English village cliché, masses of beds of pink flowers and roses around the door!’
‘Tell me, Mr Garrett—’ she turned to him frowningly in the darkness ‘—if you have so much contempt for village life, why on earth have you moved here?’
‘Surely that’s obvious?’ he rasped, at the same time turning so that the moonlight shone fully on the right side of his face, throwing into stark relief the livid scar that ran from brow to jaw, a lasting souvenir from the car accident that had almost killed him four months ago.
She would be lying if she didn’t inwardly acknowledge she was deeply shocked by the thought of the injury he had suffered to have received such a scar, but she forced her own expression to remain unemotional as she looked at it. She had a feeling, from the bitterness that edged everything he said, that the scars inside this man were much more destructive than the more obvious one on his face.
‘Not particularly,’ she shrugged dismissively. ‘Scars fade, Mr Garrett,’ she added gently.
‘So I’ve been told,’ he said bitterly. But not soon enough for him, his tone implied.
She looked up at him consideringly. ‘Tell me, Mr Garrett, have you ever lived in a village before?’
His gaze narrowed guardedly. ‘No…’
‘I thought not,’ she nodded. ‘Well, we’re a curious lot,’ she warned from experience. ‘If it’s “peace and quiet” you’re looking for, then you’ve come to the wrong place,’ she told him ruefully.
Beau Garrett moved suddenly, swinging violently away from her, his face once more in shadow. ‘I have no intention of satisfying anyone’s curiosity.’ The last word came out with suppressed scorn.
‘I wish you luck,’ she said quietly.
He became very still in the darkness, that very stillness all the more ominous because of his earlier impatience. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing really.’ She shrugged. ‘Except…’
‘Except?’ he prompted harshly.
She gave another shrug. ‘What people don’t know they will simply make up.’ And she should know!
He gave a scornful snort as he walked over to the door. ‘Let them!’
‘Oh, they will,’ she assured him softly, remaining on the terrace as he let himself back into the noisily crowded house, with the obvious intention of making his excuses and leaving.
But if Beau Garrett thought he had seen the last of her, either, then he was sadly mistaken.
CHAPTER TWO
‘WHY didn’t you tell me when we met at Madelaine’s on Friday evening that you work for Jaz Logan?’
She looked up from the bills scattered across the desk in the less-than-tidy room that passed as an office at the garden centre, completely unsurprised that Beau Garrett was the first customer of this less-than-busy Monday morning. In fact, she had been expecting him…
She shrugged. ‘You didn’t ask.’
Irritation twisted the scar on his face. ‘I don’t suppose I did. But I would have thought, as I actually asked you about the man, that you might have volunteered the information,’ he added accusingly.
She grinned unabashedly as she sat back in her chair. ‘Something else you should know about village life; we’re always curious to know about others, but rarely volunteer information about ourselves. Anyway,’ she added determinedly as he would have spoken, ‘it’s actually worse than you thought.’ She stood up, wiping a dirt-smeared hand down her worn denims. ‘You see, I don’t work for Jaz Logan—I am Jaz Logan.’ She held her hand out in formal greeting.
Beau Garrett made no effort to take that proffered hand. Instead his silver-grey gaze moved over her with deliberate slowness, from her muddy wellington boots pushed into dirty denims, her over-large blue jumper, ragged at the sleeve ends, with a hole in one elbow, that critical gaze finally coming to rest on her face and the long ebony hair that had been blown about earlier by the strong wind blowing as she worked outside.
Despite hours spent outside in all weather, her skin remained creamy magnolia, her chin determinedly pointed, mouth wide and smiling, her nose small and snub above the fuller top lip, deep blue eyes fringed by lashes as dark as her hair, the latter worn long and in a shaggily unkempt style—it looked like that most of the time anyway, so Jaz just left it that way!
“‘Unorthodox but brilliant”,’ Beau Garrett murmured derisively. ‘I take it by that remark that the major meant it’s unusual to find a female landscape gardener?’
Jaz smiled. ‘The major is a little old-fashioned,’ she excused, not in the least offended by the remark.
“‘Capable of turning chaos into order”,’ Beau Garrett continued dryly.
She shrugged. ‘If you happen to frequent the well-stocked village shop, you’ll see that Barbara is something of a perfectionist when it comes to order.’ Even the cans of soup daren’t be out of line on her shelves!
“‘An absolute treasure”,’ he derided.
Jaz nodded. ‘Betty never has a bad word to say about anyone. But don’t forget the “darling” remark,’ she reminded him cheerily.
He didn’t look impressed by her own recall of their conversation on Friday evening, in fact that dark scowl was back on those mesmerizingly handsome features.
Maybe she should have told him who she was the other evening, but at the time it had been interesting hearing other people’s opinions of her without the inhibition of knowing she was the one being discussed. Although she didn’t somehow think Beau Garrett would be too impressed with that excuse!
Seen in the clear light of day like this, that scar on his face was much more noticeable, a livid red mark against the otherwise paleness of his skin. Not that the scar detracted from his attractiveness in the least, he just looked even more dangerously piratical.
Although from the challenging glitter in those silver-grey eyes she had a feeling Beau Garrett wouldn’t appreciate being told of that particular observation!
But that scar apart, he had to be one of the most handsome men ever to grace the small screen; aged in his late thirties, possibly early forties, well over six feet in height, lithely masculine, the slightly overlong dark hair flecked with grey at his temples, his chin square and determined in the bold handsomeness of his face.
Was it any wonder that Madelaine, only forty-five herself but widowed for the last eight years, had been eager to invite him over for drinks; not only had it been a feather in the other woman’s cap to be the first in the village to socially entertain the celebrity who had decided to appear in their midst, but Beau Garrett had to be the likeliest husband material to appear in the village for some time. If ever!
Not being a great fan of television, or those gossipy magazines that seemed so popular nowadays, Jaz had no idea whether or not this man was married. But one thing she did know just from looking at him; those lines of bitterness beside his eyes and mouth didn’t auger well for any woman showing
