The Tycoon's Ultimate Conquest
CATHY WILLIAMS
His plan is simple…The ultimate seduction!Billionaire Arturo da Costa is furious when lawyer Rose Tremain places his latest business deal in jeopardy. He plans to counter her in the boardroom—but when he meets spirited Rose, the sizzling connection between them is irresistible! Now seduction is his greatest asset. He’ll ensure Rose is so overwhelmed with pleasure she forgets all about the deal. Until he finds himself equally addicted—to her!
His plan is simple...
The ultimate seduction!
When lawyer Rose Tremain places Arturo da Costa’s latest business deal in jeopardy, the billionaire plans to challenge her in the boardroom. Yet when he meets spirited Rose, the sizzling connection between them is irresistible! Now seduction is his greatest asset. He’ll ensure Rose is so overwhelmed with pleasure she forgets all about the deal. Until he finds himself equally addicted—to her!
Experience the chemistry in this captivating billionaire-boss romance!
CATHY WILLIAMS can remember reading Mills & Boon books as a teenager, and now that she is writing them she remains an avid fan. For her, there is nothing like creating romantic stories and engaging plots, and each and every book is a new adventure. Cathy lives in London. Her three daughters—Charlotte, Olivia and Emma—have always been, and continue to be, the greatest inspirations in her life.
Also by Cathy Williams (#u09b3231a-79f2-5497-ba95-f49eec0de896)
Seduced into Her Boss’s Service
A Virgin for Vasquez
Snowbound with His Innocent Temptation
Bought to Wear the Billionaire’s Ring
The Secret Sanchez Heir
Cipriani’s Innocent Captive
Legacy of His Revenge
A Deal for Her Innocence
The Italian Titans miniseries
Wearing the De Angelis Ring
The Surprise De Angelis Baby
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
The Tycoon’s Ultimate Conquest
Cathy Williams
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07261-8
THE TYCOON’S ULTIMATE CONQUEST
© 2018 Cathy Williams
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Contents
Cover (#u12161628-d3a1-5542-bc3a-58b7144e9867)
Back Cover Text (#u08f96d6b-305d-536d-bc5d-482cb9eeb4d7)
About the Author (#u220110fc-e492-57ff-8482-d654a15321f6)
Booklist (#u602d5233-18eb-5f10-a0ec-3b62395e4d26)
Title Page (#u53ea0278-ad82-5e17-a8d4-ec67b084c902)
Copyright (#ue9c9610c-fa4e-5166-9720-59aabfc863fb)
CHAPTER ONE (#u4b23b6e0-8fe9-5c7d-b0a7-76157088d4af)
CHAPTER TWO (#uc22ed14d-4af0-58a5-a0c0-9a49f0e4e68b)
CHAPTER THREE (#u7335955a-a737-5ccb-825f-368eeeed0066)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#u09b3231a-79f2-5497-ba95-f49eec0de896)
‘THERE’S A PROBLEM,’ the middle-aged man sitting in the chair in front of Arturo da Costa stated without preamble.
Art sat back, linked his fingers on his stomach and looked at Harold Simpson, a man who was normally calm, measured and so good at his job that Art couldn’t think of a time when anything had been a problem for him. He ran the vast legal department of Art’s sprawling empire with impeccable efficiency.
So at the word problem Art frowned, already mentally rescheduling the meeting he was due to attend in half an hour as he anticipated a conversation he wasn’t going to enjoy, about a situation he would not have foreseen and which would be tricky to resolve.
‘Talk to me,’ he said, his deep voice sharp, knowing Harold was a rare breed of man who wasn’t intimidated by his clever and unashamedly arrogant and unpredictable boss.
‘It’s the development in Gloucester.’
‘Why is there a problem? I’ve got all the necessary planning permission. Money’s changed hands. Signatures have been put on dotted lines.’
‘If only it were that simple.’
‘I don’t see what could possibly be complex about this, Harold.’
‘I suppose complex wouldn’t quite be the right word, Art. Annoying might be the description that better fits the bill.’
‘Not following you.’ Art leaned forward, frowning. ‘Don’t I pay you to take care of annoying problems?’
Harold deflected the direct hit with a reprimanding look and Art grinned.
‘You’ve never come to me with an annoying problem before,’ he drawled. ‘Perhaps I was rash in assuming that you dealt with them before they could hit my desk.’
‘It’s a sit-in.’
‘Come again?’
Instead of answering, Harold opened up his laptop and swivelled it so that it was facing his boss, then leaned away as if waiting for the reaction he was expecting, a reaction which would have sent strong men diving for cover.
Fury.
Art looked at the newspaper article staring him in the face. It was from a local paper, circulation circa next to nothing,read by no one who matteredand covering an area where sheep probably outnumbered humans, but he could immediately see the repercussions of what he was reading.
His mouth tightened and he reread the article, taking his time. Then he looked at the grainy black-and-white picture accompanying the article. A sit-in. Protestors. Placards. Lots of moral high ground about the wicked, cruel developers who planned to rape and pillage the countryside. Him, in other words.
‘Has this only now come to your attention?’ He sat back and stared off into the distance with a thoughtful frown, his sharp mind already seeking ways of diverting the headache staring him in the face and coming up with roadblocks.
‘It’s been simmering,’ Harold said as he shut the lid of his computer, ‘but I thought I could contain the situation. Unfortunately, the lawyer working on behalf of the protesters has got the bit between her teeth, so to speak, and is determined to put as many obstacles in the way of your development as she can. Trouble is, in a small community like that, even if she loses the case and of course she will because, as you say, all the crosses have been made in the right boxes, the fallout could still be...unfortunate.’
‘I admire your use of understatement, Harold.’
‘She can rally the community behind her and the luxury development that should, in normal circumstances, sell in a heartbeat with the new train link due to open a handful of miles away, could find itself sticking on the open market. She’s anti building on green fields and she’s going to fight her corner, win or lose and come what may. Expensive people moving into expensive houses like to fancy themselves as mucking in with the locals and eventually becoming pillars of the community. They wouldn’t like the prospect of the locals going quiet every time they walk into the village pub and pelting eggs against their walls in the dead of night.’
‘I had no idea you had such impressive flights of fancy, Harold.’ Art was amused but there was enough truth in what his lawyer had said to make him think. ‘When you say she...?’
‘Rose Tremain.’
