Garden Of Scandal. Jennifer Blake

Alec said deliberately, “I don’t think you can say that.” Far from it, in fact. Gregory wasn’t taking it well at all, and who could blame him?

      “He’s lucky to have you with him.”

      It was the last thing he expected her to say—so unexpected that he laughed. “I’m not sure he would agree.”

      “Maisie says your grandmother told her that you’re up with him all hours of the night.”

      “Somebody has to check on him, give him his medication. Grannie fusses over him during the day, but she needs her rest.” He was surprised Laurel had spoken to Maisie about him. His brow quirked into an arch as he wondered why.

      She colored slightly under his regard. “I saw you taking a nap after lunch that first day. Maisie told me you probably needed it, and why. You haven’t done it again, so I just wanted to say that I don’t mind, if you…feel the need.”

      The need he felt had little to do with sleeping, though a great deal to do with lying down. Or not. “I appreciate the thought,” he said carefully, “but I’ve been managing a catnap in the evening while Grannie Callie cooks supper. I’ll get by.”

      “It’s up to you.” She lifted one shoulder.

      “You suggesting I’m too out of shape to do without it?” he asked in a weak effort to lighten the mood, change the subject.

      Her gaze skated over his chest where he had left his shirt unbuttoned for coolness. Her mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Hardly.”

      He held his lips clamped shut—it was the only way he could keep from grinning. He hadn’t been fishing for compliments, but he wasn’t immune to them, either.

      He pushed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. His wandering attention was caught by the scaling paint along the edge of the porch, and he grasped at the subject like a lifeline.

      “When was the last time this house was painted?”

      She shrugged. “Six years, seven maybe. I know it needs it, but…”

      “As I said before, it would be a shame to let it go too far. It’s such a grand old place.”

      “I know,” she said unhappily. “It’s just that it’s such a hassle.”

      “I also told you I could do it.”

      “You’d be here forever.”

      Exactly, he thought. Instead he said, “Not quite. It’s amazing how fast you can cover ground with a few cans of paint and an air compressor.”

      “Spray it, you mean?”

      He lifted a brow. “It’s not a new concept.”

      “No, but Howard always did it the hard way, with a brush.”

      “Your husband, right?”

      She nodded, her gaze on her plate. She put what was left of her hamburger down as if she were no longer hungry. Alec thought she looked a little pale. Remembering what Maisie had told him, he couldn’t blame her too much. “It isn’t your fault he died,” he said, his voice gravelly. “Don’t let it get to you.”

      “You don’t know anything about it.” Her eyes flashed blue fire as she looked at him.

      “Nothing except what I’ve been told. But even I have sense enough to know a woman who won’t hurt a turtle would never kill a man.” There it was, out in the open. He waited for her to tell him to get lost.

      She looked away, swallowed hard. “One thing doesn’t necessarily cancel out the other.”

      “You saying you really did run him down?”

      “I might have.” Her face was flushed and a groove appeared between her brows.

      “Sure. Pull the other one.” He caught himself waiting for the blowup, the show of temper in defense of her innocence. Where was it?

      “Maybe I saw him coming up behind me before I backed out of the garage. Maybe I could have slammed on the brakes—but I didn’t.”

      She was dead serious. Incredible as it seemed, she really believed she might have killed her husband on purpose. “Right, and maybe you figured he was bright enough not to walk behind a moving vehicle. Hell, anybody would.”

      “But not everybody.”

      “Forget them. Get on with your life.”

      “That’s easy to say, but I can’t—” She stopped, took a deep breath as she lifted both hands to her face, wiping them down it as if she were smoothing away the remnants of horror. “Never mind. I don’t know how we got onto this, anyway. I—We were talking about painting. If you really want to fool with it, you can get what you need at the hardware store in town and charge it to me.”

      “I could, or we might run into town now and you can pick out the paint colors.” The words were deliberate. He waited for the answer with more than casual interest.

      “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary. White will do.”

      “With green shutters, I guess.” His tone was sarcastic, a measure of his disappointment.

      “What’s wrong with that? It’s traditional, the way it’s always been.”

      “It’s boring.”

      “I guess you would like to fancy it up like some San Francisco Painted Lady?”

      Her annoyance was more like it—it made her sound feisty and full of life. She was right about his taste, too. In self-defense, he said, “The Victorians liked things colorful.”

      “Not around here, they didn’t. Whitewash was all anybody could afford after the Civil War, you know. Later on, everyone figured that if it was good enough for their grandparents, it was good enough for them. And it’s also good enough for me.”

      “Well, heaven forbid we should go against tradition. Do you want antique white or bright white?”

      “Antique.”

      “I should have known.”

      She was silent for a moment, staring at him. Then she got to her feet. “Fine. If that’s settled, I think it’s time we got back to work.”

      It served him right.

      

      The afternoon went quickly, at least for Laurel. One moment the sun was high; the next time she looked up it was spreading long blue shadows along the ground. She was fighting with a honeysuckle vine that had snaked its way through a baby’s-breath spirea. She had decided the only way to get rid of it was to cut both plants down to the ground when she heard a faint noise directly behind her. She swung with the hedge clippers wide open in her hands.

      Alec sidestepped, lashed out with one hand. The next instant, the clippers were on the ground and her wrists were numb inside her gloves. She caught her left hand in her right, holding it as she stared at him.

      He cursed softly as he stepped closer to take her wrists, then stripped off her gloves, which he dropped to the ground. Turning her hands with the palms up, he moved the bones, watching her face for signs of pain. Some of the tightness went out of his features as he saw no evidence of injury. Voice low, he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was just a reflex action.”

      “I know,” she replied, controlling a shiver at the feel of his warm, suntanned hands on hers. “You didn’t hurt me. I was only surprised.”

      He flicked her a quick, assessing look. “Yeah, well, so was I. I didn’t know you were armed and dangerous.”

      She could make something out of that, or leave it alone. She chose to bypass it. “You wanted something?”

      His grasp on her arms tightened before he let her go with an abrupt, openhanded gesture. “As a matter of fact, yes.