An indecent proposal leads to a future neither guy expected.
Fen is broken but does his best to hide the cracks. His life-changing condition might have stolen his first love—ballet, but he’s kind to old ladies, good at his job, and his mum loves him, even if his famous father refuses to acknowledge he exists.
Ripley’s a top flight barrister who’s used to winning. Mostly by fair means, occasionally not. He’s horrified when he learns his manipulative mother has sent family possessions to an auction house. On his way to retrieve them, he encounters Fen.
Cold, rain-soaked and hungry, struggling with his crutch and auction acquisitions, Fen just wants to get home. What he doesn’t want is to be drenched by a car and minutes later, confronted by the bad-tempered driver demanding he hand over his purchases. Hell no!
Ripley gets back his belongings but finds he wants more. Blue-eyed Fen has sparked something to life. Even as his barrister’s brain screams at him to be careful, he makes Fen an outrageous offer. Sleep with me for money. Fen should say no. Yet as he weighs his options, he realises turning Ripley down could be the biggest regret of his life.
In a tale where the pieces don’t always fit, can two imperfect men mend what’s broken in each other?
Warning
Main character with a life-limiting illness. Suicide of a character before story starts. Brief mention of rape and suicide of a man not in the story.
1
Fen hated being late. His alarm had shocked him awake at six-thirty, but getting himself mobile had proved difficult and he’d had to do stretches on the bed to persuade his legs to work properly. Otherwise, he’d have fallen over when he headed to the bathroom. Even getting dressed had been tricky this morning. He was exhausted before he’d left his bedsit. Definitely a day when he needed his crutch.
To make matters worse, the first bus he’d planned to catch didn’t turn up and the next broke down, which meant he arrived at the auction three quarters of an hour after he should have been there. At least his boss, Charles, wouldn’t be waiting to yell at him, though the yelling would come later if Fen had missed any of the items he was supposed to be bidding for.
Fen slipped into the back of the saleroom. A few days ago, he and Charles, the pricklier partner at Winn Brothers Antiques, had been to the auction preview, and Fen had carefully written down the amounts he could go up to in the catalogue, using tiny print by each item. Partly so no one but him could read what he’d written, but mostly because he knew how Charles would react if he didn’t stick to the limits. It would have been easier to bid online, but for some reason, Charles didn’t like internet bidding with this particular auction house so Fen had been instructed to come in person.
He quite liked days out but he was already stressed in case he’d missed any of the lots. There were a few empty seats near the rostrum but Fen didn’t want to draw everyone’s attention, particularly in the middle of an item being sold. He spotted a Victorian washstand that looked sturdy enough to prop up a lightweight like him, wedged his forearm crutch between it and a bookcase, and unfastened his coat. Now he had both hands free to hold the catalogue, pen and his bidding paddle.
The auctioneer brought his hammer down on a nest of tables, not on Fen’s list—phew—and announced, “Item twenty-nine.” The first item Fen had to bid for was thirty-four so there’d be no need to grovel to Charles.
When Fen heard that lots thirty-four and thirty-five had been withdrawn, he mentally groaned. Two items on his list. It wasn’t hard to predict Charles’ reaction. Even if Fen managed to win all of the other lots he’d been instructed to bid for, his boss would still find a way to be pissed off with him. Charles only had to look at Fen to be annoyed.
When they’d been to the preview, Fen had seen something he wanted too. It was an old wooden box with a damaged inlay top, though it was in a cardboard box with a lot of other stuff that he didn’t particularly want. It all depended on the price.
“Item thirty-nine,” said the auctioneer and Fen perked up. “A pair of rustic early 20th century, Lutyens-style, hardwood garden seats. Who’ll start me at five hundred pounds?”
Gulp. That was a lot, though the seats were lovely. Fen’s heart banged in his chest as he waited to see the level of interest before he bid. Five hundred was the maximum he could go to. The auctioneer came down in hundreds to get the bidding started with such affected incredulity in his voice that Fen smiled. He liked this guy. Finally, a dealer Fen knew came in at two hundred. Fen joined in at three and won them at four hundred and fifty. He held up the paddle for his number to be taken.
It was a good start but he missed out on the next three items. By a long way on two and by one bid on a punchbowl. If Charles had been here, he might have gone a little higher but Fen never went over the amount he’d been told because he had once, and Charles had taken the money from his wages. The next two lots Charles wanted had been withdrawn and Fen winced.
The box was up next.
“Lot number fifty,” called the auctioneer. “Photo frames, stamp album—no penny blacks—my son checked.”
There was a ripple of laughter.
“A few ornaments, coins, a wooden box and a small painting. No attributed artist. Several other bits and pieces. Where shall we start? Twenty pounds?”