‘Miss...Mrs...or Ms?’
‘Very definitely Ms.’
‘I’m getting the picture loud and clear. And on the subject of pictures, do you have one of her? Is she floating around somewhere on the World Wide Web?’
‘She disapproves of social media insofar as it personally pertains to her,’ Harold said with a trace of admiration in his voice that made Art’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘No social media accounts...nothing of the sort. I know because I got one of my people to try to find out how we could follow her, try to get a broader picture of her, but no luck. There’s the bones of past cases but no personal information to speak of at all. It would appear that she’s old-fashioned like that.’
‘There’s another word for it,’ Art drawled drily.
‘I’ve only had dealings with her over the phone so far, and of course by email. I could give you my personal impressions...’
‘I’m all ears.’
‘Can’t be bought off,’ Harold said bluntly, instantly killing Art’s first line of attack.
‘Everyone has a price,’ he murmured without skipping a beat. ‘Have you any pictures of her at all?’
‘Just something in one of the articles printed last week about the development.’
‘Let’s have a look.’ Art waited, thinking, as Harold expertly paged through documents in his pile of folders before eventually showing him an unsatisfactory picture of the woman in question.
Art stared. She looked like a Ms. The sort of feminist hippy whose mission might be to save the world from itself. The newspaper article showed him a picture of the sit-in, protesters on his land with placards and enough paraphernalia to convince him that they weren’t going anywhere any time soon. All that was missing was a post office and a corner shop, but then summer was the perfect time for an impromptu camping expedition. He doubted they would have been quite as determined if those fields had been knee-deep in snow and the branches of the trees bending at ninety-degree angles in high winds.
Whatever the dark-haired harridan had said to them to stoke up public outrage at his development, she had succeeded because the untidy lot in the picture looked as self-righteous as she did.
The picture he was now staring at, of Ms Rose Tremain, showed a woman jabbing her finger at someone out of sight, some poor sod unfortunate enough to be asking her to answer a few questions she didn’t like. Her unruly hair was scraped back into something, leaving flyaway strands around her face. Her clothes beggared belief. Art was accustomed to dating women who graced catwalks, women who were best friends with cutting-edge designers and spent whatever time they had away from their modelling jobs in exclusive salons beautifying themselves.
He squinted at the picture in front of him and tried to get his head around the image of someone who looked as though she had bulk-bought her outfit from a charity shop and hadn’t been near a hairdresser in decades.
No. Money wasn’t going to get her off his back. One look at that jabbing finger and fierce scowl was enough to convince him of the rashness of going down that road.
But there were many ways to skin a cat...
‘So, she can’t be bought,’ Art murmured, half to himself. ‘Well, I will have to find another way to convince her to drop her case against me and get those protestors off my land. Every day lost is costing me money.’ With his dark eyes still on the picture in front of him, Art connected to his PA and told her to reschedule his calendar for the next fortnight.
‘What are you going to do?’ Harold asked, sounding alarmed, as if he couldn’t make sense of his workaholic boss taking two weeks off.
‘I’m going to take a little holiday,’ Art said with a slow smile of intent. ‘A busman’s holiday. You will be the only one privy to this information, so keep it to yourself, Harold. If Ms Tremain can’t be persuaded to my way of thinking by a generous contribution to whatever hare-brained “Save the Whale”cause she espouses, then I’m going to have to find another way to persuade her.’
‘How? If we’re talking about anything illegal here, Art...’
‘Oh, please.’ Art burst out laughing. ‘Illegal?’
‘Maybe I don’t mean illegal. Maybe a better word might be unethical.’
‘Well, now, my friend. That depends entirely on your definition of unethical...’
* * *
‘Someone here to see you, Rose.’
Rose looked up at the spiky-haired young girl standing by the door of the office she shared with her co-worker, Phil. It was little more than a large room on the ground floor of the Victorian house which was also her home but it was an arrangement that worked. The rent she got from Phil and from the occupants of the other two converted rooms—who were variously the local gardening club twice a week, the local bridge group once a week and the local children’s playgroup twice a week—covered the extensive running costs of the house she had inherited when her mother had died five years previously. Well, alongside the sizeable loan she had had to take out in order to effect urgent repairs on the place.
She occasionally thought that it would have been nice if she could have separated her work life from her home life but, on the other hand, who could complain about a job where there was no commute involved?
‘Who is it, Angie?’ Bad time. Middle of the afternoon and she still had a bucketload of work to do. Three cases had cropped up at precisely the same time and each one of them involved complex issues with employment law, in which she specialised, and demanded a lot of attention.
‘Someone about the land.’
‘Ah. The land.’ Rose sat back, stretched and then stood up, only realising how much she’d cramped up when she heard a wayward joint creak.
The land.
No one called it anything else.
Between Phil’s property law side of the business and her labour law, the land had become the middle ground which occupied them both, far more than either had expected when the business of some faceless tycoon buying up their green fields to build yet another housing estate had reared its ugly head.
Phil was a relative newcomer to the area, but she had lived in the village her whole life and she had adopted the cause of the protestors with gusto.
Indeed, she had even allowed them to use her sprawling kitchen as their headquarters.
She was unashamedly partisan and was proud of her stance. There was nothing that stuck in her throat more than big businesses and billionaire businessmen thinking that they could do as they pleased and steamroll over the little people so that they could make yet more money for themselves.
‘Want me to handle it?’ Phil asked, looking up from his desk, which was as chaotic as hers.
‘No.’ Rose smiled at him. She could never have hoped for a more reliable business partner than Phil. Thirty-three years old, he had the appearance of a slightly startled owl, with his wire-rimmed specs and his round face, but he was as sharp as a tack and won a breathtaking amount of business for them. ‘If they’ve actually got around to sending one of their senior lawyers then I’m ready for them. It’s insulting that so far they’ve only seen fit to send junior staff. Shows how confident they are of being able to trample us into the ground.’
‘I like your faith in our ability to bring a massive corporation to its knees,’ Phil said with a wry grin. ‘DC Logistics pretty much owns the world.’
‘Which,’ Rose countered without skipping a beat, ‘doesn’t mean that they can add this little slice of land to the tally.’
She tucked strands of her unruly hair into the sort of bun she optimistically started each and every day with, only to give up because her hair had a will of its own.
She glanced at the sliver of mirror in between the bookshelves groaning under the weight of legal tomes and absently took in the reflection that stared back at her every morning when she woke up.
