style="font-size:15px;"> He had tried to find love, and for a while with Maree, he’d thought he had. The years since they’d parted had eroded his belief in happily-ever-after, but not his desire for a family. The tricky part of marriage was finding that special woman who wanted children as much as he. He knew if he just took a rational approach, he could solve the problem.
After all, he had the rest of his life under control.
CHAPTER ONE
MAEVE ARDEN CONSIDERED a big part of her job as a garden designer was noticing things about her prospective clients. With Will Beaumont the first thing she noticed was his eyes. They were cobalt blue, logical and assessing, but with a hint of humor in their depths.
“Hi,” she greeted Will, who’d just opened his front door to her. “I’m Maeve.”
“Ah, Art Hodgins’s daughter. He talks about you a lot.”
“Art talks a lot, period,” she said cheerfully. “But I wouldn’t have him any other way.”
Her father spoke frequently of Will’s sterling qualities as a boss but had somehow neglected to mention his good looks. Will’s brown hair was damp, his feet bare beneath freshly pressed chinos, and he wore a Hawaiian shirt. Not exactly Maeve’s image of the head of a company, but she liked the incongruity. It made him, and therefore her job, more interesting. “Nice shirt.”
With a half smile, Will Beaumont fingered the hem of dark swirling blues and fluorescent pinks and greens. “I wear it to annoy my accountant.”
Maeve, who dressed for more practical purposes in work boots, khaki cargo pants and a white muslin shirt buttoned over a black crop top, grinned. She removed her hat to fan her face. Wisps of long dark hair blew up with each pass of the broad brim. It was only seven-thirty on a January morning and already the day was a scorcher.
Will slipped his feet into the leather thongs sitting beside the welcome mat. “Come. I’ll show you the garden.”
“I’ve already seen that it’ll be a big job.” The front yard was choked with weeds and overgrown shrubbery, and dried stalks drooped from stone urns flanking the steps. The large two-story art deco house done in cream and pale gold was beautiful; the garden, a mess.
Will led the way around the three-car garage, past a bungalow, to the back of the house. Maeve flipped open her clipboard and paused to do a rough sketch of the existing garden. The property was bounded by high walls and hedges, and sloped to a breathtaking view of Port Phillip Bay, with Melbourne in the distance.
“I understand you’re friends with other clients of mine, Alex and Ginger White,” she said, drawing in the Monterey Bay fig tree that dominated the south side of the terraced lawn.
“They raved about you,” Will said, watching over her shoulder. “Claimed you’re some kind of magician. I was very impressed with what you did with their place.”
“Thank you.” If Alex and Ginger thought she was a magician, it was because she’d done her homework. She’d made note of their clothes and furnishings, their car, even their choice of pets. She’d asked a million questions about their lifestyle, what they expected from their garden and how they planned to use it. Then she’d used her artistic and botanical skills to create a green space uniquely suited to them.
“This place has fantastic potential,” she said, flipping to a new page. “What exactly did you have in mind for your garden?”
He frowned over her question. “Low maintenance is the main thing,” he said briskly. “Maybe a few flowers…”
She sighed at his response. “Do you entertain business associates, friends…?”
“Yes, of course. I have a built-in barbecue up by the patio. And then there’s the pool.” He led her down stone steps to the second terrace, where blue water shimmered beneath the dazzling sun. Bordered by roses and hibiscus, the pool stretched about forty feet in length, with a marble sheen finish and blue mosaic tiling around the edge. Maeve noticed damp patches on the concrete surrounding the pool and drying footprints on the path leading up to the patio. She glanced at Will’s hair, drying on top to reveal gold streaks among the brown. He spent plenty of time in the water. Or on it.
“Very nice,” she said of the pool; then, fingering a badly blighted leaf, she added, “Pity about the roses.”
“Will they have to go?”
Hearing disappointment, she asked, “What is it you particularly like about them?”
He thought for a moment, hands deep in his pockets. “The scent, I suppose.”
“I know some wonderfully scented roses. Or I could plant gardenias. They have a beautiful fragrance.” She pulled a tape measure from the pocket of her cargo pants. “Hold this, please,” she said, giving the end to Will. She walked the length of the pool, wrote down the measurement on her clipboard and walked back, reeling the tape in until she was standing in front of him. “White flowers are lovely by moonlight. Do you swim at night?”
“Sure, when it’s warm enough.” His frank gaze washed over her, intimate and humorous. “Do you?”
“When the opportunity arises.” Maeve tugged, and the tape snapped back into its case. Those eyes.
She tipped back her hat to gaze up at the house, imagining it from the bay, with the cream stucco repeating the pale-gold sand at the base of the cliff and the sky reflecting blue in the plate-glass windows. Projecting, she saw it surrounded by lush healthy vegetation.
“It’s a wonderful house,” she said. “Awfully big for one person, though.” She glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “Or are you married?”
The humor faded from his expression. A tendon in his jaw twitched. “Is that relevant?”
“If I’m going to design your garden I’ll need to know something about you. I want to make the outdoor living space uniquely yours.”
“It’s not meant to be a work of art. Just needs a little pruning and weeding here and there.”
“Are you married?” Maeve asked again, reminding him of the question. And reminding herself that patience was a virtue.
“No.” He was massively indifferent.
“Fiancé?”
He frowned. “No.”
“Girlfriend?”
“Now, I know that’s not relevant.” He sounded exasperated, and slightly defensive, almost angry.
She waited silently. Sometimes people needed a couple of sessions to open up. Sometimes they talked so much she couldn’t get past the verbiage to their real selves. What she wanted was a glimpse of the real Will Beaumont, something she could translate into a garden that would provide him inner peace. After the turmoil in her life, she was a great believer in inner peace.
“Oh, all right,” he said at last. “Lately I’ve been thinking it’s time I settled down.” He shrugged off the admission with a disarming grin. “What can I say? My biological clock is ticking.”
