Just Say Yes
‘Hi again,’ she said.
‘Hi.’ His voice sounded rough and scratchy. He tried again. ‘Sorry to come at a bad time—’
‘That’s all right. I’d forgotten I was supposed to be going out.’
‘Somewhere nice?’ he asked, although it was none of his business, but she wrinkled her nose and shook her head.
‘Not really. It’s a charity auction for the hospice.’
Guilt prickled at him. He’d been invited and had turned it down because he hadn’t expected to be back early enough. Perhaps he ought to go anyway—and he could see her, of course. Not that that had anything to do with why he wanted to go, of course!
‘I expect you’ll enjoy it,’ he said encouragingly, but her nose screwed up again doubtfully.
‘Shouldn’t think so, it’s duty. I’m selling my services.’
His mind boggled. He just hoped to hell what he was thinking didn’t show in his eyes, because it was likely to get him arrested.
‘What do you do?’ he asked, just as the house phone rang.
‘Oh—excuse me,’ she said, and whirling on her heels, she went into the kitchen and shut the door.
‘Mummy duth gardenth,’ Lucy told him.
Which explained the riot of colour outside the front door. How useful, he thought, and his mind ran on. A gardener, selling her services at a charity auction—so if he could somehow wangle a ticket at this late stage, he could buy her services in the garden—and several hours of her time. Fascinating.
And she was a widow—not married, and apparently no man around the place playing the part to get annoyed at his interest.
‘So—is Mummy going on her own?’ he asked, pumping the children ruthlessly with only the merest prickle of conscience.
‘No. Peter’th taking her.’
And who the hell was Peter? ‘Peter?’ he said guilelessly. Oh, wicked, wicked man to take advantage of their innocence!
‘Peter’s a friend,’ the boy told him flatly, right on cue.
‘Joe doethn’t like him,’ Lucy put in for good measure. Was Joe another ‘friend’?
‘So what if I don’t? He talks to us like we’re idiots,’ the boy said defensively. So the Joe she’d been talking to on the phone was her son. Good. One less to worry about—and he didn’t like the boyfriend. Even better. An ally.
Then the kitchen door opened abruptly and the woman came back in, the soggy towel in her hand, damp strands of untamed hair clinging to her face and trailing down her shoulders. ‘Peter can’t make it,’ she announced to nobody in particular. ‘Damn.’
‘Problems?’ Matt said, wondering if there was a God after all and if He was about to put such a spectacular opportunity in his lap.
‘Yes—my escort for tonight. I really, really don’t want to go, but I have to, and I can’t think of anything more awful than going on my own. Oh, well, I shall just have to—oh, no!’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘I’ve had a glass of wine—I can’t drive. Oh, darn it. Taxi—I’ll have to call a taxi,’ she muttered, thumbing through a tattered phone book.
‘I’ll take you,’ he said without giving himself time to think.
Her head flew up, her eyes widening incredulously.
‘You? Why on earth should you do a thing like that?’
He shrugged, wondering what feeble excuse he could come up with that she’d believe, and came up with probably the feeblest.
‘Because I muddled up the phones?’ he offered. That wouldn’t work. She’d taken the wrong phone, not him, and any second now she was going to remember that. He tried again. ‘Anyway, didn’t you say it was a charity do?’
‘Yes—for the hospice, but what of it?’
He shrugged again, trying to look nonchalant when he wanted to punch the air. Yes, there was a God. ‘I keep meaning to do something charitable. Here’s my chance. I could escort you, so you won’t have to go on your own, and you won’t have to drive. Simple.’ He smiled encouragingly.
She hesitated, for such a long time that he began to lose hope, but then she started to weaken. ‘I couldn’t possibly let you—’
‘Of course you could. I had an invitation to it anyway. Just say yes.’
She wavered, so he pressed her again. ‘What time do you need to be there, where is it and what’s the dress code?’
She answered mechanically. He could almost hear the cogs in her brain whirring. ‘Seven thirty for eight, the Golf Club behind the hospice, black tie.’
‘Fine. I’ll pick you up at seven.’
‘But you’ll be bored to death—’
‘Rubbish. I might even bid for the odd thing—you couldn’t deny the charity the chance to make money out of me, could you?’
‘Well…’
He grinned, watching her crumble, and knew he’d done it. Brilliant. ‘Do I need to eat first?’ he asked, without giving her any further room to wriggle out of it.
