Hired by the Brooding Billionaire
Kandy Shepherd
Beauty and the reclusive billionaire…When billionaire Declan Grant decides his estate’s enormous garden needs taming, he hires idealistic horticulturalist Shelley Fairhill to take on the challenge. Since losing his wife, Declan has adjusted to a life of self-imposed isolation—he wants Shelley to tackle the weeds, then leave.But as Shelley gradually restores order and unexpected beauty to his garden, her caring nature also begins to thaw the ice encasing Declan’s heart. Can he let Shelley's light in and finally let his second chance at love blossom?
Something deep and long unused inside him had turned upside down in the face of her grief.
To comfort her became more important than the inhibitions he had imposed upon himself.
He reached out and clasped her hand in his. It was slender and warm but he felt calluses on her palm and fingers. Warrior calluses.
She returned the pressure on his hand, not knowing what a monumental gesture it was for him to reach out to her. For a very long moment his eyes met with hers in a silent connection that shook him. What he felt for her in this moment went way beyond physical attraction.
In the quiet of his kitchen, with the ticking of the clock and the occasional whirring of the fridge the only noise, this one room of many in the vast emptiness of his house suddenly seemed welcoming. Because she was here.
Hired by the Brooding Billionaire
Kandy Shepherd
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
KANDY SHEPHERD swapped a career as a magazine editor for a life writing romance. She lives on a small farm in the Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia, with her husband, daughter and lots of pets. She believes in love at first sight and real-life romance—they worked for her! Kandy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her at www.kandyshepherd.com (http://www.kandyshepherd.com).
To my daughter Lucy for her invaluable help in “casting” my characters.
Contents
Cover (#ubbb96253-6a62-540c-8e98-d6b59a79ec3f)
Introduction (#u66ddf20c-487b-5515-ac74-58de014f8749)
Title Page (#u51138f6a-ea25-5364-9ccd-4da1e5c706df)
About the Author (#u7778168b-1012-5201-854e-1c224098a730)
Dedication (#uacb95e8a-d863-5ca9-99f5-d0c15be4e2dd)
CHAPTER ONE (#u7aa3214f-d0b5-5370-ab7b-00fe2392acb1)
CHAPTER TWO (#u24f6ecf7-8758-5496-a180-738305a813cf)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc76b13b8-f2c3-5e61-acff-9adfd7a75cec)
CHAPTER FOUR (#udf1ceb58-1133-5385-8f41-0640fb0c2d5f)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ua87c8b96-4619-596c-9b46-8cd9de356c1d)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_231232ed-7ff0-597d-a2bb-273a56a12a01)
SHELLEY FAIRHILL HAD walked by the grand old mansion on Bellevue Street at least twenty times before she finally screwed up enough courage to press the old-fashioned buzzer embedded in the sandstone gatepost. Even then, with her hand on the ornate wrought-iron gate, she quailed before pushing it open.
The early twentieth-century house was handsome with peaked roofs and an ornate turret but it was almost overwhelmed by the voracious growth of a once beautiful garden gone wild. It distressed her horticulturalist’s heart to see the out-of-control roses, plants stunted and starved of light by rampant vines, and unpruned shrubs grown unchecked into trees.
This was Sydney on a bright winter’s afternoon with shafts of sunlight slanting through the undergrowth but there was an element of eeriness to the house, of secrets undisturbed.
In spite of the sunlight, Shelley shivered. But she had to do this.
It wasn’t just that she was looking for extra work—somehow she had felt compelled by this garden since the day she’d first become aware of it when she’d got lost on her way to the railway station.
The buzzer sounded and the gate clicked a release. She pushed it open with a less than steady hand. Over the last weeks, as she’d walked past the house in the posh inner-eastern suburb of Darling Point, she’d wondered about who lived there. Her imagination had gifted her visions of a broken-hearted old woman who had locked herself away from the world when her fiancé had been killed at war. Or a crabby, Scrooge-like old man cut off from all who loved him.
The reality of the person who opened the door to her was so different her throat tightened and the professional words of greeting she had rehearsed froze unsaid.
Her reaction wasn’t just because the man who filled the doorframe with his impressive height and broad shoulders was young—around thirty, she guessed. Not much older than her, in fact. It was because he was so heart-stoppingly good-looking.
A guy this hot, this movie-star handsome, with his black hair, chiselled face and deep blue eyes, hadn’t entered into her imaginings for a single second. Yes, he seemed dark and forbidding—but not in the haunted-house way she had expected.
His hair lacked recent acquaintance with a comb, his jaw was two days shy of a razor and his black roll-neck sweater and sweatpants looked as though he’d slept in them. The effect was extraordinarily attractive in a don’t-give-a-damn kind of way. His dark scowl was what made him seem intimidating.
She cleared her throat to free her voice but he spoke before she got a chance to open her mouth.
‘Where’s the parcel?’ His voice was deep, his tone abrupt.
‘Wh-what parcel?’ she stuttered.
He frowned. ‘The motherboard.’
She stared blankly at him.
He shook his head impatiently, gestured with his hands. ‘Computer parts. The delivery I was expecting.’
Shelley was so shocked at his abrupt tone, she glanced down at her empty hands as if expecting a parcel to materialise. Which was crazy insane.
‘You...you think I’m a courier?’ she stuttered.
‘Obviously,’ he said. She didn’t like the edge of sarcasm to the word.
But she supposed her uniform of khaki trousers, industrial boots and a shirt embroidered with the logo of the garden design company she worked for could be misconstrued as courier garb.
‘I’m not a courier. I—’
‘I wouldn’t have let you in the gate if I’d known that,’ he said. ‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.’
Shelley was taken aback by his rudeness. But she refused to let herself get flustered. A cranky old man or eccentric old woman might have given her worse.
‘I’m not selling anything. Well, except myself.’ That didn’t sound right. ‘I’m a horticulturalist.’ She indicated the garden with a wave of her hand. ‘You obviously need a gardener. I’m offering my services.’
He frowned again. ‘I don’t need a gardener. I like the place exactly as it is.’
‘But it’s a mess. Such a shame. There’s a beautiful garden under there somewhere. It’s choking itself to death.’ She couldn’t keep the note of indignation from her voice. To her, plants were living things that deserved love and care.
His dark brows rose. ‘And what business is that of yours?’
‘It’s none of my business. But it...it upsets me to see the garden like that when it could look so different. I...I thought I could help restore it to what it should be. My rates are very reasonable.’
For a long moment her gaze met his and she saw something in his eyes that might have been regret before the shutters went down. He raked both hands through his hair in what seemed to be a well-worn path.
‘I don’t need help,’ he said. ‘You’ve wasted your time.’ His tone was dismissive and he turned to go back inside.
Curious, she peered over his shoulder but the room behind him was in darkness. No wonder with all those out-of-control plants blocking out the light.
Her bravado was just about used up. But she pulled out the business card she had tucked into her shirt pocket so it would be easy to retrieve. ‘My card. In case you change your mind,’ she said. It was her personal card, not for the company she worked for. If she was to achieve her dream of visiting the great gardens of the world, she needed the extra income moonlighting bought her.
He looked at her card without seeming to read it. For a moment she thought he might hand it back to her or tear it up. But he kept it in his hand. The man was rude, but perhaps not rude enough to do that. Most likely he would bin it when he got inside.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Her grandmother’s words came back to her. At least she’d tried.
‘Close the gate behind you when you leave,’ the man said, in a voice so cool it was as if he’d thrown a bucket of icy water over her enthusiasm for the garden.
‘Sure,’ she said through gritted teeth, knowing she would have to fight an impulse to slam it.
