenly, and she was done.

Sucking her lips in so they didn’t mark the dress, she shimmied into it, let it settle around her and stood back.

A slash neck, sleeveless but with shoulders that extended to make tiny capped sleeves, it was cut on the cross and fell beautifully to skitter around her ankles, the heavy crêpe moving sensuously as she turned to check the back.

Hmm. She sucked in her stomach, eyed herself again and shrugged. So she was a mother. And anyway, they were selling her design services, not her body, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. A tiny worm of truth told her that it wasn’t the punters at the auction that she was worried about, but the manipulative phone-thief with the cock-eyed grin and the most interesting eyes she’d seen in a long time.

A little flurry of panic rippled through her—or was it anticipation? What on earth had she been thinking about, letting him talk her into this? All that hogwash about depriving the charity of the money he was prepared to spend—dear me, I must be wet behind the ears, she thought in disgust, but she was smiling anyway.

She twirled again, sucking in her tummy muscles, and nodded with satisfaction. She slipped her feet into the shoes, winced at the thought of standing for hours on feet that had already done a marathon day, and humming slightly under her breath, she went downstairs.

Jenny said, ‘Wow!’, Lucy hugged her and said she was beautiful, and Joe said, ‘Go, Ma!’

Approval? Heavens!

Now, all she needed was her escort…

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS a glittery do, sprinkled with rich women in mahogany tans and diamonds and not much else, and paunchy men glistening in the heat, their ample middles girdled up in cummerbunds to hide the fact that their trousers were too tight after dinner.

Still, they were rich, they were going to spend their money in a good cause, and Georgia was just only too glad she was no longer part of that scene. She’d hated it—hated the entertaining for Brian’s clients, hated the strain and pressure he’d put her under, hated the false smiles and backstabbing bonhomie.

Matthew, on the other hand, seemed to fit right in, except that his dress suit fitted him to perfection, gliding over his broad shoulders and tapering elegantly to his narrow waist and neat hips. The shirt was stark white against his skin, and she would lay odds his bow tie was a real one, not a cheat on a bit of elastic.

He wasn’t sweating, either, and he looked comfortable and at ease talking to his numerous acquaintances. They’d been seated together at dinner, but she’d been monopolised by the man on her other side, and she’d hardly had a chance to talk to him.

Pity, but maybe a good thing. He was altogether too interesting for her peace of mind, and when he bent his head closer to some clinging little vine to hear her doubtless inane conversation, Georgia found herself smitten by a wild urge to club him over the head with the nearest chair.

Jealousy? Good grief! It was years since she’d felt anything, never mind jealousy! And over a total stranger! How perverse.

How worrying…

‘Georgia, my dear, you’re looking lovely!’

‘Thank you, Adrian. You’re too kind.’ She looked up into Adrian Hooper’s slightly glazed eyes and dredged up a smile.

He was the organiser of this shindig, a mover and shaker in local commerce, and she had a lot of respect for him. Unfortunately, he fancied her and it definitely wasn’t mutual. She deftly changed the subject. ‘It’s a good turn-out tonight—all the wallets bulging, I hope?’

He laughed. ‘One can only hope so, my dear.’ He edged closer, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. ‘By the way, was that Matthew Fraser I saw you with earlier?’

She was intrigued. ‘Yes—why, do you know him?’

He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course I know him. Heavens, darling girl, everyone knows him! He’s—’

‘Adrian, old man, you’re hogging all the talent. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’

Georgia’s heart sank. Adrian she could cope with, but this man was trying to see through her clothes and it was frankly a little embarrassing. Anyway, she wanted to hear more about Matthew—

‘Tim Godbold,’ the man said, sticking out his hand so Georgia had no option but to take it. ‘And you’re the famous Georgia Beckett. My dear, I’m delighted to meet you. Such talent as yours is rare indeed.’

‘You’re too kind,’ she said, scraping together a bright smile and wondering when he was going to release her hand from his damp and limpid grip. She eased it away and leant on the table behind her, discreetly wiping her palm on the heavy damask tablecloth. Yuck.

‘So what are you here for tonight, Mr Godbold?’ she asked, steering attention back to him.

‘Tim, please,’ he demurred with a laugh that she could only describe as intimate. Oh, Lord, she was going to be ill.

‘Tim,’ she said with a sickly grin. ‘What are you bidding for?’

Big mistake.

‘Besides you, of course,’ he said with that husky possessive laugh again, and looked around, ‘perhaps the membership of the Golf Club—I never play, but it’s a good club, I hear. And maybe the car valet, or the weekend for two in the hydro—if I could persuade someone to come with me, of course…’

Georgia, glass to her lips, took a gulp of wine by accident and began to cough. Another mistake. Tim Godbold’s damp and heavy hand descended on her shoulderblades with a possessive and intimate pat, totally ineffectual and utterly unnecessary. She waved him away, lost for words, and looked wildly around for a distraction.

Adrian had wandered off, doing his fundraiser’s bit, and Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Blast.

Help, though, was at hand. Mrs Brooks, the chairman of the charity, stood up and called everyone’s attention to the auction which was about to begin.

Georgia, hugely relieved and almost able to speak again, excused herself and went over to the podium, in case she was asked to explain what she was offering, but in the end she didn’t need to explain anything.

The auctioneer had been well primed. He banged his gavel to get everyone’s attention, launched into the sale and achieved some staggering sums for really quite silly things.

Then he reached the climax of his patter. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to our star prize of the evening. She’s a nationally renowned garden designer, she’s been invited by the Royal Horticultural Society to exhibit a show garden at the Chelsea Flower Show next year, and she’s very kindly offered a day of her most valuable time to help you realise the garden of your dreams.

‘She’s more than qualified to design anything from a roof garden to a motorway service area, but her forte is the restoration of historic gardens—’

Out of the corner of her eye, Georgia saw Matt Fraser’s body straighten. She caught his eye, speculative and searching, and looked away—straight into the even more speculative eyes of Tim Godbold. He’d threatened to bid for her. Oh, Lord. She started to feel slightly sick.

‘And, of course, as it’s only April now there’s still plenty of time to get plants in and start seeing the fruits of your labours this summer, so come on, ladies and gentlemen, what will you bid me for a day in the company of the gorgeous Georgia Beckett?’

The bidding started at a nice sensible figure—nothing like what she charged for a day’s consultation in a garden, but enough as an opening bid. Then it started to rise, steadily at first, and then by larger increments. The other bidders dropped out one by one, and she watched in fascinated horror as Tim Godbold and Matthew Fraser battled for her across the room.

It was like some ghastly game of dare, she thought, each one throwing down a more outrageous bid, each determined to win. She hardly dared to look at them, Tim glassy-eyed and sweating slightly, Matthew with a grim line to his mouth that brooked no argument.

By the time it reached four times the real cost of her day’s work, she was getting distinctly uncomfortable. She was happy for the charity, but even so! It was only one day, for heaven’s sake! No designs on paper, no planting schemes—just a wander round and a quick chat, in essence. So what were the two men bidding for?

Then Matthew spoke up, cutting through the auctioneer with his strong, clear voice, throwing down his final bid like a gauntlet.

There was a ripple of shocked delight through the crowd, and all eyes swivelled to Tim Godbold. He dithered for a moment, then threw down his programme and stalked off.

She thought he was going to blow a fuse. She was certain she was. She closed her eyes, wondering if anyone actually did die of humiliation, and heard the auctioneer say, ‘Going once, going twice, sold to Mr Fraser.’ The gavel smacked down on the desk with a victorious thunk, and wild applause broke out.