He wanted to trust her, but he couldn’t afford to.
He couldn’t afford to trust anyone he didn’t know. He had learned that to his cost a long time ago. And he hated it, being suspicious of every passing stranger. And he was attracted to Sorrel, he admitted to himself for the first time. Not just liking her or amused by her—but attracted to her. Heavens knew why, he thought wearily. She wasn’t his type at all….
Emma Richmond was born during the war in north Kent, U.K., when, she says, “farms were the norm and motorways non-existent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”
Books by Emma Richmond
HARLEQUIN ROMANCE®
3609—THE BOSS’S BRIDE
3580—A HUSBAND FOR CHRISTMAS
The Reluctant Tycoon
Emma Richmond
MILLS & BOON
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
MAD, THAT was what she was. Stark, staring, mad. She could have waited at the house. Possibly waited at the house, Sorrel mentally corrected. The woman who’d answered the door to her hadn’t actually invited her inside. She could have asked, of course, but, no, Miss Impetuous had to see him now. Why? Sorrel asked herself disgustedly as she hastily sidestepped what looked like something unsavoury. She’d been searching for work for months; another five minutes wasn’t going to make any difference. Nerves, that was what it was, which was stupid. She wasn’t normally averse to confronting complete strangers—she did it all the time. It was just that his name sounded somehow—intimidating, which was daft. What was in a name? Her own was pretty bizarre and she wasn’t intimidating. But Garde Chevenay sounded—superior. It was a French name, of course, which might have something to do with it.
Or maybe it wasn’t nerves, but desperation, and she was becoming desperate in her search for work. Not that she must let him see that. Perhaps he would interpret her behaviour as enthusiasm. That would be good, wouldn’t it? Prospective employers liked to see enthusiasm. So why hadn’t he answered her letter?
Much given to mental deliberations, Sorrel trudged up the muddy slope. Tall and thin with wild curly hair that wasn’t in the least improved by the misty rain that fell with such persistence, she halted a moment to catch her breath. And why was it, she wondered, that drizzle always seemed to soak you more than a downpour?
Staring round her, she surveyed the empty countryside. Not a soul to be seen. Somewhere over there, she’d been told with a vague point, which could, of course, mean anything.
Breasting the rise, she gave a little cry of alarm as she nearly stumbled over him. At least, she hoped it was him; much more of this hill-walking and she’d probably end up with pneumonia. He was lying flat, his arms inside a crack in the earth, his face in profile, and, yes, he definitely looked superior. And attractive. And young—well, younger than she’d expected, anyway. But did he look like a man who would give her a job? That was the question.
Assuming something had been lost in the hole and Mr Chevenay was trying to retrieve it, without much success by the look of things, she stated, ‘I’m skinny. Perhaps I can get it, whatever it is.’
He turned his head, stared at her with eyes the colour of slate. Expressionless eyes, eyes that gave nothing away. There was an air of tense exasperation about him, which didn’t bode well, and he was big, she discovered, as he got to his feet. Very big.
‘Take off your coat,’ he ordered peremptorily.
‘What?’
‘Your coat!’ When she hesitated, he added tersely, ‘Quickly. If he slips further, we’ll have to dig out the whole hillside.’ Without waiting for her to obey, he grabbed her, hauled her in front of him and began to undo her buttons.
‘He?’
‘A dog,’ he added even more tersely as he dragged her coat off and tossed it onto the grass. Bunching her long hair in his fist, he began stuffing it into the neck of her sweater.
‘A dog is down there?’ she asked in disbelief.
He didn’t bother answering—but then he didn’t look like a man who was going to repeat himself. ‘I’ll hold your ankles.’
‘Ankles?’ she demanded in alarm. ‘How far down is he?’
‘Too far for me to reach,’ he snapped as he forced her to her knees.
‘Well, can’t he get out by himself? Dogs usually—’
‘No.’
With a little tut, she peered into the hole. All that could be seen was a very muddy rear end. An agitatedly wriggling rear end.
‘Oh, my God,’ she whispered, ‘how on earth am I to—?’
‘Never mind the Almighty,’ he ordered, with harsh impatience, ‘just grab hold of him.’
With obviously no choice in the matter, she pushed her arms in first, then eased herself into the narrow opening. She felt Garde take her ankles and grunted in fear and pain as he yanked her upright so that she slid more easily into the hole. Unable to see properly, unable to tilt her head, she groped around, felt the feather-light brush of the dog’s tail against her fingers and wriggled further inside. By touch alone, she forced her hands to either side of his haunches, gripped hard and, with a muffled