As she walked back down the path she snatched the opportunity to look around her to see more of the garden than she’d been able to see over the fence. Up closer it was even more choked by weeds and overgrowth than she’d thought. But it was all she’d ever see of it now.
Strange, strange man, she mused.
Strange, but also strangely attractive. The dark hair, the dark clothes, those brooding blue eyes. He was as compelling as the garden itself. And as mysterious. Maybe he didn’t own the house. Maybe he was a movie star or someone who wanted to be incognito. Maybe he was a criminal. Or someone under a witness protection plan. She hadn’t lived long enough in Sydney to hear any local gossip about him. But why did it matter? She wouldn’t be seeing him again.
* * *
She looked likea female warrior. Declan watched the gardener stride down the pathway towards the gate. Her long, thick plait of honey-coloured hair fell to her waist and swayed with barely repressed indignation. She was tall, five ten easily, even in those heavy-duty, elastic-sided work boots. The rolled-up sleeves of the khaki shirt revealed tanned, toned arms; the man-style trousers concealed but hinted at shapely curves and long legs. She looked strong, vigorous, all woman—in spite of the way she dressed. Not what he thought of as a gardener. He glanced down at her card—Shelley Fairhill.
The old-fashioned name seemed appropriate for a lover of flowers, all soft focus and spring sunbeams. But the woman behind the name seemed more like the fantasy warrior heroine in the video games that had brought him his first million when he was just eighteen—the assassin Princess Alana, all kick-butt strength, glistening angel wings and exaggerated curves born of his adolescent yearnings. With her deadly bow and arrow Alana had fought many hard-won battles in the fantasy world he had created as a refuge from a miserable childhood.
He could see in this gardener something of the action woman who had kept on making him millions. Billions when he’d sold Alana out. Right now Shelley Fairhill was all tense muscles and compressed angst—seething, he imagined, with unspoken retorts. He could tell by the set of her shoulders the effort she made not to slam the gate off its hinges—he had no doubt with her muscles she could do that with ease. Instead she closed it with exaggerated care. And not for a second did she turn that golden head back to him.
Who would blame her? He’d rejected her pitch for employment in a manner that had stopped just short of rudeness. But Shelley Fairhill should never have breached that gate. He’d only buzzed it open in a moment of distraction. He’d been working for thirty-six hours straight. The gate was kept locked for a reason. He did not want intruders, especially a tall, lithe warrior woman like her, crossing the boundaries of his property. And he liked the garden the way it was—one day the plants might grow over completely and bury the house in darkness like a fortress. He wanted to be left alone.
Still, she was undeniably striking—not just in physique but in colouring with her blond hair and warm brown eyes. He couldn’t help a moment of regret torn painfully from the barricades he had built up against feeling—barricades like thorn-studded vines that twined ever tighter around his heart stifling all emotion, all hope.
Because when he’d first seen her on his front doorstep for a single, heart-stopping moment he’d forgotten those barriers and the painful reasons they were there. All he’d been aware of was that he was a man and she was a beautiful woman. He could not allow that boy-meets-girl feeling to exist even for seconds.
For a long moment he looked at the closed gate, the out-of-control tendrils of some climbing plant waving long, predatory fingers from the arch on top of it, before he turned to slouch back inside.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_7cc603ff-d86f-54c1-8ebc-bdd266b185c2)
DECLAN GRANT. SHELLEY puzzled over the signature on the text that had just pinged into her smartphone.
Contact me immediately re work on garden.
She couldn’t place the name. But the abrupt, peremptory tone of the text gave her a clue to his identity.
For two weeks, she had pushed the neglected garden and its bad-mannered—though disturbingly good-looking—owner to the back of her mind. His reaction to her straightforward offer of help had taken the sheen off her delight in imagining how the garden could blossom if restored.
The more she’d thought about him, the more she’d seethed. He hadn’t given her even half a chance to explain what she could do. She’d stopped walking that way to the railway station at Edgecliff from the apartment in nearby Double Bay she shared with her sister. And drove the long way around to avoid it when she was in the car. All because of the man she suspected was Declan Grant.
Her immediate thought was to delete the text. She wanted nothing to do with Mr Tall, Dark and Gloomy; couldn’t imagine working with him in any kind of harmony. Her finger hovered over the keypad, ready to dispatch his message into the cyber wilderness.
And yet.
She would kill to work on that garden.
Shelley stared at the phone for a long moment. She was at work, planting a hedge to exact specifications in a new apartment complex on the north shore. By the time she crossed the Sydney Harbour Bridge to get back to the east side it would be dark. Ideally she didn’t want to meet that man in the shadowy gloom of a July winter nightfall. But she was intrigued. And she didn’t want him to change his mind.
She texted back.
This evening, Friday, six p.m.
Then to be sure Declan Grant really was the black-haired guy with the black scowl:
Please confirm address.
The return text confirmed the address on Bellevue Street.
I’ll be there, she texted back.
* * *
With the winter evening closing in, Shelley walked confidently up the pathway to the house, even though it was shrouded in shadow from the overgrown trees. The first thing she would do if she got this gig would be to recommend a series of solar-powered LED lights that would come on automatically to light a visitor’s path to the front door. Maybe he wanted to discourage visitors by keeping them in the dark.
She braced herself to deal with Declan Grant. To be polite. Even if he wasn’t. She wanted to work on this garden. She had to sell herself as the best person for the job, undercut other gardeners’ quotes if need be. She practised the words in her head.
But when Declan opened the door, all her rehearsed words froze at the sight of his outstretched hand—and the shock of his unexpected smile.
Okay, so it wasn’t a warm, welcoming smile. It was more a polite smile. A professional, employer-greeting-a-candidate smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Even so, it lifted his face from grouch to gorgeous. Heavens, the man was handsome. If his lean face with the high cheekbones and cleft in his chin didn’t turn a woman’s head his broad shoulders and impressive height surely would.
She stared for a moment too long before she took his proffered hand, his hard warm grip—and was suddenly self-consciously aware of her own work-callused hands. And her inappropriate clothes.
He was attractive—but that didn’t mean she was attracted to him. Apart from the fact he was a total stranger and a potential employer, she liked to think she was immune to the appeal of very good-looking men. Her heart-crushing experience with Steve had ensured that. Too-handsome men had it too easy with women—and then found it too easy to destroy their hearts.
No. It was not attraction, just a surge of innate feminine feeling that made her wish she’d taken more care with her appearance for this meeting with Declan Grant.
After work, on a whirlwind visit back to the tiny apartment in Double Bay, she’d quickly showered and changed. Then swapped one set of gardening gear for another—khaki trousers, boots and a plain shirt without any place of employment logo on the pockets. When she’d told her sister she was going to see the potential client in the mysterious overgrown garden in Darling Point, Lynne had been horrified.
‘You’re not going out to a job interview looking like that,’ Lynne had said. ‘What will any potential employer think of you?’
‘I’m a gardener, not a business person,’ Shelley had retorted. ‘I’m hardly going to dress in a suit and high heels or pile on scads of make-up. These clothes are clean and they’re what I wear to work. I hope I look like a serious gardener.’
Now she regretted it. Not the lack of suit and high heels. But jeans and a jacket with smart boots might have been more suitable than the khaki trousers and shirt. This was a very wealthy part of Sydney where appearances were likely to count. Even for a gardener.
She’d got in the habit of dressing down in her male-dominated work world. Gardening was strong, physical work. She’d had to prove herself as good as—better than—her male co-workers. Especially when she had long blond hair and a very female shape that she did not want to draw attention to.
But Declan looked so sophisticated in his fine-knit black sweater and black jeans, clean-shaven, hair brushed back from his forehead, she could only gawk and feel self-conscious. Yes, her clean but old khaki work clothes put her at a definite disadvantage. Not that he seemed to notice. In fact she got the impression he was purposely not looking at her.
