The Reluctant Tycoon. Emma Richmond

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.

      She stared at his hand, then back to his face.

      ‘You have a copy of this letter?’

      ‘Well, of course I don’t have a copy!’ she denied in exasperation. ‘Why would I? It doesn’t work like that. I write, you respond…’

      ‘But, I didn’t.’

      ‘Well, no, but—’

      ‘There aren’t any buts. Why did you come?’ he asked bluntly.

      Because I was desperate. But she couldn’t say that, could she? No. ‘I was in the area,’ she lied glibly. Still staring at him, examining his harsh, rather square-cut face, and those slate-grey, expressionless eyes, she said hopefully, ‘Coffee would be nice.’

      ‘I dare say it would, Miss…?’

      ‘James. Sorrel James.’ Her lips twitched slightly at the expression on his face. ‘Daft, isn’t it? But my mother was into horses at the time and I was born with brownish-orange hair.’

      ‘It’s still brownish-orange,’ he commented.

      ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘and I don’t know how you have the cheek to sneer at my name when yours is even more bizarre. At least people have heard of Sorrel. I mean, Garde isn’t exactly run-of-the-mill, is it? A family name?’

      ‘No, and I have no idea what my mother was into,’ he returned rudely, throwing her own words back at her.

      She grinned. ‘Coffee?’

      He stared at her for a moment. Genuine, or ingenious? he wondered. It might be interesting to find out exactly what little game she was playing. He depressed a button on the intercom. There was a faint squawk and he said quietly, his gaze still on Sorrel, ‘Coffee for two, please, Mrs Davies.’ Still watching her, he asked, ‘Why were you in the area?’

      Lowering her lashes, she scratched absently at the mud on the knee of her trousers. Don’t tell lies, Sorrel. Tell the truth. ‘Actually, that was a lie,’ she confessed. ‘I drove down to see you.’ Looking up, she stared at him once more. ‘I want to do your gardens. I’m a lot stronger than I look,’ she promised in the face of his obvious scepticism. ‘And I’m very good. You won’t be disappointed.’

      ‘Won’t I?’ he asked flatly.

      ‘No.’

      ‘And do you normally seek people out? Knock on their doors?’

      ‘Sometimes,’ she admitted quietly.

      ‘How many times? Come in,’ he called when there was a faint tap at the door.

      A rather worried-looking woman in her early fifties entered, carrying a tray. It was the woman who had answered the door to her earlier. She smiled rather nervously at Garde, gave Sorrel a curious glance and put the coffee on the corner of the desk.

      ‘Thank you, Mrs Davies—and, in future,’ he added in a voice that was guaranteed to terrify a timid heart, ‘if anyone else calls, I’m not in. Neither do you know where I am, or what I’m doing. Is that clear?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘It wasn’t her fault,’ Sorrel put in quickly, with a sympathetic smile for the other woman. ‘I told her I was an old friend.’

      Eyes still on Mrs Davies, he said, ‘The same applies to old friends. Take their name and a contact number or address.’

      ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry.’ She gave another nervous smile and went out, closing the door softly behind her.

      ‘Bit harsh, weren’t you?’

      He didn’t answer, merely waved his hand towards the tray, which Sorrel assumed meant she was to pour, and with a rather wry smile she got to her feet. ‘How do you take yours?’

      ‘Black.’

      ‘Figures.’

      She poured his, then her own, adding a generous amount of cream and sugar, and then returned to her chair and stared at him. ‘You seem rather paranoid about your privacy,’ she commented. When he didn’t answer, merely returned her stare, she continued, ‘Because you’re—what? Famous? Wealthy? Important?’

      ‘No. How many times?’ he repeated.

      With a comical little grimace, she confessed, ‘Well, none, actually. This is the first time.’

      He looked as though he might believe it. She didn’t know why he might believe that, but…

      ‘How did you find me?’

      ‘Find you?’ she echoed. ‘You make it sound as though I was looking.’ Suddenly remembering his earlier comments, she added thoughtfully, ‘Up on the hill, you said you didn’t give interviews, as though I might be a reporter.’

      He waited, and she gave a small smile. She was actually beginning to like this rather abrupt man, and she gave a soft, infectious laugh. ‘I found you at the dentist,’ she finally explained. ‘I was waiting, as one does, and leafing through a magazine, and there you were. Garde Chevenay, the new owner of Blakeborough Abbey. There was an aerial view of the grounds, and I yearned to do them,’ she said simply. ‘I did have a quick peep at the rear,’ she confessed. ‘That old paving needs some attention—but if you didn’t want or couldn’t afford to have the whole thing done at once,’ she added quickly, ‘I could do it piecemeal. Or even just the gravel. I’m very good at gravel.’

      ‘You do surprise me,’ he said sardonically. ‘The dentist is local?’

      ‘What? Oh, no,’ she admitted with a small grin. ‘London. I don’t have much work on at present.’

      ‘And one must grasp at opportunities as they arise?’

      ‘Yes, so you see…’

      ‘You have proof of your identity?’ he interrupted.

      Puzzled, she shook her head. ‘Not with me, no. Why?’

      ‘Because I want to know who you are.’

      ‘But you know who I am. I just told you.’

      ‘Did you?’

      Slightly bewildered, she nodded. ‘Yes.’

      ‘But you didn’t bring identification?’ he asked with drawled sarcasm. ‘Not very professional.’

      ‘No—I mean—yes.’ Taking a deep breath, she stated positively, ‘I brought my portfolio.’ Leaping to her feet, she said eagerly, ‘I’ll go and get it. It’s in my truck. Then you’ll be able to see what I can do…’ Before he could comment, she hurried out, walked gingerly across the gravel in her socks and collected it. Hurrying back, she laid it on the desk before him. ‘My card’s inside the front cover.’

      He nodded and opened the photograph album. Pulling a piece of paper towards him, he jotted down her name and address and then closed it.

      Watching him, she felt her eagerness begin to dissipate. ‘Aren’t you going to look at the photographs?’

      ‘No,’ he said dismissively.

      ‘Then