Hired by the Brooding Billionaire (3 page)

‘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

D
ECLAN
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; refuse 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.

‘Sure, Declan,’ she said. ‘Call me Shelley. But never Michelle. That’s my full name and I hate it.’

‘Shelley it is,’ he said.

She buzzed with barely harnessed energy. ‘I’ll start clearing some of the overgrowth today—show your nosy neighbours you mean business. But first I really want to have a good look at what we’ve got here. Can you show me around?’ She put down her leather tool bag.

His first thought was to tell her to find her own way around the garden. But that would sound rude. And he wanted to correct the bad first impression he’d made on her. Not only because he was her employer. But also because if he was going to base a character on her, he wanted her to stick around. He had to stomp down again on the feeling that he would enjoy seeing her here simply because she was so lovely.
She was out of bounds.

‘There’s not a lot I can tell you about the garden,’ he said. ‘It was overgrown when I bought it.’

‘You can leave the plants to me. But it’ll save time if you give me the guided tour rather than have me try to figure out the lay of the garden by myself.’

He shrugged. ‘Okay.’

‘Is there a shed? Tools? Motor mower?’

‘I can show you where the shed is—from memory there are some old tools in there.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope they’re in working order, though I do have equipment of my own, of course.’

‘I bought this house as a deceased estate,’ he said. ‘An old lady lived here for many years—’

‘So I was half right,’ Shelley said, her mouth tilting in amusement.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I imagined an eccentric old lady living here—a Miss Havisham type. You know, from
Great Expectations
by Charles Dickens.’

‘I am aware of the book,’ he said dryly. He hadn’t expected to be discussing literature with the gardener.

‘Or a cranky old man.’ Her eyes widened and she slapped her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh. I didn’t mean—’

‘So you encountered a cranky younger man instead.’

She flushed, her smooth, lightly tanned skin reddening on her cheekbones.

‘I’m sorry, that’s not what I—’

‘Don’t apologise. I do get cranky. Bad mannered. Rude. Whatever you’d like to call it. Usually after I haven’t had any sleep. Be forewarned.’

She frowned. ‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘I work from my home office and I’m online until the early hours, sometimes through the night.’

‘No wonder you get cranky if you don’t get enough sleep.’

He would bet she was an early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise type.
Wholesome.
That was the word for her—and he didn’t mean it as an insult.

‘I catch up on sleep during the day,’ he said.

‘Like a vampire,’ she said—and clapped her hand over her mouth again. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.’

‘You don’t have to apologise for that either. I actually find the idea amusing.’

‘I’m sorry— There I go apologising again. What I meant to say is that I sometimes speak before I think. Not just sometimes, lots of times. I’ve been told I need to be more...considered in what I say.’

‘So far you haven’t offended me in any way.’ She was so earnest he was finding it difficult not to smile at how flustered she’d become.

‘I’ll stay out of your way as much as possible, then.’

‘That might be an idea,’ he said. Then wondered why he didn’t like the thought of her avoiding him. He’d been living on his own for a long time and he liked it that way.

Reclusive.
Aloof.
Intimidating.
The labels had been hurled at him often enough. By people who had no idea of the intensity of the pain that had made him lock himself away. People who expected him to get over something he’d never be able to get over. Never be able to stop blaming himself for.

‘What do you do that makes you work such unsociable hours?’ Shelley asked.

Unsociable.
That was the other label.

‘I’m an independent producer of computer games.’ Then there was his other work he preferred to keep secret.

‘Really?’ She dismissed his life work with a wave of her hand. ‘I don’t have time for computer games. I’d rather be outside in the fresh air and sunlight than hunched in front of a computer or glued to a phone.’

He glared at her. More out of habit than intent.

She bit her lower lip and screwed up her face in repentance. ‘Oh, dear. I’ve done it again. Now I’ve really insulted you.’

‘I didn’t take it as an insult,’ he said through gritted teeth.

‘Do you invent games? That could be fun.’ Her attempt to feign interest in gaming was transparent and somehow endearing.

‘I have done,’ he said. ‘Have you heard of the Alana series?’

She shook her head and strands of her hair escaped her hat. They glinted gold in the morning sunlight. ‘I played some game with a little purple dragon when I was younger but, as I said, I’d rather be outside.’

‘Yet you read?’

‘Yes. And these days I listen to audio books if I’m working on a job on my own. I spend a lot of time by myself in this line of work. If I’m in a team it’s different, of course.’

‘Seems like a good idea,’ he said.

‘Oh, don’t think I don’t give one hundred per cent to the job. I do. And your garden is so interesting to me I’ll be fully engaged. I dare say I won’t get to finish another book until I complete my work here.’