‘Let’s discuss the garden,’ he said, turning to lead her into the hallway that had seemed so dark behind him in daylight.
She tried to keep her cool, not to gasp at the splendour of the entrance hall. The ornate staircase. The huge chandelier that came down from the floors above to light up the marble-tiled floor. Somehow she’d expected the inside of the house to be as run-down and derelict as the garden. Not so. It had obviously been restored and with a lot of money thrown at it.
She followed him to a small sitting room that led off the hallway. It was furnished simply and elegantly and she got the impression it was rarely used. Heavy, embroidered curtains were drawn across the windows so she couldn’t glimpse the garden through them.
He indicated for her to take a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas. She perched on its edge, conscious of her gardening trousers on the pristine fabric. He sat opposite, a coffee table between them. The polished surface was just asking for a bowl of fresh flowers from the garden to sit in the centre. That was, if anything was blooming in that jungle outside.
‘I apologise for mistaking you for a courier the last time we met,’ he said stiffly. ‘I work from home and still had my head in my workspace.’
Shelley wondered what he did for work but it was not her place to ask. To live in a place like this, in one of Sydney’s most expensive streets, it must be something that earned tons of money. She put aside her fanciful thoughts of him being in witness protection or a criminal on the run. That was when he’d said ‘no’ to the garden. Now it looked likely he was saying ‘yes’.
‘That’s okay,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘It was just a misunderstanding.’ She wanted to get off on the right foot with him, make polite conversation. ‘Did your computer part arrive?’
‘Eventually, yes.’
He wasn’t a talkative man, that was for sure. There was an awkward pause that she rushed to fill. ‘So it seems you’ve changed your mind about the garden,’ she said.
His face contracted into that already familiar scowl. Shelley was glad. She’d been disconcerted by the forced smile. This was the Declan Grant she had been expecting to encounter—that she’d psyched herself up to deal with.
‘The damn neighbours and their non-stop complaints. They think my untended garden lowers the tone of the street and therefore their property values. Now I’ve got the council on my back to clear it. That’s why I contacted you.’
Shelley sat forward on the sofa. ‘You want the garden cleared? Everything cut down and replaced with minimalist paving and some outsize pots?’
He drew dark brows together. ‘No. I want the garden tidied up. Not annihilated.’
She heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Good. Because if you want minimalist, I’m not the person for the job. There’s a beautiful, traditional garden under all that growth and I want to free it.’
‘That...that’s what someone else said about it,’ he said, tight-lipped, not meeting her eyes.
‘I agree with that person one hundred per cent,’ she said, not sure what else to say. Who shared her views on the garden restoration?
Her first thought was Declan had talked to another gardener. Which, of course, he had every right to do. But the flash of pain that momentarily tightened his face led her to think it might be more personal. Whatever it might be, it was none of her business. She just wanted to work in that garden.
He leaned back in his sofa, though he looked anything but relaxed. He crossed one long, black-jeans-clad leg over the other, then uncrossed it. ‘Tell me about your qualifications for the job,’ he said.
‘I have a degree in horticultural science from Melbourne University. More importantly, I have loads of experience working in both public and private gardens. When I lived in Victoria I was also lucky enough to work with some of the big commercial nurseries. I ran my own one-woman business for a while, too.’
‘You’re from Melbourne?’
She shook her head. ‘No. I lived most of my life in the Blue Mountains area.’ Her grandmother had given refuge to her, her sister and her mother in the mountain village of Blackheath, some two hours west of Sydney, when her father had destroyed their family. ‘I went down south to Melbourne for university. Then I stayed. They don’t call Victoria “The Garden State” for nothing. I loved working there.’
‘What brought you back?’ He didn’t sound as though he was actually interested in her replies. Just going through the motions expected of a prospective employer. Maybe she already had the job.
‘Family,’ she said. It was only half a lie. No need to elaborate on the humiliation dished out to her by Steve that had sent her fleeing to Sydney to live with her sister.
‘Do you have references?’
‘Glowing references,’ she was unable to resist boasting.
‘I’ll expect to see them.’
‘Of course.’
‘What’s your quote for the work on the garden?’
‘A lot depends on what I find in there.’
She’d been peering over the fence for weeks and knew exactly what she’d do in the front of the garden. The back was unknown, but she guessed it was in the same overgrown state. ‘I can give you a rough estimate now, but I have to include a twenty per cent variation to cover surprises. As well as include an allowance for services like plumbing and stonemasonry.’
‘So?’
She quoted him a figure that erred on the low side—but she desperately wanted to work on this garden.
‘Sounds reasonable. When can you start?’
‘I have a full-time job. But I can work all weekend and—’
The scowl returned, darkening his features and those intense indigo eyes. ‘That’s not good enough. I want this done quickly so I can get these people off my back.’
‘Well, I—’
‘Quit your job,’ he said. ‘I’ll double the amount you quoted.’
Shelley was too stunned to speak. That kind of money would make an immense difference to her plans for her future. And the job could be over in around two months.
He must have taken her silence as hesitation. ‘I’ll triple it,’ he said.
She swallowed hard in disbelief. ‘I...I didn’t mean...’ she stuttered.
‘That’s my final offer. It should more than make up for you leaving your employer.’
‘It should. It does. Okay. I accept.’ She couldn’t stop the excitement from bubbling into her voice.
She wasn’t happy with the job at the garden design company. And she was bored. The company seemed to put in variants of the same, ultra-fashionable garden no matter the site. Which was what the clients seemed to want but she found deathly dull. ‘I’m on contract but I have to give a week’s notice.’
Aren’t you being rash? She could hear her sister’s voice in her head. You know nothing about this guy.
‘If you can start earlier, that would be good,’ he said. ‘Once I’ve made my mind up to do something I want it done immediately.’
Tell him you’ll consider it.
Shelley took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I would love to get started on your garden as soon as I can. I’ll work seven days a week if needed to get it ready for spring.’
‘Good.’ He held up his hand. ‘Just one thing. I don’t want anyone but you working on the garden.’
‘I’m not sure what you mean?’
‘I value my privacy. I don’t want teams of workmen tramping around my place. Just you.’
She nodded. ‘I understand.’ Though she didn’t really. ‘I’m strong—’
‘I can see that,’ he said with narrowed eyes.
Some men made ‘strong’ into an insult, felt threatened by her physical strength. Was she imagining a note of admiration in Declan’s voice? A compliment even?
‘But I might need help with some of the bigger jobs,’ she said. ‘If I have to take out one of those trees, it’s not a one-person task. I have to consider my safety. That...that will be an extra cost, too. But I know reliable contractors who won’t rip us off.’
Us. She’d said us. How stupid. She normally worked in close consultation with a client. Back in Victoria, where she’d worked up until she’d arrived back in New South Wales three months ago, she actually numbered satisfied clients among her friends. But she had a feeling that might not be the case with this particular client.
There would be no us in this working relationship. She sensed it would be a strict matter of employer and employee. Him in the house, her outside in the garden.
He paused. ‘Point taken. But I want any extra people to be in and out of here as quickly as possible. And never inside the house.’
‘Of course.’
Declan got up from the sofa and towered above her. He was at least six foot three, she figured. When she rose to her feet she still had to look up to him, a novel experience for her.
‘We’re done here,’ he said. ‘You let me know when you can start. Text me your details, I’ll confirm our arrangement. And set up a payment transfer for your bank.’ Again came that not-quite-there smile that lifted just one corner of his mouth. Was he out of practice? Or was he just naturally grumpy?
