Outbid by the Boss (15 page)

“Are you still there?” said a voice in her ear.

Sam dragged herself away from the scene she’d been watching in her head. “Just admiring your…furnishings.” And seeing myself sprawled across them.

“…my watch?” Chas prompted.

“Right.” Sam hurriedly panned the room, “any suggestions?”

“Try the bedside table.”

“Which one?”

“The one on the right. I sleep on the right.”

“Me, too.” What on earth was she doing? Telling her boss what side of the bed she slept on while she prowled about his room, taking inventory, and soaking up his lingering scent as she went from one side of the bed to the other. His bedside table was a three-drawer chest. An angle poise lamp, a stack of books, an empty cut-glass tumbler, and next to it…an extremely expensive watch.

“Got it,” said Sam.

“That’s a relief,” said Chas, “it was a gift from my grandmother.”

“It’s beautiful. May I?”

“Of course.”

Sam picked up the watch. It was heavier than she expected. Elegant rather than fancy with a classic face. She sat down on Chas’ bed and rubbed the silver chasing with the pad of her thumb. Like magic, all the complications between them simply slipped away.

“Where are you now?”

“On the edge of the bed. Sorry. I really should be going.”

“Stay. Talk to me.”

Sam felt her heart flip flop. She could hear Chas clear his throat on the other end of the line.

“How was work?” she asked, scrambling to get a handle on her own emotions.

“Other than the leering glances no one thought I would notice, it was extremely busy. The catalogue for the fall sales looks fantastic, and we’ll be handling, with the utmost discretion, of course, the art collection of a major dealer.”

“Brilliant. Are you in your office?”

“Jacket off, feet up and missing you like crazy.”

“It’s strange being here without you,” said Sam. She lay back and stretched out on the bed, the watch still in the palm of her hand, warm and reassuringly male like the man who wore it. Against his skin. Most men never thought how sexy they could be, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms and the promise of what lay hidden from view.

“I can see you lying there, with the firelight flickering over your face and hair.”

Sam felt a shiver run down her spine and closed her eyes. “Made even better if you were here with me,” she whispered. Her rising desire was palpable. She felt lithe and languorous, and entirely focused on the man on the other end of the line.

“Are you wearing another one of my shirts?” Chas asked her, his voice soft and low in her ear.

“Yes,” said Sam. “My second of the day.” She told him about her time outside with Evelyn Weekes tidying the rose garden while they enjoyed the afternoon sun. “Would you mind if I rode Max tomorrow,” she asked, “and stopped in to see George?”

“I suppose…”

“You’re not jealous of George, are you?” Sam teased.

“Actually, I was thinking of Max.”

“I’ll be riding him, it’s Damien you should be thinking of…” Sam laughed. “Wait a minute now. Did I just set you up?”

“I don’t know what…hold on, I hear footsteps.” Chas’ chair juddered as his weight shifted. “Guess I’m not alone in the building after all… Hey, Dave, how are you?” She heard him say in the background. The office security guard must be doing his rounds. “Five minutes, I should think. Yeah. Front entrance.”

“I’ve been rousted.” he breathed into the phone.

“I thought you owned the place?”

“I do. Unfortunately, that doesn’t always make me the boss….anyway, let’s not talk shop...”

“What would you like to talk about,” Sam whispered. She wondered if he could hear her heart thumping.
In her mind, she saw the intense look in his hooded eyes, the ripple of muscles as he stretched, relaxing into their conversation.

“I’d like to hold you,” Chas replied, his voice dusky with desire. “All of you. I would like to get to know you in every way, Samantha Redfern. I want to know the feel of you, the taste of you. I want to feel the heat of your skin under my hands and hold you so close your breath melds with mine.”

Sam’s pulse quickened and she felt a quiver of fire in her belly. “I’ve wanted you ever since our first kiss.” She knew what she was saying, the invitation she was offering. Even though every sensible particle in her brain told her this was not a good idea, the passion she felt for this man was deeper than any she had ever experienced.