No one had ever accused her of being pretty. Rose had long accepted that she just wasn’t, that she just didn’t fit the mould of pretty. She had a strong, intelligent face with a firm jaw and a nose that bordered on sharp. Her large eyes were clear and brown and her best feature as far as she was concerned.
Everything else...well, everything else worked. She was a little too tall, a little too gangly and not nearly busty enough, but you couldn’t concern yourself with stuff like that and she didn’t. Pretty much.
‘Right! Let’s go see what they’ve thrown at us this time!’ She winked at Phil and made approving noises when Angie said that she’d stuck their visitor in the kitchen—it would do whoever it was good to see the evidence of their commitment to the cause—and headed out of the office.
She didn’t know what to expect.
Overweight, overfed, overpaid and over-confident. Someone at the height of his career, with all the trappings that an expensive top job afforded. Angie had given nothing away and wouldn’t have. She was gay and paid not a scrap of attention to what members of the opposite sex looked like.
Rose was only twenty-eight herself but the young people who had been sent to argue the case had seemed so much younger than her.
She pushed open the kitchen door and then stood for a few moments in the doorway.
The man was standing with his back to her, staring out at the garden, which flowed seamlessly into open land, the only boundary between private and public being a strip of trees and a dishevelled hedge of sorts.
He was tall. Very tall. She was five eleven and she guessed that he would be somewhere in the region of six three.
And, from what she was seeing, he was well built. Muscular. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and legs that moulded perfectly to the faded jeans he was wearing.
What sort of lawyer was this?
Confused, Rose cleared her throat to give notice of her presence and the man turned around slowly.
‘My secretary didn’t tell me your name, Mr...’
‘Frank.’ The stranger took his time as he walked towards her, which annoyed Rose because this was her house and her kitchen and yet the man seemed to dominate the space and own it in a way she didn’t care for.
‘Well, Mr Frank. You’re here about the land, I gather. If your company thinks that this ploy is going to work, then I hate to disappoint you but it won’t.’
Alarmed because he had somehow managed to close the distance between them and was standing just a little too close for comfort, Rose sidestepped him to the kettle, only offering him something to drink seemingly as an afterthought.
‘You can sit,’ she said crisply. ‘Just shove some of the papers out of the way.’
‘What ploy?’
Rose watched as he looked at the placards in the making on the kitchen table, head politely inclined. After some consideration, he held up one and examined it in reflective silence before returning it to its original position on the table.
‘What ploy?’ he repeated.
‘The lawyer-in-jeans ploy,’ Rose said succinctly. She shot him a look of pure disdain, but only just managed to pull it off because the man was just so...so...crazily good-lookingthat her nervous system felt as though it had been put through a spin cycle and was all over the place.
He’d sat down but not in a lawyer-like manner, which was also annoying. He’d angled the pine chair, one of ten around the long rectangular table, and was sprawled in it, his long legs stretched right out in front of him, one ankle over the other. He looked effortlessly elegant and incredibly cool in his weathered jeans and faded polo shirt. Everything clung in a way that made her think that the entire outfit had been especially designed with him in mind.
She pushed the coffee over to him. He looked just the kind of guy to take his coffee black, no sugar.
‘Does your company think that they can send someone who’s dressed down for the dayin the hope that we might just soften our stance? Maybe be deluded into thinking that he’s not the stuffed shirt lawyer that he actually is?’ She narrowed her eyes and tried and failed to imagine him as a stuffed shirt lawyer.
‘Ah...’ Mr Frank murmured. ‘That ploy.’
‘Yes. That ploy. Well, it won’t work. My team and I are committed to the cause and you can tell your employers that we intend to fight this abhorrent and unnecessary development with every ounce of breath in us.’
‘You overestimate my qualifications,’ Mr Frank said smoothly, sipping the coffee. ‘Excellent coffee, by the way. I’m no lawyer. But were I to be one, then I would try very hard not to be a stuffed shirtone.’
‘Not a lawyer? Then who the heck are you? Angie said that you were here about the land.’
‘Angie being the girl with the spiky hair and the nose ring?’
‘That’s correct. She also happens to be an extremely efficient secretary and a whizz at IT.’
‘Well, she was certainly right in one respect. I am here about the land. Here to join the noble cause.’
* * *
Art’s plan had been simple. It had come to him in a blinding flash shortly after Harold had informed him that money wasn’t going to make the problem of squatters on his land go away.
If you can’t lick ’em, join ’em.
Naturally he’d known what to expect but somehow, in the flesh, the woman staring at him through narrowed eyes wasn’t quite the hippy he had originally imagined.
He couldn’t put his finger on what was different and then, in the space of a handful of seconds, decided that it was a case of imagination playing tricks because she was certainly dressed in just the sort of attire he’d expected. Some sort of loose trousers in an assortment of clashing colours. Practical, given the hot weather, but, in all other respects, frankly appalling. A shapeless green vest-like top and a pair of sandals that, like the trousers, were practical but ticked absolutely no other boxes as far as he was concerned.
Her hair seemed to be staging a full-scale revolt against its half-hearted restraints. It was very curly and strands of it waved around her cheeks.
But the woman emanated presence and that was something he couldn’t deny.
She wasn’t beautiful, not in the conventional sense of the word, but she was incredibly arresting and for a few seconds Art found himself in the novel situation of temporarily forgetting why he was sitting here in a kitchen that looked as though a bomb had recently been detonated in it.
And then it all came back. He would join the band of merry protestors. He would get to know the woman. He would convince her from the position of insider that she was fighting a losing battle.
He would bring her round to his way of thinking, which was simply a matter of bringing her round to common sense, because she was never going to win this war.
But strong-arm tactics weren’t going to work because, as Harold had made perfectly clear, storming in and bludgeoning the opposition would be catastrophic in a community as tightly knit as this one clearly was.
He was simply going to persuade her into seeing his point of view and the best and only way he could do that would be from the inside, from the position of one of them.From the advantageous position of trust.
Art didn’t need opposition. He needed to butter up the unruly mob because he had long-term plans for the land—plans that included sheltered accommodation for his autistic stepbrother, to whom he was deeply attached.
He hadn’t gone straight to the site though, choosing instead to make himself known to the woman standing firmly between him and his plans. He was good with women. Women liked him. Quite a few positively adored him. And there weren’t many who didn’t fall for his charm. Art wasn’t vain but he was realistic, so why not use that charm to work its magic on this recalcitrant woman?
