Just Say Yes. Caroline Anderson

hydro—if I could persuade someone to come with me, of course…’

      Georgia, glass to her lips, took a gulp of wine by accident and began to cough. Another mistake. Tim Godbold’s damp and heavy hand descended on her shoulderblades with a possessive and intimate pat, totally ineffectual and utterly unnecessary. She waved him away, lost for words, and looked wildly around for a distraction.

      Adrian had wandered off, doing his fundraiser’s bit, and Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Blast.

      Help, though, was at hand. Mrs Brooks, the chairman of the charity, stood up and called everyone’s attention to the auction which was about to begin.

      Georgia, hugely relieved and almost able to speak again, excused herself and went over to the podium, in case she was asked to explain what she was offering, but in the end she didn’t need to explain anything.

      The auctioneer had been well primed. He banged his gavel to get everyone’s attention, launched into the sale and achieved some staggering sums for really quite silly things.

      Then he reached the climax of his patter. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to our star prize of the evening. She’s a nationally renowned garden designer, she’s been invited by the Royal Horticultural Society to exhibit a show garden at the Chelsea Flower Show next year, and she’s very kindly offered a day of her most valuable time to help you realise the garden of your dreams.

      ‘She’s more than qualified to design anything from a roof garden to a motorway service area, but her forte is the restoration of historic gardens—’

      Out of the corner of her eye, Georgia saw Matt Fraser’s body straighten. She caught his eye, speculative and searching, and looked away—straight into the even more speculative eyes of Tim Godbold. He’d threatened to bid for her. Oh, Lord. She started to feel slightly sick.

      ‘And, of course, as it’s only April now there’s still plenty of time to get plants in and start seeing the fruits of your labours this summer, so come on, ladies and gentlemen, what will you bid me for a day in the company of the gorgeous Georgia Beckett?’

      The bidding started at a nice sensible figure—nothing like what she charged for a day’s consultation in a garden, but enough as an opening bid. Then it started to rise, steadily at first, and then by larger increments. The other bidders dropped out one by one, and she watched in fascinated horror as Tim Godbold and Matthew Fraser battled for her across the room.

      It was like some ghastly game of dare, she thought, each one throwing down a more outrageous bid, each determined to win. She hardly dared to look at them, Tim glassy-eyed and sweating slightly, Matthew with a grim line to his mouth that brooked no argument.

      By the time it reached four times the real cost of her day’s work, she was getting distinctly uncomfortable. She was happy for the charity, but even so! It was only one day, for heaven’s sake! No designs on paper, no planting schemes—just a wander round and a quick chat, in essence. So what were the two men bidding for?

      Then Matthew spoke up, cutting through the auctioneer with his strong, clear voice, throwing down his final bid like a gauntlet.

      There was a ripple of shocked delight through the crowd, and all eyes swivelled to Tim Godbold. He dithered for a moment, then threw down his programme and stalked off.

      She thought he was going to blow a fuse. She was certain she was. She closed her eyes, wondering if anyone actually did die of humiliation, and heard the auctioneer say, ‘Going once, going twice, sold to Mr Fraser.’ The gavel smacked down on the desk with a victorious thunk, and wild applause broke out.

      ‘My God, it is a slave auction,’ she muttered under her breath, and forced herself to open her eyes and smile vacantly at everyone.

      Then Matt was at her side, taking her arm possessively and smiling down at her as if he’d bought her and not just eight hours of her time. He looked disgustingly pleased with himself, and she felt sick and more than a little angry.

      She yanked her arm away. ‘What the hell was that little exhibition about?’ she stormed under her breath. ‘Wrangling over me like a couple of dogs over a—a—!’

      He opened his mouth to speak, and she skewered him with a glare. ‘Don’t even think it,’ she growled.

      ‘I was going to say bone,’ he said mildly, and grinned. ‘Anyway, you should thank me.’

      ‘Thank you? Thank you! Are you mad? I thought I was going to die of embarrassment!’

      ‘Nonsense. Anyway, would you rather I’d let Tim Godbold get his sticky little paws on you?’

      ‘Maybe,’ she said unreasonably, trying not to shudder. ‘Perhaps he’s got a genuine need for a garden designer.’

      He bent his head closer. ‘And perhaps he had his garden landscaped last year at enormous expense—rumour has it six figures.’

      Her jaw dropped, and she snapped her mouth shut and looked away. ‘Oh.’

      ‘Yes, oh. And, for your information, I have a need. A very genuine need which I think you’re perfectly qualified to meet.’

      Why did she get the feeling he wasn’t talking about gardens?

      ‘We’ll see,’ she said, and felt a little shiver of anticipation in amongst the rage. She’d been secretly hoping that the day she’d donated would lead to further work. Now she was wondering just what she’d let herself in for! Still, it could have been worse. It could have been Tim Godbold, she thought, and shuddered.

      What was that expression the Victorians had used? A Fate Worse Than Death?

      Yes. Matt Fraser, for all his faults, had to be better than that!

      She was still bristling with temper, Matt realised. Oh, well. If he’d hoped for gratitude he was clearly doomed to be frustrated, but that was just too bad. He hadn’t liked the way Godbold was looking at her, not at all.

      Had she heard the rumours about him? Probably not. A band struck up, and he turned to her with a smile, mouth opening to ask her for a dance, but she didn’t give him the opportunity.

      ‘I’d like to go home, please,’ she said, in a quiet voice that brooked no argument.

      That suited Matt. He’d had a long day, and frankly if it hadn’t been for the enticing thought of holding Georgia in his arms, he would cheerfully have left the moment he’d written out his cheque.

      ‘Fine,’ he said, and started to manoeuvre them towards the door.

      However they weren’t to get away with it. Mrs Brooks came sailing up with a big smile. ‘Georgia, darling, thank you! What a star! And Matthew—how kind of you to be so generous yet again, and after you said you couldn’t come, you naughty man! Now, you can do one thing more for me—start the dancing off, please.’

      ‘Just one, for the charity?’ Matt murmured to Georgia, and with a little sigh she smiled graciously at Mrs Brooks.

      ‘Just one, for the charity,’ she echoed, ‘and then I must go. I’ve been on site in London all day and I’m bushed.’

      ‘Bless you, darlings. And thanks again.’

      She sailed off, another victim in her sights, and Matt turned to Georgia with a wry smile. ‘You could try not to look as if I’m going to murder you later,’ he teased, and she snorted softly.

      ‘How do I know you’re not?’

      He chuckled. ‘You’ll have to trust me.’

      ‘Little Red Riding Hood made that mistake with the wolf, if I remember correctly. How big are your teeth?’

      He bared them in a mock snarl, and she laughed, for the first time. Catching her in a weak moment, as it were, he took her gently by the arm and led her onto the dance floor, then bowed his head, a slight smile still playing round his lips.

      ‘Shall we dance?’

      It