Yet despite her words of love, she knew she wasn’t ready. Her heart and soul could yearn for Chas all they wanted, but until she knew exactly who she was and how she had ended up in the master bedroom at Porter Hall, she couldn’t have him.

Sam paced back-and-forth across the library, her ponytail marking the time like a pendulum. Today was likely her last opportunity to locate any documents related to her grandparents if, and it was still an “if” in her mind, they had indeed worked for Chas’ family.
She'd been selfishly ignoring the possibility for days, afraid that if her past was rooted in this house, its history could stand between her and Chas.

She stopped to run a finger over the old ledgers that recorded the minutiae of the family’s history.
During last evening’s phone call, Chas had made his intentions clear. He wanted her. Any reservations he may have had about having a personal relationship with an employee were obviously long gone. Sam had no doubt he would be back tonight to claim her as his. And she was longing for his strong arms around her, the slow beat of his heart through her skin. She closed her eyes remembering the weight and scent of him as they had lain by the stream. Every fiber of her being cried out for this man. But could she go to him with the past a dark cloud behind her?

Panic rose in her throat.

She’d known from the very beginning that the dance of anger, laughter and shared passion for their work was no mild flirtation. Their relationship was destined to be a serious one no matter how many times they stepped around their true feelings. What a conundrum. In the absence of her own parents, Grace and Patrick Quinn had given their granddaughter a loving home, a good education and the strength to weather any storm. Even after Sam's grandfather had died, Gran set aside her own pain to nurse her granddaughter's.

Tears clouded her vision. Part of Gran’s strength had come from unwavering honesty; Sam knew to her very bones that truth had to be the basis of any future she might have with Chas. She owed her grandparents everything, yet even she had begun to doubt how such a valuable candlestick from a wealthy estate had made it across the Atlantic to take pride of place in a tiny clapboard house in Canada. It was time to put her fears behind her.

Whatever the answer proved to be, Sam could not, no, she would not, let anything besmirch her grandparents' memory. But first she needed to know for sure whether or not they had even worked at the Hall.

She scrubbed away her tears, and hoping against hope, began to rifle through the stack of ledgers on the library table. But she was wasting her time. These records were about wealth and possessions. Sam wracked her brain. She'd seen enough historical dramas to know those who lived "below stairs" never mixed with the family. Not even on paper.

What was it George had said? About the Burton-Porter grooms being Irish? It wasn't about where they were from, Sam realized with a start, it was about what they did. They were grooms! They lived and breathed horses, with even their living quarters over the stables. She should be looking in the tack room, not the library!

There was no time to waste.

Shoving the ledgers to one side, Sam tore through the house and across the courtyard to the stables. Max and Damien were grazing in the paddock, the Weekes had driven into town, and Chas was still in London. She had the place to herself.

Taking a deep breath, Sam slipped through the stable doors. Her nose twitched as soon as she was inside, instinctively telling her she was on the right path. She might forever associate the smell of roses with her Gran, but the comforting scent of leather and saddle soap was all Grampa. With a touch of liniment, she added, smiling to herself as she reached the tack room.

In Chas’ grandfather’s day, the Burton-Porters would have kept a string of thoroughbreds. Which required grooms, trainers and stable boys by the dozen. Not to mention equipment.

And this room, with its orderly collection of bridles, bits and stirrup leathers was at the heart of it all.

As Sam ran her fingers along the sculptured surface of a nearby saddle, thoughts of Chas and the way he'd kissed her here, in the tack room, threatened her resolve. "Go away Chas Porter," she whispered, "at least for now. I have to know who I am."

And once and for all unravel the mystery of the candlestick that had intrigued her since she was a small child.

Sam quickly scanned the room. Tucked away from the everyday business of riding, was an old oak bookcase, wedged in the far corner. Normally, a bookcase like that, with its three glass-covered shelves to keep the dust off its contents, would have been used in a law office, making it perfect for a busy stable. Fingers crossed that the case wasn’t locked, Sam skirted the miscellaneous tack and disused feed pails for a closer look.

