Hired by the Brooding Billionaire

He shook his head. ‘I was entirely uninterested in learning a dead language. I was way more interested in learning how computers talked to each other. Much to my parents’ horror.’

‘They were both lawyers? I guess they wanted you to be a lawyer too.’ His mouth clamped into a tight line. ‘Or...or not,’ she stuttered.

There was another of those awkward silences she was going to have to learn to manage. He was a man of few words and she was a woman of too many. But now that she understood the dark place he was coming from, she didn’t feel so uncomfortable around him.

She took a deep breath. ‘Back to the camellias. I think we’ll find there’s a very fine collection here. Did you know Sydney is one of the best places to grow camellias outside of China, where they originate?’

His expression told her he did not.

‘Okay. That’s way more than you wanted to know and I’m probably boring you.’ When would she learn to edit her words?

He shook his head. ‘No. You’re not. I know nothing about gardening so everything you tell me is new.’ His eyes met hers for a long moment. ‘I guess I’m going to learn whether I want to or not,’ he said wryly.

‘Good. I mean, I’m glad I’m not boring you. I love what I do so much but I realise not everyone else is the same. So just tell me to button up if I rabbit on too much.’

‘I’ll take that on board,’ he said with another flash of the smile that so disconcerted her.

She looked around her, both to disconnect from that smile and hungry to discover more of the garden’s hidden treasures. ‘I want to explore further and think about an action plan. But the first thing I’ll do today is prune that rather sick-looking rose that’s clambering all over the front of the house. Winter is the right time of year to prune but we’re running out of time on that one. It’s dropped most of its leaves but in spring it must be so dense it blocks all light from the windows on the second floor.’

‘It does,’ he said. ‘I like it that way.’ His jaw set and she realised he could be stubborn.

‘Oh. So, do I have permission to prune it—and prune it hard?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve committed to getting rid of the jungle. I have to tell you to go ahead.’

‘You won’t regret it. It’s a beautiful old rose called “Lamarque”. If I prune it and feed it, bring it back to good health, come spring you’ll have hundreds of white roses covering the side of the house.’

He went silent again. Then nodded slowly, which she took for assent. ‘Lisa would have loved that.’

Shelley swallowed hard against a sudden lump in her throat at the pain that underscored his words. It must be agony for him to stand here talking to her about his late wife when he must long for his Lisa to be here with him. Not her.

She forced herself not to rush to fill the silence. No way could she risk a foot-in-mouth comment about his late wife. Instead she mustered up every bit of professional enthusiasm she could.

‘When I’ve finished, the garden will enhance the house and the house the garden. It’s going to be breathtaking. Your neighbours should be delighted—this garden will look so good it will be a selling point for them to be near it.’

‘I’m sure it will—not that I give a damn about what they think,’ said Declan with a return of the fearsome scowl. He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘But I have to go back inside.’ He turned on his heel.

Shelley suspected she might have to get used to his abruptness. It was as if he could handle a certain amount of conversation and that was all. And her conversations were twice as long as anyone else’s.

Think before you speak.

‘Wait,’ she said. ‘Can you show me the shed first? You know, where there might be garden tools stored.’

He paused, turned to look back to her. A flicker of annoyance rippled over his face and she quailed. He seemed distracted, as if he were already back in his private world inside the house—maybe inside his head.

He was, she supposed, a creative person whereas she was get-her-hands-dirty practical. He made his living designing games. Creative people lived more in their heads. She was very much grounded on solid earth—although she sometimes indulged in crazy flights of the imagination. Like wondering if he was a criminal. Or an incognito movie star—he was certainly handsome enough for it. But she’d been half right about the Miss Havisham-like Daphne.

‘The shed is over there at the north end of the garden,’ he said.

Without another word he started to stride towards it. Even with her long legs, Shelley had to quicken her pace to keep up.

The substantial shed looked to be of a similar age to the house and was charmingly dilapidated. The door had once been painted blue but was peeling to reveal several different paint colours dating back to heaven knew how long. A rose—she couldn’t identify which one immediately—had been trained to grow around the frame of the door.

If the shed were hers, she wouldn’t paint that door. Just sand and varnish it and leave the motley colours exactly as they were. It would not only be beautiful but a testament to this place’s history.

As if.

She was never likely to own her own house, garden or even a shed. Not with the exorbitant price of Sydney real estate. Worse, she had loaned Steve money that she had no hope of ever getting back. Foolish, yes, she could see that now—but back then she had anticipated them getting engaged.

One day, perhaps, she might aspire to a cottage way out of town somewhere with room for not just a shed but a stable too.

In the meantime, she was grateful to Lynne for letting her share her tiny apartment in return for a reasonable contribution to the rent. All her spare dollars and cents were being stashed away to finance that trip to Europe.

Come to think of it, this shed looked to be bigger than Lynne’s entire apartment in nearby Double Bay. ‘Double Pay,’ her sister joked.

The door to the shed was barred by a substantial bolt and a big old-fashioned lock. It was rusted over but still intact. Even the strength in Declan’s muscled arms wasn’t enough to shift it. He gave the door a kick with a black-booted foot but it didn’t budge.

He ran his hand through his hair. ‘Where the hell is the key? I’ll have to go look inside for it.’

He was obviously annoyed she was keeping him from his work but she persevered.

‘I’d appreciate that. I’d really like to see what’s in there.’

She hoped there would be usable tools inside. While she had a basic collection, she was used to working with equipment supplied by her employer. She didn’t want to have to take a hire payment from her fee.

He turned again to head towards the house.

‘Sorry,’ she said. There went that darn sorry word again. ‘But one more thing before you go. Is there...well, access to a bathroom? I’ll be working here all day and—’

‘At the side of the house there’s a small self-contained apartment,’ he said. ‘You can use the bathroom there. I’ll get you that key too. A door leads into the house but that’s kept locked.’

‘Are you sure? I thought maybe there was an outside—’

‘You can use the apartment,’ he said, in a that’s-the-end-of-it tone.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Take a walk around the garden while I go hunt for the keys,’ he said. ‘I might be a while.’

She watched him as he headed towards the back entrance of the house. Did he always wear black? Or was it his form of mourning? It suited him, with his dark hair and deep blue eyes. The black jeans and fine-knit sweater—cashmere by the look of it—moulded a body that was strong and muscular though not overly bulky. If he spent long hours at a computer, she wondered how he’d developed those impressive muscles.

She realised she’d been staring for a moment too long and turned away. It would be too embarrassing for words if her employer caught her ogling the set of his broad shoulders, the way he filled those butt-hugging jeans. He was very ogle-worthy.

She put her disconcerting thoughts about her bereaved boss behind her as—at last—she took the opportunity to explore the garden. Slowly scanning from side to side so she didn’t miss any hidden treasures, she walked right around the perimeter of the garden and along the pathways that dissected it. It was daunting but doable.

Dew was still on the long grass and her trousers and boots got immediately damp but she didn’t care. Sydney winter days were mild—not like the cold in other places she’d lived in inland Victoria and New South Wales where frost and even snow could make early starts problematical and chilblain-inducing. The cold didn’t really bother her. Just as well, as she’d set her heart on finding a job in one of the great gardens of the stately homes in England, where winters would be so much more severe than here.

The scent of the daphne haunted each step but she didn’t immediately find where it was growing. She would have to search for that particular gem under the undergrowth. There was no rush. She had time to get to know the idiosyncrasies this particular landscape would present to her.