Outbid by the Boss by Stephanie Browning

clutching the silver candlestick and fighting to the last ditch even though they both knew she was in the wrong, kept intruding into his mind. Giving up, he tried to focus on the damaged done to the side of his car, but there she was again with sunlight shimmering over her auburn hair as she insisted that being sideswiped by the Land Rover was his fault, not hers.
    He didn’t know whether to laugh or go strangle her, which she so obviously deserved. Unfortunately, no matter what his initial intent, he knew that if his fingers touched the soft skin of her neck, the anger would turn into a caress. That would certainly put the cat among the pigeons.
    A knock sounded at the study door. Chas’ heart leaped at the thought it might be Sam seeking him out to either apologize or maybe argue a little more. He would welcome either, he realized.
    “Come.”
    But instead of Sam, his estate manager, John Weekes, let himself into the room. Chas’ lips tightened a little at the smell of beer emanating from the man.
    “John,” Chas forced heartiness into his voice that he didn’t feel, and gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Maybe his day hadn’t been so good either.
    “Evening,” John said. “We didn’t expect to see you here this week.” He launched into a somewhat rambling explanation of why certain matters hadn’t been seen to yet, and made a couple of suggestions for Chas’ approval.
    Chas nodded, and said what was appropriate. John had been a good estate manager once, and his instincts were still strong. Unfortunately, the carryings on of Chas’ father, and to be honest, Chas’ own neglect of his inheritance had probably caused the man to become disheartened. With a twinge of guilt, Chas realized it was one thing to delegate; quite another to leave one’s employees to their own devices.
    Of course with someone like Sam, oversight didn’t seem to matter. Even now, he would trust her to do her job.
    Which brought him back to the man before him. Chas sighed. Whatever plans he had for the estate, he was honour-bound to ensure that the house and the land were properly managed, and the employees, particularly the Weekes, were looked after.
    Chas brought the conversation back to the beginning.
    Once he’d determined that there was no body shop nearby capable of handling the repairs to an automobile like his, Chas said good night to John, and made a note to call London in the morning.
    Alone again, Chas watched the play of light across his desk; the same desk used by his father, and his father before him. As a child, Chas had avoided this room; it held nothing for him but fear. A raging, demented grandfather who, in today’s world, would likely have been in a nursing home. And a father whose mocking ways only made him appear less of a man, not more. Giving up, his society mother had absconded for a new life in America twenty-five years ago, leaving her eleven-year-old son to cope on his own. School holidays had been spent with Lionel, as his father now wished to be called by his only child, and his endless string of unsuitable women.
    What a legacy.
    Determined to never act with such cruel arrogance and irresponsibility, Chas had moved to London, rebuilt Burton-Porter, and learned to keep a tight rein on his emotions. But the only real way to distance himself from the pain of his family’s past was to sell up, leaving Porter Hall and its history behind.
    How naive to think that having Samantha Redfern at his side even if it was for only a few days would make his decision any easier.
    So far, her presence seemed to have had the opposite effect. Her reaction to Burton Park, and then the hall, had given him a pride of place, something he had never experienced before.
    That didn’t excuse his behaviour. He should have been upfront with Sam, told her at the outset where they were headed and why. Too many years spent keeping his personal and professional lives separate had obviously taken their toll.
    He reached for his