The Bachelor's Bargain

‘The bruises will soon fade,’ she smiled. And, not wanting to prolong this interview any longer than she had to, she went on, ‘I’m sorry I had to reverse the charges last night when I rang. I didn’t have any change with me.’

‘You didn’t want to ring from your home?’

Sharp! Merren quickly realised they didn’t come very much sharper than him. ‘I—er—didn’t—don’t want my family to know that I was mugged.’

‘Or that you were robbed of that two thousand pounds you were carrying?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Where did you get it?’ he wanted to know.

‘I came by it honestly,’ she bristled—but, recognising that perhaps he had some right to know, she added more evenly, ‘I sold an item of jewellery.’

‘It was yours to sell?’ he asked quickly.

She resented his question, and resented his tone. ‘I…’ she began sharply back, and then realised she couldn’t afford to fire up at him. She needed his help. And, she supposed reluctantly, his question, since he didn’t know the first thing about her, was a fair one. ‘It was a ring belonging to my mother.’

‘Your mother’s in need of two thousand pounds?’

‘My mother died ten months ago,’ she replied stonily.

‘So the money’s for you. What for?’ He pursued his line of questioning, and, as if he’d summed up why she hadn’t wanted her family to know, his look was suddenly fierce. ‘You’re pregnant!’ he rapped.

‘No, I’m not!’ she snapped back. Honestly! ‘Chance would be a fine thing!’ His hint about what she wanted the money for infuriated her!

‘You haven’t…?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Not ever?’ he questioned, his anger gone, polite interest taking its place.

‘I’m working on it!’ she retorted crisply. Was she really having this discussion? ‘I told you—I needed that money to pay some bills.’ She brought the subject back to where she wanted it. She took a steadying breath, her pride buckling as she made herself ask, ‘Do you have the m-money for me?’

His answer was to open a desk drawer and withdraw a plain envelope. He stretched over and placed the envelope on the corner of his desk nearest to her. ‘Cash,’ he stated, seeming to know she wasn’t interested in a cheque.

‘Thank you,’ she said, not touching the envelope. ‘Do you want me to sign something to say I’ve received it?’

‘Not necessary,’ he replied.

‘Oh,’ she murmured. ‘Er—about paying it back.’

Jarad Montgomery stared at her, seemed about to say something, but instead invited, ‘Go on.’

‘Well—I—that is, I think you’ve already worked out, as I did last night, that it—um—may be some while before I’ll be in a position to repay you.’

‘I appreciate your honesty,’ he drawled. ‘Though I can’t quite remember asking you for repayment.’

‘You can’t be lending—giving—me the money out of the goodness of your heart!’ she erupted.

‘You’re suggesting I have a black heart?’ he enquired coolly.

She wasn’t. How could she think that when he was doing this enormous deed for her? But, ‘You must want something in return?’ she said in a rush as the thought came. She knew she was green, but nobody parted with that sort of money for nothing.

Jarad stared at her for long, silent moments. Silkily then, he murmured, ‘You’re prepared to sell your—um—services?’

She had the most awful pride-denting feeling that he was playing with her, and—even while ready to accept his enormous favour—Merren felt she hated him. ‘I’m a very good secretary,’ she informed him bluntly.

‘You have a job?’ He seemed surprised.

‘I rang my employer this morning and asked for the day off, out of my holiday entitlement,’ she answered stiffly. ‘I could work evenings and weekends if you’ve any secretarial…’

‘I’ve a perfectly efficient PA.’ He turned down her offer.

And Merren was out of ideas. ‘You’ve a perfectly efficient domestic staff too,’ she thought out loud, remembering his well cared for, polished and gleaming house.

‘You’d do cleaning?’ He stared at her as if she was some new kind of species as yet unknown to him.

‘I’m prepared to do anything legal.’

