‘Good. I’m confident you can do it. I wouldn’t have hired you if I wasn’t,’ he said.
Shelley appreciated the unexpected reassurance. She took a deep breath. ‘Truly, this is a grand old garden, the kind that rarely gets planted today. A treasure in its own way.’
‘And the first thing you see is the fountain,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s very grand.’
‘And very dry,’ he said.
The fountain she’d so hoped to see was classical in style, three tiers set in a large, completely dried-out rectangular pond edged by a low sandstone wall. It took quite a stretch of the imagination but she could see water glinting with sunlight flowing into a pond planted with lotus and water iris interspersed by the occasional flash of a surfacing goldfish. She could hardly wait to start work on it.
And, beyond her professional pride in her job, she wanted Declan’s approval.
Behind the fountain, paved pathways wound their way through a series of planted ‘rooms’ delineated by old-fashioned stonework walls and littered with piles of leaves that had fallen in autumn. Graceful old-style planters punctuated the corners of the walls. Some of them had been knocked over and lay on their sides, cracked, soil spilling out. The forlorn, broken pots gave the garden a melancholy air. It was crying out for love.
And she would be the one to give this beautiful garden the attention it deserved. It would be magnificent again.
She turned to Declan. ‘Whoever planted this garden knew what they were doing—and had fabulously good taste. Everything is either really overgrown or half choked to death but the design is there even at a quick glance. It will be a challenge, but one I’m definitely up for.’
He nodded his approval. ‘It’s like anything challenging—take it bit by bit rather than trying to digest it whole. In this case weed by weed.’
She was so surprised by his flash of humour she was momentarily lost for words. But she soon caught up. ‘You’ve got that right. Man, there are some weeds. I’ve already identified potato vine—it’s a hideous thing that strangles and is hard to get rid of. Morning glory is another really invasive vine, though it has beautiful flowers. It’s amazing what a difference a lot of Aussie sunshine can do to an imported “garden invader”. The morning glory vine is a declared noxious weed here, but they nurture it in greenhouses in England, I believe. And there’s oxalis everywhere with its horrible tiny bulbs that make it so difficult to eradicate.’
‘Who knew?’ he said.
She couldn’t tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. Was that a hint of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth and a warming of the glacial blue of his eyes?
Okay, maybe she’d gone on too much about the weeds.
‘That’s the nasty stuff out of the way.’ It was her turn to smile. ‘And now to the good stuff.’
‘You can see good stuff under all the “garden invaders”?’ he said, quirking one dark eyebrow.
‘Oh, yes! There’s so much happening in this garden—and this is winter. Imagine what it will be like in spring and summer.’ She heaved a great sigh of joyous anticipation. She was going to love this job.
And it seemed as if Declan Grant might not be as difficult to work with as she had initially feared. That hint of humour was both unexpected and welcome.
She pointed towards the southern border of the garden. ‘Look at the size of those camellia bushes shielding you from your neighbours. They must be at least sixty years old. More, perhaps. The flowers are exquisite and the glossy green leaves are beautiful all year round.’
He put up his hand in a halt sign. ‘I don’t want you getting rid of those. The woman who lives behind there is particularly obnoxious. I want to screen her right out.’
‘No way would I get rid of them,’ she said, horrified. Then remembered he was the client. ‘Uh, unless you wanted me to,’ she amended through gritted teeth. ‘That particular white flowering camellia—camellia japonica “Alba Plena”, if you want to be specific—is a classic and one of my favourites.’
‘So you’re going to baffle me with Latin?’ Again that quirk of a dark eyebrow.
‘Of course not. I keep to common names with clients who don’t know the botanical names.’ Uh-oh. ‘Um, not that I’m talking down to you or anything.’
‘Both my parents are lawyers—there was a bit of Latin flying around our house when I was a kid.’
‘Oh? So you know Latin?’ She understood the Latin-based naming system of plants, but that was as far as it went.
He shook his head. ‘I was entirely uninterested in learning a dead language. I was way more interested in learning how computers talked to each other. Much to my parents’ horror.’
‘They were both lawyers? I guess they wanted you to be a lawyer too.’ His mouth clamped into a tight line. ‘Or...or not,’ she stuttered.
There was another of those awkward silences she was going to have to learn to manage. He was a man of few words and she was a woman of too many. But now that she understood the dark place he was coming from, she didn’t feel so uncomfortable around him.
She took a deep breath. ‘Back to the camellias. I think we’ll find there’s a very fine collection here. Did you know Sydney is one of the best places to grow camellias outside of China, where they originate?’
His expression told her he did not.
‘Okay. That’s way more than you wanted to know and I’m probably boring you.’ When would she learn to edit her words?
He shook his head. ‘No. You’re not. I know nothing about gardening so everything you tell me is new.’ His eyes met hers for a long moment. ‘I guess I’m going to learn whether I want to or not,’ he said wryly.
‘Good. I mean, I’m glad I’m not boring you. I love what I do so much but I realise not everyone else is the same. So just tell me to button up if I rabbit on too much.’