She shook her head, looking a trifle shell-shocked. ‘No. There’s a meal—I’ve already bought the tickets, so you’ll get a free three-course dinner out of it.’
His grin widened. ‘Excellent. It’s sounding better by the minute. Now, if I could just have my phone—?’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, gosh, sorry, I’d forgotten again.’
She went into the hall, her back to him, and rummaged in that amazing bag of hers, giving him an unobstructed view of a curvy and very feminine bottom in faded towelling as she bent over.
‘Here it is,’ she said, straightening up and turning round, and he dragged in a lungful of air and tried not to look down the gaping cleavage of her dressing gown.
‘Thanks,’ he said, his voice a little strangled. Their hands touched as they swapped phones, and he was amazed that the sparks weren’t visible. ‘By the way,’ he added with the last remnant of his mind, ‘I don’t know your name.’
‘Georgia,’ she said, her voice husky and soft. ‘Georgia Beckett.’
Beckett. The memory teased at him, just out of reach. ‘Matthew Fraser.’ He held out his hand, wondering if he’d survive the contact, and found her slim, work-roughened little fingers firm against the back of his hand. He dropped it reluctantly, stunned by how good it felt.
‘Right, I’ll see you at seven,’ he said.
‘I still think it’s a dreadful imposition. I could get a taxi, for heaven’s sake—!’
‘And spend the whole evening on your own? How tedious. Anyway, I’m looking forward to it now. Just go and get ready, like a good girl, and I’ll go and harness the chariot.’
She chuckled, a delicious sound that did strange things to him. ‘All right,’ she said, almost graciously. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ He returned her smile, then pocketing his mobile phone, he let himself out, slid behind the wheel of his car and heaved a sigh of relief.
‘Thank you, God,’ he said, and couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud as he drove back down Church Lane towards home. He was about to spend the evening with the most tantalizing woman he’d met in ages. If only he could remember why he knew her and where he had met her before…
Georgia sat down on the bottom stair and gazed blankly at the front door. How on earth had she talked herself into that? He could be a mass murderer! His name seemed slightly familiar—from the papers? Perhaps he’d got a prison record? He might have swapped the phones on purpose, as part of some deadly plan to find out where she lived and murder her—
‘Oh, Georgia, you’ve really lost the plot,’ she said disgustedly, stomping upstairs. ‘Murderer, indeed!’ Although he did have disturbingly piercing eyes…
‘You’re mad,’ she told herself, snatching open the wardrobe door and frowning at the contents. ‘Now—what is there? Something demure, simple, elegant—what a dazzling choice.’
She took out her black dress—her only dress that answered at least some of her criteria—and hung it on the front of the wardrobe. Excellent. Now, shoes, and did she buy a miracle have a decent pair of tights? Glossy, for preference, barely black—
‘Aha!’ She snatched the new packet victoriously from the drawer, pulled on her underclothes, dried her hair, slapped on a thin layer of light foundation and did something clever with her eyes to widen them a little. Then a streak of lipstick, a quick smack and wriggle of her lips together to spread it evenly, and she was done.
Sucking her lips in so they didn’t mark the dress, she shimmied into it, let it settle around her and stood back.
A slash neck, sleeveless but with shoulders that extended to make tiny capped sleeves, it was cut on the cross and fell beautifully to skitter around her ankles, the heavy crêpe moving sensuously as she turned to check the back.
Hmm. She sucked in her stomach, eyed herself again and shrugged. So she was a mother. And anyway, they were selling her design services, not her body, she reminded herself for the umpteenth time. A tiny worm of truth told her that it wasn’t the punters at the auction that she was worried about, but the manipulative phone-thief with the cock-eyed grin and the most interesting eyes she’d seen in a long time.
A little flurry of panic rippled through her—or was it anticipation? What on earth had she been thinking about, letting him talk her into this? All that hogwash about depriving the charity of the money he was prepared to spend—dear me, I must be wet behind the ears, she thought in disgust, but she was smiling anyway.
She twirled again, sucking in her tummy muscles, and nodded with satisfaction. She slipped her feet into the shoes, winced at the thought of standing for hours on feet that had already done a marathon day, and humming slightly under her breath, she went downstairs.
Jenny said, ‘Wow!’, Lucy hugged her and said she was beautiful, and Joe said, ‘Go, Ma!’
