The Reluctant Tycoon

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!”

HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®

3609—THE BOSS’S BRIDE

3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS

The Reluctant Tycoon

Emma Richmond

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

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.

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 why did you want it?’

‘So that I can check you out.’ Picking up the album, he tried to hand it to her.

She put her hands behind her back. ‘I’ll leave it with you. I can pick it up tomorrow. You never know, you might find some of the ideas useful…’

‘No,’ he said softly.

‘Yes. And if you really don’t—’

‘I don’t.’

‘You could post it back to me.’

‘It might get lost,’ he said blandly.

‘I’ll take that chance. Please? I really am very good.’

‘And cheap?’ he asked interestedly.

‘Well, no, but…’

Eyes holding hers, he dismissed her softly. ‘Goodbye, Miss James.’

With a little grimace, she quickly finished her coffee and picked up her coat. ‘At least look at them,’ she pleaded. ‘I’m open to suggestions…’ Realising what she had said, she gave a grunt of laughter. ‘Not those sort of suggestions, I just meant—’

‘I know what you meant.’

Pulling a face at him, she slung her muddy coat round her shoulders. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Not if I see you first, hung in the air between them, and she gave a rueful smile. After opening the door, she returned for the tray. ‘I’ll take it back to the kitchen, shall I?’

‘It won’t do you any good.’

‘That wasn’t why I…Sorry, I tend to get a bit—’

‘Carried away?’ He was staring at her with an expression of such interested attentiveness that she laughed.

‘All right, I’m going.’ Don’t push your luck, Sorrel, she warned herself. Hastily escaping, she awkwardly closed the door behind her. She knew she did tend to get a bit carried away in other people’s houses, but then that was probably because she usually worked in other people’s houses. And he hadn’t forced her to take back the portfolio, so there was still hope, wasn’t there? Ever the optimist, smile still in place, she headed down the hall.

Assuming that kitchens were normally at the rear of a property, she pushed open the door beneath the staircase, and came to an abrupt halt. The room looked like something from the Middle Ages, and the contrast with the hall was—well, astonishing.

Mrs Davies was sitting at the long scrubbed table in the centre of the room. She looked as though she’d been crying. Putting down the tray, Sorrel asked gently, ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes. No. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing!’ the housekeeper exclaimed. ‘He doesn’t say! Mr Craddock, the last owner, was so—easy.’ Staring at Sorrel, she burst out, ‘I need this job. Clive’s out of work at present—my husband,’ she explained, ‘and although Mr Chevenay said I could stay on, I don’t know what he expects of me.’

‘Because he doesn’t say,’ Sorrel agreed sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry I got you into trouble.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, not really. Could you ask him?’ she pleaded. ‘What my duties are?’

‘Me?’ Sorrel exclaimed in astonishment. ‘But I don’t know him! I’m not really a friend…’

‘Please? If I Hoover, he asks me to stop; if I cook him meals, he doesn’t eat them. I don’t even know if I’m supposed to answer his phone! And now he wants me to redesign his kitchen! I know it’s a bit old-fashioned, but redesign it how?’

‘Get some magazines,’ Sorrel advised. ‘That’s what people normally do, isn’t it? Show him some pictures. And surely it will be better for you to work somewhere, well, modern?’