Unlike his biological mother, who’d not even bothered to stick around, nicking off in the middle of the night and leaving no more than a note saying she was sorry. Sorry?
Zena Johnson, single mum—and pole-dancer on her evenings off, it had turned out—had been Belle’s housekeeper until she’d skipped town, leaving her only son with her employer. The best decision Zena had ever made, for all concerned, Matt reminded himself, without a lick of regret for the woman who’d given him life.
Belle had taken that scared, lonely, introverted kid, who’d never formed attachments since they’d never been in one place long enough, and treated him as her own. Loved him as her own. To Matt, Belle was family, and fourteen years ago at the age of eighteen he’d taken her surname to prove it.
He hefted the first carton, overloaded with his old school books. Time for the recycling bin. But the box was flimsy and slid out of his grip, spilling the contents over his feet. Dust billowed over his sneakers and jeans, then rose to clog his nostrils. He swiped a dust-coated forearm over his brow. Okay, the job might take longer than he’d anticipated—
A flash of movement somewhere beyond the window caught his eye. He saw a female figure walking up the leaf-littered path. Frowning, he moved nearer, rubbing a circle on the glass with the hem of his T-shirt for a better look. Not walking, he noted now—more like bouncing, as if she had springs attached to the soles of her worn sneakers. Or a song running through her head.
Young—late teens, early twenties? Hard to tell. He couldn’t see her face, shadowed by a battered black baseball cap, nor her hair, which she’d tucked out of sight. She wore a baby-pink T-shirt under baggy khaki overalls with stains at the knees. What looked like an old army surplus backpack covered with multicoloured daisy graffiti swung from one slender shoulder.
She slowed and, with her face in shadow, uncapped the bottled water in her free hand and stood a moment, staring at the old unicorn statue in the middle of the lawn. Something about her tugged at the edges of his mind.
He tracked her progress along the carefully tended topiary and gnome garden statues. How had she slipped past the gate’s security code? She wasn’t the first trespasser on Belle’s property—the reason he’d had the damn thing installed for her in the first place.
Only one way…She’d climbed the fence.
Every hair on his body bristled. Young, agile, probably doe-eyed and short on cash—she was just the sort to take advantage of a trusting woman living alone.
Not this time, honey.
He crossed the room, descended the stairs, half expecting the front doorbell to ring. He yanked open the door but saw no sign of her.
Where the hell had she gone?
He hotfooted it through the kitchen, his sneakers squeaking over the tiles, and shoved through the back door. Scouring the grounds, he spotted her slipping inside the old garden shed, partially obscured by ivy at the far end of the estate.
Heading grimly across lawn damp from last night’s rain, he barely noticed the stiff autumn breeze whistle through his threadbare T-shirt. But he noticed the scent she’d left on the air. Subtle and clean and…somehow familiar…
Barely visible in the shed’s gloom and with her back to him, she was inspecting gardening tools, discarding some, dumping others in the wheelbarrow beside her, all the while humming some unfamiliar tune slightly off-key.
He stopped at the open doorway, leaned an arm on the doorjamb. What was her game plan? he wondered, watching her add a pair of gardening gloves to her stash.
She couldn’t be more than five foot two and what he could see of her was finely boned. She didn’t look dangerous or devious, but he knew all too well that looks were deceiving. A gold-digger in overalls? Something niggled at him and he waited impatiently for her to turn around…
Ellie knew she wasn’t alone when the light spilling through the doorway dulled. A tingle swept across the back of her neck, cementing her to the spot. The tune she’d been humming stuck in her throat. The fact that whoever it was hadn’t spoken told her it wasn’t Belle.
And he was blocking her only escape route. Her mouth dried, her heart rate doubled. Trebled. The stranger was male. She could feel the power and authority radiating off him in waves. And something else. Disapproval. Red-hot disapproval, if the heat it generated down her spine was any indication. Was he a cop? She tried to recall if she’d jaywalked on her way here but her brain wasn’t computing anything as simple as short-term memory.
A cop wouldn’t sneak up on her.
She could smell sweat and dust…Barely moving, she closed the fingers of her right hand around the handle of the gardening fork which, by a stroke of luck, already lay in the wheelbarrow beside her hip.
Heart jumping, she grabbed the fork with both hands and swivelled to face him at the same time. ‘That’s close enough.’ Her voice grazed the roof of her mouth like the dry leaves at her feet. To compensate, she jutted her chin, aimed the fork in the direction of his belly and hoped he hadn’t noticed the tremor in her hands.
In the windowless shed all she could see was his silhouette. Tall, dark. Broad-shouldered. One bulging arm holding up the doorframe. Why hadn’t she flicked on the light as she came in? She aimed the fork lower, straight at his crotch. ‘I’m not afraid to use this.’
‘I don’t imagine you are.’
There was something familiar about that deep, dark voice which made her stupid heart jump some more, but in an entirely different way. More of a skip.
She jabbed the fork in his direction. ‘You’re trespassing. Miss McGregor’ll be coming out at any moment.’ At least, Ellie hoped she would…or maybe not, since Ellie would be forced to defend the woman as well as herself. ‘She’s probably already ringing the police.’
‘I don’t think so.’ His voice, frost-coated steel, sent a chill down Ellie’s spine.
‘Back off. Now.’ Heart thumping hard again, she lunged forward, rotating the fork’s tines to a vertical position so that they lay a dangerous whisker away from his jeans. From this position he towered over her and it belatedly occurred to Ellie that all he had to do was open his hand and her weapon would be his.
But he didn’t attempt to confiscate it, nor did he step back. As if he knew she couldn’t carry through with her threat, and there was nothing overtly menacing or desperate in his demeanour when he said, ‘How did you get in and what are you doing here?’
‘I used the code Miss McGregor gave me. Did you think I scaled that seven-foot fence?’ She shook her head, realising that was probably what he thought. ‘I’m the gardener—who are you?’
‘You’re Belle’s gardener?’
She drew herself up at the barely veiled sarcasm. ‘That’s what I said.’
‘What happened to Bob Sheldon?’
‘He still comes in to do the heavy stuff.’
This man knew Belle’s name and was obviously familiar with her staff. Still…Ellie’s fingers relaxed some on the fork. Her arms ached with holding the thing but she didn’t lower it. Not yet. ‘You haven’t told me who you are.’
Then he stepped back, into the sunlight, and said, ‘Matt McGregor.’
Brown eyes met hers. Familiar brown eyes. Eyes she’d dreamed about for the past couple of nights.
Her entire body went into lockdown. Oh, no. Not him. Please, please, please. Her Saturday night almost-lover couldn’t be Belle’s nephew. Couldn’t be.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her words came out on a wheeze.
A