Garden Of Scandal. Jennifer Blake

not ignoring you!”

      “Maybe you just have no use for me, then.”

      “That isn’t it at all. I don’t know what to say!”

      His smile was slow but sure as he turned to the door and stood holding it open, waiting for her. “Then there’s no excuse left, since I can talk for both of us, and I don’t mind your company.”

      The look she gave him was fulminating yet resigned. He had her and she knew it. She was not the kind of woman who could be cruel just to protect herself, no matter the provocation. He had suspected it, even counted on it. Which didn’t say much for him as a person, but it said even less for all the other idiots stupid enough to think she could commit murder. He watched her closely as she pushed her feet into her sandals, which sat beside the chaise, then moved ahead of him down the dim hallway.

      Yeah, he had her number. He had Laurel Bancroft out of her bedroom, out of her house again. Now where was he going from here?

      It was a good question—one he pondered often during the next week. He might be guilty of arrogance, thinking he knew what was best for her, but he didn’t intend to let that stop him. He was nothing if not high-handed.

      At least he’d managed to coax her into the garden every morning. It had taken a lot of thought and energy, not to mention dozens of asinine questions that he could have answered himself without half trying. But on the sixth day, just yesterday, he’d kept her outside long enough to get her straight little nose pink from the sun, and dirt under the nails of her long, aristocratic fingers. As his reward, she had come out of the house this morning with her gloves in her hands and a straw hat on her head.

      Working beside her was both a pleasure and a royal pain. She wanted to save everything recognizable, which was going to make her garden one unholy jumble. Not that he cared. Or had any right to complain.

      She also had a reverence for living things that caused her to jump in and save every turtle, frog, lizard or even snake that came anywhere near the ax or shovel he might be wielding. This morning, she had spent an hour chasing a half-grown rabbit up and down the garden to be sure it found its way outside the fence.

      As compensation for his tried patience, he could stand downwind from her while she worked and catch the incredible scent of roses and jasmine and warm female that drifted from her skin. He got to take his orders directly from her, which she always couched as courteous requests. He was permitted to admire the view when she bent over in close-fitting cutoff jeans to plait dying bulb foliage or to turn over a few shovelfuls of soil. He got to talk to her whenever he pleased. And sometimes, when he least expected it, he was rewarded for some quip or comment by her rare smile.

      She was the kind of woman he might have laid down his life for in another place and time. As it was, he meant to drag her out of her self-imposed exile and see to it that she began to live again. He wasn’t quite sure why he was so bent on it except that he maybe needed something to distract himself, occupy his mind. Or maybe he just hated waste.

      Yes, and maybe he was an idiot to think it was that simple. Denial had never been one of his problems before.

      They were eating their lunch on the veranda. He was having trouble choking down Maisie’s homemade hamburger, although it was fine eating. His throat kept closing when he turned his head to look at Laurel sitting so naturally beside him. She was hot and tired, and her T-shirt was damp with perspiration so it clung in all the right places. Her hair was coming loose from the long braid down her back, and a piece of trash was caught on her gold-tipped lashes. He thought he had never seen anything so gorgeous in his life.

      “Hold still,” he said, reaching out to touch her cheek, gently closing her eyelid with his thumb before sliding the offending bit of dried leaf from her lashes with two fingers.

      She blinked experimentally as he took it away, then grinned at him. “Thanks.”

      Incredible, how a single word could make him feel ten feet tall. Ready to leap tall buildings. Save the world. Or do lascivious-type things on the table between them that would get him booted off the property before he could turn around.

      She was watching him, her gaze faintly inquiring. He suspected his face might be flushed, considering how cool the breeze felt that wandered down the long length of the veranda. Blowing the piece of trash from his fingers, he picked up his water glass and drank deeply.

      “You don’t eat much, do you?” she said in tones of mild censure. “At least, not compared to how hard you work.”

      “I eat enough.” The words were short. The last thing he wanted from her was motherly concern.

      She frowned a little. “I only wondered if it was on purpose, some kind of California health-food thing.”

      “I guess you could call it that,” he allowed finally. “The old man I used to work with thought overeating caused all sorts of problems. Fat rats die young, he used to say. He was Chinese, laughed at the American diet while he stirred up ungodly mixtures of rice and vegetables. But he was eighty-six and going strong last time I saw him.”

      “You did yard work with him?”

      Alec gave a quick nod, pleased that she had remembered something of what he’d told her that first night. “Mr. Wu was a gardener. He taught me what I know about plants, and a great deal more, besides.”

      Her smile was whimsical. “The wisdom of the venerable ancients?”

      “You’ve been watching too many old Charlie Chan movies,” he answered with a grin. “Mr. Wu was big on Zen meditation and martial arts, but I never heard him quote Confucius.”

      “Martial arts? Did he teach you that, too?”

      He shrugged. “Only as a form of exercise—something else Mr. Wu was big on.”

      “I’d have thought gardening would give you more than enough of that.” The words were dry as she flexed her neck muscles.

      “That was my idea, too,” he replied with a faint laugh of remembrance. His gaze skimmed the softness of her breasts that were lifted into prominence as she turned her head and arched her back to relieve strain. “Mr. Wu had a way of changing a person’s mind.”

      “You miss California, I expect. I mean, it must seem so different here.”

      “I did miss it,” he replied with a slow shake of his head as he watched her. “But not anymore.”

      She avoided eye contact. Relaxing, she used a fingertip to pick up a sesame seed that had fallen from her hamburger bun. “You’ll be going back, though, I guess?”

      Would he? He had certainly thought so, once. Now he wasn’t so sure. With his brain feeling tight in his skull as he watched her place the sesame seed on the pink surface of her tongue, he said, “Not anytime soon.”

      “Because your brother isn’t well enough? Or is it that he just doesn’t want to go?”

      She was avoiding the issue of what he himself wanted, which seemed to indicate that she understood him a little better than he had figured. Although that might be wishful thinking on his part. After a moment, he said, “Gregory’s happy here, or happy enough. I’m not sure he’ll ever…leave.”

      “That’s good, then. There must be something about it he likes.”

      He gave her a straight look. “Yes, but that’s not what I was getting at.”

      “Oh.” Her head came up. “You don’t mean…”

      He gave a slow nod as he turned his head to squint at a blue jay just landing on a fence picket. Voice low, he said, “He isn’t going to make it.”

      In the sudden quiet, the sound of a jay’s call was loud. After a moment, she said softly, “He knows?”

      Alec nodded, since he didn’t quite trust himself to speak.

      “How old…”

      “Thirty-five