At The Millionaire's Bidding

Robert’s smile held a hint of mockery. He greeted her as though she was a guest. “Miss Smith…welcome to Greyladies.”

The shock of meeting those tawny eyes literally took her breath away, and she was forced to drag in air, like a swimmer who’s been under water too long, before she could answer.

“Thank you.” She had tried to tell herself that his effect on her would have faded, that on further acquaintance she would find him ordinary, dull even. But rather than lessening, his impact was stronger. It made her heart beat uncomfortably fast, set her nerves quivering and scattered her wits.

LEE WILKINSON lives with her husband in a three-hundred-year-old stone cottage in a Derbyshire village, England, which most winters gets cut off by snow. They both enjoy traveling and recently, joining forces with their daughter and son-in-law, spent a year going around the world “on a shoestring” while their son looked after Kelly, their much-loved German shepherd dog. Her hobbies are reading and gardening and holding impromptu barbecues for her long-suffering family and friends.

At the Millionaire’s Bidding

Lee Wilkinson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE

THE latch clicked, and Dave Benson came into the dark, cramped cloakroom that adjoined the office, closing the door behind him with care.

After that lunchtime’s unexpected phone call, it had been agreed that he, with his technical know-how, should tackle their possibly important visitor.

Eleanor glanced up from making the tea he’d requested, her clear grey eyes hopeful.

Dave answered her unspoken question. ‘Yes, it is Robert Carrington the financier, and the job on offer is just the kind of thing we were hoping for…’

Though his words were encouraging, it struck her that he was looking far from pleased.

‘Apparently Carrington’s fed up with living and working in London, and he’d like to start running his business from home. He owns some manor house or other near Little Meldon, and he wants to set up an office and a communications network with state-of-the-art equipment.’

‘That sounds wonderful!’ she exclaimed.

‘It would be if I could clinch the deal, but he’s an awkward man…’ There was irritation in Dave’s voice and a scowl on his darkly handsome face.

‘Though he must have known we were a small firm, he keeps quibbling about our capabilities, and about the travelling time involved. ‘I’ve assured him we can cope, but so far I’ve been unable to convince him.’

While she watched him, trying to hide her anxiety, Dave poured himself a mug of tea and, sitting in the single rickety chair, reached for a ginger biscuit and dunked it moodily.

Through the small, grimy window Eleanor could hear the roar of passing traffic on the Edgware Road, and closer at hand the rattle and bang of a tailgate being dropped, as goods were delivered to one of the ground-floor shops in their building.

As Dave continued to sit there, she asked, ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back?’

‘He’s talking on his mobile. When it rang, the arrogant swine lifted an eyebrow and asked, “Would you mind?” as though I was the office boy.’

‘When you do go back, for goodness’ sake be careful,’ she begged. ‘Don’t let him see how you feel about him.’

‘I think he already knows,’ Dave admitted. ‘We’ve rubbed each other up the wrong way from the word go. You’d better see if you can handle him.

‘According to the media, he’s tight-lipped about his private life, but in public, at least, he seems to like the ladies, so maybe a woman will stand more chance.’

Knowing it shouldn’t have to hinge on sex, and wishing, perversely, that he’d said a beautiful woman—but knowing full well that the adjective wasn’t justified—Eleanor agreed, ‘I’ll do my best. Though I remember reading an article about him in Finance International that suggested he has a reputation for being a tough nut.’

‘Well, if we don’t manage to crack him, we’re in big trouble.’ Dave ran a hand through his black wavy hair. ‘It’s a miracle a man like Carrington came to us in the first place, and we just can’t afford to lose this chance, so promise him anything he wants.’

‘I can’t see the sense of promising something we may not be able to deliver,’ she objected uneasily.

‘Damn it, Ella, don’t go all ethical on me. By the time he finds out whether or not we can deliver, we’ll be well into the job. He’ll be forced to settle for what he can get.

