 Freya
bit down hard on the expletive hovering on the tip of her tongue
and called again, her eyes raking the rows of old sofas and
chests of drawers. “Hello?”
There was still no answer. No sound of anything in the cavernous
building except the clip of her heels on the concrete floor. “Mr
Ramsay? Anyone? Anyone at all?” She
came to a stop and looking back across the auction house.
She sucked in her breath and spun round to look again at
the long line of caged cupboards piled high with knick-knacks.
Where was everyone? The entire place was deserted.
Freya tucked her hands further into the depths of her sheepskin
jacket and stamped her feet to get warmth back into her frozen
toes. This was such a crazy way of doing business. There had
to be someone whose job it was to speak to people like her.
A porter? Wasn’t that the way it worked?
She hadn’t expected anything like Sotheby’s or
Christie’s in a place like Fellingham but this was plain
ridiculous. Left to herself she’d walk straight back
out of here – and a casual trawl through the telephone
directory would, no doubt, produce any number of more promising
alternatives.
Except …
Her almost habitual frown snapped into place. Except Daniel
Ramsay had somehow managed to convince her grandmother he
was all things wonderful. Damn him!
Twelve years’ hard experience had taught her that anyone
who gave the appearance of being ‘too good to be true’ were
usually exactly that. The trouble was it would take something
approaching the impact of World War Three to shift the elderly
woman from her opinion of him now.
Freya pulled her hand out of her pocket and glanced down
at her wristwatch. Where was he? She really wanted to
see Daniel Ramsay for herself, gauge what kind of man he was,
and preferably without her grandmother being there to witness
it.
She stepped back, and her leg jagged against a box of china
on the floor behind her. She swore softly and bent down to
brush the dust off the fine black wool of her trousers.
What kind of place was he running here? Whatever the
reality of Daniel Ramsay turned out to be, he was no businessman.
His auction house was full of junk. Row upon row of it.
Freya looked round, her nose wrinkled against the musty smell.
He couldn’t be doing more than scratching a living here …
She frowned. No doubt that was why he’d gone out of
his way to befriend her grandmother. Stopping to chat and
eat lemon drizzle cake whenever he had an hour free.
He’d certainly managed to inveigle himself very successfully.
According to her grandmother, his prowess extended from the
removal of mice to changing a lightbulb. And, of course, antiques.
Apparently Daniel Ramsay knew everything there was
to know about antiques …
Freya stamped her foot again as the cold bit at her toes.
Looking at the sad specimens around her, she seriously doubted
that. In her opinion his ‘gift’, such as it was,
was in correctly reading an elderly woman who wanted shot
of things she didn’t much value but which he knew would
earn him a hefty commission.
Her eyes fixed on the green painted door with the small ‘Office’ sign
on it. She gave her wristwatch another swift glance and then
sidestepped the box, pushing her way passed a battered rocking
horse.
This was a stupid waste of her time. If the office door was
unlocked she’d leave a note, asking him to call this
afternoon.
Not perfect. Not what she’d hoped for. But better than
nothing. And it was always possible she was worrying needlessly
anyway. Perhaps Daniel Ramsay genuinely liked spending time
with her grandmother and had no ulterior motive at all?
Only…
Freya’s eyes narrowed as her normal scepticism rose
to the surface. Only that wasn’t very likely. Not in
the least likely. She rapped with her knuckles on the closed
office door, scarcely pausing before pushing it open. “Mr
Rams…?”
His name died on her lips as she took in the threadbare rug
and the muddle of … stuff. There was no other word
to describe the eclectic mix of furniture and paintings. All
of which would have been better consigned to a skip rather
than an auction house.
 What was going on here? Was this some kind of ‘lost
and found’? Or a modern day ‘rag and bones’ business?
She picked her way across the floor and stopped by the heavy
oak desk, one part of her mind speculating how anyone could
work in such disorder while the other questioned whether the
elusive Daniel Ramsay would even be able to find a note left
for him in the mess.
Freya let out her breath on a slow steady stream and pulled
her handbag from her shoulder. She set it on the desk, starting
slightly as the telephone on the other side of it started
to ring. Conditioned as she was to take all her calls within
a few seconds, it set her teeth on edge to hear it echo off
into the distance via a crude tannoy system.
She reached across to pull a biro from a colourful mug, starting
as the office door banged violently against the wall.
“Get that, will you?”
“I’m -”
“The phone. Take a message,” a disembodied male
voice shouted, followed by a grunt. “I’ll be through
in a minute.”
“I -”
“Phone! Just answer the phone!”
For a brief second she wondered whether she’d inadvertently
stepped into a farce, and then Freya shrugged, stepping over
a pile of vinyl records and an old gramophone to reach the
other side of the desk. What did it matter? And at least
it would stop that infernal noise ricocheting about.
“Ramsay Auctioneers,” she said into the
receiver, her eyes on the closed door.
“Daniel? Is that you?”
Hardly. She rubbed a hand across her eyes, the humour of
the situation finally reaching her. “I’m sorry,
Mr Ramsay isn’t available at the moment. May I take
a message?”
“Can you tell him Tom Hamber called, love?”
Her right eyebrow flicked up and she reached over the scattered
papers for a pad of florescent stick-it notes. In her real
life she’d have paused to tell Tom Hamber she wasn’t
his ‘love’. She might even have told him that
while she could pass on a message she was by no means
certain she would ...
“Have you got that? You won’t forget?”
“Tom Hamber called,” she said dryly, drawing
a box around the two words she’d written. “I think
I’ll manage to remember.”
“Tell him I need to speak to him before midday.”
Freya added the words ‘before midday’ to the
note, then turned at the sound of a loud crash. “I’ll
leave him a note,” she said in to the receiver. Whether
he actually found it really wasn’t her problem.
“That’s it, love.”
She set the receiver back on its cradle, ripping the top
note off the pile. One thing she was certain of: there
was no way on earth she was going to let her Grandmother sell
anything valuable through this crazy set-up. She looked at
the confusion on the desk and stuck the note firmly on the
telephone.
“Thanks for that.”
Freya turned and found she was looking up into a pair of
brown eyes. Very definitely up. At five feet ten - more in
heels - it wasn’t often she had to do that.
Why did that feel so good? Some deep Freudian
something was probably at the root of it. He had to be at
least six foot two. Quite possibly more. And those eyes … Dark, dark brown
and sexy beyond belief.
“I was holding up one end of a table and couldn’t
let go.”
Freya pulled her eyes away from his and wrapped her sheepskin
jacket closely around her. “Right.”
“Did you get a message?”
“Yes. Y-yes, I did. Yes.” The corner of his mouth
quirked and she stumbled on, feeling as foolish as if she’d
been caught drooling. “It was a Tom Hamber.”
“Ah.”
“He wants to speak to Daniel Ramsay before midday.”
“I can do that.”
The most horrible suspicion darted into her head.
“I’m Daniel Ramsay.” He smiled, and
Freya felt as though the floor had disappeared beneath her.
This couldn’t be Daniel Ramsay. From her grandmother’s
conversation she’d conjured up a very different picture.
Someone altogether more parochial. More …
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. “But 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.
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IT
Imprint and Series: Mills & Boon® Tender
Romance™
Publication Date: May 2008
ISBN: 0373175159
Copyright © 2007 by Harlequin Mills & Boon
Limited
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher.
The edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books
S.A.
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