A woman close to the front of the room bid twenty. Fen waited. There were a few people interested and Fen came in at forty-five. He’d only go to fifty so that was his one and only bid.
But when someone bid fifty, Fen waved his paddle to bid again. Shit! He’d broken his own rule. That was it. No more.
There were no other bids and the lot was his. The total cost would be more like seventy-five after auction fees. Money he couldn’t afford, money he shouldn’t have spent, but if he could restore that box and tart up the picture frames and hopefully find something of value in the rest, he should make some money.
Maybe that win turned his luck because he snagged the last four items on the list at well below the limits Charles had set. Hopefully that might improve his boss’s disposition when he learned what he didn’t get. Fen texted to tell him the auction was done, gave details of what needed to be collected, then went to pay.
Fen being unable to drive was another source of aggravation to Charles. Actually, Fen could drive, but only automatics and the big van wasn’t an automatic. All items had to be taken away on the day of the auction so Charles would have to come and drag his lazy arse of a son, Scott, with him because Fen wasn’t supposed to do any heavy lifting. At least there were enough items to make Charles’s journey worthwhile.
Fen handed over cash for his lot so it didn’t go on the Winn account. In theory, he should have used a different paddle but the lady behind the counter had let him do this before and she did again today.
Fen shot her a smile. “You’re an angel.”
“And you’re a charmer.”
“Only on Wednesdays.”
She laughed. “It’s Tuesday.”
“Oops.”
Fen waited for more than ninety minutes with no sign of Charles. It had rained solidly for most of that time, but at least Fen had been able to wait inside, though it wasn’t much warmer. Abe, one of the porters, had brought him a cup of tea. Fen tried to tell himself it wasn’t because Abe felt sorry for him, but it probably was.
“Sure someone’s coming?” Abe asked as closing time loomed.
“Yes.” No way would Charles want to pay storage fees.
When the familiar van pulled in, Fen fastened his coat, turned up his collar and went outside. He was surprised to see Charles on his own. It meant Fen would have to give him a hand loading up, a thought that made him wince. He put his crutch aside. Charles backed into the loading bay and Fen stayed under the overhang out of the rain.
“Those garden seats were pricey,” Charles barked as he approached.
“They’re nice though,” Fen pointed out. “Elegant. Just need a bit of cleaning up.” If Fen had a garden, he’d love seats like that, not that he’d ever be able to afford them. Or a place with a garden.
Charles huffed.
It was just as well Abe came out to help because Fen was struggling and Charles was getting exasperated. When his boss glared at the Victorian revolving bookcase Abe had lifted into the van, Fen braced himself.
“I didn’t tell you to buy that,” Charles said.
“Yes, you did.” But Fen’s heart dropped into his stomach. He pulled the catalogue from his coat pocket to show Charles he was wrong, and found it snatched from his fingers.
“Idiot,” Charles muttered under his breath. He brandished the catalogue in Fen’s face. “The item below, not that one.”
There was no mistaking the mark on the catalogue. “You told me the bookcase. I remember you said you had—”
“How much did you pay for this rubbish?” Charles checked the invoice, then raised his eyebrows. “Good grief.”
“It’s not rubbish,” Fen said.
He suddenly found himself knocked against the van with Charles right in his face. If Fen hadn’t had the vehicle at his back, he’d have fallen.
“Don’t fucking argue with me!”
Fen pressed his lips together, rain battering his face. This was more than Charles’ usual bad temper and Fen wondered what had happened. Had Scott pissed him off? After Charles went back into the building, Abe came over.
“You okay?” Abe asked quietly.
Fen nodded.
“That was well out of order.”
Fen moved out of the rain and retrieved his crutch. Had he made a mistake with the bookcase? He’d been sure he hadn’t but…
When Charles returned, he kicked at the box Fen had bought. “What’s this?”
“It’s mine. I bought it with my money.” Why did he feel he had to add that?
“Then you can damn well take it with you.”
I’m not getting a lift? Fen had assumed Charles would go back to the shop. Shit. That was a problem.
After the last item had been strapped into the van, Charles jumped down from the back, then closed and locked the rear doors. He drove away without a word and Fen stared at the cardboard box, which was getting wetter and wetter. No way could he carry it.
“You going to manage?” Abe asked.
“I’ll see how much I can get in my backpack.” Dump what he couldn’t.
“Want me to lift the box back up onto the loading bay?”
“Please, Abe.”
It made it easier for Fen to get at the contents and it was out of the rain.
“I’ll see if I can find you a plastic bag. Keep things dry.”