Approval? Heavens!
Now, all she needed was her escort…
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS a glittery do, sprinkled with rich women in mahogany tans and diamonds and not much else, and paunchy men glistening in the heat, their ample middles girdled up in cummerbunds to hide the fact that their trousers were too tight after dinner.
Still, they were rich, they were going to spend their money in a good cause, and Georgia was just only too glad she was no longer part of that scene. She’d hated it—hated the entertaining for Brian’s clients, hated the strain and pressure he’d put her under, hated the false smiles and backstabbing bonhomie.
Matthew, on the other hand, seemed to fit right in, except that his dress suit fitted him to perfection, gliding over his broad shoulders and tapering elegantly to his narrow waist and neat hips. The shirt was stark white against his skin, and she would lay odds his bow tie was a real one, not a cheat on a bit of elastic.
He wasn’t sweating, either, and he looked comfortable and at ease talking to his numerous acquaintances. They’d been seated together at dinner, but she’d been monopolised by the man on her other side, and she’d hardly had a chance to talk to him.
Pity, but maybe a good thing. He was altogether too interesting for her peace of mind, and when he bent his head closer to some clinging little vine to hear her doubtless inane conversation, Georgia found herself smitten by a wild urge to club him over the head with the nearest chair.
Jealousy? Good grief! It was years since she’d felt anything, never mind jealousy! And over a total stranger! How perverse.
How worrying…
‘Georgia, my dear, you’re looking lovely!’
‘Thank you, Adrian. You’re too kind.’ She looked up into Adrian Hooper’s slightly glazed eyes and dredged up a smile.
He was the organiser of this shindig, a mover and shaker in local commerce, and she had a lot of respect for him. Unfortunately, he fancied her and it definitely wasn’t mutual. She deftly changed the subject. ‘It’s a good turn-out tonight—all the wallets bulging, I hope?’
He laughed. ‘One can only hope so, my dear.’ He edged closer, a conspiratorial glint in his eye. ‘By the way, was that Matthew Fraser I saw you with earlier?’
She was intrigued. ‘Yes—why, do you know him?’
He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course I know him. Heavens, darling girl, everyone knows him! He’s—’
‘Adrian, old man, you’re hogging all the talent. Aren’t you going to introduce me?’
Georgia’s heart sank. Adrian she could cope with, but this man was trying to see through her clothes and it was frankly a little embarrassing. Anyway, she wanted to hear more about Matthew—
‘Tim Godbold,’ the man said, sticking out his hand so Georgia had no option but to take it. ‘And you’re the famous Georgia Beckett. My dear, I’m delighted to meet you. Such talent as yours is rare indeed.’
‘You’re too kind,’ she said, scraping together a bright smile and wondering when he was going to release her hand from his damp and limpid grip. She eased it away and leant on the table behind her, discreetly wiping her palm on the heavy damask tablecloth. Yuck.
‘So what are you here for tonight, Mr Godbold?’ she asked, steering attention back to him.
‘Tim, please,’ he demurred with a laugh that she could only describe as intimate. Oh, Lord, she was going to be ill.
‘Tim,’ she said with a sickly grin. ‘What are you bidding for?’
Big mistake.
‘Besides you, of course,’ he said with that husky possessive laugh again, and looked around, ‘perhaps the membership of the Golf Club—I never play, but it’s a good club, I hear. And maybe the car valet, or the weekend for two in the hydro—if I could persuade someone to come with me, of course…’
Georgia, glass to her lips, took a gulp of wine by accident and began to cough. Another mistake. Tim Godbold’s damp and heavy hand descended on her shoulderblades with a possessive and intimate pat, totally ineffectual and utterly unnecessary. She waved him away, lost for words, and looked wildly around for a distraction.
Adrian had wandered off, doing his fundraiser’s bit, and Matthew was nowhere to be seen. Blast.
Help, though, was at hand. Mrs Brooks, the chairman of the charity, stood up and called everyone’s attention to the auction which was about to begin.
Georgia, hugely relieved and almost able to speak again, excused herself and went over to the podium, in case she was asked to explain what she was offering, but in the end she didn’t need to explain anything.
The auctioneer had been well primed. He banged his gavel to get everyone’s attention, launched into the sale and achieved some staggering sums for really quite silly things.
