‘Not too many snakes in Darling Point,’ he said, wondering about her other fears.
‘I hope not, it’s so close to the city,’ she said. ‘Though I’ll still approach the undergrowth outside with caution. I’ve been surprised by red-bellied black snakes in north shore gardens.’
Could the fantasy warrior woman forming in his imagination vanquish snakes under foot? Or evil-doers in the guise of snakes? Hordes of alien shape-shifter spiders? No. This new princess warrior would be more defender than attacker. Saving rather than destroying. But would that make the character interesting to the adolescent boys who were his main market?
He realised how much he’d changed since he’d created the assassin Alana with her deadly bow and arrow. Then he’d been angry at the world with all the angst of a boy who’d been told too often that he’d been unplanned, unwanted. His parents had been surprised by his mother’s pregnancy. He’d been told so often he’d been ‘an accident’ but the sting of the words never diminished, never lessened the kick-in-the-gut feeling it gave him. Destruction, death even, had been part of the games he’d created with so much success.
Now he’d suffered the irreversible consequence of death in real life rather than in a fantasy online world where characters could pick themselves up to fight again. He could never again see death as a game.
Shelley reached into her tool bag and pulled out a pair of thick leather gauntlet gloves. ‘I dare a spider to sink its fangs through these,’ she challenged.
‘I hope they don’t get close enough for that to happen,’ he said.
Gloves. There was something very sensual about gloves. Not the tough utilitarian gardening gloves Shelley was pulling onto her hands. No. Slinky, tight elbow-length gloves that showed off the sleek musculature of strong feminine arms, the elegance of long fingers. He itched to get back to his study and sketch her arms. Not Shelley’s arms. Of course not. He could not go there. The arms of fictional warrior Princess As Yet Unnamed—he gave himself permission to sketch hers.
‘There’s a treasure trove in here,’ Shelley exclaimed in delight as she poked through corners of the shed that had obviously been left undisturbed for years.
He had to smile at a woman who got excited at a collection of old garden implements. You’d think they were diamond-studded bracelets the way she was reacting. It was refreshing. Shelley was refreshing. He had never met anyone like her.
‘Looks like a bunch of rusty old tools to me,’ he said.
A motley collection of old garden implements was leaning against the wall. She knocked off the dust and cobwebs from a wooden-handled spade before she picked it up and held it out for him to examine.
‘This is vintage,’ she said. ‘Hand forged and crafted with skill. Made to last for generations. It’s a magnificent piece of craftsmanship. Valuable too. You’d be surprised what you could sell this for. Not that you probably need the money.’ She flushed pink on her high cheekbones. ‘Sorry. That just slipped out.’
‘You’re right. I don’t need the money.’
He had accumulated more money than he knew how to spend and yet it kept on rolling into his bank accounts. He didn’t actually need to work ever again. Did his private work for little recompense. The odd hours his work entailed were something to keep the darkness at bay. Since Lisa and their baby had died he had suffered badly from insomnia. Sleep brought nightmares where he was powerless to save his wife and daughter. Where he tortured himself with endless ‘if onlys’ repeated on a never-breaking loop.
‘What do you plan to do with these tools?’ he said.
She brandished the shovel. ‘Use them, of course. Though they’ll need cleaning and polishing first.’ She looked up. ‘I’ll do that on my own time,’ she added.
He liked her honesty. Doubted that Shelley would charge him for five minutes that she wasn’t working.
‘No need for that,’ he said. ‘Count restoring these heirloom tools as part of your work here.’
Heirloom? Where did that word come from to describe decrepit garden implements? Was it an attempt to please her?
He so nearly added: I’ll come down and help you with them. But he drew the words back into his mouth before there was a chance of them being uttered. There would be no cosy sessions down in this shed, cleaning up tools, chatting, getting to know each other.
Shelley was his gardener. And, unwittingly, his muse. That was all she could ever be to him. No matter how he was beginning to wish otherwise. That was all any woman, no matter how lovely or how endearing, could be.
* * *
Shelley cautiously let herself into the apartment attached to the back of the house with the key Declan had given her. Even though she had his permission, she felt like an intruder. She sucked in a breath of surprise when she got inside. The apartment was more generous in size than she had imagined. Heck, the shed here was bigger than the apartment where she lived. This appeared positively palatial by comparison.
The decoration seemed brand-new—stylish in neutral tones with polished wooden floorboards and simple, timeless furnishings in whitewashed timber and natural fabrics. It was posh for staff quarters—which was what she assumed the apartment was.
Had anyone ever lived here since it had been renovated?
She’d taken off her boots at the door. On feet encased in tough woollen work socks, she tiptoed through the rooms: a living room furnished with a stylish, comfortable-looking sofa and a big flat-screen television set; a dining area; a smart, compact kitchen; a bedroom with a large bed and an elegant quilt; a small, immaculate bathroom. It was the most upscale granny flat she’d seen—it wouldn’t be out of place on the pages of a design magazine. There was a door at the end of the kitchen she thought might be a pantry. But it was locked and she realised it must be the door into the house. That made sense for staff quarters.
Shelley trailed her hand along the edge of the sofa and wondered about Lisa, Declan’s late wife. She must have been a nice person to go to so much trouble to decorate this apartment for a housekeeper. She herself had been in too many grotty staff facilities to know the difference.
Her heart contracted inside her at the thought of the tragedy that had played out in this house. Lisa had had her whole life ahead of her, everything to look forward to. And Declan. How could he ever get over it?
She herself had trust issues. Would find it difficult to ever trust a man enough to love again. But loss on this scale was unimaginable. Could Declan ever let himself trust in a future again?
Subdued by the thought, she once again reminded herself how lightly she would have to tread around this man. And that she must not—repeat not—let herself be attracted to him for even a second. She sensed giving into that would lead to heartbreak the like of which she had never even imagined.
SHELLEY WAS BECOMING Declan’s guilty pleasure. From the windows of his office that took up most of the top floor of the house, he could watch her unobserved as she worked in the garden below.
Her energy and output were formidable as she systematically went about getting his garden back into shape. Right now she was on her hands and knees weeding a garden bed in the mid-morning sunshine. They’d had a discussion about the use of herbicides and come to the mutual decision to use an organic-based poison only when needed for the toughest of the garden invaders.
Garden invaders. He was taken by the term, wondered if he could use it for Princess No-Name’s game. Not that young male gamers were likely to be interested in gardens—but invaders, yes.
However