Fen shot him a look of thanks. He took off his backpack and began to slot in the items he most wanted. The wooden box first, then the stamp album and the painting. The coins and little bits were easy to slip in the side pockets and he packed in as much as he could. After he’d zipped it up, Abe returned with two supermarket bags.
“Thank you.” Fen shot him a smile.
“Charles Winn is a wanker. But don’t tell anyone I said so.”
Fen chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone I agree with you.”
He managed to get everything that was left into one of the bags, then covered the contents with the other before hooking the bag onto the handle of his crutch. If he was careful, he should be okay. It left him unbalanced, but this was the way he transported his shopping. He could cope.
Fen was wet and cold before he was halfway to the road. The rain was still teeming down, little streams surging down the hill. When he reached the point where the drive met the road, he stopped for a breather. A sleek silver car turned sharply into the driveway of the auction house and hit a huge puddle, spraying an arc of dirty water over Fen’s coat and trousers. It even splattered his face.
“Hey!” Fen shouted and wiped his cheeks with his gloved hand.
The driver either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care because he continued up to the auction house. What a wanker.
Now Fen was even wetter along with pissed off and miserable. Thoughts of calling an Uber slid into, then quickly out of his head. A waste of money when he could use public transport. He just had to keep going towards the bus stop, which wasn’t as close as he’d have liked it to be. A few moments later, the same silver car drew up alongside. Fen supposed it wasn’t too late for an apology. Or maybe a lift? If he dared ask. That’ll be the day! Plus he was too filthy for a car like this.The window went down.
“You have something of mine,” said the driver.
Fen blinked water from his lashes. That had sounded rather confrontational. He bent to look at the man, who was indeed glaring, though Fen did notice the glare faltered for a moment as they locked eyes. What the hell have I done? The guy had a thin, angular face, dark eyes and dark hair cut in one of those floppy styles that looked effortless and had probably cost more than Fen’s haircuts for the entire year. Fen’s hair was not artfully scruffy, merely scruffy. The man was in his late thirties, maybe early forties, and wore a white shirt and blue tie. Fen had a thing for smart businessmen, not that he’d ever gone out with one, but he didn’t like the anger. That alone made him not Fen’s type. Life was too short for unnecessary aggression. If Charles came up in his face again like that, Fen would look for another job. Possibly.
“I need that box of items you bought.”
Ah. Now Fen understood. He pushed himself upright. What had he missed that was valuable? Some spectacular stamp? A rare coin?
“I’ll give you a hundred pounds.”
“No thanks.” Fen kept walking. The car moved along at Fen’s pace and much as he might have wanted to, he couldn’t move any faster. He palmed his phone, ready to take a photo of the number plate if things turned nasty.
“That’s twenty-five more than you paid.”
“Even so, I’m not interested.”
“For f… The lot was supposed to have been withdrawn.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“I want it back.”
“If you hadn’t soaked me when you went through that puddle, I might have thought about it.” If he’d said please, asked nicely, then maybe, but being drenched in dirty water had hardened Fen’s heart.
“Oh Christ. Did I? Sorry. So the box?”
Oh fuck off. That wasn’t an apology. Fen had had enough of being pushed around. He kept walking. When he reached the bus stop, he looked back to see the car pulling up and the driver’s door opening. Fen snapped a couple of pictures. A horn blared as a bus came up at the rear of the car and to Fen’s relief, the man shut his door and pulled away. My bus too! That was lucky.
He pressed his phone to the reader, and the driver set off again before Fen was sitting down, which caused him to stumble, but he sank onto the seat with an audible sigh of relief. Except… He felt a bit guilty. If that lot was supposed to have been withdrawn, had the auction house messed up? There had been a lot of withdrawn items. More than Fen had usually seen. Maybe they’d all belonged to that guy. Some vindictive wife sending his stuff to be sold?
No one sat next to him for the entire journey. He didn’t blame them. He was soaked. Water was dripping down his neck from his hair and there was nothing he could do except shiver. He hadn’t taken his backpack off so he had to sit forward on the seat, the carrier bag on his lap, and he wasn’t comfortable. Fen rested his head against the window and wished, not for the first time, that this wasn’t his life.
He allowed himself one moment of misery, but no way would he let self-pity consume him. It was his life and there wasn’t much he could do about it. It wasn’t fair but then little was.
His stop was coming up so he pressed the bell and heaved himself to his feet. The stop for the next bus was a little further up the street and according to his app, due in ten minutes. He grew colder as he waited and his shivering increased. Wet, cold and unhappy. The unhappy was annoying because that wasn’t him. He wasn’t relentlessly cheerful, but he did try to stay upbeat. What was the point, otherwise? How would wallowing in misery help?
