Hired by the Brooding Billionaire

by Kandy Shepherd

  ‘You’re not going out to a job interview looking like that,’ Lynne had said. ‘What will any potential employer think of you?’

  ‘I’m a gardener, not a business person,’ Shelley had retorted. ‘I’m hardly going to dress in a suit and high heels or pile on scads of make-up. These clothes are clean and they’re what I wear to work. I hope I look like a serious gardener.’

  Now she regretted it. Not the lack of suit and high heels. But jeans and a jacket with smart boots might have been more suitable than the khaki trousers and shirt. This was a very wealthy part of Sydney where appearances were likely to count. Even for a gardener.

  She’d got in the habit of dressing down in her male-dominated work world. Gardening was strong, physical work. She’d had to prove herself as good as—better than—her male co-workers. Especially when she had long blond hair and a very female shape that she did not want to draw attention to.

  But Declan looked so sophisticated in his fine-knit black sweater and black jeans, clean-shaven, hair brushed back from his forehead, she could only gawk and feel self-conscious. Yes, her clean but old khaki work clothes put her at a definite disadvantage. Not that he seemed to notice. In fact she got the impression he was purposely not looking at her.

  ‘Let’s discuss the garden,’ he said, turning to lead her into the hallway that had seemed so dark behind him in daylight.

  She tried to keep her cool, not to gasp at the splendour of the entrance hall. The ornate staircase. The huge chandelier that came down from the floors above to light up the marble-tiled floor. Somehow she’d expected the inside of the house to be as run-down and derelict as the garden. Not so. It had obviously been restored and with a lot of money thrown at it.

  She followed him to a small sitting room that led off the hallway. It was furnished simply and elegantly and she got the impression it was rarely used. Heavy, embroidered curtains were drawn across the windows so she couldn’t glimpse the garden through them.

  He indicated for her to take a seat on one of the overstuffed sofas. She perched on its edge, conscious of her gardening trousers on the pristine fabric. He sat opposite, a coffee table between them. The polished surface was just asking for a bowl of fresh flowers from the garden to sit in the centre. That was, if anything was blooming in that jungle outside.

  ‘I apologise for mistaking you for a courier the last time we met,’ he said stiffly. ‘I work from home and still had my head in my workspace.’

  Shelley wondered what he did for work but it was not her place to ask. To live in a place like this, in one of Sydney’s most expensive streets, it must be something that earned tons of money. She put aside her fanciful thoughts of him being in witness protection or a criminal on the run. That was when he’d said ‘no’ to the garden. Now it looked likely he was saying ‘yes’.

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘It was just a misunderstanding.’ She wanted to get off on the right foot with him, make polite conversation. ‘Did your computer part arrive?’

  ‘Eventually, yes.’

  He wasn’t a talkative man, that was for sure. There was an awkward pause that she rushed to fill. ‘So it seems you’ve changed your mind about the garden,’ she said.

  His face contracted into that already familiar scowl. Shelley was glad. She’d been disconcerted by the forced smile. This was the Declan Grant she had been expecting to encounter—that she’d psyched herself up to deal with.

  ‘The damn neighbours and their non-stop complaints. They think my untended garden lowers the tone of the street and therefore their property values. Now I’ve got the council on my back to clear it. That’s why I contacted you.’

  Shelley sat forward on the sofa. ‘You want the garden cleared? Everything cut down and replaced with minimalist paving and some outsize pots?’

  He drew dark brows together. ‘No. I want the garden tidied up. Not annihilated.’

  She heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Good. Because if you want minimalist, I’m not the person for the job. There’s a beautiful, traditional garden under all that growth and I want to free it.’

  ‘That...that’s what someone else said about it,’ he said, tight-lipped, not meeting her eyes.

  ‘I agree with that person one hundred per cent,’ she said, not sure what else to say. Who shared her views on the garden restoration?

  Her first thought was Declan had talked to another gardener. Which, of course, he had every right to do. But the flash of pain that momentarily tightened his face led her to think it might be more personal. Whatever it might be, it was none of her business. She just wanted to work in that garden.

  He leaned back in his sofa, though he looked anything but relaxed. He crossed one long, black-jeans-clad leg over the other, then uncrossed it. ‘Tell me about your qualifications for the job,’ he said.

  ‘I have a degree in horticultural science from Melbourne University. More importantly, I have loads of experience working in both public and private gardens. When I lived in Victoria I was also lucky enough to work with some of the big commercial nurseries. I ran my own one-woman business for a while, too.’

  ‘You’re from Melbourne?’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I lived most of my life in the Blue Mountains area.’ Her grandmother had given refuge to her, her sister and her mother in the mountain village of Blackheath, some two hours west of Sydney, when her father had destroyed their family. ‘I went down south to Melbourne for university. Then I stayed. They don’t call Victoria “The Garden State” for nothing. I loved working there.’

