When She Was Bad... (36 page)

‘I - I thought you’d left for the evening.’

‘No. ‘Appen I hadn’t.’ It took her a second to decipher the thick Yorkshire burr. ‘It’s only half-seven,’ he pointed out.

She guessed it was quite early to be dressed for bed.

‘I’ll lust go and change,’ she murmured.

His eyes danced. ‘Don’t bother on my account, love.’

Becky fled.

She raced into her bedroom and tugged on the most shapeless outfit she could find - a pair of skinny blue leans and a sweatshirt. Yeah, much better.

Man, she’s delicious, Logan thought when she reappeared, racing down the wooden stairs in her bare feet. With that scrubbed face, the long, swinging blonde ponytail, those huge blue eyes, she looked like a tanned, golden advertisement for a holiday in L.A. The predator in him enjoyed her discomfort. They both knew Logan had seen her in her lingerie, distractingly feminine, clinging to her little bud curves, her slim body, saying as much as it did about her sensuality. He constructed the slight curve to her tiny waist, the coltish delicacy of her body, and imagined his hands, rough and calloused, running over the smooth, nut brown skin of her.

‘OK.’ He grinned at her attempt to be brisk, which seemed to aggravate her even further. ‘Mr Logan, I need to talk to you about your work.’

‘There’s a problem with my work?’ he asked. Becky steeled herself.

Logan’s tone was a silky, dangerous challenge.

‘Not that I can see.’

‘The crew and I are glad to hear it.’

‘Your crew aren’t here, are they?’

‘No. They left a few hours ago. I had some things to finish up.’

‘OK.’ She twisted her fingers. ‘Mr Logan, I’.m not going to be able to have you finish the rose garden.’

He frowned, annoyed. ‘You agreed to the rose garden and you agreed not to interfere with my work. I’m not putting anything else in that space. I thought we had discussed that.’

‘No, you don’t understand. I can’t afford to have you complete the rose garden. There’s been—’ she blushed again—’a change in my circumstances.’ He shifted in his seat, not taking those dark eyes from her. ‘Aye, I read something about that.’ The guys in the pub had taken an avid interest, and so had the boys on his crew. Their pay was at stake. He’d had to gesture to the huge house behind them, to the oil paintings and antiques that surrounded them when they tramped through the hallway

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n their way to the downstairs loo. ‘You’ll be covering the bill so far, though.’

Becky prickled. He flung that out like a challenge, like he thought she was going to try and weasel out of it, and that he’d sue her if she did. God, what an arrogant bastard. She drew herself up rigidly.

‘Yes, Mr Logan. You will be paid in full for your efforts so far, as soon as I have inspected your work and found it to be satisfactory,’ she snapped. ‘Kindly draw up an itemized bill and present it to me tomorrow. I’ll have a cheque for you by the end of the day. Assuming your work is of a sufficient standard of quality.’

Logan leapt to his feet, furious. Who did this little twenty-two-year old Yank chit think she was? He had sweated, toiled, slaved over this job, some of his finest work in years. He had taken on ajob that was too small for his company and put off other, more lucrative clients, just to have the opportunity to work creatively on this ancient garden. It was almost a mercy job. And now she was spouting bollocks about the quality of his work?

‘I don’t think I can take a personal cheque, Miss Lancaster.’ Two can play at that game, Logan thought. ‘Given what happened with your company. We’d prefer you go to t’ bank and get a certified cheque. Or cash. We’ll write you out a receipt.’

His words stung Becky like a whip. ‘Very well. Mr Logan. Tomorrow at ten o’clock will be convenient.’

‘Fine. When you “inspect” my work, I’ll walk around it with you. That way, any legitimate complaints you can address with me actually there.’

‘Very well,’ Becky said.

Logan set the cup of tea down on her kitchen counter. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Ten sharp.’

He strode past her into the hall and left the house without looking back.

Becky was waiting for him at ten o’clock the following morning. She had prepared a receipt, waiting for the amount to be filled in. She had called the bank and told them she would be needing a bank draft. Then she’d washed and blow-dried her hair, made herself up and selected one of her most expensive outfits, a fitted dress in pale pink by Christian Dior, with a matching cardigan in fine jersey wool and a rope of thick, lustrous pearls at her neck. She also slipped on one of her pieces of heirloom j ewellery, a fine Kamcha sapphire ring the size of half a quail’s egg. She kept her make-up soft and neutral, but she also spritzed herself liberally with the rose and sweet-pea scent that had been custom

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blended for her in Paris. Will Logan was accusing her of being a deadbeat. Well, screw him. She’d show him.

