The Reluctant Tycoon

‘Oh,’ she commented inadequately, and then she smiled in relief. ‘I’m so glad.’

‘So am I,’ he agreed drily.

‘I didn’t think it made sense! It said you were successful.’

‘Did it?’ he asked with even more indifference.

‘Yes.’ Hiding a smile, watching his large, capable hands as he moved the album and began squaring papers on his desk, she felt comforted. Turning her attention to his profile, she decided that she liked very much what she saw. A strong, well-sculpted face. A man who made decisions and stuck to them. Perhaps. A man not given to small talk. A man who didn’t cheat? Someone who was perhaps slightly intimidating to anyone other than Sorrel—who was rarely intimidated by anyone.

‘Who took the photographs?’ he suddenly asked.

‘I did.’

He nodded.

‘You don’t believe I’m a landscape gardener, do you?’ she asked quietly. She’d often had this rather dubious response before.

‘I believe you know about gardens,’ he qualified.

With a little frown on her face, remembering his almost paranoia about secrecy the day before, she continued, ‘You don’t think I did the gardens in the photographs?’

‘Did you?’

‘Yes. Yesterday,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘and even now, you seem to be implying that I might be something else. Is that it?’ Had Nick got to him? Had he somehow found out she was coming down here? No, he couldn’t have done. So why was Garde Chevenay being so suspicious? ‘I don’t understand why you seem to suspect me of ulterior motives.’

‘Your behaviour?’ he prompted.

‘But I’m always like this. Or do you mean because I turned up so unexpectedly? But that was because—’

‘I didn’t answer your letter—yes, you said.’

‘And I’m sure you’re quite capable of snubbing any pretensions I might have, if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘It isn’t. Do you?’ he asked drily. ‘Have pretensions?’

‘No,’ she denied slowly and really rather worriedly. She had never thought she looked like a person on the make, and yet, this last year…

‘And now?’ he asked.

‘Now?’ she echoed in confusion.

‘Yes. What will you do now, Miss James?’

So he didn’t want her, she thought despondently. Why invite her in, then? Why prolong the agony? ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want me to do your gardens, I go away, back where I came from.’

‘To do what?’

Wavering between honesty and pride, she stated almost defiantly, ‘Whatever I can. I’ve been helping out in a garden centre for the past few months.’ There was no need to tell him she was no longer required, and, remembering why she’d been forced to eke out her existence in such a manner, and in no mood now to prolong a conversation about her work, or lack of it, she got to her feet. ‘Well,’ she added abruptly, ‘I’d better be going. I have a long drive ahead of me. It was nice to have met you, Mr Chevenay.’ Reaching out, she picked up her portfolio.

‘You no longer wish to do my gardens?’ he asked blandly.

‘Well, of course I want to do them! But you aren’t going to let me, are you? So there’s really no—’

‘Aren’t I?’

She just stared at him.

‘You aren’t the only one who grasps opportunities, Miss James.’ Without waiting for her to comment, he got to his feet.

‘You’re going to let me do them?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

‘Then why all the verbal games?’ she demanded. He must have known how much this meant to her. ‘If you knew when I came—’

‘I didn’t. I spoke to Mrs Davies,’ he added briefly as he led her out and back through the front door.

‘And that cemented your opinion, did it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘And she asked you to call her Davey.’

‘What shall I call you?’

‘Miss James,’ she said promptly.

He gave a small grunt of laughter. It sounded reluctant.

Irritated, she demanded, ‘Why do you want me to landscape your gardens? You didn’t yesterday.’

‘Perhaps I feel the need to keep an eye on you.’

She snorted.

‘Or perhaps I thought you needed the work.’

‘You don’t strike me as philanthropic,’ she retorted dismissively.

‘You don’t want to do them?’

Of course she wanted to do them! But he would want references, wouldn’t he? Any minute now he was going to ask for one. A man like Garde wouldn’t take on just anyone. She had hoped—naively, she knew—that she could convince him of her capabilities so that he wouldn’t ask. As she had hoped several times over the last few wretched months. And it had to be Nick behind it all, didn’t it? But how could she prove it?

Sorrel was still staring at Garde, her gaze blank, when she suddenly realised that he was waiting for an answer.

‘Yes, I want to do them,’ she confirmed quietly, and then thought she’d better say something else to explain the long silence. ‘I was just wondering why you hadn’t used a local firm. There must be some.’

‘There are. I even got a list of reputable landscapers. Countrywide,’ he added softly. ‘Your name wasn’t on it.’

Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? It had been taken off months ago. At Nick’s instigation.

‘You have references?’