Blue Dahlia gt-1

by Nora Roberts

  at the nursery.

  Though "rush," she admitted, wasn't precisely the word. No one, staff or customer, seemed to rush—unless she counted herself.

  They came, they meandered, browsed, conversed, ambled some more. They were served, with unhurried gracious-ness and a lot more conversation.

  The slower pace sometimes made her want to grab something and just get the job done. But the fact that it often took twice as long to ring up an order than it should—in her opinion—didn't bother anyone.

  She had to remind herself that part of her duties as manager was to blend efficiency with the culture of the business she managed.

  One more contrast.

  In any case, the work schedule she'd set would ensure that there were enough hands and feet to serve

  the customers. She and Roz had already poured another dozen concrete planters, and would dress

  them tomorrow. She could have Hayley do a few. The girl had a good eye.

  Her father and Jolene were going to take the boys on Saturday, and that she couldn't feel guilty about,

  as all involved were thrilled with the arrangement.

  She needed to check on the supply of plastic trays and carrying boxes, oh, and take a look at the field plants, and...

  Her thoughts trailed off when she saw the house. She couldn't say what she'd been expecting, but it hadn't been this.

  It was gorgeous.

  A little run-down, perhaps, a little tired around the edges, but beautiful. Bursting with potential.

  Two stories of silvered cedar stood on a terraced rise, the weathered wood broken by generous windows. On the wide, covered- porch—she supposed it might be called a veranda—were an old rocker, a porch swing, a high-backed bench. Pots and baskets of flowers were arranged among them.

  On the side, a deck jutted out, and she could see a short span of steps leading from it to a pretty patio.

  More chairs there, more pots—oh, she was falling in love—then the land took over again and spread out to a lovely grove of trees.

  He was doing shrubberies in the terraces—Japanese andromeda with its urn-shaped flowers already in bud, glossy-leaved bay laurels, the fountaining old-fashioned weigela, and a sumptuous range of azalea just waiting to explode into bloom.

  And clever, she thought, creeping the car forward, clever and creative to put phlox and candytuft and ground junipers on the lowest terrace to base the shrubs and spill over the wall.

  He'd planted more above in the yard—a magnolia, still tender with youth, and a dogwood blooming Easter pink. On the far side was a young weeping cherry.

  Some of these were the very trees he'd hammered her over moving the first time they'd met. Just what did it say about her feelings for him that it made her smile to remember that?

  She pulled into the drive beside his truck and studied the land.

  There were stakes, with thin rope riding them in a kind of meandering pattern from drive to porch. Yes, she saw what he had in mind. A lazy walkway to the porch, which he would probably anchor with other shrubs or dwarf trees. Lovely. She spotted a pile of rocks and thought he must be planning to build a

  rock garden. There, just at the edge of the trees, would be perfect.

  The house needed its trim painted, and the fieldstone that rose from its foundation repointed. A cutting garden over there, she thought as she stepped out, naturalized daffodils just inside the trees. And along

  the road, she'd do ground cover and shrubs, and plant daylilies, maybe some iris.

  The porch swing should be painted, too, and there should be a table there—and there. A garden bench near the weeping cherry, maybe another path leading from there to around the back. Flagstone, perhaps. Or pretty stepping-stones with moss or creeping thyme growing between them.

  She stopped herself as she stepped onto the porch. He'd have his own plans, she reminded herself. His house, his plans. No matter how much the place called to her, it wasn't hers.

  She still had to find hers.

  She took a breath, fluffed a hand through her hair, and knocked.

  It was a long wait, or it seemed so to her while she twisted her watchband around her finger. Nerves began to tap-dance in her belly as she stood there in the early-evening breeze.

  When he opened the door, she had to paint an easy smile on her face. He looked so male. The long, muscled length of him clad in faded jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair was mussed; she'd never seen it any other way. There was too much of it, she thought, to be tidy. And tidy would never suit him.

