Garden Of Scandal

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. I was going to ask if you’ll show me where the headwaters of your creek are located. I’d like to know what kind of floodplain drains into it from north of here.”

“You have a reason, I suppose?” Realizing she was still rubbing her wrist where the feeling was returning, she made an effort to stop.

His eyes were jet-black and his smile a little forced as he inclined his head. “I was thinking of diverting water from the creek for your fountain.”

“But why?” She gave him a quick frown. “They have those kits that recirculate the water. Wouldn’t that work?”

“You have to keep adding more water, plus the fountain goes stagnant after a while.” He summoned a grin. “Besides, I have a passion for water projects, and what’s the point in being an engineer if you’re going to take the easy way out?”

“I don’t think you want to go tromping through the woods to follow the creek. It’s nothing but a thicket back in there, and the snakes are already crawling.”

“You mean you don’t want to do it, I think,” he said. “Doesn’t matter. You point me down the right roads, and I can get enough of an idea from the back of my bike.”

“If you mean you want me to lead you in my car—”

The quick shake of his head cut her off. “What I had in mind was you riding with me.”

“I don’t think so!” She hovered between amazement, doubt and anger, and was uncertain which was uppermost in her mind.

“Why? Afraid I’ll overturn you?”

“No, but—”

“There’re no buts about it. Either you trust me or you don’t. What’s the big deal?”

“You don’t understand,” she said a little desperately.

He didn’t budge an inch. “So make me.”

“I don’t like motorcycles.” She glanced away, past his shoulder, as she spoke.

“You don’t have to like them. Just ride on one.”

Her lips tightened. “This is ridiculous. I don’t have to give you a reason. I’m just not going.”

“You’re chicken,” he said softly.

She snapped her gaze back to his. “You have no right to say such a thing. You don’t know what it’s like when I leave here. You just don’t know!”

“What makes you so sure? You’re not the only one with problems,” he said with a swift gesture of one hand. “At least I know one thing, which is that you have some kind of phobia about your Ivywild. If you don’t get out of it, you’re going to wind up locked inside with no way to leave. Ever.”

She bit the side of her lip. In a voice almost too low to hear, she asked, “Would that be so bad?”