‘Our best card, maybe our only card, is that he wants the work put in hand straight away, and the job done as quickly as possible. The big firms will already have full order books, which means a wait. Tell him the next job we had scheduled has been put on hold for the present…’

There was no next job. Despite all their hard work the order book had remained depressingly empty.

‘And emphasise that we can make a start as soon as he says the word go. Monday, if that suits him. Though we’ll need a substantial cash advance before we can order any equipment.’

‘But surely Greenlees will—’

‘Greenlees have clamped down. They won’t let us have as much as a mouse mat until we’ve paid what we owe them.’

‘They’ve been paid. Our account was settled as soon as the money came in from the last job.’

When the grim look on Dave’s thin face failed to lighten, she insisted, ‘I sent the cheque off myself at the beginning of the week.’

‘It bounced,’ he said flatly. ‘I had a nasty email from them this morning, and an even nastier phone call from the bank.’

‘There must be some mistake,’ she protested.

‘There’s no mistake.’

She shook her head unbelievingly. ‘I’m sure there was enough money in our bank account to cover it.’

‘As it happens there wasn’t.’ His brown eyes were hard. ‘When I went to pick up that software package, Burtons insisted on being paid there and then. By the time I’d written them a cheque we were flat broke.’

‘I hadn’t realised things were that bad,’ she said shakily. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘There didn’t seem any point in worrying you.’

‘You should have told me. It was supposed to be my job to pay the bills. If I’d known, rather then send Greenlees a worthless cheque, I would have gone in to see them and asked for more time. It would have saved us the embarrassment of—’

An ugly look on his handsome face, Dave snarled, ‘Rather than standing here arguing, suppose you get out there and do your stuff? And don’t forget that Carrington’s our last hope, so offer him anything he wants, the moon if necessary. We have to get this job if we’re to stay in business.’

The cold certainty in his voice scared her half to death. She knew instinctively that if they lost the business, she might well lose Dave.

Without the promise of a brighter tomorrow, she had nothing to offer him. Or at least nothing exciting enough to hold him. Her future would be as bleak and grey, as empty, as her past.

Somehow she had to persuade Robert Carrington to give them the job.

Taking a deep breath, she glanced in the spotted mirror to check her appearance. What she saw there failed to boost her morale. Dressed in a plain charcoal suit, she looked thin to the point of gauntness, and her heart-shaped face appeared pale and strained in the gloom.

A stray tendril of sable hair had escaped from her otherwise neat chignon. Tucking it into place, she squared her shoulders and, picking up the tray, which she’d set with care, made her way into the office.

A man was standing by the window, his back to the room, looking out on to the street four floors below, where car tyres left a series of snails’ tracks on the dark, wet tarmac.

Tall and well-built, with broad shoulders, his hands hung loosely by his sides, relaxed but alert, and his short, thick, corn-coloured hair curled a little into the nape of his neck.

He turned, without haste, and the first thing she noticed was that his brows and lashes were several shades darker than his hair.

From Dave’s rather derogatory, ‘He seems to like the ladies’, she had imagined him to be in his fifties and handsome in a heavy, florid way; a flashily dressed stereotype, with a practiced charm.

He was nothing of the kind, and somehow his appearance threw her totally. Robert Carrington was quite young, in his early thirties, she guessed, lean and powerful-looking, dressed in a grey business suit with a plain blue tie.

His hard-boned face was tanned and tough, and far from handsome, and if he had any charm he was keeping it well hidden.

As she continued to stand and stare at him, he raised a single brow.

Colour flared in her cheeks and, feeling a complete fool, she put the tray down on the desk with a rattle, and moved to greet him.

At close quarters he seemed to tower over her five feet seven inches, and she guessed he must be well above six foot.

‘Mr Carrington… I’m Eleanor Smith.’

He took her hand in a light, firm grip, and she found herself looking straight into thickly lashed eyes that were green and bronze and speckled with gold. Just like a wolf’s eyes.

Caught and held, she was unable to look away.

‘As in Smith and Benson?’ His voice was deep and attractive, and his question broke the spell.