But it did much to soothe her underlying qualms about giving up her job with a reputable company to work for this man. She hadn’t even asked about a payment schedule. For him to suggest it was a good sign. A gardener often had to work on trust. After all, she could hardly take back the work she’d done in a garden if the client didn’t pay. Though there were methods involving quick-acting herbicides that could be employed for purposes of pay back—not that she had ever gone there.
‘Before I go,’ she said, ‘is there anyone else I need to talk to about the work in the garden? I... I mean, might your...your wife want input into the way things are done?’ Where was Mrs Grant? She’d learned to assume that a man was married, even if he never admitted to it.
His eyes were bleak, his voice contained when he finally replied. ‘I don’t have a wife. You will answer only to me.’
She stifled a swear word under her breath. Wished she could breathe back the question. It wasn’t bitterness she sensed in his voice. Or evasion. It was grief.
What had she got herself into?
Her grandmother had always told her to think before she spoke. It was advice she didn’t always take. With a mumbled thank you as she exited the house, she decided to keep any further conversation with Declan Grant strictly related to gardening.
* * *
Declan hoped he’d made the right decision in hiring the beautiful Shelley to work in his garden. The fact that he found her so beautiful being the number one reason for doubt.
There must be any number of hefty male gardeners readily available. She looked as capable as any of them. But he’d sensed a sensitivity to her, a passion for her work, that had made him hang onto her business card despite that dangerous attraction. If he had to see anyone working in Lisa’s garden he wanted it to be her.
Four years ago he and Lisa had moved into this house, her heart full of dreams for the perfect house and the perfect garden, he happy to indulge her. ‘House first,’ she’d said of the house, untouched for many years. ‘Then we’ll tackle that garden. I’m sure there’s something wonderful under all that growth.’
Instead their dreams had withered and died. Only the garden had flourished; without check it had grown even wilder in the sub-tropical climate of Sydney.
He would have been happy to leave it like that. It was only the neighbours’ interference that had forced him to take action. Shelley Fairhill could have a free rein with the garden—so long as it honoured what Lisa would have wanted. And it seemed that was the path Shelley was determined to take.
Not that he would see much of the gorgeous gardener. She had told him she liked to start very early. As an indie producer of computer games, he often worked through the night—in touch with colleagues on different world time zones. They’d rarely be awake at the same time. It would make it easy to avoid face-to-face meetings. That was how he wanted it.
Or so he tried to convince himself. Something about this blonde warrior woman had awakened in him an instinct that had lain dormant for a long time. Not sexual attraction. He would not allow himself to be attracted to her, in spite of that dangerous spark of interest he knew could be fanned into something more if he didn’t stomp down hard on it. He had vowed to have no other woman in his life. But what he would give into was a stirring of creative interest.
He had lost Princess Alana when he’d sold her out for all those millions to a big gaming company. He didn’t like the way they’d since changed her—sexualised her. Okay, he’d been guilty of sexualising his teenage creation too. She’d been a fantasy woman in every way—which was why she’d appealed so much to the legions of young men who had bought her games. But he hadn’t given Alana what looked like a bad boob job. Or had her fight major battles bare-breasted. Or made her so predatory—sleazy even.
But he hadn’t been inspired to replace her. Until now. In the days since he’d met Shelley he’d been imagining a new heroine. Someone strong and fearless, her long golden hair streaming behind her. In a metal breastplate and leather skirt perhaps. No. That had been done before. Wielding a laser sword? That wasn’t right either. Princess Alana’s wings had been her thing. Warrior Woman Shelley needed something as unique, as identifying. And a different name. Something more powerful, more call to action than the soft and flowery Shelley.
He headed back to his study that took up most of the top floor. Put stylus to electronic pad and started to sketch strong, feminine curves and wild honey-coloured hair.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_882a29da-d8d6-5a84-bfcd-a7519f9bab3b)
DECLAN PACED THE marble floor of his entrance hall. Back and forth, back and forth, feverish for Shelley to arrive for her first day of working on his garden. He’d actually set an alarm to make sure he wouldn’t miss her early start—something he hadn’t done for a long time. He raked his hands through his hair, looked down at his watch. Where was she?
In the ten days since he’d met with Shelley at the house, he had lived with the fantasy warrior-woman character who was slowly evolving in his imagination. Now he was counting down the minutes to when he got to see his inspiration again in the flesh. Not in the actual flesh. Of course not. His musings hadn’t got him that far.
At eight a.m. on the dot, she buzzed from the street and he released the gate to let her in. Then opened the front door, stepped out onto the porch and watched through narrowed eyes as she strode up the pathway towards him.
He took a deep breath to steady the instant reaction that pulsed through him. She didn’t disappoint. Still the same strength, vigour and a fresh kind of beauty that appealed to him. Appealed strictly in a creative way, that was. He had to keep telling himself that; refuse to acknowledge the feelings she aroused that had nothing to do with her as merely a muse. As a woman, the gardener was off-limits.
Any woman was off-limits. He hadn’t consciously made any commitment to celibacy—but after what had happened to Lisa he could not allow himself to get close to another woman. That meant no sex, no relationships, no love.
Shelley wore the same ugly khaki clothes—her uniform, it seemed—with a battered, broad-brimmed canvas hat jammed on her head. She swung a large leather tool bag as if it were weightless. It struck him that if the gardener wanted to disguise the fact she was an attractive woman she was going the right way about it. Her attire made him give a thought to her sexual preference. Not that her personal life was any of his concern. Perhaps he could make his prototype warrior of ambivalent sexuality. It could work. He was open to all ideas at this stage.
‘Good morning, Mr Grant,’ she carolled in a cheerful voice edged with an excitement she couldn’t disguise. She looked around her with eager anticipation. ‘What a beautiful sunny morning to start on the garden.’
She really wanted to do this—he could have got away with paying her half. Not that he would have haggled on the price. He was scrupulous about paying people fairly—despised people who didn’t.
Her words were accompanied by a wide, generous smile that revealed perfect teeth. The smile lingered in her eyes. Eyes that were the colour of nutmeg—in harmony with the honey-gold of her hair. Not that he could see more than a few wisps of that as it was jammed up under her hat. He wished he could see her hair out and flowing around her shoulders. And not just for inspiration.
‘Call me Declan,’ he said. ‘Not Mr Grant. He’s my father.’ Though these days his father went by the title His Honour as a judge in the Supreme Court of New South Wales.
Besides, Declan didn’t do people calling him ‘Mister’. Especially a girl who at twenty-eight was only two years younger than himself. Her age had been on the résumé she’d emailed him. Along with an impressive list of references that had checked out as she’d said they would. She appeared to be exactly what she said she was, which was refreshing in itself.
‘Sure, Declan,’ she said. ‘Call me Shelley. But never Michelle. That’s my full name and I hate it.’
‘Shelley it is,’ he said.
She buzzed with barely harnessed energy. ‘I’ll start clearing some of the overgrowth today—show your nosy neighbours you mean business. But first I really want to have a good look at what we’ve got here. Can you show me around?’ She put down her leather tool bag.
His first thought was to tell her to find her own way around the garden. But that would sound rude. And he wanted to correct the bad first impression he’d made on her. Not only because he was her employer. But also because if he was going to base a character on her, he wanted her to stick around. He had to stomp down again on the feeling that he would enjoy seeing her here simply because she was so lovely. She was out of bounds.
‘There’s not a lot I can tell you about the garden,’ he said. ‘It was overgrown when I bought it.’
‘You can leave the plants to me. But it’ll save time if you give me the guided tour rather than have me try to figure out the lay of the garden by myself.’
He shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘Is there a shed? Tools? Motor mower?’
‘I can show you where the shed is—from memory there are some old tools in there.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope they’re in working order, though I do have equipment of my own, of course.’
