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The Reluctant Tycoon
Emma Richmond
Garde Chevenay finds his new employee very attractive–but he's reluctant to trust her. Until he can, he must resist her, no matter how tempted he is….Sorrel James is also trying hard to resist the gorgeous tycoon; she knows getting involved with her boss would be foolish. Denying their attraction increases the sensual tension between them. But when Garde learns about Sorrel's past, will they still want to give in to their desires…?
He wanted to trust her, but he couldn’t afford to.
He couldn’t afford to trust anyone he didn’t know. He had learned that to his cost a long time ago. And he hated it, being suspicious of every passing stranger. And he was attracted to Sorrel, he admitted to himself for the first time. Not just liking her or amused by her—but attracted to her. Heavens knew why, he thought wearily. She wasn’t his type at all….
Emma Richmond was born during the war in north Kent, U.K., when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways non-existent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”
Books by Emma Richmond
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®
3609—THE BOSS’S BRIDE
3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS
The Reluctant Tycoon
Emma Richmond
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE (#u5c90ca8b-5c38-5427-bd6e-e428777e898e)
CHAPTER TWO (#u3d57f699-0402-5165-9480-da6e2407b9f2)
CHAPTER THREE (#u7bdd274a-c5f1-564f-b14b-1af666029a64)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
MAD, THAT was what she was. Stark, staring, mad. She could have waited at the house. Possibly waited at the house, Sorrel mentally corrected. The woman who’d answered the door to her hadn’t actually invited her inside. She could have asked, of course, but, no, Miss Impetuous had to see him now. Why? Sorrel asked herself disgustedly as she hastily sidestepped what looked like something unsavoury. She’d been searching for work for months; another five minutes wasn’t going to make any difference. Nerves, that was what it was, which was stupid. She wasn’t normally averse to confronting complete strangers—she did it all the time. It was just that his name sounded somehow—intimidating, which was daft. What was in a name? Her own was pretty bizarre and she wasn’t intimidating. But Garde Chevenay sounded—superior. It was a French name, of course, which might have something to do with it.
Or maybe it wasn’t nerves, but desperation, and she was becoming desperate in her search for work. Not that she must let him see that. Perhaps he would interpret her behaviour as enthusiasm. That would be good, wouldn’t it? Prospective employers liked to see enthusiasm. So why hadn’t he answered her letter?
Much given to mental deliberations, Sorrel trudged up the muddy slope. Tall and thin with wild curly hair that wasn’t in the least improved by the misty rain that fell with such persistence, she halted a moment to catch her breath. And why was it, she wondered, that drizzle always seemed to soak you more than a downpour?
Staring round her, she surveyed the empty countryside. Not a soul to be seen. Somewhere over there, she’d been told with a vague point, which could, of course, mean anything.
Breasting the rise, she gave a little cry of alarm as she nearly stumbled over him. At least, she hoped it was him; much more of this hill-walking and she’d probably end up with pneumonia. He was lying flat, his arms inside a crack in the earth, his face in profile, and, yes, he definitely looked superior. And attractive. And young—well, younger than she’d expected, anyway. But did he look like a man who would give her a job? That was the question.
Assuming something had been lost in the hole and Mr Chevenay was trying to retrieve it, without much success by the look of things, she stated, ‘I’m skinny. Perhaps I can get it, whatever it is.’
He turned his head, stared at her with eyes the colour of slate. Expressionless eyes, eyes that gave nothing away. There was an air of tense exasperation about him, which didn’t bode well, and he was big, she discovered, as he got to his feet. Very big.
‘Take off your coat,’ he ordered peremptorily.
‘What?’
‘Your coat!’ When she hesitated, he added tersely, ‘Quickly. If he slips further, we’ll have to dig out the whole hillside.’ Without waiting for her to obey, he grabbed her, hauled her in front of him and began to undo her buttons.
‘He?’
‘A dog,’ he added even more tersely as he dragged her coat off and tossed it onto the grass. Bunching her long hair in his fist, he began stuffing it into the neck of her sweater.
‘A dog is down there?’ she asked in disbelief.
He didn’t bother answering—but then he didn’t look like a man who was going to repeat himself. ‘I’ll hold your ankles.’
‘Ankles?’ she demanded in alarm. ‘How far down is he?’