It was no surprise that he turned up at ten a.m. on the dot. Her bell rang just as the grandfather clock in the hall was chiming the hour. Cocky jerk, she thought. He probably walked up the drive then waited there until his watch said the exact second.

‘Hello, Mr Logan,’ she said coolly as she opened the door.

He was wearing an immaculate black suit and a pair of thick-soled, rich-looking walking shoes. His shirt had a thin stripe of palest blue to it and he had plain gold cufltinks at his wrists. Becky struggled to control her surprise. She was so used to seeing him in jeans and Tshirts, with

mud spattered on his clothes and skin, that this was a total shock. ‘Is there a problem?’ ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re staring at me.’

Shit. She was.

‘I’m sorry. I suppose I didn’t expect to see a gardener …’

She gestured at him.

‘Oh?’ His tone was hostile. ‘I told you, Miss Lancaster, I don’t mow lawns. Logan Gardens does landscape gardening, and I own the firm. When I’m not working on site, I like to dress properly.’

‘Of course.’ Please, not another blush, Becky thought. She had been completely wrong’footed. ‘Come in. We’ll go into the library.’

She looks hot, Logan thought. A bit Jaekie O., but hot as hell. The sound of that accent was cute, so out of place in this house. He followed her into the library, watching the slight, suggestive curve of her ass under that well-fitting pink thing. A waft of flowers hung in the air where she moved, mixing with the smell of her skin. Stuck-up little madam. He glanced around the library - rank. s upon ranks of leather bound books, a glorious old fireplace with gargoyles and oriental rugs on the floor. Hell, yeah. He’d like to have a place like this. He promised himself that one day he would. Money bought everything, and the rich kids that inherited it didn’t value it, and spent it on drugs and yachts and couldn’t hang on to these kinds of houses.

Logan had big dreams. He looked around the room to remind himself just how big.

‘This is incredible,’ he said, then stopped. He could have kicked himself. He wasn’t meant to be acting impressed in front of this little princess.

‘Yes, it’s beautiful. This room dates from the fifteenth century. It’s the earliest in the house.’ Becky walked over to her writing desk, and Logan

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reached inside his jacket and drew out his bill in a crisp white envelope.

Smythson’s stationery, she noticed at once.

‘Here.’

She examined it. The bill was for a whopping five thousand pounds, but it was perfectly, mercilessly presented, with raw materials, transportation, mark-up, labour costs, design fees … It looked like one of her shipyard reports, it was so dense.

‘This seems to be in order,’ she said faintly. She wanted to argue with him about the cost, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Her own voice floated back to her, saying boldly that she was in charge and that money was no object.

‘Let’s go and inspect the work, shall we?’ Logan suggested.

‘Fine with me.’ Becky tossed her head, in a slight, almost unconsciously arrogant movement that set her platinum mane moving around her shoulders. Logan forced his eyes to slide off her. He walked out of the front door, leading her through the kitchen garden down on to the lawn and towards the maze.

‘You’ll see that, as discussed, your infected apple trees were cut down and chopped up for firewood. They should last a couple of winters.’ He gestured one thick hand at the wood-shed. ‘Then the ground was dug into ditches and mature yew hedges were planted and clipped, following my design. Statuary, a bench and roses were also introduced.’ He kept the explanation clinical as he led her into the maze. It was a warm, summery morning, and a drowsy fat bumble bee was already buzzing through the fragrant green scent of the leaves. The grass underfoot was flat and smooth, the hedges clipi3ed so close and even it looked as though they had been cut with razors. At the end of the first fork, there was a mossy statue of Persephone, clutching her gown around her as she fled.

It was enchanting, and it looked as though the whole thing had been planted back in the days of Elizabeth I.

‘Keep to the left, otherwise you might get lost. It’s small, but tricky. A plan of the maze is attached to your bill.’

