LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

      The stunned silence coming from the voluble Ms Fairhill was almost palpable. He was aware of rustlings in the trees, a car motor starting up out in the street, his own ragged breath. He had stopped without even realising it.

      ‘I... I’m so sorry,’ she finally murmured.

      Thank God she didn’t ask how his wife had died. He hated it when total strangers asked that. As if he wanted to talk about it to them. As if he ever wanted to talk about it. But Shelley was going to be here in this garden five days a week. If he told her up front, then she wouldn’t be probing at his still-raw wounds. Innocently asking the wrong questions. Wanting to know the details.

      ‘She... Lisa...she died in childbirth,’ he choked out.

      No matter how many times he said the words, they never got easier. Died in childbirth. No one expected that to happen in the twenty-first century. Not in a country with an advanced health-care system. Not to a healthy young couple who could afford the very best medical treatment.

      ‘And...and the baby?’ Shelley asked in a voice so low it was nearly a whisper.

      ‘My...my daughter, Alice, died too.’

      ‘I’m so, so sorry. I... I don’t know what to say...’

      ‘Say nothing,’ he said, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. ‘Now you know what happened. I won’t discuss it further.’

      ‘But...how can you live here after...after that?’

      ‘It was our home. I stay to keep her memory alive.’

       And to punish himself.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      SHELLEY DIDN’T KNOW where to look, what to say. How could she have got him so wrong? Declan was a heartbroken widower who had hidden himself away to mourn behind the high walls of his house and the wild growth of his garden. And she had called him Mr Tall, Dark and Grumpy to her sister. She and Lynne had had a good old laugh over that. Now she cringed at the memory of their laughter. Not grumpy but grieving.

      She couldn’t begin to imagine the agony of loss the man had endured. Not just his wife but his baby too. No wonder he carried such an aura of darkness when he bore such pain in his soul. And she had told him he was forbidding. Why hadn’t she recognised the shadow behind his eyes as grief and not bad temper? There’d been a hint of it the night of her interview with him but she’d chosen to ignore it.

      Truth was, although she was very good at understanding plants—could diagnose in seconds what was wrong with ailing leaves or flowers—she didn’t read people very well. Somehow she didn’t seem to pick up cues, both verbal and non-verbal, that other more intuitive folk noticed. No wonder she had believed in and fallen in love with a man as dishonest and deceptive as Steve had been. She just hadn’t seen the signs.

      ‘Shelley excels at rushing in where angels fear to tread.’ Her grandmother used to say that quite often.

      She was going to have to tread very lightly here.

      ‘So it...it was your wife who realised this garden needed to be set free?’

      He didn’t meet her eyes but looked into the distance and nodded.

      ‘Only she...she wasn’t given the time to do it,’ she said.

      Mentally, Shelley slammed her fist against her forehead. How much more foot in mouth could she get?

      Declan went very still and a shadow seemed to pass across his lean, handsome face and dull the deep blue of his eyes. After a moment too long of silence he replied. ‘The reason I hired you was because you said much the same as she did about the garden.’

       Think before you speak.

      ‘I... I’m glad.’ She shifted from foot to foot. ‘I’ll do my best to...to do what she would have wanted done to the...to her garden.’

      ‘Good,’ he said. ‘She would have hated to have it all dug up and replaced with something stark and modern.’ He took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘No need to talk about it again.’

      Shelley nodded, not daring to say anything in case it came out wrongly. If she stuck to talk of gardening she surely couldn’t go wrong.

      He started to walk again and she followed in his wake. She wouldn’t let herself admire his broad-shouldered back view. He was a heartbroken widower.

      Even if he weren’t—even if he were the most eligible bachelor in Australia—he was her employer and therefore off-limits.

      Then there was the fact she had no desire for a man in her life. Not now, not yet. Maybe never.

      After the disastrous relationship with Steve that had made her turn tail and run back to Sydney from Melbourne, she’d decided she didn’t want the inevitable painful disruption a man brought with him.

      She’d learned hard lessons—starting with the father who had abandoned her when she was aged thirteen—that men weren’t to be trusted. And that she fell to pieces when it all went wrong. She’d taken it so badly when it had ended with Steve—beaten herself up with recrimination and pain—she’d had to resign from her job, unable

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