‘Too far for me to reach,’ he snapped as he forced her to her knees.
‘Well, can’t he get out by himself? Dogs usually—’
‘No.’
With a little tut, she peered into the hole. All that could be seen was a very muddy rear end. An agitatedly wriggling rear end.
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, ‘how on earth am I to—?’
‘Never mind the Almighty,’ he ordered, with harsh impatience, ‘just grab hold of him.’
With obviously no choice in the matter, she pushed her arms in first, then eased herself into the narrow opening. She felt Garde take her ankles and grunted in fear and pain as he yanked her upright so that she slid more easily into the hole. Unable to see properly, unable to tilt her head, she groped around, felt the feather-light brush of the dog’s tail against her fingers and wriggled further inside. By touch alone, she forced her hands to either side of his haunches, gripped hard and, with a muffled yell, told Garde to pull her out.
He wasn’t gentle—but then, she didn’t suppose he was able to be. He grabbed her round the knees and tried to lift, and when that didn’t work grabbed her hips, and then the waistband of her trousers and gradually eased her up. Afraid her wet hands were going to slip on the muddy fur, she gripped harder, bit her lip at the dog’s whimper of pain, and then her body was dropped flat on the wet earth and she was dragged over the lip of the hole.
Her hands were ruthlessly uncurled, and she lifted her head to see Garde hoist the little Jack Russell into his arms and begin to check him over. ‘You’re all right,’ he said brusquely as he put him down. He sounded extremely bad tempered.
Certainly the dog looked all right as he shook himself before scampering off, nose to the ground. Sorrel hoped she was, too. It felt as though all the skin had been torn from her chest and stomach.
‘Shouldn’t you call him to heel or something?’ she asked absently as she rolled onto her back and sat up. Lifting her sweater, she stared down at herself.
‘No,’ he denied tersely. ‘Are you hurt?’
She shook her head. There was a slight redness across her ribs, but nothing else. Tugging down her sweater, she stared up at him. Tall and dark with broad shoulders, jaw unshaven and his hair wild, he looked dangerous. Sounded dangerous.
‘Thank you,’ he added grudgingly.
‘That’s all right,’ she said quietly. ‘Being skinny has its advantages.’
‘Yes.’ Moving away, he began trying to shift a large boulder that was embedded in the earth. He wasn’t skinny. He was large and well built. Even through his sweater she could see the bunch of his muscles.
‘Give me a hand with this, will you? I need to block the hole before he does it again.’
Getting to her feet, she went first to retrieve her coat, and then gave a cry of dismay at the state of it. Forgetting for the moment that this was a prospective employer, she demanded, ‘Did you have to throw it in a muddy puddle?’
He didn’t answer, merely continued trying to shift the boulder by rocking it backwards and forwards.
Pulling a face, she shoved her arms into her coat and went to help. Five minutes later they’d managed to roll it into the hole. He then dusted off his hands, and walked away.
‘Hey! Mr Chevenay!’ Hurrying to catch him up, she added breathlessly, ‘I want to talk to you.’
‘I don’t give interviews.’
‘I didn’t ask for one,’ she retorted automatically, and then halted, a little frown on her face. Was he normally plagued by journalists? Giving interviews, or not giving them, as the case may be, smacked of—fame. Seeing that he was now some way ahead, she ran to catch him up again. ‘Are you famous?’ she asked as she matched him stride for stride.
‘No. Who told you where I was?’
‘A woman at your house…’ she began, before registering the tightening of his lips. Someone was going to be in trouble for telling her, weren’t they? Damn. ‘Look,’ she began again, ‘I only wanted to ask you something.’
‘I don’t do favours, either.’
‘I don’t want a favour! In fact, I’m about to do you one! Well,’ she qualified, ‘maybe not a favour exactly. I’m here about my letter. You did get my letter? I’m—’
‘No.’ He continued on towards the house.
Taken aback, because he must have got it, hesitating only momentarily, she sprinted after him. ‘How do you know you didn’t get it?’ she demanded. ‘You don’t even know who I am! I sent it special delivery,’ she continued in the face of his silence. ‘You’d have to have signed for it.’
He didn’t answer.
