Rival Attractions & Innocent Secretary(21)

Perhaps he had heard the note of regret in her voice because, instead of  accepting her refusal, he said easily, 'It's only a car, you know-and  besides, I've every confidence in your driving.'

Charlotte looked at him. Was this all a part of the softening-up process  Vanessa had mentioned, the deliberate and ruthless clinical sabotage of  her defences?

This afternoon she had been stunned by his generosity, by his business  ethics, so very, very different from what she had imagined. He had  seemed so honest, so direct, so completely without any ulterior motive …   Was she being too gullible, too trusting?

'Look, I'll leave you the keys and then it's up to you,' she heard him saying.

She protested uncertainly, 'But won't you need it … to get to the station?'

'I'll use a taxi. Much safer than leaving it in some station car park all day.'

He had stopped now. All she had to do was to get out, thank him for the  lift and arrange for him to move in his things, and yet as she opened  the car door she felt a sharp reluctance to leave.

Firmly quelling it, she got out. This was ridiculous. Any more of this  foolishness and she'd be in danger of falling in love with the man.

Falling in love …  She froze as the shock of it iced through her. Falling  in love with a man like Oliver Tennant. She couldn't be so foolish,  could she? Could she … ?

Could she?

Unaware of the way Oliver was frowning after her, she got shakily to her feet and headed for her office.

* * *

'Well, come on. How did it go?' Sheila asked her excitedly.

Almost absently Charlotte explained how they had been appointed joint agents.

'Well, I must say that was very generous of Oliver Tennant,' Sheila approved.

'Yes,' Charlotte agreed vaguely, unaware of the look of concern that  crossed the older woman's face at her lack of enthusiasm. Her insides  felt like jelly. She badly wanted to crawl away somewhere where she  could be alone to sit and think. In love with Oliver Tennant …  It was  ridiculous. It couldn't be possible. She had only seen him on half a  dozen or so occasions. And there had never once been anything in his  manner towards her to encourage such crazy emotions.

She tried to remember if she had felt like this when she had first met  Gordon. But that had been different. Their relationship had grown  slowly. Their decision to get engaged had been made after a good deal of  mutual consideration of their aims in life, and then, when she had told  Gordon that she intended to give up her London career to return home,  the ending of their engagement had come after equally mature  discussions.

Never at any time had Gordon made her feel the way she felt when she was with Oliver.

Without knowing she had done so, she had linked her fingers together,  gripping them tightly as she tried to fight off the immensity of her  despair. If only she had realised what was happening to her before she  had agreed to take him as a lodger. How on earth was she going to endure  living so intimately with him?

She would just have to endure it, she told herself firmly. After all, it  would not be for long. Six months. Six months …  It had taken her far  less than six weeks to fall in love with him. She could only pray that  her love was of the virulent and short-lived type that would quickly  burn itself out like a tropical fever. It was so out of character for  her to feel like this … so … so unsuitable and indignified. She was a  businesswoman who had long ago recognised in her lack of sexual appeal  the enormity of the barrier between her and the things she had once  wanted from life: a husband, children, the kind of family life she  herself had craved as a child and never had.                       
       
           



       

Equally she had recognised the danger of allowing herself to believe  that her idealised daydreams of that kind of family life were anything  other than exactly that; relationships, marriage, children-all required a  one-hundred-and-fifty-per-cent input from all parties concerned, and  even then they so often failed.

How long ago was it now since she had first consoled herself with the  knowledge that she was probably better off on her own, that she had a  good life, good friends … that she had the enjoyment of her friends'  children without the heartaches … that, with her own lack of a strong  physical response to those men who did ask her out, it was probably just  as well that the romantic, idealistic side of her nature made it  impossible for her to settle for a relationship which could not match up  to her ideals?

Now, when she had long ago accepted that the kind of man she had once  dreamed of did not exist, she had met him … or was she simply allowing  herself to be blinded to reality? Was Oliver Tennant the compassionate,  caring man he seemed, or was Vanessa right? Was he simply going to use  her for his own ends?

'Did you have a word with Oliver about Dan Pearce, to see if he had  appointed him?' Sheila asked her, breaking into her thoughts.

Charlotte had forgotten all about the farmer. She frowned and said crisply, 'No, I didn't.'

Seeing her friend's expression, she added firmly, 'Look, I might not  like the man, Sheila, but that doesn't mean I can afford to turn away  his business. If he chose to come back to us, well, then that's our good  fortune. I'd better give him a ring and arrange to go out and see him  again.'

It was half an hour before she got through to the farmer. He was just as  truculent with her on this occasion as he had been the last time she  saw him, but eventually Charlotte managed to make arrangements to go out  and see him.

'He must have changed his mind and realised that the only way he'll get a  good price is by selling the semis together. Oh, and while I remember,  I've promised to do an inventory for a catalogue for auctioning some of  Mrs Birtles' furniture. I'm going to take Sophy with me … give her an idea  of how to do an inventory.'

'Was the house lovely?'Sheila asked wistfully.

'Beautiful,' Charlotte told her. 'The kind of place everyone dreams of  owning. I only hope we can find a buyer for it who will appreciate it.'

A frown furrowed her forehead. Oliver had been right when he'd said  their first duty was to their client. Perhaps it was idealistic of her  to hope that they could find a sole buyer for the house able to meet its  price … someone who wanted to live in the house and not destroy or  develop it.

'Something wrong?' Sheila asked sympathetically.

Charlotte shook her head. She knew that, had her father been alive, he  would have agreed with every word Oliver had said. Her father had often  accused her of being too sentimental.

'No, not really. I was just wondering if I ought to leave a bit early.  Oliver is moving in tonight, and the kitchen people started today.'

Sheila laughed. 'Yes, I think you should. What about your car, though?'

'I've rung the garage to order the two new ones, and they've promised me  a loan car until they can provide them. I'm still not sure about that  bright red,' she teased Sheila. 'Isn't that supposed to be a dangerous  colour?'

'So what?' Sheila retaliated. 'At my age, I think I'm entitled to live a little dangerously.'

Was that what was happening to her? Charlotte wondered an hour later as  she drove home in her loaned Volvo. Was this stupid infatuation she  seemed to have developed for Oliver Tennant nature's way of rebelling  against the cautious, defensive way she lived her life? She hoped  so … just as she hoped that these dangerous and unwelcome feelings of hers  would fade quickly and quietly once they were confronted with the  reality of sharing her home with him. There was nothing like a touch of  realism for destroying idealistic daydreams, she told herself firmly as  she turned into her drive.

The sun had gone in; the overgrown rhododendrons cast dark shadows over  the drive, turning it into a secret, almost brooding place, so that she  shivered momentarily, and then derided herself. She was letting Sheila's  mother-henning get to her. She had driven up and down this drive a  thousand times without even giving it a second thought …

The workmen were on the point of leaving as she arrived, the chaos in  the kitchen making her gulp and bravely swallow the dismayed words  springing to her lips. Was it really possible for the pretty, warm  kitchen she had visualised from the drawings Mr Burns had done for her  to actually materialise from this mess of plaster, wood, exposed wires  and heaven alone knew what else?                       
       
           



       

'We've managed to turn the electricity back on for you,' Mr Burns told  her. 'And your cooker's fixed up in the pantry, like you asked. Seems  like we're going to have a problem with the plumbing, though. Lead  pipes,' he added succinctly, as though that explained everything.