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Well…less, if she were honest. Much less. Truthfully, this Daniel Ramsay looked like the kind of man you’d quite like to wake up with on a lazy Sunday morning. A little bit rumpled and a whole lot sexy.
‘You’re a little late.’ Then he smiled again, wiping his hands on the back of dark blue denim jeans, and the effect was intensified. ‘Not to worry. I get here about eight thirty, but I told the agency nine-thirty was fine.’
He held out a hand, and she automatically held out her own. His wedding ring flashed. Of course a man who looked like this one would be taken. They always were—even if they pretended not to be.
A familiar sense of dissatisfaction speared her. It was amazing how many men said they were separated when the only thing keeping them apart from their significant other was temporary geographical distance.
She was so tired of that. Tired of the game-playing.
Daniel bent down and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. ‘I’ve got the key to the inner office here. I’ll show you where everything is, and then I’ve got to drive out to the Penry-James farm.’
‘I’m not—’
He stood straight. ‘Which part didn’t you get?’
‘I understood you perfectly, but I’m not from any agency.’
‘You’re not?’
‘Merely a potential customer.’
His hand raked through his dark hair. ‘Hell, I’m so sorry! I thought—’
‘I was someone else.’ It didn’t take the mental agility of Einstein to figure that one out. It was vaguely reassuring to know he didn’t actively intend to run his business in such a haphazard way.
Sudden laughter lit his eyes, and she fought against the curl of attraction deep in her abdomen.
‘So you’re not the cavalry after all? Perhaps we’d better start over?’
‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, feeling unaccountably strange as his hand wrapped round hers for the second time. He had nice hands, she registered. Strong, with neatly cut nails. And a voice that made her feel as though she’d stepped into a vat of chocolate.
But taken, the logical part of her brain reminded her. And apparently the kind of man who, if he wasn’t actually preying on her grandmother, was certainly making the most of an opportunity.
‘You must have thought I was mad. Did Tom say what he wanted?’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘I expect it’s about the quiz night next month.’ His smile widened and her stomach flipped over. Helplessly. ‘So, if you’re not from the agency, what can I do for you?’
‘Not me. My grandmother,’ she said, her voice unnecessarily clipped as she struggled to regain her usual control.
She took a deep breath and exhaled in one slow, steady stream, watching the droplets hang in the frosty air. ‘Is it always this cold in here?’
‘Not in summer.’ He moved away and bent to switch on a fan heater. ‘Then it can get quite unpleasant—’
‘It’s unpleasant now!’
He looked up, his brown eyes glinting with sexy laughter. ‘Because the window in here doesn’t open,’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, completely unfazed. ‘It’s been painted over too many times.’
She bit back the observation that getting a window to open was something which could be easily fixed. Something that most certainly would be in any sensibly run business.
‘I suppose I ought to sort that.’
‘I would.’
He gave a bark of laughter. Startled, Freya looked at him. It had been a long, long time since anyone had dared laugh at her. She took in the faint amber flecks in his laughing eyes and swallowed, desperately willing her throat to work normally.
He was so entirely unexpected. She’d got one image of him entrenched so firmly in her imagination that this incarnation was difficult to adjust to. She tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear and felt the back of her hand brush against her crystal earring. It started swinging and jagged against the collar of her jacket.
‘How can I help your grandmother?’
Freya blinked. ‘She has a few items she’s interested in selling, and I’d like to have a professional evaluation of them.’
‘Can you bring them in?’
‘Not easily. There’s a chiffonier, a dining table—’
‘Then I’ll come out to her.’ He moved effortlessly past the piled boxes and sat behind his heavy desk, taking a pen from the same chipped mug she had.
‘Today, if possible.’
He nodded, his pen poised. ‘And you are?’
Freya hesitated. She wasn’t quite ready to tell him that. Not exactly, anyway. Three days in Fellingham and she’d already had more than enough of people’s reaction to her name. From the way their eyebrows shot up into their scalp she could only assume she’d gone down in local folklore as all things depraved.
It shouldn’t matter. Didn’t. But somewhere not so deeply buried her anger about that was still there. Nibbling away at her, despite all the success which had followed.
‘My grandmother’s Margaret Anthony. Mrs Margaret Anthony.’
His sexy eyes narrowed slightly. If she hadn’t been so attuned to people’s reaction to her she’d probably have missed it. Possibly even the beat of silence which followed. ‘Then that would make you Freya Anthony.’
‘That’s right.’
His strong fingers opened a large black diary and he wrote her grandmother’s name at the end of a long list. ‘It looks like it’ll have to be near five. I’m a little choked up today.’
‘That’s fine.’
He looked up and his eyes were no longer laughing. Something inside her withered a little more. He was a stranger to her, an ‘incomer’ to the area, and yet he’d already formed a poor opinion of her.
But then of course he had. What was she thinking? She knew Fellingham’s vicious network had gone into overdrive, and it didn’t take much imagination to guess what he must have heard about her.
‘Has she thought any more about selling her vases?’
‘She’s thought about it.’
‘And?’
Freya held his gaze, meaning to intimidate. She could do that. She’d always been able to do that. ‘I’m going to make sure she gets the best possible price for them. I understand an undamaged pair can be quite valuable.’
‘Can be. You just need two collectors who badly want to own them.’ Daniel stood up. ‘I think she could confidently expect to get a thousand for them.’