‘I wasn’t criticising you,’ he said. ‘If you want to listen to books or music that’s fine by me. As long as you get the work done and don’t disturb me.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’m aching to see the rest of the garden. Tell me, is there a fountain there? I so want there to be a fountain.’

He smiled. Her enthusiasm was contagious. ‘There is a fountain. But it doesn’t work.’

She fell into step beside him as he headed around the side of the house. Her long strides just about matched his. ‘The pump for the fountain is probably broken. Or clogged. Or there could be a leak in the basin,’ she said.

‘All possibilities just waiting there for you to discover,’ he said.

She completely missed the irony of his words. ‘Yes. I’m so excited to get it working again. I love water features. They add movement to a garden, for one thing. And attract birds.’

He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I hadn’t realised that. About water adding movement. But when you think about it, it makes sense.’

‘A garden isn’t just about plants. There are so many elements to consider. Of course, being a horticulturalist, plants are my primary interest. But a garden should be an all-round sensory experience, not just visual.’

She stopped, tilted her head back and sniffed. ‘Scent is important too. There’s a daphne somewhere in this garden. I can smell it. It’s a small shrub with a tiny pink flower but the most glorious scent. It blooms in winter.’ She closed her eyes and breathed in. ‘Oh, yes, that’s daphne, all right.’ She sighed a sigh of utter bliss. ‘Can you smell it?’

Declan was disconcerted by the look of sensual pleasure on Shelley’s face, her lips parted as if in anticipation of a kiss, her flawless skin flushed, long dark lashes fanned, a pulse throbbing at the base of her slender neck.
She was beautiful.

He had to clear his throat before he replied. ‘Yes, I can smell it. It’s very sweet.’

She opened her eyes and smiled up at him. How had he not noticed her lovely, lush mouth?

‘They’re notoriously temperamental,’ she said. ‘Daphne can bloom for years and then just turn up its toes for no reason at all.’

‘Is that so?’ Ten minutes in Shelley’s company and he was learning more about gardening than he ever wanted to know. ‘The name of the old lady who owned this house before me was Daphne.’

He thought Shelley was going to clap her hands in delight. ‘How wonderful. No wonder there’s daphne planted here. It’s great to have a plant to echo someone’s name. I often give friends a rose that’s got the same name as them for a present. A ‘Carla’ rose for a Carla. A ‘Queen Elizabeth’ for an Elizabeth.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know if there’s a rose called Declan, though. I’ll have to check.’

He put up his hand in a halt sign. ‘No. Please. I don’t want a Declan plant in this garden.’

‘Okay. Fair enough. I don’t know that Declan is a great name for a rose anyway. Fine for a man. Excellent for a man, in fact...’ Her voice dwindled. She looked up at him, pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘I’m doing it again, aren’t I?’

‘Declan is not a good name for a rose, I agree.’ She should be annoying him; instead she was amusing him.

‘I... I’m nervous around you,’ she said. ‘Th...that’s why I’m putting foot in mouth even more than usual.’ She scuffed the weed-lined path with her boot. It was a big boot; there was nothing dainty about this warrior woman.

‘Nervous?’

‘I... I find you...forbidding.’

Forbidding.
Another label to add to the list.

He shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation was taking. ‘I can see how you could think that,’ he said. What he
wanted
to say was he’d put a force-field around himself and it was difficult to let it down—even to brief a gardener. Especially when the gardener looked as she did—made him react as she did.

She looked up at him, tilted her hat further back off her face. Her brown eyes seemed to search his face. For what? A chink in his forbiddingness?

‘You see, I so want to do this job right,’ she said. ‘There’s something about the garden that’s had me detouring on my walks to and from the station just to see it. I’m so grateful to your neighbours for forcing you to do something about it and employ me.’ She slapped her thigh with a little cry of annoyance. ‘No! That’s not what I meant. I meant I’m so grateful to you for giving me this chance to spend the next few months working here. I... I don’t want to blow it.’

‘You haven’t blown it,’ he said. ‘Already you’ve shown me I made the right decision in hiring you for this job.’

Relief crumpled her features. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously,’ he said. If he was the man he used to be, the man for whom ‘forbidding’ would never have been a label, he might have drawn her into a comforting hug. Instead he started to walk again, heading to the back of the property where the garden stretched to encompass land of a size that had warranted the multimillions he’d paid for it.

She fell in step beside him. ‘So tell me about Daphne—the old lady who owned the house before you. I wonder if she planted the garden.’

‘I have no idea. It was my...my wife who was...was interested in the garden.’

How he hated having to use the past tense when he talked about Lisa. He would never get used to it.

‘Oh,’ Shelley said.

He gritted his teeth. ‘My wife, Lisa, died two years ago.’ Best that Shelley didn’t assume he was divorced, which was often the first assumption about a man who no longer lived with his wife.