‘I bought this house as a deceased estate,’ he said. ‘An old lady lived here for many years—’
‘So I was half right,’ Shelley said, her mouth tilting in amusement.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I imagined an eccentric old lady living here—a Miss Havisham type. You know, from Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.’
‘I am aware of the book,’ he said dryly. He hadn’t expected to be discussing literature with the gardener.
‘Or a cranky old man.’ Her eyes widened and she slapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh. I didn’t mean—’
‘So you encountered a cranky younger man instead.’
She flushed, her smooth, lightly tanned skin reddening on her cheekbones.
‘I’m sorry, that’s not what I—’
‘Don’t apologise. I do get cranky. Bad mannered. Rude. Whatever you’d like to call it. Usually after I haven’t had any sleep. Be forewarned.’
She frowned. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘I work from my home office and I’m online until the early hours, sometimes through the night.’
‘No wonder you get cranky if you don’t get enough sleep.’
He would bet she was an early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise type. Wholesome. That was the word for her—and he didn’t mean it as an insult.
‘I catch up on sleep during the day,’ he said.
‘Like a vampire,’ she said—and clapped her hand over her mouth again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.’
‘You don’t have to apologise for that either. I actually find the idea amusing.’
‘I’m sorry— There I go apologising again. What I meant to say is that I sometimes speak before I think. Not just sometimes, lots of times. I’ve been told I need to be more...considered in what I say.’
‘So far you haven’t offended me in any way.’ She was so earnest he was finding it difficult not to smile at how flustered she’d become.
‘I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible, then.’
‘That might be an idea,’ he said. Then wondered why he didn’t like the thought of her avoiding him. He’d been living on his own for a long time and he liked it that way.
Reclusive.Aloof.Intimidating. The labels had been hurled at him often enough. By people who had no idea of the intensity of the pain that had made him lock himself away. People who expected him to get over something he’d never be able to get over. Never be able to stop blaming himself for.
‘What do you do that makes you work such unsociable hours?’ Shelley asked.
Unsociable. That was the other label.
‘I’m an independent producer of computer games.’ Then there was his other work he preferred to keep secret.
‘Really?’ She dismissed his life work with a wave of her hand. ‘I don’t have time for computer games. I’d rather be outside in the fresh air and sunlight than hunched in front of a computer or glued to a phone.’
He glared at her. More out of habit than intent.
She bit her lower lip and screwed up her face in repentance. ‘Oh, dear. I’ve done it again. Now I’ve really insulted you.’
‘I didn’t take it as an insult,’ he said through gritted teeth.
‘Do you invent games? That could be fun.’ Her attempt to feign interest in gaming was transparent and somehow endearing.
‘I have done,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of the Alana series?’
She shook her head and strands of her hair escaped her hat. They glinted gold in the morning sunlight. ‘I played some game with a little purple dragon when I was younger but, as I said, I’d rather be outside.’
‘Yet you read?’
‘Yes. And these days I listen to audio books if I’m working on a job on my own. I spend a lot of time by myself in this line of work. If I’m in a team it’s different, of course.’
‘Seems like a good idea,’ he said.
‘Oh, don’t think I don’t give one hundred per cent to the job. I do. And your garden is so interesting to me I’ll be fully engaged. I dare say I won’t get to finish another book until I complete my work here.’
‘I wasn’t criticising you,’ he said. ‘If you want to listen to books or music that’s fine by me. As long as you get the work done and don’t disturb me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m aching to see the rest of the garden. Tell me, is there a fountain there? I so want there to be a fountain.’
He smiled. Her enthusiasm was contagious. ‘There is a fountain. But it doesn’t work.’
She fell into step beside him as he headed around the side of the house. Her long strides just about matched his. ‘The pump for the fountain is probably broken. Or clogged. Or there could be a leak in the basin,’ she said.
‘All possibilities just waiting there for you to discover,’ he said.
She completely missed the irony of his words. ‘Yes. I’m so excited to get it working again. I love water features. They add movement to a garden, for one thing. And attract birds.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I hadn’t realised that. About water adding movement. But when you think about it, it makes sense.’
‘A garden isn’t just about plants. There are so many elements to consider. Of course, being a horticulturalist, plants are my primary interest. But a garden should be an all-round sensory experience, not just visual.’
She stopped, tilted her head back and sniffed. ‘Scent is important too. There’s a daphne somewhere in this garden. I can smell it. It’s a small shrub with a tiny pink flower but the most glorious scent. It blooms in winter.’ She closed her eyes and breathed in. ‘Oh, yes, that’s daphne, all right.’ She sighed a sigh of utter bliss. ‘Can you smell it?’
Declan was disconcerted by the look of sensual pleasure on Shelley’s face, her lips parted as if in anticipation of a kiss, her flawless skin flushed, long dark lashes fanned, a pulse throbbing at the base of her slender neck. She was beautiful.
He had to clear his throat before he replied. ‘Yes, I can smell it. It’s very sweet.’
She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. How had he not noticed her lovely, lush mouth?
‘They’re notoriously temperamental,’ she said. ‘Daphne can bloom for years and then just turn up its toes for no reason at all.’
‘Is that so?’ Ten minutes in Shelley’s company and he was learning more about gardening than he ever wanted to know. ‘The name of the old lady who owned this house before me was Daphne.’
He thought Shelley was going to clap her hands in delight. ‘How wonderful. No wonder there’s daphne planted here. It’s great to have a plant to echo someone’s name. I often give friends a rose that’s got the same name as them for a present. A ‘Carla’ rose for a Carla. A ‘Queen Elizabeth’ for an Elizabeth.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know if there’s a rose called Declan, though. I’ll have to check.’
He put up his hand in a halt sign. ‘No. Please. I don’t want a Declan plant in this garden.’
‘Okay. Fair enough. I don’t know that Declan is a great name for a rose anyway. Fine for a man. Excellent for a man, in fact...’ Her voice dwindled. She looked up at him, pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘I’m doing it again, aren’t I?’
‘Declan is not a good name for a rose, I agree.’ She should be annoying him; instead she was amusing him.
‘I... I’m nervous around you,’ she said. ‘Th...that’s why I’m putting foot in mouth even more than usual.’ She scuffed the weed-lined path with her boot. It was a big boot; there was nothing dainty about this warrior woman.
‘Nervous?’
‘I... I find you...forbidding.’
Forbidding. Another label to add to the list.
He shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking. ‘I can see how you could think that,’ he said. What he wanted to say was he’d put a force-field around himself and it was difficult to let it down—even to brief a gardener. Especially when the gardener looked as she did—made him react as she did.
She looked up at him, tilted her hat further back off her face. Her brown eyes seemed to search his face. For what? A chink in his forbiddingness?
‘You see, I so want to do this job right,’ she said. ‘There’s something about the garden that’s had me detouring on my walks to and from the station just to see it. I’m so grateful to your neighbours for forcing you to do something about it and employ me.’ She slapped her thigh with a little cry of annoyance. ‘No! That’s not what I meant. I meant I’m so grateful to you for giving me this chance to spend the next few months working here. I... I don’t want to blow it.’
‘You haven’t blown it,’ he said. ‘Already you’ve shown me I made the right decision in hiring you for this job.’
Relief crumpled her features. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously,’ he said. If he was the man he used to be, the man for whom ‘forbidding’ would never have been a label, he might have drawn her into a comforting hug. Instead he started to walk again, heading to the back of the property where the garden stretched to encompass land of a size that had warranted the multimillions he’d paid for it.
She fell in step beside him. ‘So tell me about Daphne—the old lady who owned the house before you. I wonder if she planted the garden.’
‘I have no idea. It was my...my wife who was...was interested in the garden.’
How he hated having to use the past tense when he talked about Lisa. He would never get used to it.