‘Unless you were out when it came,’ she murmured, ‘and it went to the depot.’ Getting absolutely no response from him, she wondered if she’d got the wrong man. He hadn’t actually said who he was. ‘You are Garde Chevenay, aren’t you?’
He halted, looked at her, and then strode on.
Beginning to get cross, she grumbled, ‘Well, it surely can’t be a secret!’
He jumped the small ditch that divided the hill from the gravel drive—or, more accurately, what had once been a gravel drive, and was sadly now mostly devoid of its gravel and sprouting weeds—then crunched along it and round to the back of the old house.
Absolutely refusing to give up until she had a satisfactory answer, she trailed after him. ‘I wrote to you about your grounds. I’m a landscape gardener,’ she added for extra clarity as she followed him into what looked like a utility room. ‘So you see—’
‘You’re going somewhere?’ he enquired with hateful interest.
‘Yes,’ she agreed firmly, ‘I’m going to tell you what I can do.’
‘I wasn’t aware I’d shown any interest.’
‘You haven’t. Yet. But, Garde—’
‘Mr Chevenay, to you, and don’t tramp that mud in here,’ he ordered disagreeably.
‘You are,’ she pointed out.
‘I live here.’
With a little tut, Sorrel kicked off her ruined shoes and padded after him in her socks—wet socks—and bumped into his back as he suddenly halted to remove his own boots.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
He said something she didn’t catch, dragged off his wet sweater, tossed it aimlessly towards the corner, and opened the door in front of him. Striding through, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he went, he left it to swing shut behind him.
‘You are so rude!’ she complained as she yanked it open and followed him along a stone-flagged floor the colour of chestnuts.
‘Possibly because I didn’t invite you.’
‘But you must be interested! Your gardens are an absolute mess.’ Halting in pleased surprise, she stared curiously round her at white walls, a few highly polished pieces of furniture. Stark. Monastic—which was appropriate, seeing as it was an old monastery. A beautiful old staircase ran up the outside wall; a small half-moon table stood between it and the double front doors that were curved at the top. There was one door to her right, beneath the rise of the staircase, and three on her left. There was an empty niche between the first two doors and an old table beneath. ‘This is so nice—’ she began.
‘I’m glad you approve,’ he derided sarcastically.
With a little twitch of her lips, she halted before a large tapestry that hung above an old carved chest in the space between the next two doors. ‘A bit shabby,’ she added sadly, ‘but then it is rather old, I expect.’ When there was no answer, she looked round to find herself alone. The only indication of where he had gone was the muffled click of the door at the end. Hurrying towards it, she shoved it open and went into what was clearly his study. A very state-of-the-art study. Very modern, very functional, with, as far as she could see, every technological aid that had ever been invented.
‘I gather you work from home,’ she murmured as she continued to look round her.
He didn’t answer, merely seated himself behind a massive desk. But then he would need a massive desk; he was a massive man. It was nice to meet someone taller than herself.
Abandoning her evaluation of the room, she reverted to the subject in hand. ‘So, did you really not get my letter?’
‘I don’t read unsolicited mail.’
‘Not even out of curiosity?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘No.’ Linking his hands on the paper-strewn desk, he looked her up and down in a rather rude appraisal.
She stared back with humorous defiance. She knew exactly what he saw. A stork. Too tall, too thin; her strange-coloured hair would be even wilder than usual because it was wet. Even damp, it went into tight, impossible-to-comb curls. Her eyes were too light, lashes too dark, and her nose was probably red. Fine-featured, she wasn’t pretty but, at first glance, she was rather startling. She did not look like a gardener. Her eyes still alight with amusement, she headed for the linen-covered chair in the corner.
‘I do hope you aren’t intending to sit down in that muddy coat,’ he stated without inflexion.
‘And who made it muddy?’ she asked lightly as she removed it, looked around for somewhere to put it and, finding nowhere, folded it inside out and put it on the floor. As she sat down she curled her feet beneath her and stared at him once more. ‘Are you always this bad tempered?’ she asked curiously.
‘Yes, and only beautiful women can get away with being outrageous.’
‘Rubbish,’ she said dismissively. ‘Anyone can get away with being outrageous. People are so astonished at your crass cheek that they let you get away with it. And if you think this is outrageous, you should see me when—’
‘No, thank you,’ he interrupted. Holding out his hand, he waited.
