Instead their dreams had withered and died. Only the garden had flourished; without check it had grown even wilder in the sub-tropical climate of Sydney.
He would have been happy to leave it like that. It was only the neighbours’ interference that had forced him to take action. Shelley Fairhill could have a free rein with the garden—so long as it honoured what Lisa would have wanted. And it seemed that was the path Shelley was determined to take.
Not that he would see much of the gorgeous gardener. She had told him she liked to start very early. As an indie producer of computer games, he often worked through the night—in touch with colleagues on different world time zones. They’d rarely be awake at the same time. It would make it easy to avoid face-to-face meetings. That was how he wanted it.
Or so he tried to convince himself. Something about this blonde warrior woman had awakened in him an instinct that had lain dormant for a long time. Not sexual attraction. He would not allow himself to be attracted to her, in spite of that dangerous spark of interest he knew could be fanned into something more if he didn’t stomp down hard on it. He had vowed to have no other woman in his life. But what he would give into was a stirring of creative interest.
He had lost Princess Alana when he’d sold her out for all those millions to a big gaming company. He didn’t like the way they’d since changed her—sexualised her. Okay, he’d been guilty of sexualising his teenage creation too. She’d been a fantasy woman in every way—which was why she’d appealed so much to the legions of young men who had bought her games. But he hadn’t given Alana what looked like a bad boob job. Or had her fight major battles bare-breasted. Or made her so predatory—sleazy even.
But he hadn’t been inspired to replace her. Until now. In the days since he’d met Shelley he’d been imagining a new heroine. Someone strong and fearless, her long golden hair streaming behind her. In a metal breastplate and leather skirt perhaps. No. That had been done before. Wielding a laser sword? That wasn’t right either. Princess Alana’s wings had been her thing. Warrior Woman Shelley needed something as unique, as identifying. And a different name. Something more powerful, more call to action than the soft and flowery Shelley.
He headed back to his study that took up most of the top floor. Put stylus to electronic pad and started to sketch strong, feminine curves and wild honey-coloured hair.
DECLAN PACED THE marble floor of his entrance hall. Back and forth, back and forth, feverish for Shelley to arrive for her first day of working on his garden. He’d actually set an alarm to make sure he wouldn’t miss her early start—something he hadn’t done for a long time. He raked his hands through his hair, looked down at his watch. Where was she?
In the ten days since he’d met with Shelley at the house, he had lived with the fantasy warrior-woman character who was slowly evolving in his imagination. Now he was counting down the minutes to when he got to see his inspiration again in the flesh. Not in the actual flesh. Of course not. His musings hadn’t got him that far.
At eight a.m. on the dot, she buzzed from the street and he released the gate to let her in. Then opened the front door, stepped out onto the porch and watched through narrowed eyes as she strode up the pathway towards him.
He took a deep breath to steady the instant reaction that pulsed through him. She didn’t disappoint. Still the same strength, vigour and a fresh kind of beauty that appealed to him. Appealed strictly in a creative way, that was. He had to keep telling himself that; refuse to acknowledge the feelings she aroused that had nothing to do with her as merely a muse. As a woman, the gardener was off-limits.
Any woman was off-limits. He hadn’t consciously made any commitment to celibacy—but after what had happened to Lisa he could not allow himself to get close to another woman. That meant no sex, no relationships, no love.
Shelley wore the same ugly khaki clothes—her uniform, it seemed—with a battered, broad-brimmed canvas hat jammed on her head. She swung a large leather tool bag as if it were weightless. It struck him that if the gardener wanted to disguise the fact she was an attractive woman she was going the right way about it. Her attire made him give a thought to her sexual preference. Not that her personal life was any of his concern. Perhaps he could make his prototype warrior of ambivalent sexuality. It could work. He was open to all ideas at this stage.
‘Good morning, Mr Grant,’ she carolled in a cheerful voice edged with an excitement she couldn’t disguise. She looked around her with eager anticipation. ‘What a beautiful sunny morning to start on the garden.’
She really wanted to do this—he could have got away with paying her half. Not that he would have haggled on the price. He was scrupulous about paying people fairly—despised people who didn’t.
Her words were accompanied by a wide, generous smile that revealed perfect teeth. The smile lingered in her eyes. Eyes that were the colour of nutmeg—in harmony with the honey-gold of her hair. Not that he could see more than a few wisps of that as it was jammed up under her hat. He wished he could see her hair out and flowing around her shoulders. And not just for inspiration.
‘Call me Declan,’ he said. ‘Not Mr Grant. He’s my father.’ Though these days his father went by the title His Honour as a judge in the Supreme Court of New South Wales.
Besides, Declan didn’t do people calling him ‘Mister’. Especially a girl who at twenty-eight was only two years younger than himself. Her age had been on the résumé she’d emailed him. Along with an impressive list of references that had checked out as she’d said they would. She appeared to be exactly what she said she was, which was refreshing in itself.
‘Sure, Declan,’ she said. ‘Call me Shelley. But never Michelle. That’s my full name and I hate it.’
‘Shelley it is,’ he said.
She buzzed with barely harnessed energy. ‘I’ll start clearing some of the overgrowth today—show your nosy neighbours you mean business. But first I really want to have a good look at what we’ve got here. Can you show me around?’ She put down her leather tool bag.
His first thought was to tell her to find her own way around the garden. But that would sound rude. And he wanted to correct the bad first impression he’d made on her. Not only because he was her employer. But also because if he was going to base a character on her, he wanted her to stick around. He had to stomp down again on the feeling that he would enjoy seeing her here simply because she was so lovely. She was out of bounds.
‘There’s not a lot I can tell you about the garden,’ he said. ‘It was overgrown when I bought it.’
‘You can leave the plants to me. But it’ll save time if you give me the guided tour rather than have me try to figure out the lay of the garden by myself.’
He shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘Is there a shed? Tools? Motor mower?’
‘I can show you where the shed is—from memory there are some old tools in there.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Let’s hope they’re in working order, though I do have equipment of my own, of course.’
‘I bought this house as a deceased estate,’ he said. ‘An old lady lived here for many years—’
‘So I was half right,’ Shelley said, her mouth tilting in amusement.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I imagined an eccentric old lady living here—a Miss Havisham type. You know, from Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.’
‘I am aware of the book,’ he said dryly. He hadn’t expected to be discussing literature with the gardener.
‘Or a cranky old man.’ Her eyes widened and she slapped her hand to her mouth.