What the heck had that been about? And what did it mean for her relationship with her secretive, billionaire boss?
NOTHING, AS IT turned out. The episode meant nothing, she realised in the days that followed. Days where she saw very little of Declan and neither of them mentioned the incident. The longer it went unsaid, the less likely it would ever be aired.
The Rapunzel incident—as she had begun to call it in her mind. Fancifully, she thought of it as: ‘Shelley, Shelley, let down your golden hair.’ Let down your hair—and then nothing. She blushed as she remembered how she had yearned for him to take it further.
The moments Declan had spent releasing her hair from its restraint and caressing her had begun to take on the qualities of a distant dream. Making a joke of it—even if only to herself—somehow took the sting out of what had happened.
The way he had avoided her since both puzzled and hurt. But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—let it bother her. Because while she was hurt in one way, she felt relieved in another.
Nothing could come of the incident. He was the billionaire boss, she was the gardener who needed the generous salary he had agreed to pay her. She should be grateful he hadn’t taken advantage of that. Be glad he hadn’t kissed her. She’d worked for men who had made her feel distinctly uncomfortable to be alone with them when she’d been working on their properties. It was one reason she dressed the way she did for work.
Besides, she had another more pressing concern to occupy her thoughts.
Her sister’s boyfriend, Keith, had proposed to Lynne. The newly engaged couple wanted to live together as they planned their wedding. And the apartment in Double Bay she shared with Lynne was way, way too small for her to live with them in any privacy.
She had to find somewhere else to live—pronto. Keith wouldn’t move in until she moved out. She was happy for her sister; Keith was a really nice guy and just what Lynne needed. Neither of them was pressing her to go, but of course they wanted to start their new life together as soon as they could.
But it was a difficult rental market in Sydney. Apartment hunting meant showing up for an open day and hoping like heck she made a better impression on the letting agent than the other people lined up with her to inspect the same property. There was a one-room apartment open today in nearby Edgecliff and she needed to see it.
In the three weeks she’d been working for Declan she hadn’t taken a lunch hour, just grabbed twenty minutes to down the sandwich and coffee in a flask she’d brought from home. She’d wanted to get as much work as possible done in the shorter daylight hours at this time of year.
It was now well into August and the garden was showing definite signs of the early southern hemisphere spring: jonquils scented the air and the nodding pink heads of hellebores gave delight in the cooler, shadier corners of the garden. She had found the elusive daphne, cleared the tough kikuyu grass that was smothering it and made sure it would survive.
But today, four days after the Rapunzel incident, she needed to take an extended lunch hour. Technically, she should ask Declan’s permission for extra time off, but it wasn’t really that kind of working relationship. He seemed to take her on trust and she would never take advantage of that. She decided to keep him in the loop anyway.
After a morning’s hard work, she was fortunate she had the bathroom in the housekeeper’s apartment in which to shower and change. She needed to look smart and responsible, as though she could afford the rent, the deposit and all the other expenses that came with renting an apartment. Expenses that would take a substantial chunk out of her savings.
Lynne and Keith had sprung this on her. As she towelled herself dry she found herself wishing—unreasonably, she knew—that Keith had put off his proposal until she had finished this job and was taking off for Europe.
Six months would be the minimum lease she could sign. She could end up trapped in Sydney for longer than she would choose to be. She wanted to be in Europe by October to see the gardens in autumn. Maybe she should consider a short-term house-share or even house-sitting.
Twenty-eight and still without a home of her own—she couldn’t help but be plagued by a sense of failure when she thought about her limited options.
She slipped into the clothes she’d brought with her to change into—the world’s most flattering skinny-leg trousers in a deep shade of biscuit teamed with a businesslike crisp white shirt, and topped with a stylish short trench coat in ice-blue with contrasting dark buttons. She finished off with a blue-and-black leopard-print scarf around her neck and short camel boots with a medium stiletto heel.
Lucky for her, Lynne was a fashion buyer for a big retailer and could get her clothes at a sizeable discount. Lynne also had excellent taste in the choices she made for her, which made up for Shelley’s own tendency to slide into whatever felt most comfortable.
As she pulled her hair into a high ponytail and slicked on some make-up she thought she scrubbed up rather well.
Still feeling like an intruder in the apartment, she perched on the edge of the sofa and texted Declan.
I need to take a long lunch hour today—will make up the time.
His text came back straight away.
Can I see you before you go? Come to the front door.
Puzzled, Shelley put down her phone. She hadn’t been inside the house since the evening of her interview. She hoped she wasn’t to be reprimanded for anything. She had a feeling Declan hadn’t been too impressed with the way she’d brought Mark in—though arranging for extra help was quite within their terms of agreement.
She flung her fake designer tote bag—a present from a friend, who’d bought it in Thailand—over her shoulder and headed around to the front of the house.
* * *
Declan had lost count of the times he had berated himself for giving in to the temptation to free Shelley’s glorious hair from its constraints. For touching her. It had been out of order. Unprofessional. Wrong.
Even if it had only been in the interests of research for Princess Estella.
Or so he’d told himself.
For a moment he had let that self-imposed force field slip—with disastrous consequences. Now she obviously felt uncomfortable around him. And he could not rid his mind of the memory of how it had felt to be so intimately close to her—and her trembling response to his touch.
He felt he owed Shelley an explanation. But he was more fluent in JavaScript than he was at talking about anything personal. How did he explain why he had to keep her at arm’s length? That he was not free to pursue another woman?
Technically, yes, he was a widower and able to marry again. But the day Lisa had died he had shut down emotionally. He had imprisoned himself in chains of grief and guilt, shrouded himself in the darkness of self-blame.
Lisa was dead. Their daughter’s life snuffed out when it had scarcely begun. How could he expect happiness, love, intimacy for himself? He didn’t deserve a second chance.
‘Survivor’s guilt—a classic case of it,’ his mother had said. His top criminal-law-barrister mother, who knew a lot about the darker side of life. She’d given him the contact details of a grief counsellor—details that still sat in the bottom of his desk drawer.
Even she had been devastated by the tragedy. She’d been very fond of Lisa and seen the birth of her first grandchild as a chance to start over. ‘To be a better grandmother than I ever was a mother,’ she’d said with brutal honesty.