‘Oh,’ Shelley said.
He gritted his teeth. ‘My wife, Lisa, died two years ago.’ Best that Shelley didn’t assume he was divorced, which was often the first assumption about a man who no longer lived with his wife.
The stunned silence coming from the voluble Ms Fairhill was almost palpable. He was aware of rustlings in the trees, a car motor starting up out in the street, his own ragged breath. He had stopped without even realising it.
‘I... I’m so sorry,’ she finally murmured.
Thank God she didn’t ask how his wife had died. He hated it when total strangers asked that. As if he wanted to talk about it to them. As if he ever wanted to talk about it. But Shelley was going to be here in this garden five days a week. If he told her up front, then she wouldn’t be probing at his still-raw wounds. Innocently asking the wrong questions. Wanting to know the details.
‘She... Lisa...she died in childbirth,’ he choked out.
No matter how many times he said the words, they never got easier. Died in childbirth. No one expected that to happen in the twenty-first century. Not in a country with an advanced health-care system. Not to a healthy young couple who could afford the very best medical treatment.
‘And...and the baby?’ Shelley asked in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper.
‘My...my daughter, Alice, died too.’
‘I’m so, so sorry. I... I don’t know what to say...’
‘Say nothing,’ he said, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. ‘Now you know what happened. I won’t discuss it further.’
‘But...how can you live here after...after that?’
‘It was our home. I stay to keep her memory alive.’
And to punish himself.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_47d7fc68-dc85-54c6-b3f6-c8724c1a4a5f)
SHELLEY DIDN’T KNOW where to look, what to say. How could she have got him so wrong? Declan was a heartbroken widower who had hidden himself away to mourn behind the high walls of his house and the wild growth of his garden. And she had called him Mr Tall, Dark and Grumpy to her sister. She and Lynne had had a good old laugh over that. Now she cringed at the memory of their laughter. Not grumpy but grieving.
She couldn’t begin to imagine the agony of loss the man had endured. Not just his wife but his baby too. No wonder he carried such an aura of darkness when he bore such pain in his soul. And she had told him he was forbidding. Why hadn’t she recognised the shadow behind his eyes as grief and not bad temper? There’d been a hint of it the night of her interview with him but she’d chosen to ignore it.
Truth was, although she was very good at understanding plants—could diagnose in seconds what was wrong with ailing leaves or flowers—she didn’t read people very well. Somehow she didn’t seem to pick up cues, both verbal and non-verbal, that other more intuitive folk noticed. No wonder she had believed in and fallen in love with a man as dishonest and deceptive as Steve had been. She just hadn’t seen the signs.
‘Shelley excels at rushing in where angels fear to tread.’ Her grandmother used to say that quite often.
She was going to have to tread very lightly here.
‘So it...it was your wife who realised this garden needed to be set free?’
He didn’t meet her eyes but looked into the distance and nodded.
‘Only she...she wasn’t given the time to do it,’ she said.
Mentally, Shelley slammed her fist against her forehead. How much more foot in mouth could she get?
Declan went very still and a shadow seemed to pass across his lean, handsome face and dull the deep blue of his eyes. After a moment too long of silence he replied. ‘The reason I hired you was because you said much the same as she did about the garden.’
Think before you speak.
‘I... I’m glad.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’ll do my best to...to do what she would have wanted done to the...to her garden.’
‘Good,’ he said. ‘She would have hated to have it all dug up and replaced with something stark and modern.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘No need to talk about it again.’
Shelley nodded, not daring to say anything in case it came out wrongly. If she stuck to talk of gardening she surely couldn’t go wrong.
He started to walk again and she followed in his wake. She wouldn’t let herself admire his broad-shouldered back view. He was a heartbroken widower.
Even if he weren’t—even if he were the most eligible bachelor in Australia—he was her employer and therefore off-limits.
Then there was the fact she had no desire for a man in her life. Not now, not yet. Maybe never.
After the disastrous relationship with Steve that had made her turn tail and run back to Sydney from Melbourne, she’d decided she didn’t want the inevitable painful disruption a man brought with him.
She’d learned hard lessons—starting with the father who had abandoned her when she was aged thirteen—that men weren’t to be trusted. And that she fell to pieces when it all went wrong. She’d taken it so badly when it had ended with Steve—beaten herself up with recrimination and pain—she’d had to resign from her job, unable to function properly. No way would she be such a trusting fool again.
As she followed her new boss around the side of the house, she kept her eyes down to the cracked pathway where tiny flowers known as erigeron or seaside daisies grew in the gaps. She liked the effect, although some would dismiss them as weeds. Nature sometimes had its own planting schemes that she had learned to accommodate. If there was such a thing as a soft-hearted horticulturalist that was her—others were more ruthless.
She was so busy concentrating on not looking at Declan, that when he paused for her to catch up she almost collided with his broad chest. ‘S-sorry,’ she spluttered, taking a step back.
How many times had she apologised already today? She had to be more collected, not let his presence fluster her so much—difficult when he was so tall, so self-contained, so darn handsome.
‘Here it is,’ he said with an expansive wave of his hand. Even his hands were attractive: large, well-shaped, with long fingers. ‘The garden that is causing my neighbours so much consternation.’ He gave the scowl that was already becoming familiar. ‘The garden I like because it completely blocks them from my sight.’
‘That...that it does.’
There must be neighbours’ houses on either side and maybe at the back but even the tops of their roofs were barely visible through the rampant growth. But, overgrown as it was, the garden was still a splendid sight. The front gave only a hint of the extent of the size of land that lay behind the house.
She stared around her for a long moment before she was able to speak again. ‘It’s magnificent. Or was magnificent. It could be magnificent again. And...and so much bigger than I thought.’
Declan’s dark brows drew together. ‘Does that daunt you?’
He must be more competent than she at reading people—because she thought she had hidden that immediate tremor of trepidation.
‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m more exhilarated by the challenge than worried I might have bitten off more than I can chew.’
‘Good. I’m confident you can do it. I wouldn’t have hired you if I wasn’t,’ he said.
Shelley appreciated the unexpected reassurance. She took a deep breath. ‘Truly, this is a grand old garden, the kind that rarely gets planted today. A treasure in its own way.’
‘And the first thing you see is the fountain,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s very grand.’
‘And very dry,’ he said.
The fountain she’d so hoped to see was classical in style, three tiers set in a large, completely dried-out rectangular pond edged by a low sandstone wall. It took quite a stretch of the imagination but she could see water glinting with sunlight flowing into a pond planted with lotus and water iris interspersed by the occasional flash of a surfacing goldfish. She could hardly wait to start work on it.
And, beyond her professional pride in her job, she wanted Declan’s approval.
Behind the fountain, paved pathways wound their way through a series of planted ‘rooms’ delineated by old-fashioned stonework walls and littered with piles of leaves that had fallen in autumn. Graceful old-style planters punctuated the corners of the walls. Some of them had been knocked over and lay on their sides, cracked, soil spilling out. The forlorn, broken pots gave the garden a melancholy air. It was crying out for love.
And she would be the one to give this beautiful garden the attention it deserved. It would be magnificent again.
She turned to Declan. ‘Whoever planted this garden knew what they were doing—and had fabulously good taste. Everything is either really overgrown or half choked to death but the design is there even at a quick glance. It will be a challenge, but one I’m definitely up for.’
He nodded his approval. ‘It’s like anything challenging—take it bit by bit rather than trying to digest it whole. In this case weed by weed.’
