The Reluctant Tycoon. Emma Richmond

darling, I’m so sorry. Does the job look hopeful? Although, if he’s dying,’ Jen murmured worriedly, ‘it’s probably best not to get involved. I couldn’t bear for you to be hurt again.’

      ‘I’m not intending to get involved! All I said was that I found him interesting!’ Anyway, even if she’d wanted to, which she didn’t, there probably wasn’t going to be an opportunity to get involved. Sorrel quickly changed the subject. She didn’t want to discuss Garde further, she found. Not even with her sister. ‘How’s my nephew?’

      ‘In disgrace!’ Jen laughed, but Sorrel could still hear the underlying worry in her sister’s voice. ‘He pulled the wallpaper off the wall behind his cot and when I told him off, the little wretch just looked at me with his big blue eyes and said softly, “Oh, dear.”’

      Sorrel laughed. ‘I seem to remember someone else doing that. Must run in the family.’

      ‘The difference being I got a smack!’

      ‘Mmm, I remember.’

      ‘When are you coming home?’

      ‘Oh, tomorrow, I expect. Give my love to the naughty one, and to your delightful husband. I should be back about five—and I’m all right. Really,’ she insisted. ‘Take care of yourself. Bye.’

      Slowly replacing the receiver, she continued to stare at it for a few minutes. She didn’t want him to be ill. She couldn’t believe he was. But was that why he’d said he didn’t give interviews? Possibly. Once the article had come out…Anyway, she wasn’t likely to see him again after tomorrow.

      Sorrel tried to stop thinking about it, about him. She swung her legs to the floor and went to have a shower and wash her hair before going down for something to eat. But her mind wouldn’t leave it alone. All that evening and long into the night she continued to think about him, and the next morning, driving out to the house, she continued to think about it.

      He must have been watching for her, or maybe it was coincidence, but he answered the door himself before she even had a chance to tug at the old bell-pull. Then she realised that it wasn’t either of those things as the little dog they’d rescued the day before trotted out.

      ‘He got home all right, then,’ she murmured inanely.

      ‘One can only assume so.’ At her look of astonishment, he added brusquely, ‘He isn’t mine.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘He visits.’

      ‘Oh,’ she said again. ‘Have you, er, had a chance to look at the photographs?’

      ‘Yes. You’d better come in.’ Holding the door wide, he waited for her to step inside and then closed the door behind her and led the way to the study. He was having second thoughts about this. Overnight, he’d almost convinced himself that she’d looked calculating. But she didn’t. She looked almost as eager as the damned dog. She also looked surprised, as though she’d expected him to hand the portfolio back at the door.

      Moving to sit behind the desk, he looked down at the album that lay in front of him. There was still time to change his mind. He glanced at her, trying, perhaps, to analyse a face that defied analysis, then returned his attention to the album.

      ‘Did you find anything you liked?’ she asked eagerly. Moving to stand beside him, she flipped over the cover. ‘They all show before and after…’

      He stared at her.

      ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, her face rueful.

      ‘Sit,’ he ordered.

      Obediently turning away, she walked to sit in the chair she’d used previously. Her eyes on his strong face as he flipped the cover closed and began tapping a fingernail on it, she tried to see signs of illness, and couldn’t. He didn’t look thin, or pale, and certainly his hair wasn’t falling out—but then perhaps he hadn’t had chemotherapy. Or maybe it had grown again. Maybe he was now better. Jen had said that the article was over six months old. Certainly he looked really rather—well, rugged, she supposed. He was freshly shaven, and wearing an expensive-looking light grey, short-sleeved shirt with his long legs encased in clean jeans. There was an aura of strength, determination about him. No way did he look like a man who was dying.

      The phone rang, and she gave a little start. Garde ignored it; when she couldn’t bear the intrusive ring any longer, she demanded, ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

      ‘No.’

      ‘Well, don’t you have an answering machine? Surely all this equipment isn’t just for show?’

      He ignored her. The phone, thankfully, finally stopped ringing.

      ‘Did you see the letters of—well, praise, I suppose you could say, in the rear pocket?’ she asked him. Best to mention them and perhaps, hopefully, he wouldn’t notice that the last one was more than a year old.

      He didn’t answer, but then he didn’t seem to answer anything he didn’t want to, including his phone. It seemed a funny way to run a business. If he had a business. She should have paid more attention to what Jen had been saying.

      Holding his eyes for long, long moments, unsure of what message, if any, he was sending, she rushed into speech. ‘I rang my sister last night, to tell her about you. I’d asked her to try and get hold of the magazine I didn’t have time to finish reading in the dentist’s. It said you had cancer,’ she blurted.

      Amazingly, he laughed. Derisively, admittedly, but still a laugh. ‘And that accounts for your worried air this morning?’ he mocked.

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘I was awake half the night thinking about it. I’m so sorry.’

      ‘No need to be,’ he said with an indifference that startled her. ‘It was a misprint.’

      ‘Misprint?’

      ‘Yes. It should have said I was driven by Cancer, the birth sign, not riven by it. The reporter was obviously into horoscopes. The printer or typesetter wasn’t.’

      ‘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