‘Y-yes,’ she stammered.

Glancing at the tea-tray, he asked with a fine irony, ‘So you’re just standing in for the office girl?’

With an effort, Eleanor pulled herself together and said as coolly as possible, ‘Unfortunately we’re short-staffed at the moment.’

Withdrawing her hand she retreated with what dignity she could muster, while he watched her a shade satirically.

Needing to bolster her confidence, she went to take a seat in the big leather chair behind the desk asking politely, ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Carrington?’

He strolled across the room and took a seat in the small swivel chair opposite.

Chairs made no difference to who was boss, and they both knew it.

Reaching for the teapot, she enquired, ‘Milk and sugar?’

His hard face slightly amused, as though he was playing some game, he answered, ‘A little milk, no sugar.’ Adding unexpectedly, ‘I’m sweet enough.’

You could have fooled me.

Oh Lord, had she said that aloud?

Whether she had or not, he knew, she could read it in his tawny eyes.

Her hands not quite steady, she poured tea into one of the porcelain cups and passed it to him.

As he made to take it, she let go too quickly, and the cup tilted, splashing tea into the saucer and onto his trousers.

While she stared at him, frozen with horror, he calmly put down the cup and, producing a spotless handkerchief, proceeded to mop up the mess.

When Dave had spilled tea into his lap he had jumped to his feet cursing volubly.

This man’s reaction was so unnervingly restrained that she would almost have preferred the cursing.

‘I-I’m terribly sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I hope you’re not scalded?’

‘Nowhere vital,’ he said drily and, balling the handkerchief, tossed it into the waste-paper basket.

Desperate to retrieve the situation, she offered, ‘Let me get you a fresh cup.’

He shook his head. ‘Call me a coward, but I don’t think I’ll risk it.’

Watching the colour rise in her cheeks, he added quizzically, ‘In any case, there’s still almost a full cup. A little tea goes a long way.’

There was no doubt in her mind that he was enjoying her confusion. Dave was right, Robert Carrington was an utter swine.

But she mustn’t let her dislike show. Through sheer stupidity she had already done more than enough damage. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again.

He waved an expressive hand. ‘Think nothing of it.’ Then, looking at the empty cup on the tray, he suggested smoothly, ‘I do hope you’re planning to join me?’

‘Well I—’

‘Otherwise I might start wondering if you’re really the office girl standing in for the boss.’

Only too aware that she had made more of a hash of things than any self-respecting office girl, she managed a smile and poured out a second cup of tea.

‘Cheers.’ He raised his cup and drank.

Knowing he was making fun of her, she gritted her teeth and took a sip of the tea she didn’t want, shuddering at the memory of all those other cups of grey, lukewarm liquid that had passed as tea.

She had hated tea ever since.

‘Just as a matter of interest,’ he pursued levelly, ‘how many personnel do you have? I couldn’t get a straight answer from Benson.’

‘Well, I’m sure he must have explained that we’re a very small firm and—’

‘How many?’

‘Two.’

‘I see.’

Firmly, she said, ‘That’s all it normally takes. Though of course it depends on the size of the job in hand and how quickly it has to be done. If we do need extra staff—carpenters, electricians, fitters—we employ them on a temporary basis.’

That had been their plan, though it hadn’t yet become necessary.

‘Your job for instance… I understand you want it completed without delay, so—’

‘What’s happened to Benson? Do I take it he’s chickened out?’

Angry at the interruption, she answered as evenly as possible, ‘He had an afternoon appointment.’

‘Cold feet, more likely,’ Robert Carrington opined. ‘So he decided he’d send a beautiful woman to soften me up?’

Caught out by the jibe, she quickly responded, ‘I may not be beautiful, but I am the senior partner. No one sends me to do anything.’

‘Good for you!’ he applauded.

Rising to his feet, he came round the desk and, putting a hand beneath her chin, turned her face up to his own.