Then he reached the climax of his patter. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, now we come to our star prize of the evening. She’s a nationally renowned garden designer, she’s been invited by the Royal Horticultural Society to exhibit a show garden at the Chelsea Flower Show next year, and she’s very kindly offered a day of her most valuable time to help you realise the garden of your dreams.
‘She’s more than qualified to design anything from a roof garden to a motorway service area, but her forte is the restoration of historic gardens—’
Out of the corner of her eye, Georgia saw Matt Fraser’s body straighten. She caught his eye, speculative and searching, and looked away—straight into the even more speculative eyes of Tim Godbold. He’d threatened to bid for her. Oh, Lord. She started to feel slightly sick.
‘And, of course, as it’s only April now there’s still plenty of time to get plants in and start seeing the fruits of your labours this summer, so come on, ladies and gentlemen, what will you bid me for a day in the company of the gorgeous Georgia Beckett?’
The bidding started at a nice sensible figure—nothing like what she charged for a day’s consultation in a garden, but enough as an opening bid. Then it started to rise, steadily at first, and then by larger increments. The other bidders dropped out one by one, and she watched in fascinated horror as Tim Godbold and Matthew Fraser battled for her across the room.
It was like some ghastly game of dare, she thought, each one throwing down a more outrageous bid, each determined to win. She hardly dared to look at them, Tim glassy-eyed and sweating slightly, Matthew with a grim line to his mouth that brooked no argument.
By the time it reached four times the real cost of her day’s work, she was getting distinctly uncomfortable. She was happy for the charity, but even so! It was only one day, for heaven’s sake! No designs on paper, no planting schemes—just a wander round and a quick chat, in essence. So what were the two men bidding for?
Then Matthew spoke up, cutting through the auctioneer with his strong, clear voice, throwing down his final bid like a gauntlet.
There was a ripple of shocked delight through the crowd, and all eyes swivelled to Tim Godbold. He dithered for a moment, then threw down his programme and stalked off.
She thought he was going to blow a fuse. She was certain she was. She closed her eyes, wondering if anyone actually did die of humiliation, and heard the auctioneer say, ‘Going once, going twice, sold to Mr Fraser.’ The gavel smacked down on the desk with a victorious thunk, and wild applause broke out.
‘My God, it is a slave auction,’ she muttered under her breath, and forced herself to open her eyes and smile vacantly at everyone.
Then Matt was at her side, taking her arm possessively and smiling down at her as if he’d bought her and not just eight hours of her time. He looked disgustingly pleased with himself, and she felt sick and more than a little angry.
She yanked her arm away. ‘What the hell was that little exhibition about?’ she stormed under her breath. ‘Wrangling over me like a couple of dogs over a—a—!’
He opened his mouth to speak, and she skewered him with a glare. ‘Don’t even think it,’ she growled.
‘I was going to say bone,’ he said mildly, and grinned. ‘Anyway, you should thank me.’
‘Thank you? Thank you! Are you mad? I thought I was going to die of embarrassment!’
‘Nonsense. Anyway, would you rather I’d let Tim Godbold get his sticky little paws on you?’
‘Maybe,’ she said unreasonably, trying not to shudder. ‘Perhaps he’s got a genuine need for a garden designer.’
He bent his head closer. ‘And perhaps he had his garden landscaped last year at enormous expense—rumour has it six figures.’
Her jaw dropped, and she snapped her mouth shut and looked away. ‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh. And, for your information, I have a need. A very genuine need which I think you’re perfectly qualified to meet.’
Why did she get the feeling he wasn’t talking about gardens?
‘We’ll see,’ she said, and felt a little shiver of anticipation in amongst the rage. She’d been secretly hoping that the day she’d donated would lead to further work. Now she was wondering just what she’d let herself in for! Still, it could have been worse. It could have been Tim Godbold, she thought, and shuddered.
What was that expression the Victorians had used? A Fate Worse Than Death?
Yes. Matt Fraser, for all his faults, had to be better than that!
She was still bristling with temper, Matt realised. Oh, well. If he’d hoped for gratitude he was clearly doomed to be frustrated, but that was just too bad. He hadn’t liked the way Godbold was looking at her, not at all.
Had she heard the rumours about him? Probably not. A band struck up, and he turned to her with a smile, mouth opening to ask her for a dance, but she didn’t give him the opportunity.