If that failed to do the trick then of course he would have to go back to the drawing board, but it was worth a shot.
To this end, he had taken his unprecedented leave of absence. A few days to sort out urgent business that wouldn’t happily sit on the back burner and now here he was.
He was sporting the beginnings of a beard, was letting his hair grow, and the sharp handmade suits had ceded to the faded jeans and a black polo shirt.
‘Really?’ Rose said with a certain amount of cynicism.
‘Indeed. Why the suspicion?’
‘Because you don’t exactly fit the role of the protestors we have here.’
‘Don’t I? How so?’
‘Basically, I have no idea who you are. I don’t recognise you.’
‘And you know everyone who’s protesting?’
‘Everyone and, in most cases, their extended families, as well. You’re not from around here, are you?’
‘Not quite,’ Art murmured vaguely, unprepared for such a direct line of attack before he’d even started writing incendiary messages on a placard.
‘Well, where are you from? Exactly?’
Art shrugged and shifted in his chair. He was beginning to understand why the deputies sent to do this job had failed. Right now, Rose was staring at him as though he was something suspect and possibly contagious that had somehow managed to infiltrate her space.
‘Can anyone say exactly where they’re from?’ he threw the question back at her, which only made her look at him with even more suspicion.
‘Yes. Everyone on the site, for a start. As for me, I’m from here and always have been, aside from a brief spell at university.’
‘I largely live in London.’ Which was technically accurate. He did largely live in London. In his penthouse in Belgravia. He was also to be found in five-star hotels around the world, several of which he owned, or in one of the many houses he owned, although those occasions were slightly rarer. Who had time to wind down in a villa by the sea?
Strangely, that non-answer seemed to satisfy her because she stopped looking as though she had her finger on the buzzer to call for instant backup. ‘So what are you doing here?’ she asked with curiosity. ‘I mean, why this cause? If you’re not from around here, then what does it matter to you whether the land is destroyed or not?’
‘Destroy is a big word.’ Art was outraged but he held onto his temper and looked at her with an expression of bland innocence.
Definitely arresting, he thought. Exotic eyes. Feline. And a sensuous mouth. Wide and expressive. And an air of sharp intelligence which, it had to be said, wasn’t one of the foremost qualities he ever sought in a woman, but it certainly worked in this instance because he was finding it hard to keep his eyes off her.
* * *
Rose fidgeted. To her horror, she felt the slow crawl of colour stain her cheeks. The man was gazing at her with hooded eyes and that look was doing all sorts of unexpected things to her body.
‘It’s exactly the right word,’ she snapped, more sharply than she had intended, a reaction to those dark, sexy eyes.
Never had she felt more self-conscious, more aware of her shortcomings. The comfortable and practical culottes, which were the mainstay of her wardrobe on hot summer days, were suddenly as flattering as a pair of curtains and the loose-fitting vest as attractive as a bin liner.
She reminded herself that she wasn’t the star attraction in a fashion parade. Clothes did not the man, or woman, make!
But for the first time in living memory she had the crazy urge to be something other than the determined career lawyer who worked hard on behalf of the underdog. She had the crazy urge to be sexy and compelling and wanted for her body instead of her brain.
‘Too many developers over the years have whittled away at the open land around here.’ She refocused and brought her runaway mind back on track. ‘They’ve come along and turned the fields, which have been enjoyed for centuries by ramblers and nature lovers, into first a stupid shopping mall and then into office blocks.’
Rose half expected him to jump in here and heatedly side with her but he remained silent and she wondered what was going through that impossibly good-looking head of his.
‘And this lot?’
‘DC Logistics?’ She loosed a sarcastic laugh under her breath. ‘The worst of the lot. Certainly the biggest! They want to construct a housing development. But then I don’t suppose I’m telling you anything you don’t already know. Which brings me back to my question—why the interest in joining our protest?’
* * *
‘Sometimes—’ Art played with the truth like a piece of moulding clay ‘—big, powerful developers need to understand the importance of working in harmony with nature or else leaving things as they stand and, as you say, DC Logistics is the mother of all big companies.’ He succeeded in not sounding proud of this fact. When he thought of the work that had gone into turning the dregs of what had been left of his father’s companies, after five ex-wives had picked them over in outrageous alimony settlements, into the success story of today he was pretty proud of his achievements.
Art had lived through the nightmare of his father’s mistakes, the marriages that had fallen apart within seconds of the ink on the marriage certificates being dry. He’d gritted his teeth, helpless, as each ex-wife had drained the coffers and then, after his father had died several years previously, he’d returned to try to save what little remained of the thriving empire Emilio da Costa had carefully built up over time.
Art had been a young man at the time, barely out of university but already determined to take what was left and build it again into the thriving concern it had once been when his mother—Emilio da Costa’s first wife and only love—had been alive.
Art might have learned from the chaos of his father’s life and the greed of the women he had foolishly married that love was for the birds, but he had also learned the value of compassion in his unexpected affection for his stepbrother, José—not flesh and blood, no, but his brother in every sense of the word, who had been robustly ignored by his avaricious mother. The land was integral to his plan to make a home for José—the reason for Art needing to shut this protest down as quickly and as quietly as possible.
‘Yes, it is,’ Rose concurred. ‘So you’re idealistic,’ she carried on in an approving tone.
The last time Art had been idealistic had been when he’d believed in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. Witnessing the self-serving venom camouflaged as true love that had littered his father’s life right up until his death had taken whatever ideals he might have had and entombed them in a place more secure than a bank vault.
‘Well, you’re in the right place.’ Rose gestured to the paraphernalia in the kitchen. ‘Obviously I don’t devote all of my time to this cause. I couldn’t possibly, but I do try to touch base with the people out there on a daily basis.’
‘What’s your main line of work?’
‘Employment law.’ Rose smiled and, just like that, Art felt the breath knocked out of his body.
The woman was more than arresting. When she smiled she was...bloody stunning. He felt the familiar kick of his libido, but stronger and more urgent than ever. Two months without a woman, he thought, would do that to a red-blooded man with a healthy sex drive. Because this outspoken feminist was certainly, on no level, what he looked for in a woman. He didn’t do argumentative and he definitely didn’t do the let’s-hold-hands-and-save-the-world type. He did blondes. Big blonde hair, big blue eyes and personalities that soothed rather than challenged.