She sat as though metamorphosed into stone, while he studied the widely spaced grey eyes beneath dark winged brows, the high cheekbones and straight nose, the generous mouth and pointed chin.

Then, running a fingertip along the jagged silver thread of scar tissue that ran down her left temple and cheek, he asked, ‘What makes you think you’re not beautiful?’

Inside her head she could still hear the voice saying, “It’s a pity she’s got that ugly scar”…and sure he was just baiting her, she answered recklessly, ‘I do own a mirror.’

‘So how would you describe yourself?’

‘Colourless. Nondescript. Scarred.’

‘It’s no use looking into a mirror if you’re prejudiced. Try looking into other people’s eyes to see what their opinion is.’ His glance fell on her modest ring. ‘Your fiancé’s for instance.’

She had looked into Dave’s eyes and seen only her own opinion reflected there.

Almost before the depressing thought had crossed her mind, Robert Carrington had returned to his chair and was regarding her steadily across the desk.

As though it had branded her, she could still feel his touch, and she was forced to repress a shiver while she struggled to regain some semblance of composure.

Though her every instinct urged her to run and hide, she knew she must make her peace with this tough, complex man sitting opposite.

It was necessary.

Desperate to get back on course, she said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’ve strayed from the point, and I’m sure you’re much too busy to waste your time.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t describe it as wasted,’ he objected lazily. ‘Sometimes it’s useful to digress a little. It helps to really focus the mind.’

She counted to ten. ‘Well, now we’ve digressed a little, perhaps we can get back to business?’ Her tone, though pleasant, implied that she hadn’t got all afternoon to waste, if he had.

His tawny eyes narrowed and, without further ado, he called her bluff. ‘Well, I’ll quite understand if you’re too busy to give me any more of your time—’

‘No! No, that’s not what I meant. Of course I’m not too busy.’ The hasty interruption betrayed her desperation all too clearly.

Wanting only to put her head down on her arms and weep tears of anger and frustration, she sat up straighter and lifted her chin.

‘Mr Carrington, you must know we want this job, and I can only assure you that if you give us the chance we’ll do our very best.’

And it would have to be their best. She was already convinced that he wasn’t the kind of man who would be prepared to settle for anything less than the moon, if that’s what he’d been promised.

Running long fingers over his smoothly shaven jaw, he asked thoughtfully, ‘How long have you been in business?’

Knowing it was useless to prevaricate, she answered reluctantly, ‘Not quite a year.’

Glancing around, as though weighing up his surroundings, he asked, ‘And you’ve had this office for the same length of time?’

He sounded far from impressed.

‘Yes,’ she answered, and thought wryly that it was just as well he hadn’t seen it when they’d first taken it over.

The walls had been painted a stomach-turning green, an abandoned rusty-grey filing cabinet had leaned drunkenly against the wall, and worn linoleum in squares of ginger and black had adorned the floor.

While Dave had gone out searching for orders, she had set about refurbishing the place.

The cabinet and linoleum disposed of, a good second-hand carpet, a desk and two chairs, a couple of coats of white paint, and a few cheerful pot plants had made a lot of difference.

By the time they had installed the reconditioned computer equipment it was starting to look good, and she had been pleased with the result until she saw it through Robert Carrington’s eyes.

‘Hmm,’ he said. Then, ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me how Smith and Benson came into being?’

Though politely phrased, she recognised it as an order rather than a request.

She wanted to look forward rather than back. But unless she was prepared to go along with this difficult and arrogant man, there might be nothing to look forward to.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she told him the bare bones of it. ‘It was Dave’s idea. The technical side of computers and communications has always been his forte. He’s brilliant at it.’

‘What about you?’

‘I knew nothing whatsoever about business, but so we could go into partnership, and I could pull my weight, he encouraged me to take a course in practical business studies.’

‘What did that cover?’

‘Office equipment and layouts, how to instal and use the latest technology, and computer programming. Rather to my surprise, I found it both interesting and enjoyable.’

‘Which college did you go to?’

‘I didn’t go to college. I went to special evening classes.’

