Outbid by the Boss
Outbid by the Boss
by
Stephanie Browning
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Copyright and Publishing Information
Outbid by the Boss
Two thousand pounds!
A trickle of cold sweat worked its way down Samantha Redfern's ribcage and lodged itself in the waistband of her well-worn jeans. Two minutes ago, she'd been the only one bidding on a rare, 18th-century candlestick and now some yahoo she couldn't even see at the back of the auction hall had managed to double the stakes in less than half the time.
No matter. Tucking a stubborn strand of auburn hair behind her ear, Sam scanned the other bidders. Antique silver was her area of expertise. It had won her a coveted position with Burton-Porter & Sons, and now here
she was, moments away from owning
a piece of the past.
Her past.
And nothing, not even an amateur collector with more money than brains, was going to stop her now. All she had to do was stay calm.
"I have two thousand pounds..." called the auctioneer. His practised gaze rested on Sam for the briefest of seconds before moving on in search of wealthier prey "...do I hear two thousand, one hundred..."
What was she waiting for?
She'd been searching for a candlestick exactly like this since she'd first arrived in England and this one had it all...London hallmarks, date marked 1749, manufactured by a well-known silversmith, and rumoured to be part of a larger collection once belonging to the king himself.
It was a wonder half of London hadn't shown up to bid on it. She’d known about the candlestick since she was a child growing up in Toronto. A family secret, her grandmother had told her. Sam frowned.
Maybe not so secret after all…
"....going once....going twice..."
"Come on, lovey!" The middle-aged woman in the seat beside Sam gave her a jab and up shot Sam's hand startling both her and the auctioneer.
"I have two-thousand, one hundred pounds!" he crowed. "Do I hear two-thousand, two?"
The auctioneer, Sam thought, was having way too much fun.
While she decidedly was not.
A flood of guilt washed over her. She should so not be here. She should be in New York City.
Attending an important sale on behalf of her London employer.
Not perched on the edge of a folding wooden chair in a cramped auction hall in a teeny, tiny village in the West Midlands that, while very picturesque, belonged on top of a biscuit tin. Her colleagues at Burton-Porter wouldn’t believe it. They saw her as the consummate professional. Cool as a cucumber, that’s me, thought Sam, as she wiped her damp palms along her thighs.
An excited buzz rippled through the room. The phantom bidder had just upped the ante by another hundred pounds. Sam twisted in her seat, trying to catch a glimpse of her competitor, but there were too many bodies in the way.
She swung back to find everyone watching her, waiting to see what she would do. "I have two thousand, two hundred pounds," the auctioneer repeated. "Do I hear three....?" he asked looking directly at Sam.
This was absolutely crazy. Her budget was stretched to the max. She was living in a central London flat so small, she could barely bend over the sink to brush her teeth without butting up against the shower door. And the bidding had already soared past her credit limit.
Maybe if she sat on her hands...
"Going once...."
"....going twice...."
It was no good, thought Sam raising her hand one more time.
She just had to have it.
The auctioneer acknowledged her bid with a twitch of his moustache. "I have two thousand, three hundred pounds. Do I hear four?" he peered down the length of the room.
Sam held her breath.
Please, please, please, don't bid.
He didn't, and the next thing she heard was the smack of the auctioneer's gavel.
"Sold to the young lady in the second row for two thousand, three hundred pounds."
Sam leapt to her feet, green eyes sparkling in triumph. She tossed her bag over her shoulder, gave her neighbour a hug and set off, hurriedly picking her way through the tangle of legs and carry-alls to the end of the row.
With her long hair caught up in a clip and her favorite blazer topping jeans and boots, Sam strode towards the rear of the building to pay her bill and pick up her prize. It was the happiest she’d felt since wrangling her way to England.
If everything went according to plan, she would have just enough time to swing by the flat with the candlestick. Her suitcases were in the car, she’d downloaded her boarding pass that morning, all she had to do was drop off the rental and catch the shuttle to the airport.
It was going to be tight, but totally worth the risk.
The candlestick was hers!
From where he stood, leaning against an immense mahogany armoire, thirty-six-year-old Chas Porter had a clear view of Samantha Redfern as she bounded down the length of the hall.
What was she doing here?
And why would she be bidding against him?
Unless… Chas shook his head. No, that was crazy. She couldn’t possibly have known his interest in the candlestick. Or that the auction house had tipped him off before the sale.
At first, he hadn’t even recognized the young woman bidding against him. He’d arrived late and been unable to get a seat, but his commanding height had ensured his bid was noticed.
And allowed him to see his opponent.
In the office, Miss Redfern’s hair was always neatly pulled back. Not threatening to spring from its pins into a shoulder-length wave of shining auburn. In London, her clothes were boringly routine, charcoal grey and conservative, if he remembered correctly, which suited her position as a buyer for one of the country’s most exclusive dealers, but did little to enhance her physical appeal. Soft voice, an unexpected uptilt of her chin when a valuation she had made was questioned -- he had barely noticed her.
Until now.
Chas pulled out his mobile. If she’d wanted his attention, attending an out-of-the-way sale when she should be in New York, was a sure-fire way to get it. Sending a quick text to his office confirmed it. Samantha Redfern had been booked to fly out last night, but had rescheduled.