Rose Tremain was about as soothing as a pit bull.
And yet... His eyes lingered and his inconvenient erection refused to go away. The blood surging in his veins was hot with a type of dark excitement he hadn’t felt in a very long time. If ever.
‘Come again?’ He realised that she had said something.
‘Your line of work? What is it?’
‘I dabble.’
‘Dabble in what?’
‘How much time have you got to spare? Could take a while.’
‘Could take a while covering your many talents? Well, you’re far from modest, aren’t you?’ She raised her eyebrows, amused and mocking, and Art smiled back slowly—deliberately slowly.
‘I’ve never been a believer in false modesty. Sign of a hypocritical mind. I prefer to recognise my talents as well as my...er...shortcomings.’
‘Well, whatever you do is your business—’ she shrugged and stood up ‘—but if you’re good at everything, which seems to be what you’re implying, then you’re going to be very useful to us.’
‘How so?’ Art followed suit and stood up, towering over her even though she was tall. ‘Useful in what respect?’
‘Odd jobs. Nothing major so no need to sound alarmed.’ She looked around the kitchen. ‘Everyone lends a helping hand when they’re here. It’s not just a case of people painting slogans on bits of cardboard with felt tip pens. Yes, we’re all protesting for the same reason, but this is a small, close community. The guys who come here do all sorts of jobs around the house. They know I’m representing them for free and they’re all keen to repay the favour by doing practical things in return. There are a couple of plumbers behind us and an electrician, and without them I have no idea how much money I would have had to spend to get some vital jobs on the house done.’
‘So this is your house?’ Art thought that it was a bit hypocritical, clamouring about rich businessmen who wanted to destroy the precious space around her so that they could line their evil pockets when she, judging from the size of the house, was no pauper.
Accustomed to storing up information that might prove useful down the line, he sensed that that was a conversation he would have in due course.
‘It is, not that that’s relevant,’ Rose said coolly. ‘What is relevant is that most of the town is behind us, aside from the local council, who have seen fit to grant planning permission. I’ve managed to really rally a great deal of people to support our cause and they’ve all been brilliant. So if you’re a jack-of-all-trades then I’m sure I’ll be able to find loads of practical ways you can help, aside from joining the sit-in, of course. Now, shall I take you to the scene of the crime...?’
CHAPTER TWO (#u09b3231a-79f2-5497-ba95-f49eec0de896)
‘YOU HAVE A nice house,’ Art commented neutrally as they exited the cluttered kitchen, out into the main body of the house which was equally cluttered. ‘Big. You rent out rooms, I take it?’ He detoured to push open the door to one of the huge ground-floor rooms and was confronted with an elderly man holding court with an image of a bunch of flowers behind him on the wall. The image was faded and unsteady because the projector was probably a relic from the last century. Everyone turned to stare at Art and he saluted briskly before gently shutting the door.
‘If it’s all the same to you, Mr Frank, I’ll ask the questions. And please refrain from exploring the house because, yes, other organisations do avail themselves of some of the rooms and I very much doubt they want you poking your head in to say hello. Unless, of course, you have something to impart on the subject of orchid-growing or maybe some pearls of wisdom you could share with one of our Citizens Advice Bureau volunteers?’
‘I’ve never been into gardening,’ Art contributed truthfully. He slanted his eyes across to Rose, who was walking tall next to him, her strides easily matching his as they headed to the front door. The walls of the house were awash with rousing, morale-boosting posters. Voices could be heard behind closed doors.
‘You’re missing out. It’s a very restful pastime.’
Art chuckled quietly. He didn’t do restful.
‘Wait a minute.’ She looked at him directly, hands on her hips, her brown eyes narrowed and shrewdly assessing. ‘There’s one little thing I forgot to mention and I’d better be upfront before we go any further.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I don’t know who you are. You’re not from around here and I’m going to make it clear to you from the start that we don’t welcome rabble-rousers.’
Stunned, Art stared at her in complete silence.
He was Arturo da Costa. A man feared and respected in the international business community. A man who could have anything he wanted at the snap of an imperious finger. Grown men thought twice before they said anything they felt might be misconstrued as offensive. When he spoke, people inclined their heads and listened. When he entered a room, silence fell.
And here he was being accused of being a potential rabble-rouser!
‘Rabble-rouser,’ he framed in a slow, incredulous voice.
‘It’s been known.’ She spun around on her heel, headed to the door and then out towards a battered navy blue Land Rover. ‘Idlers who drift from one protest site to another, stirring up trouble for their own political motives.’
‘Idlers...’ Art played with the word on his tongue, shocked and yet helpless to voice his outrage given he was supposed to be someone of no fixed address, there to support the noble cause.
‘Granted, not all are idlers.’ Rose swung herself into the driver’s seat and slammed the door behind her, waiting for him to join her. She switched on the engine but then turned to him, one hand on the gearbox, the other on the steering wheel. ‘But a lot of them are career protestors and I can tell you straight away that we don’t welcome that lot. We’re peaceful. We want our voices to be heard and the message we want to get across is not one that would benefit from thug tactics.’
‘I have never been accused of being a rabble-rouser in my life before, far less a thug. Or an idler...’
‘There’s no need to look so shocked.’ She smiled and pushed some of her curly hair away from her face. ‘These things happen in the big, bad world.’
* * *
‘Oh, I know all about what happens in the big, bad world,’ Mr Frank murmured softly and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end because his deep, velvety voice was as seductive as the darkest of chocolate.
In the sultry heat of the Land Rover, she could almost breathe him in and it was going to her head like incense.
‘And before you launch into another outrageous accusation—’ he laughed ‘—something along the lines that I don’t know about the big, bad world because I’m a criminal, I’ll tell you straight away that I have never, and will never, operate on the wrong side of the law.’
‘I wasn’t about to accuse you of being a criminal.’ Rose blinked and cleared her throat. ‘Although, of course,’ she added grudgingly, ‘I might have got round to that sooner or later. You can’t be too careful. You should roll your window down. It’ll be a furnace in here otherwise.’
‘No air conditioning?’
‘This relic barely goes,’ she said affectionately before swinging around to expertly manoeuvre the courtyard which was strewn with cars, all parked, it would seem, with reckless abandon. ‘If I tried to stick air conditioning in it would probably collapse from the shock of being dragged into the twentieth century.’