A puff of hay-scented dust rose in the air, as she rearranged the stacked boxes, making her sneeze and rub her hands over her face. How many years since any of this had been moved? After pushing aside a wooden box of odds and ends to reach the case, Sam spotted a trophy lying amid the tangle. Curious, she picked it up. It was tarnished and had a dent on its side. And an inscription:
Chas Porter, British Horse Society Junior Champion, Show Jumping, 1988
. It should be in pride of place, thought Sam, not tossed aside. She sighed for the little boy that was, and laid the trophy carefully back in the box.

Squatting down in front of the bookcase, Sam wiped the murky glass with her shirt tail and peered inside. The bookcase was full of ledgers! Hand shaking, she reached for the tiny brass knob and pulled the glass towards her. When it was level with the top of the shelf, she then slid it back, and like magic, it disappeared inside the cabinet. Quivering with
anticipation, she plucked a brown leather ledger from the middle of the row and flicked it open. The spidery handwriting in fading brownish ink had to be over a hundred years old! Half the pages were blank, and the others were full of payments made to the local blacksmith and feed mill. The next six were the same. Sneezing, Sam quickly closed the lid and tried the next shelf down.

At least she was in the right century. The binding was less brittle and the ink less faded. These ledger entries were sporadic and written in several different hands, but the accounts were what she was after. Allowing for the swinging fortunes of the Burton-Porters and two world wars, it looked as though there was a high changeover in people as well as horses. Sam’s pulse raced; she was getting closer.

Running her finger down the column, she saw more Irish surnames than not. George was right about that, she thought, as she passed Doyle and O’Brien and Donnelly…and then Quinn, Patrick. Sam let out a muffled cry. Her grandfather! He’d been right here in this very room! Sam blinked back tears as she saw his weekly wages in the adjacent column. Even allowing for the passage of time, they were a pittance. Whoever had kept these records had had a system. If a man left during the year, a bold stroke was drawn through his name. Patrick Quinn’s name had been crossed and re-crossed in the year he and Gran had emigrated to Canada.

Sam sat back on her heels. His name had been struck from the roster with vehemence. Sam’s stomach clenched a little at the possibilities.

“Keep it calm,” Sam told herself. “A fifty-year-old entry can’t determine your life.” Or could it?

In the distance, Sam heard a car door slam and then John Weekes called to the horses. Sam held her breath. She may have carte blanche around the house, but rooting through the records would be difficult to explain. Steadying herself, Sam set the open ledger on top of the bookcase and whipped out her mobile. With a swish of a finger, she was in camera mode, snapping a series of pictures. Then, after a last lingering look at her grandfather’s name, Sam slipped the phone back inside her pocket and closed the ledger. At least, she thought, reluctantly putting the bookcase to rights, she would always have a record of his history.

As she threaded her way through the tack room, Sam could feel her earlier euphoria rapidly fading as she weighed the pros and cons of sharing what she’d discovered with Chas before she knew the whole story. Her grandfather had been employed here once, and he had left, possibly with some bad feelings based on his heavily crossed-out name in the ledger. Why would any of this matter to hers and Chas’ relationship? Sam paused to let the scents of the stables and Porter Hall envelope her. It mattered because she loved Chas. She couldn’t hide it from herself any longer. She had been taught to always face the truth, and this was a truth she had been so reluctant to acknowledge. Chas was her boss; he had his pick of eligible women; yet he had grown from a neglected boy to the warm and passionate man who set her pulse throbbing and her cheeks glowing just at the sound of his voice. He was domineering, autocratic, infuriatingly cool at times, but so kind and protective when he thought she had been hurt. He trusted her and sought her professional expertise for the emotional morass of cataloguing his inheritance.

She still felt a twinge of anger at the way he had blackmailed her into coming to his home, but there was gratitude as well. His actions had brought her to the source of her own shrouded heritage. Here she was, treading the same paving stones her grandfather had, breathing the same air, and even riding in the same meadows.