She was so surprised by his flash of humour she was momentarily lost for words. But she soon caught up. ‘You’ve got that right. Man, there are some weeds. I’ve already identified potato vine—it’s a hideous thing that strangles and is hard to get rid of. Morning glory is another really invasive vine, though it has beautiful flowers. It’s amazing what a difference a lot of Aussie sunshine can do to an imported “garden invader”. The morning glory vine is a declared noxious weed here, but they nurture it in greenhouses in England, I believe. And there’s oxalis everywhere with its horrible tiny bulbs that make it so difficult to eradicate.’
‘Who knew?’ he said.
She couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. Was that a hint of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth and a warming of the glacial blue of his eyes?
Okay, maybe she’d gone on too much about the weeds.
‘That’s the nasty stuff out of the way.’ It was her turn to smile. ‘And now to the good stuff.’
‘You can see good stuff under all the “garden invaders”?’ he said, quirking one dark eyebrow.
‘Oh, yes! There’s so much happening in this garden—and this is winter. Imagine what it will be like in spring and summer.’ She heaved a great sigh of joyous anticipation. She was going to love this job.
And it seemed as if Declan Grant might not be as difficult to work with as she had initially feared. That hint of humour was both unexpected and welcome.
She pointed towards the southern border of the garden. ‘Look at the size of those camellia bushes shielding you from your neighbours. They must be at least sixty years old. More, perhaps. The flowers are exquisite and the glossy green leaves are beautiful all year round.’
He put up his hand in a halt sign. ‘I don’t want you getting rid of those. The woman who lives behind there is particularly obnoxious. I want to screen her right out.’
‘No way would I get rid of them,’ she said, horrified. Then remembered he was the client. ‘Uh, unless you wanted me to,’ she amended through gritted teeth. ‘That particular white flowering camellia—camellia japonica “Alba Plena”, if you want to be specific—is a classic and one of my favourites.’
‘So you’re going to baffle me with Latin?’ Again that quirk of a dark eyebrow.
‘Of course not. I keep to common names with clients who don’t know the botanical names.’ Uh-oh. ‘Um, not that I’m talking down to you or anything.’
‘Both my parents are lawyers—there was a bit of Latin flying around our house when I was a kid.’
‘Oh? So you know Latin?’ She understood the Latin-based naming system of plants, but that was as far as it went.
He shook his head. ‘I was entirely uninterested in learning a dead language. I was way more interested in learning how computers talked to each other. Much to my parents’ horror.’
‘They were both lawyers? I guess they wanted you to be a lawyer too.’ His mouth clamped into a tight line. ‘Or...or not,’ she stuttered.
There was another of those awkward silences she was going to have to learn to manage. He was a man of few words and she was a woman of too many. But now that she understood the dark place he was coming from, she didn’t feel so uncomfortable around him.
She took a deep breath. ‘Back to the camellias. I think we’ll find there’s a very fine collection here. Did you know Sydney is one of the best places to grow camellias outside of China, where they originate?’
His expression told her he did not.
‘Okay. That’s way more than you wanted to know and I’m probably boring you.’ When would she learn to edit her words?
He shook his head. ‘No. You’re not. I know nothing about gardening so everything you tell me is new.’ His eyes met hers for a long moment. ‘I guess I’m going to learn whether I want to or not,’ he said wryly.
‘Good. I mean, I’m glad I’m not boring you. I love what I do so much but I realise not everyone else is the same. So just tell me to button up if I rabbit on too much.’
‘I’ll take that on board,’ he said with another flash of the smile that so disconcerted her.
She looked around her, both to disconnect from that smile and hungry to discover more of the garden’s hidden treasures. ‘I want to explore further and think about an action plan. But the first thing I’ll do today is prune that rather sick-looking rose that’s clambering all over the front of the house. Winter is the right time of year to prune but we’re running out of time on that one. It’s dropped most of its leaves but in spring it must be so dense it blocks all light from the windows on the second floor.’
‘It does,’ he said. ‘I like it that way.’ His jaw set and she realised he could be stubborn.
‘Oh. So, do I have permission to prune it—and prune it hard?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve committed to getting rid of the jungle. I have to tell you to go ahead.’
‘You won’t regret it. It’s a beautiful old rose called “Lamarque”. If I prune it and feed it, bring it back to good health, come spring you’ll have hundreds of white roses covering the side of the house.’
He went silent again. Then nodded slowly, which she took for assent. ‘Lisa would have loved that.’
Shelley swallowed hard against a sudden lump in her throat at the pain that underscored his words. It must be agony for him to stand here talking to her about his late wife when he must long for his Lisa to be here with him. Not her.
She forced herself not to rush to fill the silence. No way could she risk a foot-in-mouth comment about his late wife. Instead she mustered up every bit of professional enthusiasm she could.
‘When I’ve finished, the garden will enhance the house and the house the garden. It’s going to be breathtaking. Your neighbours should be delighted—this garden will look so good it will be a selling point for them to be near it.’
‘I’m sure it will—not that I give a damn about what they think,’ said Declan with a return of the fearsome scowl. He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘But I have to go back inside.’ He turned on his heel.
Shelley suspected she might have to get used to his abruptness. It was as if he could handle a certain amount of conversation and that was all. And her conversations were twice as long as anyone else’s.
Think before you speak.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Can you show me the shed first? You know, where there might be garden tools stored.’
He paused, turned to look back to her. A flicker of annoyance rippled over his face and she quailed. He seemed distracted, as if he were already back in his private world inside the house—maybe inside his head.
He was, she supposed, a creative person whereas she was get-her-hands-dirty practical. He made his living designing games. Creative people lived more in their heads. She was very much grounded on solid earth—although she sometimes indulged in crazy flights of the imagination. Like wondering if he was a criminal. Or an incognito movie star—he was certainly handsome enough for it. But she’d been half right about the Miss Havisham-like Daphne.
‘The shed is over there at the north end of the garden,’ he said.
Without another word he started to stride towards it. Even with her long legs, Shelley had to quicken her pace to keep up.
The substantial shed looked to be of a similar age to the house and was charmingly dilapidated. The door had once been painted blue but was peeling to reveal several different paint colours dating back to heaven knew how long. A rose—she couldn’t identify which one immediately—had been trained to grow around the frame of the door.
If the shed were hers, she wouldn’t paint that door. Just sand and varnish it and leave the motley colours exactly as they were. It would not only be beautiful but a testament to this place’s history.
As if.
She was never likely to own her own house, garden or even a shed. Not with the exorbitant price of Sydney real estate. Worse, she had loaned Steve money that she had no hope of ever getting back. Foolish, yes, she could see that now—but back then she had anticipated them getting engaged.
One day, perhaps, she might aspire to a cottage way out of town somewhere with room for not just a shed but a stable too.
In the meantime, she was grateful to Lynne for letting her share her tiny apartment in return for a reasonable contribution to the rent. All her spare dollars and cents were being stashed away to finance that trip to Europe.
Come to think of it, this shed looked to be bigger than Lynne’s entire apartment in nearby Double Bay. ‘Double Pay,’ her sister joked.
The door to the shed was barred by a substantial bolt and a big old-fashioned lock. It was rusted over but still intact. Even the strength in Declan’s muscled arms wasn’t enough to shift it. He gave the door a kick with a black-booted foot but it didn’t budge.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Where the hell is the key? I’ll have to go look inside for it.’
He was obviously annoyed she was keeping him from his work but she persevered.
‘I’d appreciate that. I’d really like to see what’s in there.’
She hoped there would be usable tools inside. While she had a basic collection, she was used to working with equipment supplied by her employer. She didn’t want to have to take a hire payment from her fee.
He turned again to head towards the house.
‘Sorry,’ she said. There went that darn sorry word again. ‘But one more thing before you go. Is there...well, access to a bathroom? I’ll be working here all day and—’
‘At the side of the house there’s a small self-contained apartment,’ he said. ‘You can use the bathroom there. I’ll get you that key too. A door leads into the house but that’s kept locked.’