Though he did need something to change. All very well thinking he’d find another job, but that wasn’t easy. He was limited by his condition and there wasn’t much he could actually do. If he had money… He was saving what he could, the reason he hadn’t called an Uber, but he had a long way to go before he’d have enough to make his life better.
He wished he was home. He liked his little bedsit, with its own bathroom and little kitchen area with a washer-drier. He didn’t like the stairs he had to climb to reach it, nor the growing damp patch on the ceiling that increasingly looked like Australia, or the occasional gale-force wind that seeped in through the badly fitted windows, but it was home.
Right above a betting shop, but still… Fen wasn’t tempted to throw his money away gambling, unlike Scott who often bragged about how much he’d won, so when he was quiet, Fen guessed he’d lost.
By the time he’d climbed the stairs and unlocked the door of his bedsit, he was shattered. He turned up the heating and hung his coat over a chair. After he’d sponged off the worst of the dirt, he pushed the chair close to the lukewarm radiator before he stripped off. His jeans were sodden, his goose-bump-covered legs white from the cold.
A hot shower revived him and once he was in his sleep pants, long-sleeved T-shirt, fleecy grey dressing gown—thanks, Mum—and thick slipper socks—thanks again, Mum—he put on a load of laundry, then sat at the table and emptied his backpack and the carrier bag. Everything was dry, which was a relief. He’d sort it all out after he’d eaten.
Making beans on toast added a little warmth to the room. Eating them, warmed Fen. His bedsit faced the street, but there was an office on the other side of the wall that belonged to the betting shop. Sometimes he wished he had a neighbour that lived there but then again, it meant there was never any noise in the evenings, though a fair amount on Saturdays.
After he’d eaten, he had a cup of tea, no milk, he was supposed to avoid dairy products, and carefully went through his purchases. Most of the picture frames were modern and in good condition. One was silver. He took them apart to check under the backing but found nothing hidden, no money—it had been known—or X-marks-the-spot treasure maps—he lived in hope.
The stamp album was interesting, if you were into stamps, though not many people were these days. Fen checked for a Mauritius Post Office stamp, just in case, because that would be a life changer, but he suspected this was a child’s collection, though it was old. Maybe the contents of the album were worth a bit more research. Same with the coins. There were a couple of interesting-looking Roman ones.
The man in the car saying the box shouldn’t have been sold still niggled him. Fen would have to decide what to do about that because he had a feeling the guy wasn’t going to give up. The auction house wouldn’t release Fen’s details, but they might contact him to ask him to return the lot. A thought that made him check for a missed call, but there was nothing.
The little painting looked Victorian. It was an original. A mother sitting on a highbacked chair, a small boy standing next to her. They were always so stiff, Victorian portraits and photographs. He understood why no-one smiled on the photos because they had to keep still while the shutter was open, but why not smile for a painting?
This one might be worth something if he could find out who painted it and who these people were. Did the frame hide a signature? He could take off the back and look. Except even as he’d thought it, he didn’t feel comfortable about doing that anymore. He no longer felt as if any of these things belonged to him, even though he’d acquired them legally.
The wooden box, the one item he’d really wanted, was lovely even with the damaged inlay. And it was locked. Fen huffed. He hadn’t noticed that it was partly a puzzle box. Repairing the top and a dodgy hinge wouldn’t be difficult, but getting into the box might be. If he could open the top part, it might enable him to deal with the puzzle part of it.
He pushed to his feet and brought over his bag of tricks. He kept some of his tools here, the rest at work. It took him a few minutes to click open the lock. Inside was a small velvet bag and in the bag was a medal. Not just any medal. The George Cross. Wow. Fen had never held one before. It was awarded for acts of great heroism in circumstances of extreme danger. The name of the recipient was engraved on the rim. Russell Belmont. Was he a relation of the man in the car?
Fen typed into Google… Russell Belmont George Cross. Once he’d started to read, he couldn’t stop. Belmont had received the medal for valour shown in withstanding torture at the hands of Communist forces during the Korean War. When Fen read what he’d been through, he was horrified. This medal had to be returned to the man’s family. And all the other things too.
But he wanted his money back.
Barbara Elsborg lives in Kent in the south of England. She always wanted to be a spy, but having confessed to everyone without them even resorting to torture, she decided it was not for her. Volcanology scorched her feet. A morbid fear of sharks put paid to marine biology. So instead, she spent several years successfully selling cyanide.
After dragging up two rotten, ungrateful children and frustrating her sexy, devoted, wonderful husband (who can now stop twisting her arm) she finally has time to conduct an affair with an electrifying plugged-in male, her laptop.
Her earlier books feature quirky heroines and bad boys, now she concentrates on the bad boys, and hopes her books are as much fun to read as they are to write.
EMAIL: bjelsborg@gmail.com