‘And in London?’
He shrugged, completely unfazed by the question she’d shot at him. ‘Possibly more. But the internet is narrowing the gap. Dedicated collectors search online.’
‘I wasn’t aware you had much of a website here.’
‘It’s in development.’
‘But very early stages,’ she said dismissively. ‘So not much use yet.’ Freya lifted her jacket collar and snuggled down into the warmth.
It didn’t matter what he thought of her. The only thing that mattered was her grandmother, and she was going to do anything and everything to see she wasn’t hurt or cheated. Not by him or anyone. ‘I’ll tell my grandmother to expect you.’
Daniel nodded. ‘As near to five as I can make it.’
‘We’ll both be there.’ She gave him a swift smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes, before picking up her bag and walking out of the office.
CHAPTER TWO
SO THAT was the notorious Ms Anthony. Daniel watched the swing of her hips as she left…because he couldn’t help it. She had the longest legs. The kind that would wrap around you twice. Then he listened to the sound of her ridiculous heels clipping on the concrete floor until it faded to nothing. He shoved his hands deep in his jeans pockets.
Not exactly what he’d been expecting Fellingham’s very own bad girl to be like. Interesting.
He carelessly tossed his pen back into the orange and red mug. Freya was a great name for her, though. If he’d ever taken a moment to think about it, he’d have thought someone who was named after the Scandinavian goddess of love and beauty ought to look pretty much like she did.
Daniel fingered the tag on the Gabrielle cream plush Paddington Bear that was destined for the twentieth century sale later in the month. Margaret Stone’s wayward granddaughter would need to be beautiful to have lived one fraction of the life village gossip attributed to her.
He hadn’t expected her to so obviously exude class, though. Hell only knew why not. He’d known all about her Audi Roadster within minutes of it driving into the village. He shouldn’t have been surprised by the skilfully highlighted blond hair and the designer clothes.
‘Dan?’
He turned.
‘We’ve got a problem.’ His porter rested his hand on the doorframe. ‘The blonde bombshell wants Pete’s van moved. It’s blocking her car in.’
‘Damn!’
‘She’s being quite vocal about it.’
‘I just bet.’
The porter gave a rare grin. ‘I told her the driver had gone for breakfast and wouldn’t be back for twenty minutes or so, but she’s not having none of that. Says my time might be worthless but hers isn’t. She wants it moved right now.’
Somehow he didn’t find it difficult to accept that Freya Anthony expected things to happen when and where she wanted. One imperious click of her manicured fingers and Daniel had no doubt the world habitually fell where she wanted it to.
‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘You’ll have to. She’s spitting fair to blow.’
Daniel smiled. The image Bob was creating was all too indicative of what he expected Ms Anthony would do when the world didn’t bend to her will.
‘She’s one that likes things to happen yesterday, I reckon.’
‘Okay, I’ll sort it.’ Daniel glanced down at his watch and grimaced. There couldn’t be much more that could go wrong today. He seemed to have been running behind from the minute he’d opened his eyes this morning.
‘Nice looking woman, though, ain’t she?’
Yes—if you liked the kind of woman who would eat you up and spit you out.
He stepped out onto the forecourt, pausing for a minute to gauge how blocked-in her car was. The faint hope he’d had that it might be possible to guide her past faded as he took in how far Pete had driven the van in.
Daniel walked towards her. ‘I’m sorry about this.’
‘Just get it moved.’
He looked back at Bob. ‘See if you can find Pete and get the keys—’
‘You don’t have a spare set?’
‘Why would I? It’s not my van,’ he replied calmly, taking in the angry flash of her blue eyes. Then he turned back to Bob. ‘I think you’ll find him in Carlo’s. If not he’ll have gone on to that place in the arcade for one of their all-day breakfasts.’
The older man nodded and ambled off towards Silver Street. Beside him, Freya made a small guttural sound of pure irritation.
‘It shouldn’t be too long,’ Daniel offered. ‘Would you like to wait inside?’
‘What’s the difference? It’s as cold in there as out here.’
‘You’re welcome to use the phone if you need to call someone,’ he added seamlessly.
‘I’ve got a mobile.’
Quite deliberately he let the silence stretch out between them. She could be as difficult as she liked, but she wasn’t going to get a reaction out of him. After a moment it seemed she made a conscious decision to relax. Though by other people’s standards she was still as tense as a bowstring.
Spoilt, he thought, watching the small frown disappear from the centre of her forehead. A woman who’d had her own way far too often and easily. She spun round on her ice-pick-thin heels and walked over to perch half a buttock on the low brick wall behind her car.
His eyes travelled to the sleek grey Audi he’d heard so much about. ‘Nice car.’
‘I like it.’
Daniel smiled. It was a ‘statement’ car, not one chosen simply to get you from A to B. It was a car which would always be noticed. Would inspire envy. She had to know that. Would surely have anticipated the reaction it would produce when she drove it into the village. Even in Fellingham, which had its fair share of London money.
It made him wonder whether this was all some kind of game to her. Did she like the idea of wafting back to her old stamping ground and giving the gossips something to talk about?
Because they were talking. Everything she did and said would be dissected. Everywhere she went…
Did she even care?
Daniel took in the dark smudges under her eyes and the tight hold to her mouth. She cared. He had no idea how he knew that so certainly. ‘How long are you planning on staying?’