‘You could always get a new car.’
‘For someone who dabbles in a bit of this and that,you seem to think that money grows on trees,’ she said tartly. ‘If I ever win the lottery I might consider replacing my car but, until then, I work with the old girl and hope for the best.’
‘Lawyers,’ he said with a vague wave of his hand. ‘Aren’t you all made of money?’
Rose laughed and shot him a sideways look. He was slouched against the passenger door, his big body angled so that he could look at her, and she wondered how many women had had those sexy dark eyes focused on them, how many had lost their head drowning in the depths.
She fancied herself as anything but the romantic sort, but there was a little voice playing in her head, warning her that this was a man she should be careful of.
Rose nearly laughed because her last brush with romance had left a nasty taste in her mouth. Jack Shaw had been a fellow lawyer and she had met him on one of her cases, which had taken her to Surrey and the playground of the rich and famous. He had been fighting the corner for the little guy and she had really thought that they were on the same wavelength—and they should have been. He’d ticked all the right boxes! But for the second time in her adult life she had embarked on a relationship that had started off with promise only to end in disappointment. How was it possible for something that made sense to end up with two people not actually having anything left to say to one another after ten months?
Rose knew what worked and what didn’t when it came to emotions. She had learned from bitter childhood experience what to avoid. She knew what was unsuitable. And yet her two suitable boyfriends, with their excellent socialist credentials, had crashed and burned.
At this rate, she was ready to give up the whole finding lovegame and sink her energies into worthwhile causes instead.
‘Not all lawyers are rich,’ she said without looking at him, busy focusing on the road, which was lined with dense hedges, winding and very narrow. ‘I’m not.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Maybe I chose the wrong branch of law.’ She shrugged. ‘Employment law generally doesn’t do it when it comes to earning vast sums of money. Not that I’m complaining. I get by nicely, especially when you think about all the perfectly smart people who can’t find work.’
‘There’s always work available for perfectly smart people.’
‘Is that your experience?’ She flashed him a wry sidelong glance before turning her attention back to the road. ‘Are you one of those perfectly smart people who finds it so easy to get work that you’re currently drifting out here to join a cause in which you have no personal interest?’
‘You’re still suspicious of my motives?’
‘I’m reserving judgement. Although—’ she sighed ‘—I can, of course, understand how easy it is to get involved if you’re a nature-lover. Look around you at the open land. You can really breathe out here. The thought of it being handed over to a developer, so that houses can be put up and the trees chopped down, doesn’t bear thinking about.’
* * *
Art looked around him. There certainly was a great deal of open land. It stretched all around them, relentless and monotonous, acres upon acres upon acres of never-ending sameness. He’d never been much of a country man. He liked the frenetic buzz of city life, the feeling of being surrounded by activity.He made some appreciative noises under his breath and narrowed his eyes against the glare as the perimeters of his land took shape.
‘So you’ve lived here all your life,’ Art murmured as she slowed right down to access the bumpy track that followed the outer reaches of his property. ‘I’m taking it that some of the guys protesting are relatives? Brothers? Sisters? Cousins? Maybe your parents?’
‘No,’ Rose said shortly.
Art pricked up his ears, detecting somethingbehind that abrupt response. It paid to know your quarry and Harold had been spot on when he’d said that there was next to no personal information circulating out there about the prickly woman next to him. Amazing. Social media was the staple diet of most people under the age of thirty-five and yet this woman had obviously managed to turn her back firmly on the trend.
Since he was similarly private about his life, he had to concede some reluctant admiration for her stance.
‘No extended family?’
‘Why the Spanish Inquisition?’ She glanced across at him. ‘What about you? Brothers? Sisters? Cousins? Will some of your extended family be showing up here to support us?’
‘You’re very prickly.’
‘I...don’t mean to be, Mr Frank.’
‘I think we should move onto a first name basis. That okay with you? My name’s Arturo. Arthur if you prefer the English equivalent.’ Which was as close to the truth as it was possible to get, as was the surname, which hadn’t been plucked from thin air but which was, in fact, his mother’s maiden name.
‘Rose.’
‘And you were telling me that you weren’t prickly...’
* * *
‘I’m afraid the whole business of an extended family is something of a sore point with me.’ She half smiled because her history was no deep, dark secret, at least locally. If Arthur, or Arturo because he looked a lot more like an exotic Arturo than a boring Arthur, ended up here for the long haul, then sooner or later he would hear the gossip. The truth was that her background had made her what she was, for which she was very glad, but it wasn’t exactly normal and for some reason explaining herself to this man felt...awkward and a little intimate.
Aside from that, what was with the questioning? Shouldn’t he be asking questions about the land instead of about her?
On a number of levels he certainly didn’t respond in the predicted manner and again Rose felt that shiver, the faintly thrilling feathery sensation of being in slightly unchartered territory.
‘You asked about me,’ he said smoothly, filling the silence which had descended between them, ‘and extended family is a sore point for me, as well. I have none.’
‘No?’ They had arrived at the protest site but Rose found that she wanted to prolong the conversation.
‘Do you feel sorry for me?’ Arturo grinned and Rose blinked, disconcerted by the stupendous charm behind that crooked smile. She felt it again, a whoosh that swept through her, making her breath quicken and her stomach swoop.
‘Should I? You don’t strike me as the sort of guy someone should be feeling sorry for. How is it that you have no extended family?’
‘First, I’ll take it as a compliment that you think I’m the kind of dominant guy people should fear, respect and admire instead of pity...’
‘Did I say that?’ But her mouth twitched with amusement.
‘And, second, I’ll tell you if you tell me. We can hold hands and have a girly evening sharing confidences...join me for dinner later. I’d love to get to know you better.’
Hot, flustered and suddenly out of her depth, Rose gaped at him like a stranded fish, scarcely believing her ears. She reddened, lost for words.
‘Is it a promising start that I’m taking your breath away?’ Arturo drawled, his voice rich with amusement.
‘No... I... You’re asking me on a date?’
‘You sound as though it’s something that’s never happened to you before.’
‘I...no... I’m very sorry, Mr Frank, but I...no. I can’t accept. But thank you very much. I’m flattered.’
