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isn’t. Do you?’ he asked drily. ‘Have pretensions?’

      ‘No,’ she denied slowly and really rather worriedly. She had never thought she looked like a person on the make, and yet, this last year…

      ‘And now?’ he asked.

      ‘Now?’ she echoed in confusion.

      ‘Yes. What will you do now, Miss James?’

      So he didn’t want her, she thought despondently. Why invite her in, then? Why prolong the agony? ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘If you don’t want me to do your gardens, I go away, back where I came from.’

      ‘To do what?’

      Wavering between honesty and pride, she stated almost defiantly, ‘Whatever I can. I’ve been helping out in a garden centre for the past few months.’ There was no need to tell him she was no longer required, and, remembering why she’d been forced to eke out her existence in such a manner, and in no mood now to prolong a conversation about her work, or lack of it, she got to her feet. ‘Well,’ she added abruptly, ‘I’d better be going. I have a long drive ahead of me. It was nice to have met you, Mr Chevenay.’ Reaching out, she picked up her portfolio.

      ‘You no longer wish to do my gardens?’ he asked blandly.

      ‘Well, of course I want to do them! But you aren’t going to let me, are you? So there’s really no—’

      ‘Aren’t I?’

      She just stared at him.

      ‘You aren’t the only one who grasps opportunities, Miss James.’ Without waiting for her to comment, he got to his feet.

      ‘You’re going to let me do them?’

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed.

      ‘Then why all the verbal games?’ she demanded. He must have known how much this meant to her. ‘If you knew when I came—’

      ‘I didn’t. I spoke to Mrs Davies,’ he added briefly as he led her out and back through the front door.

      ‘And that cemented your opinion, did it?’ she asked waspishly. ‘And she asked you to call her Davey.’

      ‘What shall I call you?’

      ‘Miss James,’ she said promptly.

      He gave a small grunt of laughter. It sounded reluctant.

      Irritated, she demanded, ‘Why do you want me to landscape your gardens? You didn’t yesterday.’

      ‘Perhaps I feel the need to keep an eye on you.’

      She snorted.

      ‘Or perhaps I thought you needed the work.’

      ‘You don’t strike me as philanthropic,’ she retorted dismissively.

      ‘You don’t want to do them?’

      Of course she wanted to do them! But he would want references, wouldn’t he? Any minute now he was going to ask for one. A man like Garde wouldn’t take on just anyone. She had hoped—naively, she knew—that she could convince him of her capabilities so that he wouldn’t ask. As she had hoped several times over the last few wretched months. And it had to be Nick behind it all, didn’t it? But how could she prove it?

      Sorrel was still staring at Garde, her gaze blank, when she suddenly realised that he was waiting for an answer.

      ‘Yes, I want to do them,’ she confirmed quietly, and then thought she’d better say something else to explain the long silence. ‘I was just wondering why you hadn’t used a local firm. There must be some.’

      ‘There are. I even got a list of reputable landscapers. Countrywide,’ he added softly. ‘Your name wasn’t on it.’

      Well, it wouldn’t be, would it? It had been taken off months ago. At Nick’s instigation.

      ‘You have references?’

      No point in beating about the bush. ‘No,’ she said bluntly. ‘I’ve never needed them,’ she stated defiantly. Until recently.

      He nodded. ‘So what’s the procedure?’

      ‘Procedure?’ she echoed. Astonished that references had been dismissed so lightly, she opened her mouth to query it, then hastily closed it again. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Sorrel.

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed with a slight edge of impatience. ‘You make sketches? Dig holes? What?’

      ‘Oh, sketches. You can then approve, or disapprove, let me have your own suggestions. Some people know exactly what they want. Others don’t.’

      ‘Then you may do some sketches for my approval.’

      ‘Thank you. When would you like me to begin?’

      ‘As soon as possible.’

      Staring out over the front garden, she wondered why she didn’t feel delighted. She should have done. Instead, she felt—wary. ‘I’ll need to know your likes and dislikes, whether you want trees, water features…’

      ‘I don’t know what I want. Be—inspirational, Miss James. You need to walk the course?’ he asked, and then cursed.

      Startled, she looked ahead and saw a young man leap out of a car by the broken gate. He had a camera slung round his neck.

      ‘Who is he?’

      ‘Very good, Miss James,’ he mocked.

      ‘What?’ she asked in confusion.

      ‘Your bewilderment looks almost genuine.’

      ‘It is genuine! Why on earth would I—?’

      ‘He’s a reporter,’ he interrupted. Come to check up that his protegé had gained access? he wondered. Possibly. Probably. Irritated with himself, and irritated with her, he added harshly, ‘Just ignore him, and if he speaks to you don’t answer.’

      ‘But what does he want? Hey!’ she exclaimed in shock as a flash went off, nearly blinding her. ‘He just took my photograph!’

      ‘Gilding the lily,’ he muttered to himself. Ignoring the shouts for his attention, he directed her round the side of the house and out of sight.

      ‘Gilding what lily?’ she demanded in confusion.

      ‘It’s not important.’

      Maybe not, but something was. ‘Will he follow us?’

      ‘No,’ he denied grimly. ‘Not if he values his equipment.’

      ‘But what does he want?’

      ‘To give me grief,’ he said dismissively. ‘You can use the utility room to store your tools or whatever,’ he added as he halted to survey the tangled wreck of his walled rear garden. ‘The gate at the end leads to a paddock—leased out to a local family for their horses. There’s a lower field for vegetables, and this way…’ He led the way across the broken terrace towards another wrought-iron gate that hung drunkenly by one hinge. ‘There are half-demolished greenhouses, an old brick storeroom and a rubbish tip that is currently in the process of being cleared. But all that need concern you at the moment is the front.’

      ‘And if you like what I do?’ she prompted.

      ‘Then you may do the back. I read something about parterres but, seeing as I wouldn’t know a parterre if I fell over one, the point is moot.’

      She doubted it. She suspected he knew very well what a parterre was, and anything else she might mention. He looked like a man who knew a great deal about a great many subjects.

      ‘Come,’ he ordered, still tersely, as he led the way back to the rear door. ‘You’ll need a room for sketching in.’

      ‘I can do that outside or from the truck…’

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