‘I see,’ he murmured, and, every bit as if it needed some thinking about, he continued, ‘You’d better come and see me tomorrow—I’ll let you know my requirements then. Er—don’t bring an apron.’ Merren was off her chair making for the door when his voice stopped her. ‘Haven’t you forgotten something?’ She spun round, and inwardly groaned—she had forgotten to pick up the money.

It was him! Somehow he had the power to unsettle her, making her swing from an urgent desire to hit him, to wanting to smile and be grateful. She went back to the desk and picked up the envelope. ‘Thank you,’ she said quietly, with what dignity she could find.

‘Stay put,’ was her answer. ‘You’re obviously not safe to be let out on your own; I’ll get a driver to take you home.’

The sauce of it! It gave her a great deal of pleasure to be able to tell him, ‘Actually, I have my car today.’

Her pleasure was short-lived. ‘I’ll get someone from Security to walk you to it,’ he pronounced.

Merren couldn’t remember actually saying goodbye to him, but as she and the security guard left the Roxford Waring building she owned to feeling glad to have the solidly built fit-looking man by her side. That episode yesterday had left her feeling more vulnerable than she’d realised. Not that she thanked Jarad Montgomery for his thoughtfulness. Him and his ‘not safe to be let out on your own’! Huh!

The closer she drove to her home, however, Merren began to experience a decided aversion to handing Jarad Montgomery’s money over to her brother. The feeling was ridiculous; she knew it was. For goodness’ sake, the whole point of her visit to the Roxford Waring building had been to get the money for Robert. Her reluctance, she suddenly comprehended, was because once the money was gone from her keeping, gone to pay Robert’s long outstanding bills, she would be committed. Committed—in debt to Jarad Montgomery.

Robert came hurrying out of the house the moment he saw her car, and, seeing his tense expression, Merren could not hesitate to hand him the money. ‘I won’t forget this,’ he beamed, but she guessed, as she handed over her car keys too, that forget it he would.

She went indoors; Carol was out somewhere with the baby—and the house was a tip. Merren went and changed out of her suit. Dressed in cotton trousers and a tee shirt, she was vacuuming the sitting room carpet when thoughts of Jarad Montgomery returned to disturb her.

She supposed, in view of what had happened, it wasn’t surprising he should be in her head so frequently. He had just done her one very generous kindness. That she was going to have to pay for that kindness by some means or other was only to be expected. Besides, she wouldn’t have it any other way. Pride alone decreed that.

‘Come and see me tomorrow,’ he’d said. He hadn’t said where, he hadn’t said when, but, since tomorrow was Saturday, he must mean that she should call at his home to discover in what way he’d decided she should repay him.

Having cleaned and tidied everywhere, while knowing it would be utter chaos again within hours of her family coming home, Merren made a cake to take to Uncle Amos the next day. Her mother had always presented him with a cake every Saturday. It had pleased Merren to take that small pleasure over. Uncle Amos was very partial to sultana cake.

Bertie Armstrong rang around seven that evening. He and Merren were around the same age, and had always been the best of friends. ‘I’m going to The Bull for a jar later on—fancy coming?’ he asked.

Merren wasn’t particularly keen, but, having told Jarad Montgomery that she could work evenings and weekends, decided to take Bertie up on his offer. Heaven alone knew when, after she saw the man Jarad tomorrow, she would have another evening free for a ‘jar’.

‘Nineish?’ she enquired.

‘I’ll call for you,’ he said, and, even though she would be seeing him later, such was their friendship that they stayed chatting about inconsequential matters for the next twenty minutes. But, good friend though Bertie was, she couldn’t tell him of the recent happenings in her life.

Having gone to The Bull with Bertie for a drink, Merren returned home just after eleven to find the house in darkness, everyone in bed. She had thought her few hours in the uncomplicated company of Bertie Armstrong had relaxed her. But later she had a frightening nightmare similar to the one she’d had the night before, and she began to realise that the trauma of being the victim of a street assault, didn’t end once you’d picked yourself up and dusted yourself down.