‘Arturo.’ He frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘Because...’ Rose smoothed her wayward hair with her hand and stared off into the distance, all the while acutely aware of his dark, sexy eyes on her profile, making a nonsense of her level head and feet-firmly-planted-on-the-ground approach to life. She was no frothy, giggly bit of fluff but he was making her feel a bit like that and anyone would think that she was a giddy virgin in the company of a prince!
‘Because...?’
‘Well, it’s not appropriate.’
‘Why not? I may be about to join your cause, but you’re not my boss so no conflict of interest there.’
‘I...’ Rose licked her lips and eventually looked at him, leaning against the open window. ‘I...’
‘You’re not married. You’re not wearing a wedding ring.’
‘Observant. That’s hardly the point, though.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘No...not that it’s any of your business, Mr Frank. Arthur. Arturo. Do you usually ask women you’ve only known for five seconds out on a date?’
‘How else am I supposed to get to know them for longer than five seconds if I don’t? So you’re not married, no boyfriend...gay?’
‘No!’
Arturo grinned and Rose was certain she was blushing furiously, her reddened cheeks thoroughly letting the side down. ‘Then where’s the problem?’
‘You’re very sure of yourself, aren’t you?’ Rose gathered herself and opened her door. It was very hot. A blazing summer afternoon, with the sun still high in the sky and the clouds little more than cotton wool puffs of white idly floating by. The land looked glorious and untouched. It was a short walk to get to the site where the protestors had set up camp. Yes, she could have driven there, but it was easier to park here and a nice day for walking. Except now she would be walking in a state of nervous tension.
‘Is that a crime?’ Arturo had followed her out and he looked at her, still grinning.
‘I’ve never been attracted to men who are too sure of themselves.’
‘Challenging observation...’
‘That’s not my intention! You’re here to...support us! And I won’t be going out with you because... I’m not interested in any sort of relationship at this point in time.’
‘Who’s talking about a relationship?’
‘I don’t do casual sex.’ Rose was staggered that she was having this conversation, but she had yet to meet a man who was open about what he wanted and surely he couldn’t want her because, rich or poor, he had the sort of charisma and good looks that would guarantee him a spot in any woman’s little black book.
So why her?
But heck, was she flattered? It had been a while since her last disastrous relationship, a while since she had felt like a woman. And, if she was honest, even Jack, earnest and brimming over with admirable integrity, hadn’t made her feel like this.
‘I thought I just mentioned having dinner,’ Arturo murmured, which made Rose feel her cheeks flush what was surely an even deeper shade of red.
‘You’re playing with me,’ she said sharply. ‘And I don’t like it.’
Their eyes tangled but Rose refused to be the first to back down even though she wanted to.
* * *
Art was learning what it felt like to be politely but firmly pushed to the kerb.
‘Tell me about the protest,’ he encouraged, changing tack, matching her gait with his and releasing her from the stranglehold of her embarrassment as they continued to walk towards the distant horizon. ‘How many people are there at the site?’
‘Ever been on a protest before?’
‘I can honestly say that I haven’t.’
‘Well, I’m glad that this is of sufficient interest to you to get you motivated into doing more than just sitting on the sidelines and sympathising. So many people have strong views about something and yet they never quite go the distance when it comes to doing something about those views.’
‘What made you choose employment law over something better paid?’
‘Because money isn’t everything! And I’m taking it that you feel the same as I do.’
‘Money can often be the root of all evil,’ Art hedged. ‘It’s also pretty vital when it comes to putting food on our plates.’
‘I like to think that in my job I’m helping other people put food on their plates.’
‘And you’ve always worked for yourself or did you work for a bigger company after you graduated?’
‘You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?’ But she seemed flattered by his interest.
‘It’s the only way to get to know someone.’ Art had the grace to flush. He was here for a purpose though and with him the practical would always take precedence over any unruly conscience. Vast sums of money were at stake and he was only trying to make his point of view known to a group who probably thought that their opinion was the only valid one on the table.
A rich diversity of opinion was a bonus in life. By subtly introducing a different viewpoint to theirs, he would effectively be doing her and all of the protestors there a laudable favour.
‘Nearly twenty-five,’ Rose told him briskly, walking fast, each stride determined and sure-footed.
‘Nearly twenty-five what?’
‘You asked how many protestors there were on the site. Nearly twenty-five and growing by the day.’
‘And what lovely days we’ve been having...’
‘They’d be here come rain or shine,’ Rose informed him tartly and he grinned at her.
‘And quite right too. Nothing worse than a protestor who packs up his placards and heads for his car the minute the skies open.’
‘I can’t tell when you’re joking,’ Rose said, pausing to look at him.
‘Oh, I’m very serious about being here indeed. Make no mistake about that,’ Art said softly.
‘And how long do you plan on staying?’ She began walking again and he fell in beside her.
‘I reckon at least a few days, maybe longer. Perhaps a week or two.’
‘Getting first-hand experience of putting your money where your mouth is.’ Rose smiled. ‘I commend that. The camp’s just up ahead. We’ve managed to get running water and electricity going. It’s been a nightmare but where there’s a will there’s a way and, like I said, there are a lot of people with a lot of talent who have been keen to help us out.’
Art was looking at a collection of makeshift dwellings. Tents rubbed shoulders with slightly more solid constructions. There was an elaborate portable toilet. People were milling around. Children were playing. It was, he had to concede, a wonderful campsite, dissected by a clear, bubbling stream and surrounded by trees and flowers. It was, however, a campsite on his land.
Clearly much loved and admired, the second they were spotted, Rose was surrounded by people, young and old alike. She was part and parcel of the community and Art could see the warmth of the supporters surround her like a blanket, seemingly reaffirming her belief in what they were doing—saving the land for the locals. Several dragged her along to have a look at some new ideas for placards. One old guy involved her in an elaborate discussion about some legal technicality, which she handled with aplomb and a great show of interest, even though he could somehow tell that she was answering his questions automatically.
No one paid the slightest bit of attention to him.
He was introduced, of course, and he, likewise, was shown yet more placards to add to the already healthy supply in evidence.
‘Very artistic,’ he contributed to one of the middle-aged women who had carted him off to one side. ‘I like the...er...’
‘Drawings?’ She delightedly pointed to the illustration of stick figures holding placards showing stick figures holding placards. ‘I’m trying to convey the idea that all of this is a never-ending problem which will just keep recurring until everyone feels as passionately about the countryside as we do.’
‘Very imaginative.’
