The Reluctant Tycoon. Emma Richmond

put her coat more securely round her shoulders and walked out. She closed the door very softly behind her. And then she laughed. ‘Yes!’ she whispered with a little clenched fist. If he’d been looking at her work then he wasn’t totally disinterested, was he? And if she didn’t get the job, well, she was still rather glad she’d come. She’d really rather liked him. And it would be someone to dream about, wouldn’t it?

      Staring at the closed door, Garde gave a brief grunt of laughter. This procession of ‘wannabes’ was getting more bizarre by the minute. He didn’t think he had ever met anyone so—well—ingenious, he supposed. He’d have liked her to be genuine, but he very much doubted she was. How on earth had they managed to recruit a gardener? If she was indeed a gardener. He should never have let her in the house, of course. Wasn’t even sure why he had. And tomorrow she would be back. The so-very-different Miss James. And after Miss James there would be someone else wanting to do his garden, or clean his car, sweep the chimneys…Their inventiveness was endless. But, he suddenly thought, if he employed Miss James, the hassle might stop for a while, mightn’t it?

      With a small, rather cynical smile, he thoughtfully moved his gaze back to the portfolio. His garden did need doing; maybe he could kill two birds with one stone. And if she was no good, then she wouldn’t get paid.

      Turning back to the front page where her card was sellotaped, he decisively pulled the telephone towards him and punched out the number of a private detective.

      Poking her head into the kitchen, Sorrel assured the housekeeper that she thought Mr Chevenay would be far more reasonable in future, and went to retrieve her shoes.

      Crunching round to the front, she stared at the lowering sky. June was supposed to be flaming, not this perpetual drizzle. It was also the time of year when people were supposed to feel more cheerful. But not in this house. And not in the local press either, according to Mrs Davies. So why would a young man be hated? Well, not young young, she mentally corrected. She would guess that Garde Chevenay was in his mid-to late thirties. And extraordinarily attractive, despite his rather brusque manner. Or maybe even because of it. But hated?

      Climbing into her old truck, and praying it would start the first time, she twisted the ignition key. Garde Chevenay. Definitely a name to conjure with. It seemed a long time since she’d had a light flirtation with an attractive man, and the thought of it definitely made her feel brighter. Not that she expected him to reciprocate, but it could be fun to tease him. If he would allow her to do his gardens, which she very much doubted.

      Bit of a wild goose chase, really, which was a pity, because the front certainly needed attention. The grass, which had once, presumably, been a lawn, was waist-high and full of weeds. The trees, old and bent, were in dire need of pruning, or even removing. The drive needed attention, the stream that ran along the foot of the property needed clearing out, and the brief glimpse she’d had of the back, well…In your dreams, Sorrel, she sighed to herself. Even if he were interested, she had no references to prove her trustworthiness, and Garde Chevenay definitely looked like a man who would want references. Just like the others before him. The worrying thing was, she’d never needed references until after Nick. She’d always got her work by word of mouth; but now, suddenly, everyone wanted a reference from her last employer.

      With a smile equally as cynical as Garde’s, she sighed. That was really likely, wasn’t it? A reference from Nick. And it had to be him behind it all. She’d had several enquiries from her advertisements, had given quotes, and everything had seemed fine—until the excuses started coming in. ‘Not quite what we want. Sorry.’ ‘Too expensive.’ ‘Too this, too that, and, of course, without a reference from your last employer…’ ‘One has to be so careful nowadays…’ And if she didn’t find a job soon…

      Feeling despondent again, she drove to a small hotel where she would book in for the night. She went up to her room. She would ring her sister to see if she’d managed to get hold of that article Sorrel had started reading in the dentist’s, and even if she hadn’t she might have been able to find out something else about him, something that might give her a lever in persuading him that he needed her. Jen liked a challenge. They both did. Oh, do stop it, she scolded herself. Things would get better. They had to.

      Making herself comfortable on the bed, she picked up the phone and punched out her sister’s number. It was answered on the second ring.

      ‘Jen?’

      ‘Sorrel! Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day!’

      ‘Have you?’ Sorrel asked in alarm. ‘Why? Has something happened?’

      ‘What? No! Are you at home?’

      ‘No, Wiltshire.’

      ‘Wiltshire?’ Jen exclaimed. ‘What on earth…? No,’ she said disgustedly, ‘don’t tell me. That’s why you wanted me to find the article, isn’t it? You went to see him! I don’t believe you, Sorrel! You can’t just go knocking on people’s doors!’

      ‘Of course I can,’ Sorrel argued softly. Easily conjuring up an image of Garde’s face, she smiled to herself. ‘You can meet the most delightful people.’

      There was a little silence, and then Jen reproved meaningfully, ‘I don’t like the way you said that. What’s happened?’

      ‘Nothing.’

      ‘Sorrel,’ Jen warned, ‘you know I’ll get it out of you in the end so you might as well tell me now. What happened?’

      ‘Nothing happened!’ Her eyes lit up with sudden laughter. ‘I just found him—interesting,’ she murmured softly.

      Her sister gave a snort of disgust. ‘Well, don’t get too interested,’ she cautioned brusquely.

      ‘Why not?’ Sorrel grinned. ‘I haven’t had a decent flirtation in ages!’

      ‘Because he’s dying!’