head snapped up, and his gaze locked on the estate gardener watching Hunter from behind a low bank of hydrangeas. How much had the man heard? How much did he know? This pretending to be something he wasn’t was driving him nuts. Just as being married to a curvy, luscious redhead he couldn’t touch was beginning to push him to the edge of his control.
Sleeping beside her every night, waking up every morning to find himself holding her close only to jump out of bed and rebuild her damn wall before she could wake up and discover his weakness.
Weakness.
Since when did he have a damn weakness?
Taking a breath, he told himself to play the game he’d agreed to play. To get through the rest of the month and reclaim his life. When the month was over, he’d find a woman. Any woman, and bury his memories of Margie in some anonymous sex. Then he could get back to the base and do what he knew best.
“Just what planet are you on, Hunter?”
The gardener’s voice came again and Hunter muttered a curse he hoped the older man couldn’t hear. “Didn’t see you there, Calvin.”
Not surprising, since the man was practically hidden behind the massive pink and blue blooms dotting the rich, dark green leaves of the bushes.
“Don’t see much of anything since you’ve been home, if you ask me,” Calvin said, dipping his head to wield his pruning shears. The delicate snip of the twin blades beat a counterpoint to the lazy drone of bees dancing through the garden.
Hunter shoved both hands into the pockets of his jeans and walked toward the old man who’d been in charge of the Cabot gardens for nearly forty years. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Hmm?” Calvin lifted his head briefly, shot him a glance and shrugged. “Just seems to me a man who’s been apart from his wife for months on end would spend more time with her and less wandering around the estate talking to himself, that’s all.”
Hunter sighed. “That’s all?”
Calvin’s bristling gray hair wafted in the cool breeze, and his pale blue eyes narrowed on Hunter. “Well no, now that I think on it, maybe that’s not all.”
Hunter reached out, ran one finger along the pale pink petals of the closest blossom and slid a glance to the old man watching him. “Let’s have it, then.”
“You think I don’t notice things? I’m old, boy, not blind.”
“Notice what, Calvin?”
“How you watch that little girl of yours when she’s not looking. How when she is looking, your eyes go cold and you look away.”
Hunter scowled. Since when had Calvin become so damn perceptive? “You’re imagining things.”
“Now I’m senile, then? Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“No,” Hunter said quickly, then shoved his hand back into his pocket. Tough to be a hard ass with a man who’d known you since you were a kid. “It’s just…complicated.”
Calvin snorted a laugh. “You always did make bigger mountains out of mountains, boy.”
“What?” Hunter laughed shortly as he tried to figure out what Calvin was talking about.
“No molehills for you. Nope. You look at something hard and make it impossible. Never could see what was right in front of you for staring out at the horizon. Always looking for something even though you wouldn’t know it if you stumbled on it.”
Hunter would have argued, but how could he? The old man was too damn insightful. Hunter had spent most of his life looking past the boundaries of this estate to the world beyond Springville. He’d wanted…more. He’d wanted to see other places, be someone else. Someone besides the latest member of the Cabot family dynasty.
And he’d done everything he’d wanted to, hadn’t he? He’d done important things with his life. He’d made a difference. Shifting his gaze across the garden and the wide stretch of neatly trimmed grass that ran down to the cliff’s edge and the sea beyond, he thought how small this place had once seemed to him. How confining. Strange that at the moment, it looked more welcoming than anything else. As if this place had simply lain here, waiting for him to come home.
Hunter frowned thoughtfully and wondered just why that notion all of a sudden felt comforting.
“Calvin?”
The sound of Margie’s voice shattered Hunter’s thoughts completely. He turned toward her and felt something inside him shift, like a bolt pushing free of a lock.
She stood in a slice of sunlight on the stone patio and Hunter’s breath caught in his throat. She wore a green silk shirt with an open collar and short sleeves, tucked into a pair of form-fitting linen slacks. Her incredible hair was lifting in the wind caressing her, and it danced around her head like a curly, auburn halo. Her grass-green eyes were fixed on him as he stared at her and Hunter couldn’t stamp out the hunger she was probably reading on his face.
Why the hell had he bought her new clothes?
Margie’s heartbeat thundered in her chest, and her mouth went dry under Hunter’s steady stare. Even from a distance, she saw him clench his square jaw as if fighting an inner battle for control. And somewhere inside her, she preened a little, knowing that just looking at her was in some small way torturing him.
At first she’d been uncomfortable wearing clothes that defined her too-voluptuous—in her opinion—figure. As if she were walking around naked or something. She wasn’t used to people—men—looking at her the way Hunter was now. Always before, she’d sort of blended into the crowd. She’d never stood out, never been the kind of woman to get noticed.
For the first time in her life, Margie actually felt pretty. It was a powerful sensation. And a little frightening. Especially since Hunter didn’t look too happy with whatever he was thinking.
Well, she reminded herself, it was his own fault. He was the one who’d insisted on buying out half of Carla’s Dress Shop. He was the one who’d approved or vetoed everything she’d tried on. Which had really annoyed her until she’d gotten into the spirit of the thing and had pleased herself by watching his eyes darken and flash with hunger every time she appeared in a new outfit.
The arrogant, bossy man had, it seemed, painted himself into a corner of his own design.
“Did you need something, Margie?”
“What?” The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Hunter’s gaze was still locked on her, and he hadn’t spoken—she was sure of it. Tearing her gaze from the man who was her temporary husband, she saw the estate gardener giving her a knowing smile.
“Calvin. Yes. I mean, I did want to ask you something. I was wondering if you’d mind providing a few bouquets for the dance tomorrow night. No one’s flowers are prettier.”
“Happy to,” the older man said. “Anything in particular?”
She shook her head. At the moment, she couldn’t have discerned the difference between a rose and a weed anyway. “No, I’ll leave that up to you.”