‘I’ll take that on board,’ he said with another flash of the smile that so disconcerted her.
She looked around her, both to disconnect from that smile and hungry to discover more of the garden’s hidden treasures. ‘I want to explore further and think about an action plan. But the first thing I’ll do today is prune that rather sick-looking rose that’s clambering all over the front of the house. Winter is the right time of year to prune but we’re running out of time on that one. It’s dropped most of its leaves but in spring it must be so dense it blocks all light from the windows on the second floor.’
‘It does,’ he said. ‘I like it that way.’ His jaw set and she realised he could be stubborn.
‘Oh. So, do I have permission to prune it—and prune it hard?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve committed to getting rid of the jungle. I have to tell you to go ahead.’
‘You won’t regret it. It’s a beautiful old rose called “Lamarque”. If I prune it and feed it, bring it back to good health, come spring you’ll have hundreds of white roses covering the side of the house.’
He went silent again. Then nodded slowly, which she took for assent. ‘Lisa would have loved that.’
Shelley swallowed hard against a sudden lump in her throat at the pain that underscored his words. It must be agony for him to stand here talking to her about his late wife when he must long for his Lisa to be here with him. Not her.
She forced herself not to rush to fill the silence. No way could she risk a foot-in-mouth comment about his late wife. Instead she mustered up every bit of professional enthusiasm she could.
‘When I’ve finished, the garden will enhance the house and the house the garden. It’s going to be breathtaking. Your neighbours should be delighted—this garden will look so good it will be a selling point for them to be near it.’
‘I’m sure it will—not that I give a damn about what they think,’ said Declan with a return of the fearsome scowl. He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘But I have to go back inside.’ He turned on his heel.
Shelley suspected she might have to get used to his abruptness. It was as i
f he could handle a certain amount of conversation and that was all. And her conversations were twice as long as anyone else’s.
Think before you speak.
‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Can you show me the shed first? You know, where there might be garden tools stored.’
He paused, turned to look back to her. A flicker of annoyance rippled over his face and she quailed. He seemed distracted, as if he were already back in his private world inside the house—maybe inside his head.
He was, she supposed, a creative person whereas she was get-her-hands-dirty practical. He made his living designing games. Creative people lived more in their heads. She was very much grounded on solid earth—although she sometimes indulged in crazy flights of the imagination. Like wondering if he was a criminal. Or an incognito movie star—he was certainly handsome enough for it. But she’d been half right about the Miss Havisham-like Daphne.
‘The shed is over there at the north end of the garden,’ he said.
Without another word he started to stride towards it. Even with her long legs, Shelley had to quicken her pace to keep up.
The substantial shed looked to be of a similar age to the house and was charmingly dilapidated. The door had once been painted blue but was peeling to reveal several different paint colours dating back to heaven knew how long. A rose—she couldn’t identify which one immediately—had been trained to grow around the frame of the door.
If the shed were hers, she wouldn’t paint that door. Just sand and varnish it and leave the motley colours exactly as they were. It would not only be beautiful but a testament to this place’s history.
As if.
She was never likely to own her own house, garden or even a shed. Not with the exorbitant price of Sydney real estate. Worse, she had loaned Steve money that she had no hope of ever getting back. Foolish, yes, she could see that now—but back then she had anticipated them getting engaged.
One day, perhaps, she might aspire to a cottage way out of town somewhere with room for not just a shed but a stable too.
In the meantime, she was grateful to Lynne for letting her share her tiny apartment in return for a reasonable contribution to the rent. All her spare dollars and cents were being stashed away to finance that trip to Europe.
Come to think of it, this shed looked to be bigger than Lynne’s entire apartment in nearby Double Bay. ‘Double Pay,’ her sister joked.
The door to the shed was barred by a substantial bolt and a big old-fashioned lock. It was rusted over but still intact. Even the strength in Declan’s muscled arms wasn’t enough to shift it. He gave the door a kick with a black-booted foot but it didn’t budge.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Where the hell is the key? I’ll have to go look inside for it.’
He was obviously annoyed she was keeping him from his work but she persevered.
‘I’d appreciate that. I’d really like to see what’s in there.’
She hoped there would be usable tools inside. While she had a basic collection, she was used to working with equipment supplied by her employer. She didn’t want to have to take a hire payment from her fee.
He turned again to head towards the house.
‘Sorry,’ she said. There went that darn sorry word again. ‘But one more thing before you go. Is there...well, access to a bathroom? I’ll be working here all day and—’
‘At the side of the house there’s a small self-contained apartment,’ he said. ‘You can use the bathroom there. I’ll get you that key too. A door leads into the house but that’s kept locked.’
‘Are you sure? I thought maybe there was an outside—’
‘You can use the apartment,’ he said, in a that’s-the-end-of-it tone.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Take a walk around the garden while I go hunt for the keys,’ he said. ‘I might be a while.’