  She held out the pot of dahlias she'd put together. "I've had dahlias on the mind," she told him. "I hope you can use them."

  "I'm sure I can. Thanks. Come on in."

  "I love the house," she began, "and what you're doing with it. I caught myself mentally planting—"

  She stopped. The door led directly into what she supposed was a living room, or family room. Whatever it was, it was completely empty. The space consisted of bare dry-wall, scarred floors, and a smoke-stained brick fireplace with no mantel.

  "You were saying?"

  "Great views." It was all she could think of, and true enough. Those generous windows brought the outdoors in. It was too bad it was so sad.

  "I'm not using this space right now."

  "Obviously."

  "I've got plans for it down the road, when I get the time, and the inclination. Why don't you come on back before you start crying or something."

  "Was it like this, when you bought it?"

  "Inside?" He shrugged a shoulder as he walked back through a doorway into what might have been a dining room. It, too, was empty, its walls covered with faded, peeling wallpaper. She could see brighter squares on it where pictures must have hung.

  "Wall-to-wall carpet over these oak floors," he told her. "Leak upstairs had water stains all over the ceiling. And there was some termite damage. Tore out the walls last winter."

  "What's this space?"

  "Haven't decided yet."

  He went through another door, and Stella let out a whistle of breath.

  "Figured you'd be more comfortable in here." He set the flowers on a sand-colored granite counter and just leaned back to let her look.

  It was his mark on the kitchen, she had no doubt. It was essentially male and strongly done. The sand tones of the counters were echoed in the tiles on the floor and offset by a deeper taupe on the walls. Cabinets were a dark, rich wood with pebbled-glass doors. There were herbs growing in small terra-cotta pots on the wide sill over the double sinks, and a small stone hearth in the corner.

  Plenty of workspace on the long L of the counter, she calculated, plenty of eating space in the diagonal run of the counter that separated the kitchen area from a big, airy sitting space where he'd plopped down a black leather couch and a couple of oversized chairs.

  And best of all, he'd opened the back wall with glass. You would sit there, Stella thought, and be a part

  of the gardens he was creating outside. Step through to the flagstone terrace and wander into flowers

  and trees.

  "This is wonderful. Wonderful. Did you do it yourself?"

  Right at the moment, seeing that dreamy look on her face, he wanted to tell her he'd gathered the sand

  to make the glass. "Some. Work slows down in the winter, so I can deal with the inside of the place

  when I get the urge. I know people who do good work. I hire, or I barter. Want a drink?"

  "Hmm. Yes. Thanks. The other room has to be your formal dining room, for when you entertain, or

  have people over for dinner. Of course, everyone's going to end up in here. It's irresistible."

  She wandered back into the kitchen and took the glass of wine he offered. "It's going to be fabulous

  when you're done. Unique, beautiful, and welcoming. I love the colors you've picked in here."

  "Last woman I had in here said they seemed dull."

  "What did she know?" Stella sipped and shook her head. "No, they
're earthy, natural—which suits you and the space."

  She glanced toward the counter, where there were vegetables on a cutting board. "And obviously you cook, so the space needs to suit you. Maybe I can get a quick tour along with this wine, then I'll let

  you get to your dinner."

  "Not hungry? I got some yellowfin tuna's going to go to waste, then."

  "Oh." Her stomach gave a little bounce. "I didn't intend to invite myself to dinner. I just thought..."

  "You like grilled tuna?"

  "Yes. Yes, I do."

  "Fine. You want to eat before or after?"

  She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, then drain out again. "Ah..."

  "Before or after I show you around?"

  There was enough humor in his voice to tell her he knew just where her mind had gone. "After." She

  took a bracing sip of wine. "After. Maybe we could start outside, before we lose the light."

  He took her out on the terrace, and her nerves eased back again as they talked about the lay of his land, his plans for it.

  She studied the ground he'd tilled and nodded as he spoke of kitchen gardens, rock gardens, water gardens. And her heart yearned.

