Just Say Yes

‘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?’