She watched him as he headed towards the back entrance of the house. Did he always wear black? Or was it his form of mourning? It suited him, with his dark hair and deep blue eyes. The black jeans and fine-knit sweater—cashmere by the look of it—moulded a body that was strong and muscular though not overly bulky. If he spent long hours at a computer, she wondered how he’d developed those impressive muscles.
She realised she’d been staring for a moment too long and turned away. It would be too embarrassing for words if her employer caught her ogling the set of his broad shoulders, the way he filled those butt-hugging jeans. He was very ogle-worthy.
She put her disconcerting thoughts about her bereaved boss behind her as—at last—she took the opportunity to explore the garden. Slowly scanning from side to side so she didn’t miss any hidden treasures, she walked right around the perimeter of the garden and along the pathways that dissected it. It was daunting but doable.
Dew was still on the long grass and her trousers and boots got immediately damp but she didn’t care. Sydney winter days were mild—not like the cold in other places she’d lived in inland Victoria and New South Wales where frost and even snow could make early starts problematical and chilblain-inducing. The cold didn’t really bother her. Just as well, as she’d set her heart on finding a job in one of the great gardens of the stately homes in England, where winters would be so much more severe than here.
The scent of the daphne haunted each step but she didn’t immediately find where it was growing. She would have to search for that particular gem under the undergrowth. There was no rush. She had time to get to know the idiosyncrasies this particular landscape would present to her.
Every garden was different. The same species of plant could vary in its growth from garden to garden depending on its access to sunlight, water and the presence of other vegetation. She suspected there would be surprises aplenty in a garden that had been left to its own devices and was now coming into her care.
A flash of purple caused her to stop and admire a lone pansy blooming at the base of a lichen-splashed stone wall. She marvelled at the sheer will to survive that had seen a tiny seed find its way from its parent plant to a mere thimbleful of hospitable soil and take root there. It didn’t really belong there but no way would she move it.
Not only had she learned to expect the unexpected when it came to Mother Nature, she had also learned to embrace it.
Declan Grant was unexpected, unexplained. She batted the thought away from where it hovered around her mind like an insistent butterfly. He was her boss. He was a widower. He wasn’t her type.
Her experience with men had been of the boring—she’d broken their hearts—and the bad boys—they’d broken hers. She suspected Declan was neither. He was a man who had obviously loved his wife, still revered her memory.
Her thoughts took a bitter twist. He was not the kind of man who cheated and betrayed his wife. Not like Steve, who had pursued her, wooed her, then not until she’d fallen deeply in love with him had she found out he was married.
Steve’s wife had confronted her, warned her off, then looked at her with pity mingled with her anger when she had realised Shelley had had no idea that her lover was married.
Shelley still felt nausea rise in her throat when she remembered that day when her life based on a handsome charmer’s lies had collapsed around her. She’d felt bad for the wife, too, especially when the poor woman had wearily explained that Shelley hadn’t been the first of Steve’s infidelities and would most likely not be the last. Even after all that, Steve had thought he could sweet-talk his way back into her affections, had been shocked when she’d both literally and figuratively slammed the door in his face.
The only vaguely comforting thing she’d taken away from the whole sordid episode in her life was that she’d behaved like an honourable ‘other woman’ when she’d discovered she was a mistress not an about-to-be fiancée. Not like the other type of ‘other woman’ who had without conscience seduced her father away from his family.
Now she swallowed hard against the remembered pain, took off her hat and lifted her face to the
early-morning sun. Then she closed her eyes to listen to the sounds of the garden, the breeze rustling the leaves, the almost imperceptible noise of insects going about their business, the gentle twitter of tiny finches. From high up in the camellias came the raucous chatter of the rainbow lorikeets—the multicoloured parrots she thought of as living jewels.
Out here in the tranquillity of the garden she could forget all that had hurt her so deeply in the past. Banish thoughts of heartbreak and betrayal. Plan for a future far away from here. ‘You might have more luck with the English guys.’ She hadn’t known whether to laugh at Lynne’s words or throw something at her sister.
But she didn’t let herself feel down for long—she never did. Her spirits soared at the privilege of working in this wonderful garden—and being paid so generously to do it.
Getting used to working with a too-handsome-for-comfort boss was something she would have to deal with.
CHAPTER FIVE
DECLAN LOCATED THE keys to both the shed and the apartment without too much difficulty. But the tags attached to them were labelled in Lisa’s handwriting and it took him a long moment before he could bear to pick them up. He took some comfort that she would be pleased they were at last being put to use.
Before he took the keys out to Shelley, he first detoured by the front porch and grabbed her leather tool bag from where she had left it. He uttered a short, sharp curse it was so heavy. Yet she had carried it as effortlessly as if it were packed with cotton wool. No wonder her arms were so toned.
He lugged it around to the back garden.
No Shelley.
Had she been put off by the magnitude of the task that faced her and taken off? Her old 4x4 was parked on the driveway around the side of the house and he might not have heard it leave. He felt stabbed by a shard of unexpected disappointment at the thought he might not see her again. He would miss her presence in his garden, in his life.
Then he saw sense and realised there was no way she would leave her tool bag behind.
Hired by the Brooding Billionaire Page 4