  "I'm getting these old clinker bricks," he told her. "There's a mason I know. I'm having him build a three-sided wall here, about twenty square feet inside it."

  "You're doing a walled garden? God, I am going to cry. I always wanted one. The house in Michigan

  just didn't work for one. I promised myself when I found a new place I'd put one in. With a little pool, and stone benches and secret corners."

  She took a slow turn. A lot of hard, sweaty work had already gone into this place, she knew. And a lot

  of hard, sweaty work was still to come. A man who could do this, would do it, wanted to do this, was worth knowing.

  "I envy you—and admire you—every inch of this. If you need some extra hands, give me a call. I miss gardening for the pleasure of it."

  "You want to come by sometime, bring those hands and the kids, I'll put them to work." When she just lifted her eyebrows, he added. "Kids don't bother me, if that's what you're thinking. And there's no point planning a yard space where kids aren't welcome."

  "Why don't you have any? Kids?"

  "Figured I would by now." He reached out to touch her hair, pleased that she hadn't bothered with pins. "Things don't always work out like you figure."

  She walked with him back toward the house. "People often say divorce is like death."

  "I don't think so." He shook his head, taking his time on the walk back. "It's like an end. You make a mistake, you fix it, end it, start over from there. It was her mistake as well as mine. We just didn't

  figure that out until we were already married."

  "Most men, given the opportunity, will cheerfully trash an ex."

  "Waste of energy. We stopped loving each other, then we stopped liking each other. That's the part I'm sorry about," he added, then opened the wide glass door to the kitchen. "Then we stopped being married, which was the best thing for both of us. She stayed where she wanted to be, I came back to where I wanted to be. It was a couple years out of our lives, and it wasn't all bad."

  "Sensible." But marriage was a serious business, she thought. Maybe the most serious. The ending of it should leave some scars, shouldn't it?

  He poured more wine into their glasses, then took her hand. "I'll show you the rest of the house."

  Their footsteps echoed as they moved through empty spaces. "I'm thinking of making a kind of library here, with work space. I could do my designs here."

  "Where do you do them now?"

  "Out of the bedroom mostly, or in the kitchen. Whatever's handiest. Powder room over there, needs a complete overhaul, eventually. Stairs are sturdy, but need to be sanded and buffed up."

  He led her up, and she imagined paint on the walls, some sort of technique, she decided, mat blended earthy colors and brought out the tones of wood.

  "I'd have files and lists and clippings and dozens of pictures cut out of magazines." She slanted him a look. "I don't imagine you do."

  "I've got thoughts, and I don't mind giving them time to stew a while. I grew up on a farm, remember? Farm's got a farmhouse, and my mama loved to buy old furniture and fix it up. Place was packed with tables—she had a weakness for tables. For now, I'm enjoying having nothing much but space around."

  "What did she do with all of it when they moved? Ah, someone mentioned your parents moved to Montana," she added when he stopped to give her a speculative look.

  "Yeah, got a nice little place in Helena. My daddy goes fly-fishing nearly every damn day, according to my mama, anyway. And she took her favorite pieces with her, filled a frigging moving van with stuff.

  She sold some, gave some to my sister, dumped some on me. I got it stored. Gotta get around to going through it one of these days, see what I can use."

  "If you went through it, you'd be able to decide how you want to paint, decorate, arrange your rooms. You'd have some focal points."

  "Focal points." He leaned against the wall, just grinned at her.

  "Landscaping and home decorating have the same basic core of using space, focal points, design—and you know that very well or you couldn't have done what you did with your kitchen. So I'll shut up now."

  "Don't mind hearing you talk."

  "Well, I'm done now, so what's the next stop on the tour?"

  "Guess this would be. I'm sort of using this as an office." He gestured to a door. "And I don't think you want to look in there."

  "I can take it."

  "I'm not sure I can." He tugged her away, moved on to another door. "You'll get all steamed up about filing systems and in and out boxes or whatever, and it'll screw up the rhythm. No point in using the grounds as foreplay if I'm going to break the mood by showing you something that'll insult your sensibilities."