‘I’d like to go home, please,’ she said, in a quiet voice that brooked no argument.
That suited Matt. He’d had a long day, and frankly if it hadn’t been for the enticing thought of holding Georgia in his arms, he would cheerfully have left the moment he’d written out his cheque.
‘Fine,’ he said, and started to manoeuvre them towards the door.
However they weren’t to get away with it. Mrs Brooks came sailing up with a big smile. ‘Georgia, darling, thank you! What a star! And Matthew—how kind of you to be so generous yet again, and after you said you couldn’t come, you naughty man! Now, you can do one thing more for me—start the dancing off, please.’
‘Just one, for the charity?’ Matt murmured to Georgia, and with a little sigh she smiled graciously at Mrs Brooks.
‘Just one, for the charity,’ she echoed, ‘and then I must go. I’ve been on site in London all day and I’m bushed.’
‘Bless you, darlings. And thanks again.’
She sailed off, another victim in her sights, and Matt turned to Georgia with a wry smile. ‘You could try not to look as if I’m going to murder you later,’ he teased, and she snorted softly.
‘How do I know you’re not?’
He chuckled. ‘You’ll have to trust me.’
‘Little Red Riding Hood made that mistake with the wolf, if I remember correctly. How big are your teeth?’
He bared them in a mock snarl, and she laughed, for the first time. Catching her in a weak moment, as it were, he took her gently by the arm and led her onto the dance floor, then bowed his head, a slight smile still playing round his lips.
‘Shall we dance?’
It was torture. Her body was soft yet firm, her back under his hand strong and straight, yet with the supple grace of an athlete. She held herself away from him a fraction, and he didn’t push it. Instead he held her lightly, waiting for the moment when the soft lights and romantic music made her weaken.
Others joined them, and someone bumped into them, jogging her against him so that her soft, full breasts pillowed gently against his chest. For a moment she resisted, then with a tiny sigh she settled against him. He nearly trod on her then, because she felt so good, so soft and warm and feminine, that he thought he would make an idiot of himself.
He’d never held her before. Wherever they’d met, under whatever circumstances, he would have remembered if he’d held her…
Then the music stopped, and with what could almost have been reluctance, she moved out of his arms.
‘Can we go now?’ she said, and he realised she’d just been leaning on him because she was tired. It was in her voice, in her eyes, in her whole body.
‘Of course.’ He retrieved her jacket from the cloakroom attendant, settled it round her shoulders and swept her quickly past all the people who suddenly wanted to talk to her.
Then he ushered her to his car and slid behind the wheel, pausing as he clicked his seat belt into place to study her face in the dim glow of the interior light.
‘You’re still mad with me,’ he said, just as the light faded down and switched off so that he couldn’t see her face. She didn’t reply, just sat there, staring straight ahead. He thought she was frowning.
Ah, well. He started the engine and pulled slowly out of the car park, heading for Henfield. She was silent for a few taut minutes, during which he could hear her brain working overtime—searching for the right acidic put-down, no doubt. Then suddenly she spoke, her voice quiet but full of suppressed emotion.
‘What do you want with me?’ she asked tightly. ‘I don’t even know who you are, and you start throwing around outrageous amounts of money for eight hours of me telling you what perennials to put in where!’
‘Don’t you mean telling me where to put them?’
She laughed, a brief gust of cynical humour which was quickly suppressed. ‘Whatever. I just felt embarrassed by the bidding—it all seemed to get suddenly very personal. I began to feel like a—a trophy or something.’
‘How perceptive of you,’ he said softly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw her head swivel towards him. ‘Tim Godbold wanted you. He wanted to be able to say he’d had his garden landscaped by a Chelsea designer. And he had a more personal interest.’
‘Personal?’ she said coldly.
‘Yeah, personal. You know. Oh, come on, Georgia, don’t be naive! He’s not a nice man.’
‘I noticed.’
‘He has a reputation. There are rumours.’
‘Rumours?’
‘An attempted rape case. It was dropped—and the victim suddenly started spending rather a lot of money.’
She went very still. ‘He bought her silence?’
‘There was no proof. It just seemed a rather strange coincidence.’
She was quiet for a long while, and then with what seemed to him either utter foolishness or a great deal of courage, she turned towards him again and said, ‘And you? Are you a nice man? Or are you just a little more discreet?’