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.
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