Becky followed him silently though the maze. It did seem to meld into one glassy corridor of smooth emerald lines. It was perfect. The statues were exquisite, and unexpected, and when he finally took her to the bench, she couldn’t suppress a gasp of admiration. In the full, warm light of day, under the sun, the twisted arch of roses, a spray 9f dripping scarlet against the dark green yew, it was so romantic that it took her breath away.

Her reaction wasn’t lost on Will Logan.

‘You like it,’ he said.

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It was a statement more than a question.

‘Yes. I love it. It’s perfect. Thank you,’ Becky breathed.

His dark eyes looked at her impassively. ‘Not at all. Happy you’re pleased with the work. The address to send the bank draft to is on the invoice. I would say I hope we’ll be working together again, but I think it’s highly unlikely.’

He stood up and turned away from her.

‘If you follow me, I’ll lead you back out.’

Becky did as she was told, feeling ridiculously small and rebuffed. Not that she had made any advances, but still.

She looked at Logan’s broad back and decided that she hated his guts.

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She had more important things to do, she knew that. The costs of running the house had to be calculated, the profits from the hotel had to be sent over so that she could see where else she could cut costs and what kind of a salary she could draw. Was she going to go and take a place in the Scilly Isles, for example? It seemed like a long way away. Sailing back to the mainland and then getting a train every time she wanted to come back to Fairfield would be costly, and it would take for ever.

Thinking about her new situation made Becky’s head throb.

It was the first time in her life that money had ever been a problem.

She had to fight to keep herself detached. Unemotional. And on top of all this, she couldn’t stop thinking about Will Logan.

The supreme cockiness of him. He was only a goddamn gardener, she told herself. A fancy gardener, sure, but ultimately that was all he was. Becky told herself that he was the male equivalent of a snotty assistant in a designer store.

The trouble was, she didn’t believe that.

She made casual enquiries. Asled Sharon to ask her friends in the village. 1Lupert had hired Logan, so she knew nothing about him.

The answers surprised her. He was from Yorkshire - well, she knew that - and his service was in demand. Hot demand. He had been in her area working on something else, the grounds of a local castle being renovated by the National Trust. There was a long waiting list to get Logan Gardens to do your property, and they didn’t work on ordinary gardens.

‘He’s a landscaper, really,’ Sharon told her over tea and Marmite toast in the kitchen. ‘Like they used to have in England. I forgot the name of

that guy, the famous one.’

‘Capability Brown?’

‘Yeah. Him. Well, Logan does that sort of stuff. And they charge through the nose for it. I don’t think he makes much dosh himself, though.’

‘Why not?’

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‘Because he spends so much on the gardens. Hires large crews of men, sometimes even architects. Buys the best plants and prefers organic

plants, which cost a bomb. So he doesn’t clear that much.’

‘He clears enough for a nice suit,’ Becky snapped.

Sharon blinked. ‘Don’t bite my head off, I’m just the messenger. What, did he rip you off or something?’

‘He charged me five grand to put the maze in.’

She looked surprised. ‘That’s all? He must have made a mistake.’ ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, think about it.’ The toaster pinged, and she .jumped up to slather more toast with butter. ‘A mature yew hedge, how much does that cost? Especially organic. You’ve got about twenty in that maze. Then his crew, that stuff’s heavy, and he must have hired equipment to cut down the trees and an architect to plan the design of the maze. I’d say he’s out about three or four grand, easy.’ Sharon shrugged. ‘My uncle runs a nursery.’

Becky was horrified.

‘You don’t think he cut me a break?’

‘Either that, or he’s really, really bad at sums,’ Sharon told her. Becky buried her head in her hands. ‘Oh, God.’

‘What’s the problem? You got a nice little discount. Can’t you use the money right now?’

‘That’s the point. He was such a bastard. I don’t want his pity, I don’t want him doing me any favours. Why the hell would he, anyway? I live … here.’ Becky waved her hand at the Elizabethan splendour all around her. ‘And he was aggressive about me paying his bill.’

‘He’s got other people to pay. He probably insisted you cover their salary.’

‘I have to find out now.’ Becky shook her. head. ‘I have to call him. Oh, maybe you could do it for me, Sharon. Just ask him if there’s been a billing mistake.’

‘Keep me out of it, cheers.’