‘I’ll ring the garage and see if they can keep it going for me until the new one is delivered,’ she told him wryly.
‘Mmm. Well, you’re perfectly welcome to use this while I’m in London, if you’d care to. My insurance does cover other drivers.’
Use this? Charlotte stared at him, unable to believe her ears, and then said shakily, ‘Good heavens, I couldn’t possibly. What if anything should happen to it?’ She looked in awe at the immaculate upholstery and gleaming bodywork.
Perhaps he had heard the note of regret in her voice because, instead of accepting her refusal, he said easily, ‘It’s only a car, you know—and besides, I’ve every confidence in your driving.’
Charlotte looked at him. Was this all a part of the softening-up process Vanessa had mentioned, the deliberate and ruthless clinical sabotage of her defences?
This afternoon she had been stunned by his generosity, by his business ethics, so very, very different from what she had imagined. He had seemed so honest, so direct, so completely without any ulterior motive… Was she being too gullible, too trusting?
‘Look, I’ll leave you the keys and then it’s up to you,’ she heard him saying.
She protested uncertainly, ‘But won’t you need it…to get to the station?’
‘I’ll use a taxi. Much safer than leaving it in some station car park all day.’
He had stopped now. All she had to do was to get out, thank him for the lift and arrange for him to move in his things, and yet as she opened the car door she felt a sharp reluctance to leave.
Firmly quelling it, she got out. This was ridiculous. Any more of this foolishness and she’d be in danger of falling in love with the man.
Falling in love… She froze as the shock of it iced through her. Falling in love with a man like Oliver Tennant. She couldn’t be so foolish, could she? Could she…?
Could she?
Unaware of the way Oliver was frowning after her, she got shakily to her feet and headed for her office.
* * *
‘Well, come on. How did it go?’ Sheila asked her excitedly.
Almost absently Charlotte explained how they had been appointed joint agents.
‘Well, I must say that was very generous of Oliver Tennant,’ Sheila approved.
‘Yes,’ Charlotte agreed vaguely, unaware of the look of concern that crossed the older woman’s face at her lack of enthusiasm. Her insides felt like jelly. She badly wanted to crawl away somewhere where she could be alone to sit and think. In love with Oliver Tennant… It was ridiculous. It couldn’t be possible. She had only seen him on half a dozen or so occasions. And there had never once been anything in his manner towards her to encourage such crazy emotions.
She tried to remember if she had felt like this when she had first met Gordon. But that had been different. Their relationship had grown slowly. Their decision to get engaged had been made after a good deal of mutual consideration of their aims in life, and then, when she had told Gordon that she intended to give up her London career to return home, the ending of their engagement had come after equally mature discussions.
Never at any time had Gordon made her feel the way she felt when she was with Oliver.
Without knowing she had done so, she had linked her fingers together, gripping them tightly as she tried to fight off the immensity of her despair. If only she had realised what was happening to her before she had agreed to take him as a lodger. How on earth was she going to endure living so intimately with him?
She would just have to endure it, she told herself firmly. After all, it would not be for long. Six months. Six mont
hs… It had taken her far less than six weeks to fall in love with him. She could only pray that her love was of the virulent and short-lived type that would quickly burn itself out like a tropical fever. It was so out of character for her to feel like this…so…so unsuitable and indignified. She was a businesswoman who had long ago recognised in her lack of sexual appeal the enormity of the barrier between her and the things she had once wanted from life: a husband, children, the kind of family life she herself had craved as a child and never had.
Equally she had recognised the danger of allowing herself to believe that her idealised daydreams of that kind of family life were anything other than exactly that; relationships, marriage, children—all required a one-hundred-and-fifty-per-cent input from all parties concerned, and even then they so often failed.
How long ago was it now since she had first consoled herself with the knowledge that she was probably better off on her own, that she had a good life, good friends…that she had the enjoyment of her friends’ children without the heartaches…that, with her own lack of a strong physical response to those men who did ask her out, it was probably just as well that the romantic, idealistic side of her nature made it impossible for her to settle for a relationship which could not match up to her ideals?
Now, when she had long ago accepted that the kind of man she had once dreamed of did not exist, she had met him…or was she simply allowing herself to be blinded to reality? Was Oliver Tennant the compassionate, caring man he seemed, or was Vanessa right? Was he simply going to use her for his own ends?
‘Did you have a word with Oliver about Dan Pearce, to see if he had appointed him?’ Sheila asked her, breaking into her thoughts.
Charlotte had forgotten all about the farmer. She frowned and said crisply, ‘No, I didn’t.’
Seeing her friend’s expression, she added firmly, ‘Look, I might not like the man, Sheila, but that doesn’t mean I can afford to turn away his business. If he chose to come back to us, well, then that’s our good fortune. I’d better give him a ring and arrange to go out and see him again.’