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‘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…’ she began worriedly.
‘Well, if you change your mind, you can use the old refectory,’ he murmured as he led the way back inside. ‘From when it was an abbey, of course.’
He threw open the first door on his left.
Stepping inside the long, empty room that echoed rather unnervingly, she stared round her. It was tiled in the same flags as the hall, but, unlike the hall, the room had yet to be restored. The arched leaded windows were uncurtained, the massive fireplace dusty. It looked as though it hadn’t been used in a long time.
‘I’ll get a chair and table put in here for you to work at.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s good light in here, and I imagine light is important for your sketching.’
‘Yes,’ she agreed as she walked over to the windows and stared out at the tangled rear garden.
He joined her. ‘Once the cloisters, I believe, or cloistery—I’m never sure if it’s singular or plural. There were other buildings originally—a chapel, sleeping areas, a dairy, a room where they made wine, stored their vegetables. There are still cellars…’
‘Yes,’ she agreed automatically as a sudden sparkle of light caught her eye. Sunshine reflecting off a piece of broken glass maybe, which reminded her of the reporter. ‘Why would he take my picture?’ she asked worriedly.
‘The reporter? Who knows? Keeping up appearances?’
Bewildered, she began, ‘What appear—?’
‘It bothers you?’
‘No-o,’ she denied slowly, ‘but he might think…’
‘We have a romantic interest?’ he asked derisively.
‘There’s no need to say it like that,’ she scolded. ‘Some people find me attractive.’
‘I dare say they do,’ he agreed flatly.
She gave a small grin. He didn’t sound as though he was one of them. ‘Like your women with full figures, do you?’ she asked tongue in cheek.
He looked at her, his eyes flat, unreadable. ‘I like them silent.’
She gave a small snort of laughter and returned her attention to the garden.
‘If the photograph is published,’ he continued, ‘is there someone close to you who might be—offended?’
‘No.’
‘Good.’
Before she could ask him why it was good, he turned away and walked out, leaving her no choice but to follow. And, bizarrely, as though the room knew they had left, the door closed silently behind her. All by itself.
Staring at it, and then after the retreating Garde, she hurried to catch up with him. As though needing the reassurance of something solid, she trailed her hand across the uprights of the staircase and glanced up at the old maps decorating the rise to the landing. ‘You collect them?’
He didn’t answer. But then she hadn’t expected him to. No doubt it was a hobby, or something. What other hobbies did he have? Apart from taking on unknown landscape artists and allowing dogs to visit? ‘Do you really not believe I am who I say I am?’
He ignored her question, and she sighed. Subject closed? And why hadn’t he pursued the subject of references? He wasn’t a fool, so why take on someone—unknown? It didn’t make sense.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he ordered with the same indifference as he turned at the study door. ‘Just think of all that money you’re going to charge me.’
‘It isn’t the money,’ she denied quietly.
‘Isn’t it?’ he asked as he opened the door and indicated for her to go inside. ‘What else will you need?’
‘Need?’ she queried as she took two steps into the room and turned warily to face him.
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing until the sketches are approved.’
‘Labourers?’
She shook her head. ‘I usually do all the work myself.’
‘Accommodation?’
‘I’ll book myself into the little hotel where I stayed last night.’
He nodded. ‘An advance?’
Staring at him, feeling awkward—because she always hated this part, talking about money—for some silly reason her heart began to beat extraordinarily fast.
His regard was direct, penetrating, and those slate-grey eyes seemed to see into her soul. ‘Why have you been working in a garden centre?’
Avoiding his gaze, she mumbled, ‘Oh, well, you know, the winter and everything. People don’t usually start thinking about their gardens until the spring.’
‘It’s now summer,’ he pointed out drily.
‘Yes, well…’
‘Which presumably means your cash flow is—’
‘Non-existent, right,’ she interrupted staunchly. She still had a little in her savings account—what had been left from the sale of her house—but with rent and bills to pay for her tiny flat, it was being eaten away at an alarming rate. Her wages from the garden centre hadn’t been very much.
‘Then I’ll arrange to pay your bill at the hotel, and when you’re ready for any outlay—turfs, plants—let me know.’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘Why so troubled?’
‘I don’t know.’ And she didn’t, not really, but Jen’s words kept coming back to haunt her. Was she such a lousy judge of character? From wanting the job so badly, she now felt extremely troubled. Something just wasn’t right about this. ‘I didn’t expect…I mean, I thought I would be leaving today. That I wouldn’t see you again…’ With a funny little shrug, she added, ‘I’ll need to go home, get my things…’
‘When will you be back?’
She’d need a few days to get herself organised, do some washing and ironing… ‘Monday?’ she offered.
‘Monday’s fine.’
‘I do know what I’m doing,’ she insisted.
‘I hope you do.’ It sounded like a warning.
‘But what I don’t understand is why!’ she exclaimed.
‘No,’ he said unhelpfully as he stared down into her wide eyes, ‘I don’t suppose you do.’
‘And you aren’t going to tell me?’
‘Not yet. Don’t worry about it, Miss James,’ he mocked. ‘I thought they were green.’
‘Sorry?’ she murmured, beginning to feel almost mesmerised.
‘Your eyes. I thought they were green, but they aren’t; they’re blue with green flecks.’
‘Yes.’
He gave a small, slow, smile that held not a trace of warmth, and then he kissed her.
CHAPTER THREE
A SLOW deliberate kiss that left her reeling.
‘Why did you do that?’ she gasped.
‘Checking the height differential. What’s the name of the garden centre?’
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