‘I guess you’ll be helping? Rose says you’re interested in what’s taking place in this little pocket of the world.’
‘Very interested,’ Art said with heartfelt honesty, relieved to be dragged away before he could be quizzed further. The woman struck him as the sort who took no prisoners.
Overhead, the sun continued to beat down with ferocity. He felt hot and sweaty and in need of just a handful of those minor luxuries he took for granted. A nice cool shower, for one thing.
He’d brought the minimum of clothes, stuffed into a holdall which he’d left in the Land Rover. They nestled on top of his computer, because there was no way he intended to be completely out of reach. That would have been unthinkable.
‘So,’ Rose said brightly when she was back at his side, having done the rounds, including squatting on the ground to talk to some of the children, ‘I notice that you didn’t think to bring a tent.’
‘Come again?’
‘I’m getting ahead of myself.’ She drew him to one side. ‘You said that you planned on staying for a few days and you don’t have a tent, but I think it might be possible for you to share one. I know Rob over there has a tent that’s as big as a house and I’m sure he’d be delighted to share his space with a fellow protestor.’
Art tried not to recoil with horror. ‘That,’ he all but choked, ‘won’t do.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have some savings and I will dip into them to stay somewhere...er...locally...’
‘But why? Honestly, the site is really very comfortable. Everyone enjoys staying there.’
‘And I applaud them, but that’s not for me.’
‘It’s stupid to use your savings to rent somewhere for a week. Or however long you plan on staying. Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, this is an extremely touristy part of the country. Dead in winter but the hotels around here are expensive and almost all of them will be fully booked in summer.’ She stood back and looked at him narrowly.
‘I believe you when you say that you don’t have criminal tendencies.’ She folded her arms and inclined her head to one side.
‘I’m breathing a sigh of relief as I stand here.’
‘And I think it’s ridiculous for you to waste your money trying to find somewhere around here to rent. You’ll be broke by the end of a week. Trust me.’ She said nothing for a few minutes, giving him ample time to try to figure out where this was heading.
But she didn’t expand, instead choosing to begin walking back to the Land Rover, which was a longwinded exercise because she was stopped by someone every couple of steps. On the way she collected an offering of several files, which she promised to look at later.
‘Nothing to do with the land,’ she confided to Art when they were finally back in the muddy four-wheel drive and she was swinging away from the land, back out to the open road. ‘George is having issues with one of his employees. Wants some advice. Normally it’s the other way round for me, but I promised I’d have a look at the file.’
‘Generous of you. I can see how popular you are with everyone there.’
Rose laughed, a musical sound of amusement that did the same thing to Art as her smile did, rousing him in ways that were unexpected and surprisingly intense.
He did know that there were pertinent questions he should be asking to further his understanding of how he could win this war without losing the battle but he couldn’t seem to get his head in the right place to ask the right questions. Instead, he found himself staring at her from under his lashes, vaguely wondering what it was about her that was so compelling.
‘Now that you’ve turned down my dinner invitation,’ he drawled, ‘perhaps you could drive me to the nearest, cheapest B&B. I’m touched at your concern for the level of my savings, but I’ll manage.’
‘There’s no reason why you can’t stay at my place.’
‘Your place?’
Rose laughed, caught his eye sideways and forced a grin out of him. ‘It’s big and you can pay your way doing things around the house while you’re there. Two of the rooms need painting, which is a job I never seem to get round to doing, and there’s a stubborn leak in the tap. A constant drip, drip, drip.’
‘You want me to fix leaks and paint your house?’ DIY and Art had never crossed paths. Paint a room? Fix a leak? He couldn’t have flung himself further out of his comfort zone if he’d tried.
‘In return for free board and lodging. Oh, how good are you at cooking?’
‘It’s something I’ve always tried to avoid.’
‘Do we have a deal?’
‘Why do you live in such a big house if you can’t afford to?’
‘Long story.’
‘I’m a very good listener. There’s nothing I enjoy more than a long story. I guess we can get to that in due course because I would love to accept your generous offer.’ He wondered what other skills she thought he possessed. There was a chance they would both end up in Casualty if he tried his hand at cooking, so he disabused her straight away on that count and she laughed and shrugged and laughed again and told him that it had been worth a shot.
‘I can cook and when I put my mind to it I actually enjoy it, but I’m so busy all of the time that it always feels like a chore.’
‘You might regret asking me to paint a room,’ Art said seriously as she bumped along the narrow lanes, driving past clusters of picturesque houses with neat box hedges before the open fields swallowed them up again, only to disgorge them into yet another picturesque village. ‘I’m very happy to try my hand at it, but one thing I do insist on doing is paying you for my accommodation.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘If you don’t agree to this then you can dump me off right here and I’ll sort myself out, whatever the cost.’
Rose clicked her tongue impatiently.
‘You obviously need the money,’ Art continued almost gently, as the outskirts of the village loomed into view. ‘You rent rooms out and the place, from all accounts, is falling apart at the seams...’
‘Very well.’ She kept her eyes firmly focused on the road ahead. ‘In which case, I’ll accept your dinner invitation on the proviso that I cook dinner for you.’
‘Deal,’ Art drawled, relaxing back into the passenger seat. Could he have hoped for a better outcome than this? No.
He was looking forward to this evening. The thorny business of going undercover to talk some sense into his opposition wasn’t going to be the annoying uphill trek he had originally foreseen after all...
In fact...hand on heart, Art could honestly say that he was looking forward to this little break in his routine.
CHAPTER THREE (#u09b3231a-79f2-5497-ba95-f49eec0de896)
BY THE TIME they were back at the house the clatter of people had been replaced by the peace of silence. The gardening club crew had departed, as had whoever else was renting one of the downstairs rooms. Phil popped out and Art watched as he and Rose huddled in a brief discussion.
While they talked in low voices, he took the opportunity to look around him.
It was a big house but crying out for attention. The paint was tired, the carpet on the stairs threadbare and the woodwork, in places, cracked or missing altogether.
He made himself at home peering into the now empty rooms and saw that they were sizeable and cluttered with hastily packed away bits and pieces.
It was impossible to get any real idea of what the house might once have looked like in grander times because every nook and cranny had been put to use. Work desks fitted into spaces where once sofas and chaises longues might have resided, and in the office where she worked books lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/raznoe-12566735/the-tycoon-s-ultimate-conquest/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.