Simmering with rage, Chas sliced his way through the thick crowd, nodding to a few familiar faces and avoiding those who knew him well. That his employee was at a country auction
bidding on his candlestick when she should be on the other side of the Atlantic preparing for one of the season's most important sales was beyond belief.
He could hear the auctioneer in the background clamouring for the crowd's attention – a Royal Crown Derby tea set was on offer, but Chas' focus was all on the Sam. In the time she'd been with Burton-Porter, he'd found her totally professional and decidedly aloof.
Which was more than okay with him.
Never ever dip your pen in company ink,
his grandmother had drummed into his teenaged ears.
As the great-great grandson of the firm's founder, she scolded, having heard he was chatting up a female employee in the accounting department, he should know better than to play off his connections. Young, romantic, and hot-headed, Chas had ignored his grandmother’s advice, until the day he heard the young woman bragging to her co-workers. It was his wealth and position they saw, his grandmother told him sharply, not the man he was. From that day on, Chas had guarded himself against all but the most casual relationships, ruthlessly channelling his excess passion into his work. Over the years, he had been able to rebuild what his father and grandfather had squandered.
His eyes narrowed. And no one, not even a trusted employee like Samantha Redfern, was going to jeopardize that success.
The spring in her step was unmistakable as she wove her way towards the cash. What was it about this particular candlestick, Chas wondered, and this particular employee?
Despite her knowledge of antique silver, it would be impossible for Samantha Redfern to make the connection to his family. Or would it? She was smart, she was ambitious and, Chas scowled, for all he knew, quite prepared to exploit any advantage that might come her way.
Barrelling through a knot of onlookers, Chas came to a halt. She had reached the cash desk. He was a few feet behind her now, but instead of seething with fury, he found himself admiring the view.
The fitted jacket and tight jeans she wore revealed the lush curves that had remained hidden at the office. His usual taste ran to the elegant, slim, society women who understood how to play the game, not to employees who promised a cosy armful. Irritated by his own thoughts, Chas shook off this sudden flash of warmth and refocused his attention on why she was here and, for that matter, why he had let her outbid him!
She stood with her back to him, wallet open, tapping the wooden floor with the toe of her high-heeled boot until the auctioneer’s assistant set her prize on the battered oak table.
The candlestick was in superb condition.
Just under nine inches in height with a circular base, swirling shell motifs rising up its stem and a petal-shaped lip surrounding the socket.
In a London sale, he would expect it to sell for another five hundred pounds.
At least.
A pair wouldn't just double the price, it would triple it.
His gaze slid back to Sam.
He should be pleased that he'd hired one of the best eyes in the business, but knowing she wasn't there on behalf of the firm any more than he was, rather tarnished his high opinion. But why would she risk her position with Burton-Porter on this particular candlestick?
Chas felt a slow smile tug at the corners of his mouth. This scene unfolding in front of him was about to get interesting.
Not knowing the sale’s payment policy, Samantha Redfern was waving a credit card about. The
equivalent of a red flag as far as country auctioneers were
concerned.
The auctioneer’s wife took one look at Sam's credit card and said, "Cash or cheque."
"I'm sorry?" said Sam.
The woman jabbed her pen backwards to where a dog-eared sign hung limply on the back wall. "Cash or cheque," she repeated.
"Debit," countered Sam. She selected a bank card from her wallet and held it up for inspection. "As good as cash..."
The pen pumped the air one more time. "Read the sign."
"But this is an auction," Sam stammered. "I go to them all the time..."
"Look," the woman said quietly, "there are half-a-dozen people behind you waiting to pay. Either you come up with the cash or the item will be offered to the next bidder." Her grey eyes slid over Sam's shoulder and landed on Chas, flickered in recognition and then moved on when Chas shook his head.
He could almost hear Sam's heart beat faster. In the salerooms, her only giveaway when she was tense or dealing with him, was a gentle pulse near the soft skin of her left temple.
Maybe it was time to tap her on the shoulder and identify himself as the other bidder. The candlestick would be his.
As it should have been in the first place.
Although she was pushing
her luck on the New York trip, she was one of the best silver appraisers he’d ever hired. Maybe he’d overlook this one.
At least, he might have, had Samantha Redfern not pulled a white envelope embossed with the Burton-Porter logo from the depths of her shoulder bag.
"Do you take American?" Sam asked.
"No."
It was all Chas could do not to reach out and grab his errant employee by the scruff of her slender neck. Instead he found himself sidetracked by the silky curls that had escaped her hair clip.
"Please...I have more than enough cash and..." Sam rifled through her wallet. "...I can do at least a third of it in pounds.” She had dumped her entire bag onto the table and was pawing through its contents as if her life depended on it. “I’ll pay the bank premium.”
Dark brows furrowed, Chas watched her toss aside a pair of designer sunglasses, her mobile, a half-eaten chocolate bar, a neon-pink cosmetic bag and what looked to be a balled up pair of black tights. He saw no sign of a cheque book, but he did see a set of car keys with a familiar tag.