‘For how long?’

‘Almost a year.’

‘Why evening classes?’

When she didn’t immediately answer, he added, ‘It just struck me that was the hard way to do it.’

‘I needed to keep working to support myself.’

‘What kind of job were you doing?’

‘I was working in a hotel.’

‘As a receptionist?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘You have an attractive voice, and you speak well.’

Dave had said much the same thing.

Seeing Robert Carrington was waiting for her affirmative, a kind of stubborn pride made her inform him flatly, ‘As a matter of fact I worked in the kitchens.’

‘All the time you were doing the course?’

‘Yes.’

‘No parental help?’

‘No.’

‘Couldn’t Benson help to support you?’

‘He wasn’t in a position to.’ In fact she had supported Dave during his final year at college.

‘So what made you decide to go into business, rather than just have a job?’

‘It was something we both wanted to do. I suppose we liked the idea of being free to work for ourselves…’

In truth she had, at first, only wanted something that was hers. A small business of some kind, a second-hand bookshop, or a tearoom perhaps, ideally with some living-accommodation over it.

Security and independence.

Only later had her dream widened to include Dave.

She had been a quiet, introvert child who, as Matron put it, “lived inside her own head”. Though rated as highly intelligent and bright, her grades at school had been only a little above average. She had shone at nothing.

When she finally left the classroom to start work in the kitchens at the children’s home, her sights already set on the future, it had been without too many regrets.

As soon as she was old enough, she had thanked the staff for their years of care and escaped from the grey drabness of Sunnyside, taking with her nothing but a few clothes, an abiding love of books and music, and a knowledge of plain cooking.

She had found herself a job as a kitchen assistant in a busy hotel less than a mile away from Sunnyside. The hours were long and the work hard, but with the job went a small room.

It was dark and draughty and overlooked the yard and the dustbins, but it was hers. Her refuge. Her private domain. She felt a heady sense of freedom. For the first time in her life she was in control of her own destiny.

Though the wages were far from good, because she had bed and board and no travelling expenses, she could save. She did save. Every penny.

The rest of the hotel staff, mostly young and out for a good time, invited her to join them at the local pubs and clubs, and no doubt thought her odd when she refused. But though she was always polite and friendly, she made no attempt to mix, and after a bit they stopped asking, and let her go her own way.

As soon as her working hours had been established, she took a job at the nearby supermarket stacking shelves in the evenings and on her day off. Adding to her bank balance.

After a while she moved to the checkouts where late-opening shopping meant she was working even longer hours, and by the time she crept into bed each night she was too tired even to dream.

But perhaps she didn’t need to. After more than three unrelenting years of hard work and dedicated saving, she was really getting somewhere. Another year, and she could start looking for a suitable shop to rent, and begin to turn her dreams into reality.

One Friday night, just before closing time, she had glanced up to see a young man in jeans and a thin, shabby jacket unloading a few meagre items from a shopping basket.

Dave.

Though she hadn’t seen him for more than five years, she would have known him anywhere. That handsome face, with its thin nose and dark brown eyes, the curved brows and lock of black wavy hair that fell over his narrow forehead like a question mark, was unforgettable.

Her heart gave a strange lurch.

He too had been at Sunnyside, and for a long time she had worshipped him from afar, dreaming of the day he would finally notice her.

But two or three years older than her, he hadn’t seemed to know she existed. When he had eventually left, without even a goodbye, she had felt desolate and bereft.

‘Well, hello there. It’s Ella, isn’t it?’ All at once he was smiling down at her, his slightly crooked teeth very white in his dark face. ‘This is a real blast from the past.’

‘I’m surprised you remember me,’ she admitted a shade awkwardly.

‘Apart from getting a bit older, you haven’t changed much.’

‘Neither have you.’

As she began to put his goods through, he asked, ‘How long is it since you left Sunnyside?’

‘Over three years.’

‘You must have been glad to get away. God, how I hated that place! So what have you been doing with yourself since?’