Rival Attractions & Innocent Secretary(2)

Her life was busy and fulfilled. She had good friends, an interesting  career, her independence, both financial and emotional, and if ever  there were times when, while cuddling a friend's child, the soft, warm  body weakeningly close to her own, she ached for a child of her own, she  only had to remind herself of the traumas she had seen her friends go  through at the hands of those same men, who had given them their  children, to make herself realise that the price she was paying for her  independence, while high, was perhaps worthwhile.

She would have liked children. She enjoyed their company, their  conversation, their innocence and naturalness, but Little Marsham was  not the kind of place where one could fearlessly and modernistically  announce that one was going to become a single mother. No, for  Charlotte, her present way of life was the best way: single and  celibate.                       
       
           



       

She pulled a face to herself, and then realised that her shortest route  to Paul's office was straight across the car park in front of the driver  whose parking spot she had appropriated.

It was a large dark blue Jaguar saloon car, driven by an equally  impressive male, of the type most likely to cause susceptible female  hearts to beat faster.

One quick guarded look told her that he was tall, dark-haired and with  the kind of raw maleness that his expensive suit and white shirt did  little to conceal, and that his eyes were almost the same colour as his  car!

Reminding herself that she was the kind of woman who was not affected by  such physical manifestations of male sensuality, Charlotte hastily  averted her eyes from the car and its driver. The faint heat she could  feel burning up under her skin was due to the guilt she felt at pinching  his parking spot, she told herself.

She had only glanced briefly at him, but in that short space of time she  had registered the fact that he was regarding her with a certain wry  irony that told her he knew quite well that she was the one who had  deprived him of his parking place.

She told herself that if she hadn't done so she would probably still  have been driving around, making herself later than ever for her  appointment. She was going to a dinner party tonight; she still had to  do her monthly supermarket shopping; she had some reports to dictate on  the properties she had seen today.

The influx of new, wealthy London-based buyers had seen an increase of  property on to the market, especially those situated outside the  town-often large and rather dilapidated houses with owners on the verge  of retiring, who were looking for something smaller and more economical  to run. Rather as she ought to be doing, she reminded herself. The house  her father had bought when he first moved to the area over thirty years  ago had originally been a vicarage. Several miles outside the town, on  the edge of a small village, it was a rambling, draughty place with an  enormous garden, and far too many rooms for one person.

She ought to sell it now, while the market was buoyant, buy herself  something smaller and invest what was left. She had not had a  particularly happy childhood; there was no reason why she should feel  that she ought to keep the house. It should be filled with a family,  with children, dogs, and perhaps a pony in the paddock. She could sell  it tomorrow and virtually ask her own price, despite the fact that the  central heating was fired by an ancient and temperamental boiler, the  rooms all needed redecorating, and the garden was like a wilderness.

So why hadn't she done so? Shaking her head at her own impracticality,  she crossed the road and hurried into the building which housed her  solicitor's office.

Like her, Paul was the second generation of the family business. He was  three years her senior, and they had known one another virtually all  their lives. At one time Paul had tried to date her, but it had been  just after she had come home, still sore from her broken engagement, too  drained by the hard work of adjusting herself to living at home with  her father. They had remained friends, though, and she liked Paul's wife  Helen very much indeed.

Paul greeted her affectionately when his secretary showed her into his  office, telling her it didn't matter when she apologised for being late.

'Business good?' he asked her when she was sitting down.

'Pretty hectic.'

'Mm …  Recently there seems to be a lot of outside interest. That should be good for you.'

Charlotte pulled a face.

'Yes, financially, but there are broader implications. I had John Garner  and Lucy Matthews in the other week. He and Lucy are getting married  this summer. They've been looking for a suitable house locally for  months. John will take over his father's farm eventually, but there  isn't room there for them to move in. John's the eldest; there are four  other children still at home. Naturally he and Lucy want a place of  their own, but we just haven't had anything they can afford. His wages  are low, and Lucy doesn't earn much either.'

'Can't one of the farm buildings be converted into something for them?'

'Not without planning permission, and you know how keen the local  council is on keeping new building to a minimum. In theory that's  something I approve of, especially when it comes to new estates, but … '

She gave a small shrug and, watching her, Paul said gently, 'The trouble  with you, Charlie, is that you take things too much to heart.'

She flushed a little. Everyone who knew her well called her by the  diminutive name she had been given while still at school-another sign  that she was lacking in femininity, she reflected wryly.

Treacherously her thoughts slid to the driver of the blue Jaguar car;  she'd bet that the women in his life weren't given boyish nicknames.                       
       
           



       

Instantly she was furious with herself. What on earth had made her think  that? Was she so very predictable after all? she asked herself  scornfully. A brief glimpse of a handsome face, an awareness of the  scrutiny with which a pair of dark blue eyes were studying her face, and  suddenly she was seeing herself through those blue eyes and finding  herself lacking.

She tried to concentrate on what Paul was saying.

'It will mean extra business for me, but, of course, it's bound to affect you.'

She tensed, suddenly realising what he was talking about.

It had been just after her father's death that she had first heard the  rumours that a new estate agent was contemplating opening up in the  area. The influx of newcomers into the area had obviously attracted the  attention of people looking for new business activities. Over recent  months a rash of expensive small shops supplying luxury goods had opened  up in the town; the owner of the local garage had been bought out, and  the newcomers had knocked down the old building and rebuilt a large  custom-designed showroom, which was now filled with shiny expensive  cars, and small, prettily covered four-wheel-drive dinky toys with  exotic and unpronounceable names.

It was a long way from the old days when Fred Jarvis supplied petrol,  did repairs and maintenance, and could when pressed find you an ancient  but roadworthy Land Rover.

Perhaps she ought to have been more prepared for competition in her own  field, but she had been so exhausted by the effort of nursing her father  through the final weeks of his illness that, when she had heard the  gossip about the new estate agency opening up in the town, she had  merely absorbed it without thinking about its impact on her own life.

Now she said evenly, 'Well, there's enough business for both of us.'

She didn't add that she suspected the newcomer would be after a quick  killing, that he would take advantage of the surge of buying and  selling, no doubt taking the cream off the top of her business with the  larger, more expensive properties.

Paul was looking dubious, and Charlotte could guess what he was  thinking. The townspeople were set in their ways, traditionalists in the  main like her father; they had dealt with her when they had had no  choice, but now, with a new agency opening up, no doubt run by a man,  would they still give her, a woman, their business?

'At the moment, yes, but when this boom is over … '

'When it's over he'll probably close up his office and move away again,'  Charlotte told him shortly. 'After all, from what I've heard this  office is only going to be one of several.'

'I believe so, yes,' Paul agreed.

Charlotte sighed, knowing all that he didn't want to say. She knew quite  well how these modern agencies worked: brash, pushy, promising the  earth, persuading people into taking on much larger mortgages than they  could afford, and taking a commission on selling the finance to them.  That was not the way she did business.

Paul was speaking again.

'I'm surprised they didn't approach you with an offer to buy you out.'