  ‘What brought you back?’ He didn’t sound as though he was actually interested in her replies. Just going through the motions expected of a prospective employer. Maybe she already had the job.

  ‘Family,’ she said. It was only half a lie. No need to elaborate on the humiliation dished out to her by Steve that had sent her fleeing to Sydney to live with her sister.

  ‘Do you have references?’

  ‘Glowing references,’ she was unable to resist boasting.

  ‘I’ll expect to see them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s your quote for the work on the garden?’

  ‘A lot depends on what I find in there.’

  She’d been peering over the fence for weeks and knew exactly what she’d do in the front of the garden. The back was unknown, but she guessed it was in the same overgrown state. ‘I can give you a rough estimate now, but I have to include a twenty per cent variation to cover surprises. As well as include an allowance for services like plumbing and stonemasonry.’

  ‘So?’

  She quoted him a figure that erred on the low side—but she desperately wanted to work on this garden.

  ‘Sounds reasonable. When can you start?’

  ‘I have a full-time job. But I can work all weekend and—’

  The scowl returned, darkening his features and those intense indigo eyes. ‘That’s not good enough. I want this done quickly so I can get these people off my back.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Quit your job,’ he said. ‘I’ll double the amount you quoted.’

  Shelley was too stunned to speak. That kind of money would make an immense difference to her plans for her future. And the job could be over in around two months.

  He must have taken her silence as hesitation. ‘I’ll triple it,’ he said.

  She swallowed hard in disbelief. ‘I...I didn’t mean...’ she stuttered.

  ‘That’s my final offer. It should more than make up for you leaving your employer.’

  ‘It should. It does. Okay. I accept.’ She couldn’t stop the excitement from bubbling into her voice.

  She wasn’t happy with the job at the garden design company. And she was bored. The company seemed to put in variants of the same, ultra-fashionable garden no matter the site. Which was what the clients seemed to want but she found deathly dull. ‘I’m on contract but I have to give a week’s notice.’

  Aren�
�t you being rash? She could hear her sister’s voice in her head. You know nothing about this guy.

  ‘If you can start earlier, that would be good,’ he said. ‘Once I’ve made my mind up to do something I want it done immediately.’

  Tell him you’ll consider it.

  Shelley took a deep, steadying breath. ‘I would love to get started on your garden as soon as I can. I’ll work seven days a week if needed to get it ready for spring.’

  ‘Good.’ 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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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 musings hadn’t got him that far.

  At eight a.m. on the dot, she buzzed from the street and he released the gate to let her in. Then opened the front door, stepped out onto the porch and watched through narrowed eyes as she strode up the pathway towards him.

  He took a deep breath to steady the instant reaction that pulsed through him. She didn’t disappoint. Still the same strength, vigour and a fresh kind of beauty that appealed to him. Appealed strictly in a creative way, that was. He had to keep telling himself that; r
efuse to acknowledge the feelings she aroused that had nothing to do with her as merely a muse. As a woman, the gardener was off-limits.

  Any woman was off-limits. He hadn’t consciously made any commitment to celibacy—but after what had happened to Lisa he could not allow himself to get close to another woman. That meant no sex, no relationships, no love.

  Shelley wore the same ugly khaki clothes—her uniform, it seemed—with a battered, broad-brimmed canvas hat jammed on her head. She swung a large leather tool bag as if it were weightless. It struck him that if the gardener wanted to disguise the fact she was an attractive woman she was going the right way about it. Her attire made him give a thought to her sexual preference. Not that her personal life was any of his concern. Perhaps he could make his prototype warrior of ambivalent sexuality. It could work. He was open to all ideas at this stage.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Grant,’ she carolled in a cheerful voice edged with an excitement she couldn’t disguise. She looked around her with eager anticipation. ‘What a beautiful sunny morning to start on the garden.’

  She really wanted to do this—he could have got away with paying her half. Not that he would have haggled on the price. He was scrupulous about paying people fairly—despised people who didn’t.

  Her words were accompanied by a wide, generous smile that revealed perfect teeth. The smile lingered in her eyes. Eyes that were the colour of nutmeg—in harmony with the honey-gold of her hair. Not that he could see more than a few wisps of that as it was jammed up under her hat. He wished he could see her hair out and flowing around her shoulders. And not just for inspiration.

  ‘Call me Declan,’ he said. ‘Not Mr Grant. He’s my father.’ Though these days his father went by the title His Honour as a judge in the Supreme Court of New South Wales.

  Besides, Declan didn’t do people calling him ‘Mister’. Especially a girl who at twenty-eight was only two years younger than himself. Her age had been on the résumé she’d emailed him. Along with an impressive list of references that had checked out as she’d said they would. She appeared to be exactly what she said she was, which was refreshing in itself.