LITMIR.BIZ

      CHAPTER FOUR

      BLOODY HELL. She had no right to blame him. No one wanted Aussie Electronics to stay in Australia more than Will Beaumont.

      Will watched her ute’s rear lights flash red as she braked briefly at the end of the driveway, before squealing across the bitumen and roaring down the road.

      Still cursing, he hauled his surfboard to the back of the house and flung it against the wall, salt crusted and sprinkled with sand. After peeling off his wet suit, he dropped it beside the board, little caring he was committing the unpardonable sin of leaving board and suit unrinsed.

      Nor did he bother rinsing himself off after discarding his damp bathing suit; he just pulled on a pair of gray shorts and a dark-purple short-sleeved shirt, grabbed Maeve’s quotation off the hall table and strode back out to the Merc.

      He wanted his garden fixed up, damn it. She’d signed a contract. She couldn’t just quit because she thought he was some evil capitalist who destroyed people’s lives for fun and profit.

      Glancing at the address on the letterhead, he brought the car’s powerful engine to life and sped out of the driveway, steering with one hand and doing up buttons with the other.

      He caught up with her in the town of Rosebud, where traffic slowed for stoplights and beachgoers streamed across the road from the waterfront park to the takeaways and ice cream parlors on the other side. Waiting at the red light, he had a moment to wonder whether stress might be forcing him into uncharacteristically irrational behavior. He was chasing his gardener up the peninsula, for goodness’ sake.

      Whether, however, his actions were foolish or merely futile, a big part of him, he realized, wanted to confront not Maeve but her father. He hadn’t had a chance to talk to Art alone after he’d broken the news to the employees, and he hated to think Art saw him as the bad guy.

      So if he wasn’t the bad guy, who was? Some banker who wouldn’t be happy until he made three-thousand-percent profit? The government for relaxing import tariffs? Or did fault lie with people who bought cheap imported goods? Supporting local industry had become a luxury not everyone could afford.

      He pulled up behind Maeve, but she didn’t notice him. Or refused to notice. He considered beeping the horn but decided against it. He didn’t want to appear aggressive; he just wanted to talk to her. As the light changed to green, she spotted him in her rearview mirror.

      Maybe she would pull off into the small parking lot that ran parallel to the road. Then again, he mused as she sped off, maybe not.

      He followed her all the way home. She didn’t look in the mirror again until she turned off the highway into the village of Mount Eliza. He smiled. She was woman enough to want to know if he was still following. Maybe to want him to keep following. Yeah, right. Just like she wanted to go out with him.

      Through the leafy streets, down a winding, dead-end road he trailed her, before pulling up at last in front of a sage-green weatherboard cottage with painted wooden filigree lining the veranda roof. Wandin Cottage, proclaimed a sign above the door. The garden was a mass of flowers, shaded by huge golden-limbed gums with sun-dappled leaves.

      Maeve parked and went inside, shutting the door firmly behind her without a glance his way.

      A minute later Will was tapping the brass door knocker. Five minutes passed. Now she was just being rude.

      Art opened the door. His hair was smoothly combed and his white T-shirt was tucked neatly into work pants.

      Will suddenly felt like a sixteen-year-old facing his father. Despite their employee-employer relationship, Will had sensed that Art had always taken a paternal interest in him; even, Will sometimes thought, a fatherly pride.

      Today Art was a troubled man, angry with his favorite son.

      Will pushed a hand through his hair and did up his top button. “G’day, Art. How’re you going?”

      Art nodded, his seamed face wary, but appeared prepared to be friendly. “What can I do for you?”

      “I came to see Maeve. You may not have known, but she gave me a quote on some landscaping the other day, and I wanted to talk to her about it.”

      “Maeve said she’d canceled on you.” Art looked more troubled than ever. “I want to apologize for her, Will. I told her that my job and hers were two separate things and that she should honor her contract. But she wouldn’t have it.”

      Hell, Will said silently. Art wasn’t angry at him; he was upset because his daughter hadn’t done the right thing. Or maybe he was angry, too, but felt conflicted out of loyalty and a belief in fair play. Will never should have come here, invading their space, imposing on Art’s good nature. However, he would look frivolous if he left now. “May I talk to her?”

      “Don’t know that it’ll do any good, but go ahead and try.” Art stepped back and allowed Will inside. “She’s in the backyard. Come through.”

      The dim hallway was cool, papered with pale floral print and hung with botanical drawings of flowering herbs. In the kitchen, newspapers were spread out on the table. The employment section. Ouch. With a glance at Art, Will pushed through the screen door.

      Maeve was reaching high on a bush to snip a long stalk bearing a lush white flower almost as big as her head. Peonies. His grandmother had grown them.

      “Hi,” he said.

      She ignored him and laid the blossom in the basket at her feet.

      What flowers grew in Maeve’s garden? They were too many and various for him to identify even half of them. From brightly colored to delicately pale, they grew at every level from ground to tree. They twined along the fence, overflowed from tubs, hung in pots from the veranda. Beside a swinging garden bench of carved wood was a raised herb garden planted in a hexagram. On the other side of the yard, next to the garage, was a miniature nursery with rows of potted seedlings and baby shrubs. Behind a low hedge in what still must be her property was a greenhouse.

      “This is really nice,” he said, truly impressed. The whole place was cool, fragrant and inviting. Except for her.

      Aggressively, she thrust the hand holding her clippers forward; her other hand was planted on her hip. “What do you want?”

      “A fair trial, for starters.”

      “You chased me all the way up the peninsula just to persuade me that deep down you’re really a great guy? That none of it’s your fault. You’re ruled by global markets, free trade, forces beyond your control? Listen, mate, I’ve heard it all before and I’m sick of it. If you believe in something, you make a stand.”

      “It’s not that simple,” he began. “You see—”

      “Save it,” she said with indifference, then turned back to the peony bush and lopped off a dead head. “Anyway, what do you care what I think?”

      Good question. And one he wasn’t prepared to answer right now.

      “I just want you to do my garden.” He brandished her signed, typewritten quote. “We made a deal.”

      That instant he remembered that he’d made a deal, too—with her father. A contract signed before Christmas, which had more than ten months to run. She met his gaze with a level, sardonic stare.

      “So sue me.” She bent to pick up her basket.

      “I’ll pay you double.” He saw her hesitate, and triumph surged through him. Until he remembered it was because of him that she and her father would be hungry for money.

      Holding her basket in front of her with both hands on the curving handle, she eyed him with disdain. “You can’t keep your company in the red. How could you afford to pay me

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