a rather shabby-chic kind of way, with bay windows and French doors facing the sea, and because of the curve of the bay they’d catch the sun all afternoon. He swivelled. The plot ended at a high retaining wall that held the garden back above the under-cliff road. The wall was about waist high on the inside of the garden, but well over head high on the other side, giving privacy without interfering with the view.
And the view from all the rooms must be spectacular, he realised, studying it again, but as if that wasn’t enough, there was a square three-storey tower at the right-hand end, soaring up over the roof level of the main house, and the room at the top had windows on three sides.
It would make a fantastic look-out, a perfect place to sit and watch the ships going in and out of Felixstowe and Harwich further down the coast. There would be yachts, as well, and dinghies. He hadn’t been here for years, but he’d been brought up only thirty or so miles away and he knew from day trips in his youth that it was a popular spot for sailors. He could picture the races that would take place in the summer, hear the children playing on the beach below, dogs chasing sticks into the sea—
And he was a romantic fool.
‘Can we get into the house?’
‘Sure. It’s a mess—we’ve started stripping it out, so you have to look where you’re going—’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t sue you. I’m a firm believer in people making their own mistakes and taking responsibility for their own actions. The litigation culture we’re all getting into makes me livid. Whatever happened to common sense?’
Georgie snorted. ‘Tell it to my father’s insurers. They’d have hysterics if they could hear you talking.’
‘No, they’d probably agree with me—or their underwriters would.’
She laughed. ‘Maybe. Come on, we’ll go in this way.’
They went in through an open door at the bottom of the tower, their footsteps echoing in the empty rooms, loud on the bare boards, and he tried to concentrate on the building, but the pint-sized fireball beside him was demanding his attention in ways he hadn’t expected at all, and he was utterly distracted.
At first glance he’d mistaken her for a girl, but in here, without the sun in his eyes, he could see she was all woman. Not that the women he usually associated with would appreciate her charms. Oh, no. There was no urbane sophistication, no glitter and glamour and not a designer label in sight, but this small, energetic woman was so vitally alive she’d put all of them in the shade.
‘So what are the plans for this building?’ he asked, dragging his mind off the subtle curves he could barely make out under her oh-so-sexy luminous jacket.
‘Two apartments in the original house, and a small town house at this end with the tower, and then the extension is destined to be four more apartments. Come, I’ll show you. The tower’s wonderful.’
It was. It was everything he’d imagined and, as he’d thought, the view from the room at the top was spectacular. It was nearly as spectacular from all the principle rooms at the front of the house, as well, but as his guide took them down a corridor and into the rear extension it took a serious downturn.
This bit of the building was a much later addition, a dull rabbit-warren, the rooms small and uninteresting and not a patch on the front. He was much more interested in studying the way her hips swayed, the way she tossed her hair out of her eyes, and he could tell she wasn’t interested in this part of the building either. This whole later addition to the house needed flattening, frankly, and he couldn’t believe they weren’t going to do that.
‘Who’s the architect?’ he asked, cutting across a stream of facts that left him cold.
‘Oh. Um—a man my father’s never worked with before. He’s a friend of Andrew Broomfield’s, I believe.’
Nick nodded. That made sense. Another bad decision, taking on a friend to save money and ending up with a design without vision, cramming in as much profit-making potential as possible and losing the plot in the process.
‘Can you go over the plans with me?’
‘Of course. If you’re very good, I might even conjure up a cup of tea.’
‘Oh, I’m good,’ he murmured without thinking, and she looked away, but not before he saw her eyes widen and soft colour touch her cheeks.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ she said under her breath, and then, turning on her heel, she clomped out of the building in her ridiculous boots and vile yellow jacket, the little dog at her heels, and he followed her across the messy, stony site to the tin shed she called her office, feeling more alive than he had in years…
‘You mentioned a phone call,’ he said, and she wondered if she should tell him just how close the bank was to pulling the plug, or if she should spend a little more time getting him on-side and see if she could sweet-talk the bank for another day.
No. The time for that was over. ‘The bank,’ she said, and he nodded slowly and folded his arms, propping his long, beautifully proportioned body back against the wall and regarding her thoughtfully.
‘Are they pressing you very hard?’
She nodded. ‘We’ve had to pay bills and wages. Andrew said the money was coming—’
‘But it hasn’t, and you’re in the doo-doo?’
She felt her lips twitch. ‘You could say that. They’ve given me until close of business today.’
‘How much?’
‘Pardon?’
‘How much do you need now to get them off your backs and enable you to clear existing debts?’
She sat down at her desk a little abruptly. Was he seriously going to write her out a cheque for thousands of pounds just like that?
‘A lot,’ she said bluntly. She pulled the figures towards her, did a few calculations and turned, to find he was looking over her shoulder at the calculator.
‘Is that it?’
‘Roughly. For now,’ she said, and he nodded.
‘I’ll round it up a bit, give you some working capital and a bit of breathing room.’
She felt her jaw start to sag. ‘But I thought you were going to decide if we were to complete the build—’
‘I just did.’ He punched buttons on his mobile, spoke briefly to someone called Tory and handed her the phone. ‘My PA. Give her the details of your bank account,’ he instructed. ‘She’ll get the money moved before close of business today.’
She could hardly speak for relief. Her father was lying in hospital waiting for open-heart surgery, worrying himself senseless, the workforce had been fantastic but they were running out of patience, the bank had done all and more that could be expected of them, and she hadn’t drawn any salary for weeks.
With tears threatening, she gave Tory the details she needed, handed back the phone and stared hard out of the window.
‘Thank you,’ she said, and sucked in a huge breath. It was meant to steady her, but it turned into a sob, and after a moment of stunned silence he propped his hips on the desk beside her, pulled her head against his chest and rubbed her back gently.
‘Hey, it’s OK,’ he murmured.
She fought it for a moment, but the scent of his aftershave and the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart were too much for her, and she gave in and let him hold her as the tension of the last few weeks freed itself in a storm of tears the like of which she hadn’t cried since her mother died.
Then, suddenly overcome by embarrassment, she pushed away, stood up and went outside, pausing on the steps and staring at the sea while she sucked in great lungfuls of the wild, salty air and felt it fill her soul.
It was going to be