  "The grounds are foreplay?"

  He just smiled and drew her through a door.

  It was his bedroom and, like the kitchen, had been finished in a style that mirrored him. Simple, spacious, and male, with the outdoors blending with the in. The deck she'd seen was outside atrium doors, and beyond it the spring green of trees dominated the view. The walls were a dull, muted yellow, set off by warm wood tones in trim, in floor, in the pitched angles of the ceiling, where a trio of skylights let in the evening glow.

  His bed was wide. A man of his size would want room there, she concluded. For sleeping, and for sex. Black iron head- and footboards and a chocolate-brown spread.

  There were framed pencil drawings on the walls, gardens in black and white. And when she moved closer, she saw the scrawled signature at the lower corner. "You did these? They're wonderful."

  "I like to get a visual of projects, and sometimes I sketch them up. Sometimes the sketches aren't half bad."

  "These are a lot better than half bad, and you know it." She couldn't imagine those big, hard hands drawing anything so elegant, so lovely and fresh. "You're a constant surprise to me, Logan. A study

  of contrasts. I was thinking about contrasts on the way over here tonight, about how things aren't

  lined up the way I thought they would be. Should be."

  She turned back to him, gestured toward his sketches. "These are another blue dahlia."

  "Sorry—not following you. Like the one in your dream?"

  "Dreams. I've had two now, and neither was entirely comfortable. In fact, they're getting downright

  scary. But the thing is the dahlia, it's so bold and beautiful, so unexpected. But it's not what I planned. Not what I imagined. Neither is this."

  "Planned, imagined, or not, I wanted you here."

  She took another sip of wine. "And here I am." She breathed slow in and out. "Maybe we should talk about... what we expect and how we'll—"

  He moved in, pulled her against him. "Why don't we plant another blue dahlia and just see what happens."

  Or we could try that, she thought when h
is mouth was on hers. The low tickle in her belly spread, and

  the needy part of her whispered, Thank God, inside her head.

  She rose on her toes, all the way up, like a dancer on point, to meet him. And angling her body more

  truly to his, let him take the glass out of her hand.

  Then his hands were in her hair, fingers streaming through it, clutching at it, and her arms were locked around him.

  "I feel dizzy," she whispered. "Something about you makes me dizzy."

  His blood fired, blasting a bubbling charge of lust straight to his belly. "Then you should get off your feet." In one quick move he scooped her up in his arms. She was, he thought, the sort of woman a man wanted to scoop up. Feminine and slight and curvy and soft. Holding her made him feel impossibly strong, uncommonly tender.

  "I want to touch you everywhere. Then start right back at the beginning and touch you everywhere again." When he carried her to the bed, he felt sexy little tremors run through her. "Even when you

  annoy me, I want my hands on you."

  "You must want them on me all the time, then."

  "Truer words. Your hair drives me half crazy." He buried his face in it as he lowered the two of them

  to the bed.

  "Me too." Her skin sprang to life with a thousand nerves as his lips wandered down to her throat. "But probably for different reasons."

  He bit that sensitive skin, lightly, like a man helping himself to a sample. And the sensation rippled through her in one long, sweet stream. "We're grown-ups," she began.

  "Thank God."

  A shaky laugh escaped. "What I mean is we ..." His teeth explored the flesh just above her collarbone

  in that same testing nibble, and had a lovely fog settling over her brain. "Never mind."

  He touched, just as he'd told her he wanted to. A long, smooth stroke from her shoulders down to her fingertips. A lazy pass over her hips, her thigh, as if he were sampling her shape as he'd sampled her flavor.

  Then his mouth was on hers again, hot and greedy. Those nerve endings exploded, electric jolts as his hands, his lips ran over her as if he were starved now for each separate taste. Hard hands, rough at the palms, rushed over her with both skill and desperation.