Wanted: White Wedding

Well…less, if she were honest. Much less. Truthfully, this Daniel Ramsay looked like the kind of man you’d quite like to wake up with on a lazy Sunday morning. A little bit rumpled and a whole lot sexy.

‘You’re a little late.’ Then he smiled again, wiping his hands on the back of dark blue denim jeans, and the effect was intensified. ‘Not to worry. I get here about eight thirty, but I told the agency nine-thirty was fine.’

He held out a hand, and she automatically held out her own. His wedding ring flashed. Of course a man who looked like this one would be taken. They always were—even if they pretended not to be.

A familiar sense of dissatisfaction speared her. It was amazing how many men said they were separated when the only thing keeping them apart from their significant other was temporary geographical distance.

She was so tired of that. Tired of the game-playing.

Daniel bent down and pulled open the bottom drawer of his desk. ‘I’ve got the key to the inner office here. I’ll show you where everything is, and then I’ve got to drive out to the Penry-James farm.’

‘I’m not—’

He stood straight. ‘Which part didn’t you get?’

‘I understood you perfectly, but I’m not from any agency.’

‘You’re not?’

‘Merely a potential customer.’

His hand raked through his dark hair. ‘Hell, I’m so sorry! I thought—’

‘I was someone else.’ It didn’t take the mental agility of Einstein to figure that one out. It was vaguely reassuring to know he didn’t actively intend to run his business in such a haphazard way.

Sudden laughter lit his eyes, and she fought against the curl of attraction deep in her abdomen.

‘So you’re not the cavalry after all? Perhaps we’d better start over?’

‘Perhaps,’ she murmured, feeling unaccountably strange as his hand wrapped round hers for the second time. He had nice hands, she registered. Strong, with neatly cut nails. And a voice that made her feel as though she’d stepped into a vat of chocolate.

But taken, the logical part of her brain reminded her. And apparently the kind of man who, if he wasn’t actually preying on her grandmother, was certainly making the most of an opportunity.

‘You must have thought I was mad. Did Tom say what he wanted?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘I expect it’s about the quiz night next month.’ His smile widened and her stomach flipped over. Helplessly. ‘So, if you’re not from the agency, what can I do for you?’

‘Not me. My grandmother,’ she said, her voice unnecessarily clipped as she struggled to regain her usual control.

She took a deep breath and exhaled in one slow, steady stream, watching the droplets hang in the frosty air. ‘Is it always this cold in here?’

‘Not in summer.’ He moved away and bent to switch on a fan heater. ‘Then it can get quite unpleasant—’

‘It’s unpleasant now!’

He looked up, his brown eyes glinting with sexy laughter. ‘Because the window in here doesn’t open,’ he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, completely unfazed. ‘It’s been painted over too many times.’

She bit back the observation that getting a window to open was something which could be easily fixed. Something that most certainly would be in any sensibly run business.

‘I suppose I ought to sort that.’

‘I would.’

He gave a bark of laughter. Startled, Freya looked at him. It had been a long, long time since anyone had dared laugh at her. She took in the faint amber flecks in his laughing eyes and swallowed, desperately willing her throat to work normally.

He was so entirely unexpected. She’d got one image of him entrenched so firmly in her imagination that this incarnation was difficult to adjust to. She tucked a strand of hair behind her left ear and felt the back of her hand brush against her crystal earring. It started swinging and jagged against the collar of her jacket.

‘How can I help your grandmother?’

Freya blinked. ‘She has a few items she’s interested in selling, and I’d like to have a professional evaluation of them.’

‘Can you bring them in?’

‘Not easily. There’s a chiffonier, a dining table—’

‘Then I’ll come out to her.’ He moved effortlessly past the piled boxes and sat behind his heavy desk, taking a pen from the same chipped mug she had.

‘Today, if possible.’

He nodded, his pen poised. ‘And you are?’

Freya hesitated. She wasn’t quite ready to tell him that. Not exactly, anyway. Three days in Fellingham and she’d already had more than enough of people’s reaction to her name. From the way their eyebrows shot up into their scalp she could only assume she’d gone down in local folklore as all things depraved.

It shouldn’t matter. Didn’t. But somewhere not so deeply buried her anger about that was still there. Nibbling away at her, despite all the success which had followed.

‘My grandmother’s Margaret Anthony. Mrs Margaret Anthony.’

His sexy eyes narrowed slightly. If she hadn’t been so attuned to people’s reaction to her she’d probably have missed it. Possibly even the beat of silence which followed. ‘Then that would make you Freya Anthony.’

‘That’s right.’

His strong fingers opened a large black diary and he wrote her grandmother’s name at the end of a long list. ‘It looks like it’ll have to be near five. I’m a little choked up today.’

‘That’s fine.’

He looked up and his eyes were no longer laughing. Something inside her withered a little more. He was a stranger to her, an ‘incomer’ to the area, and yet he’d already formed a poor opinion of her.

But then of course he had. What was she thinking? She knew Fellingham’s vicious network had gone into overdrive, and it didn’t take much imagination to guess what he must have heard about her.

‘Has she thought any more about selling her vases?’

‘She’s thought about it.’

‘And?’

Freya held his gaze, meaning to intimidate. She could do that. She’d always been able to do that. ‘I’m going to make sure she gets the best possible price for them. I understand an undamaged pair can be quite valuable.’