Outbid by the Boss by Stephanie Browning Page A

gloved hand for George’s calloused one. “I work for Mr. Porter. In London,” she quickly added.
    “That so?” George released Sam’s hand and glanced at Chas. “Old paintings and the like, is it?”
    Chas was opening his mouth to answer when he heard Sam laugh. “I can tell a Gainsborough from a Turner,” she proceeded to tell George, “but my speciality is antique silver.”
    “Then you’ve come to the right place,” said the old man his gaze lingering on Chas for a moment before shifting back to Sam.
    Before the conversation could go any further, Chas took charge. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, George…”
    “Aye, laddie. I believe there is…” he replied without turning.
    Damn, thought Chas, no wonder George was out of sorts when they spoke last evening. Evelyn Weekes, or more likely her husband, John, had alerted the man that there were changes ahead. Having Sam by his side confirmed it.
    But sly old George was busy chatting to Sam. “You’re sure you’ve never ridden Max before?”
    Sam smiled down at him and patted the horse’s gleaming neck. “I haven’t been on horseback for years.”
    “Then you must have a bit of the Irish in you,” the old smoothie added, “Chas’ grandfather wouldn’t have a groom from anywhere but Ireland. Isn’t that right, Chas?” he said over his shoulder.
    “My grandfather was from Ireland…originally,” Sam cut in, unconsciously tucking a tendril of auburn hair back under her helmet while she spoke. “And when I was a little girl, he worked at a racetrack in Toronto.”
    “Is that so,” mused George.
    His keen and well-weathered eyes met Sam’s, but then he turned to Chas with a question of a muddy field that needed to be drained.
    Relieved, Chas dismounted, tied Damien’s reins loosely to the fence and the two walked off for a few moments to discuss the farm’s needs. Sam sat still, gazing outward at the brilliant green land, and absently stroking Max’s velvet neck. She passed over George’s hint, to the memory of the Irish lilt in her grandfather’s voice. He’d met her grandmother in England, that she knew, and somehow the candlestick they had brought with them to Canada had come into play.
    Wouldn’t that be ironic, thought Sam, if they had worked in the area at one time. She looked towards Chas tramping the field alongside the old farmer; seeing Chas hold his pace to accommodate George’s slower gait warmed her heart. His athletic grace and his courtesy marked him as a true gentleman. Just watching him made the breath catch in Sam’s throat. Face it, Sam, she chided herself, it doesn’t matter how wild your dreams get, this is your boss you’re drooling over. She had seen the women he’d brought to company functions and the charity auctions they held. Only rarely had he escorted the same woman twice. If none of them had been able to hold his attention for more than a week or two, what chance did she have? You’re a full blown idiot, she told herself. You know very well a hint of passion does not a relationship make and no amount of wishful thinking will make it any different.
    When Chas returned, his mouth was drawn into a tight line and George was scowling. Apparently the news that the house might be sold had not gone down well. As Chas swung himself into the saddle, George stroked Max’s nose. He smiled wryly up at Sam.
    “He’s a good lad,” he told her quietly. She thought he was going to say more, but he held back.
    “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime,” Sam said impulsively.
    “I hope so,” said George. He tipped his cap in farewell. Sam waited as he ambled back to his fence.
    Max was chomping at the bit so she nudged him gently and they turned to follow Chas and Damien.
    A short while later, they were skirting the back of the estate with Chas in the lead, heading towards the woods Sam had seen from her window the night before. When they reached a path by a tree-shaded stream, Sam held back,