‘Are you sure? I thought maybe there was an outside—’
‘You can use the apartment,’ he said, in a that’s-the-end-of-it tone.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Take a walk around the garden while I go hunt for the keys,’ he said. ‘I might be a while.’
She watched him as he headed towards the back entrance of the house. Did he always wear black? Or was it his form of mourning? It suited him, with his dark hair and deep blue eyes. The black jeans and fine-knit sweater—cashmere by the look of it—moulded a body that was strong and muscular though not overly bulky. If he spent long hours at a computer, she wondered how he’d developed those impressive muscles.
She realised she’d been staring for a moment too long and turned away. It would be too embarrassing for words if her employer caught her ogling the set of his broad shoulders, the way he filled those butt-hugging jeans. He was very ogle-worthy.
She put her disconcerting thoughts about her bereaved boss behind her as—at last—she took the opportunity to explore the garden. Slowly scanning from side to side so she didn’t miss any hidden treasures, she walked right around the perimeter of the garden and along the pathways that dissected it. It was daunting but doable.
Dew was still on the long grass and her trousers and boots got immediately damp but she didn’t care. Sydney winter days were mild—not like the cold in other places she’d lived in inland Victoria and New South Wales where frost and even snow could make early starts problematical and chilblain-inducing. The cold didn’t really bother her. Just as well, as she’d set her heart on finding a job in one of the great gardens of the stately homes in England, where winters would be so much more severe than here.
The scent of the daphne haunted each step but she didn’t immediately find where it was growing. She would have to search for that particular gem under the undergrowth. There was no rush. She had time to get to know the idiosyncrasies this particular landscape would present to her.
Every garden was different. The same species of plant could vary in its growth from garden to garden depending on its access to sunlight, water and the presence of other vegetation. She suspected there would be surprises aplenty in a garden that had been left to its own devices and was now coming into her care.
A flash of purple caused her to stop and admire a lone pansy blooming at the base of a lichen-splashed stone wall. She marvelled at the sheer will to survive that had seen a tiny seed find its way from its parent plant to a mere thimbleful of hospitable soil and take root there. It didn’t really belong there but no way would she move it.
Not only had she learned to expect the unexpected when it came to Mother Nature, she had also learned to embrace it.
Declan Grant was unexpected, unexplained. She batted the thought away from where it hovered around her mind like an insistent butterfly. He was her boss. He was a widower. He wasn’t her type.
Her experience with men had been of the boring—she’d broken their hearts—and the bad boys—they’d broken hers. She suspected Declan was neither. He was a man who had obviously loved his wife, still revered her memory.
Her thoughts took a bitter twist. He was not the kind of man who cheated and betrayed his wife. Not like Steve, who had pursued her, wooed her, then not until she’d fallen deeply in love with him had she found out he was married.
Steve’s wife had confronted her, warned her off, then looked at her with pity mingled with her anger when she had realised Shelley had had no idea that her lover was married.
Shelley still felt nausea rise in her throat when she remembered that day when her life based on a handsome charmer’s lies had collapsed around her. She’d felt bad for the wife, too, especially when the poor woman had wearily explained that Shelley hadn’t been the first of Steve’s infidelities and would most likely not be the last. Even after all that, Steve had thought he could sweet-talk his way back into her affections, had been shocked when she’d both literally and figuratively slammed the door in his face.
The only vaguely comforting thing she’d taken away from the whole sordid episode in her life was that she’d behaved like an honourable ‘other woman’ when she’d discovered she was a mistress not an about-to-be fiancée. Not like the other type of ‘other woman’ who had without conscience seduced her father away from his family.
Now she swallowed hard against the remembered pain, took off her hat and lifted her face to the early-morning sun. Then she closed her eyes to listen to the sounds of the garden, the breeze rustling the leaves, the almost imperceptible noise of insects going about their business, the gentle twitter of tiny finches. From high up in the camellias came the raucous chatter of the rainbow lorikeets—the multicoloured parrots she thought of as living jewels.
Out here in the tranquillity of the garden she could forget all that had hurt her so deeply in the past. Banish thoughts of heartbreak and betrayal. Plan for a future far away from here. ‘You might have more luck with the English guys.’ She hadn’t known whether to laugh at Lynne’s words or throw something at her sister.
But she didn’t let herself feel down for long—she never did. Her spirits soared at the privilege of working in this wonderful garden—and being paid so generously to do it.
Getting used to working with a too-handsome-for-comfort boss was something she would have to deal with.
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_ee9f9f01-0365-51d3-bba0-59fe0099dc1b)
DECLAN LOCATED THE keys to both the shed and the apartment without too much difficulty. But the tags attached to them were labelled in Lisa’s handwriting and it took him a long moment before he could bear to pick them up. He took some comfort that she would be pleased they were at last being put to use.
Before he took the keys out to Shelley, he first detoured by the front porch and grabbed her leather tool bag from where she had left it. He uttered a short, sharp curse it was so heavy. Yet she had carried it as effortlessly as if it were packed with cotton wool. No wonder her arms were so toned.
He lugged it around to the back garden.
No Shelley.
Had she been put off by the magnitude of the task that faced her and taken off? Her old 4x4 was parked on the driveway around the side of the house and he might not have heard it leave. He felt stabbed by a shard of unexpected disappointment at the thought he might not see her again. He would miss her presence in his garden, in his life.
Then he saw sense and realised there was no way she would leave her tool bag behind.
He soon caught sight of her—and exhaled a sigh of relief he hoped she didn’t hear.
His warrior-woman gardener had hopped over the wall and jumped down into the metre-deep empty pond that surrounded the out-of-commission fountain. There she was tramping around it, muttering under her breath, her expression critical and a tad disgusted as though she had encountered something very nasty. Her expression forced from him a reluctant smile. In her own mildly eccentric way, she was very entertaining.
For the first time, Declan felt a twinge of shame that he had let the garden get into such a mess. The previous owner had been ill for a long time but had stubbornly insisted on staying on in her house. Both money and enthusiasm for maintenance had dwindled by the time she had passed away. When he and Lisa had moved in, he had organised to get the lawns mowed regularly. But even he, a total horticultural ignoramus, had known that wasn’t enough.
In fact he had mentioned to his wife a few times that maybe they should get cracking on the garden. Her reply had always been she wanted it to be perfect—compromise had never been the answer for Lisa—and she needed to concentrate on the house first.
Her shockingly unexpected death had thrown him into such grief and despair he hadn’t cared if the garden had lived or died. He hadn’t cared if he had lived or died. But now, even from the depths of his frozen heart, he knew that Lisa would not have been happy at how he had neglected the garden she had had such plans for.
Grudgingly he conceded that maybe it was a good thing the neighbours had intervened. And a happy chance that Shelley Fairhill had come knocking on his door.
Not that he would ever admit that to anyone.
She looked up as he approached, her face lit by the open sunny smile that seemed to be totally without agenda. Early on in his time as a wealthy widower he had encountered too many smiles of the other kind—greedy, calculating, seductive. It was one of the reasons he had locked himself away in self-imposed exile. He did not want to date, get involved, marry again—and no one could convince him otherwise no matter the enticement.
‘Come on in, the water’s fine,’ Shelley called with her softly chiming laugh.
Declan looked down to see the inch or so of dirty water that had gathered in one corner of the stained and pitted concrete pond. ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ he said with a grimace he couldn’t hide.
He intended to stand aloof and discuss the state of the pond in a professional employer-employee manner. But, bemused at his own action, he found himself jumping down into the empty pond to join her.
‘Watch your nice boots,’ she warned. The concrete bottom of the pond was discoloured with black mould and the dark green of long-ago-dried-out algae.
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