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 bone’ 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 pen 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 fluorescent sticky 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 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 into 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. ‘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
