Garden of Scandal

by Jennifer Blake

  His smile was grave. “I thought I’d sleep out here on the porch, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why should I mind?” she asked, though somehow she did. It seemed like a rejection of her hospitality, or as if he considered himself nothing more than a watchdog like Sticks, who had also slept on the screened porch. As she held the door open for him, she added, “Though I don’t know why you would want to.”

  “It just seems for the best,” he said, shielding his gaze with his lashes. “I can keep an eye on things just as well, maybe better. You can pretend I’m not even here.”

  Yes, indeed. She could do that; nothing easier. Sure. “Whatever you prefer,” she said, the words formal.

  “What I prefer—” he began in compressed tones. He stopped, folding his lips over the words an instant before he started again. “I’ll be able to hear if somebody comes up, and I can get out to make an occasional security check around the house without disturbing you.”

  “If anybody does come, they can also get to you easier,” she said.

  Alec, hearing the concern in her voice, was overwhelmed. That she might be afraid he would be hurt had never crossed his mind. He couldn’t remember the last time anybody had cared what happened to him, except for Grannie Callie. It made him feel humble. It also gave him a startling sense of invincibility.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said softly. “I’ll be fine.”

  Her denial was instant. “I wasn’t worried. But what if someone comes up and you don’t hear them?”

  “I’ll hear them.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” She bit the inside of her lip, then released it before she went on. “You…really don’t have to do this at all, you know.”

  “I know,” he said, watching her with a slow smile. “I’ll stay anyway, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “It isn’t that I mind, only…”

  “What?”

  “I’m still not sure why you should be involved with my problems.”

  “If I said because I’m madly, passionately in love with you, would you believe me?” he asked, tipping his head to one side.

  The humor that rose in her eyes had a wry edge to it. “I don’t think so.”

  That was too bad. He tried again. “Suppose I told you I had extremely improper designs on your body?”

  “Highly unlikely.”

  Her flush was apparent even in the dim light, and her voice was fretted with uneasiness. Time to back off. “You think so? How about that I have an exaggerated sense of responsibility to my elders?”

  “Thank you very much!”

  “I guess you don’t like that, either,” he said, his tone mournful. She was so much fun to tease since she rose so well to the bait. “There’s nothing left except the truth, then, which is that I’m getting gray hairs from worrying about you here by yourself. I mean, if something happened to you, there would go my job, and then where would I be?”

  “Gray hair, huh?”

  “Sure. See?” He bent his head, pointing to where he knew several should show up.

  She rose on tiptoe to look. Her surprise was plain as she said, “You really do have gray hair.”

  “I’ll match mine against yours any day,” he answered promptly as he straightened. “Not to mention my wrinkles.”

  “Smile lines,” she corrected him, her gaze touching on the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

  “Exactly so. Years versus miles, as I said before.” He watched closely to be certain she got the message. As her lashes flickered, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction before he went on. “Now that you see I’m just protecting my own, is everything okay?”

  She was silent so long he began to be alarmed, then she gave a shake of her head. “What am I going to do with you?”

  It was too good an opening to pass up. Besides, his relief was so great he felt light-headed and not quite responsible. With grinning audacity, he drawled, “Whatever you want, ma’am. Anything at all.”

  “Right,” she said, swinging smartly from him back into the kitchen. “Now that we’ve had this little talk, I think maybe the porch is the best place for you, after all.”

  Alec watched the door close behind her, shutting off the light. He dragged air deep into his lungs, then let it out on a gusting breath that ended in a shiver. She didn’t believe a word he said. She thought it was all a big joke, or else that was what she wanted to pretend. He didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry.

  Dropping his sleeping bag on the floor, he knelt to unroll it. He lowered himself to it and turned onto his back, clasping his hands behind his head. It was cool here in spite of the warm night. The screened space had been designed as a hot-weather sleeping porch back in the days before air-conditioning, so was oriented to catch the prevailing winds. He could smell honeysuckle on the breeze that drifted down its long length, as well as the hedge scent of the photinia planted around the Italian garden. The melodious sounds of the different fountains came to him as a soothing three-part harmony. It would be very easy to sleep, he thought, if that was really why he was here.

  It wasn’t—not by a long shot. Something he would do well to remember.

  Laurel made herself walk all the way to her bedroom before she stopped. Just inside the darkened room, she put her back to the wall and slumped there, closing her eyes. Whatever you want…

  No, she wouldn’t think about it. She wouldn’t. He didn’t mean it, anyway, but was only teasing her.

  It was curious, but she didn’t feel older anymore. It had something to do with his assurance, plus the knowledge that he had so much more experience than she had. Not to mention more gray hair.

  Madly, passionately in love…

  Her lips tilted in a reminiscent smile. Whether he meant it or not, he had managed to make her feel better. Charm? Lord, yes, he had it by the gallon.

  Still, just suppose, for the sake of argument, that he did mean it? Or at least that he wanted her to think he did so that he could move in on her? Well, it had worked, hadn’t it? In a way? He was sleeping on her porch.

  Yes, but he could have been just down the hall. Why would he refuse that advantage if what he wanted was to seduce her? Take her to bed? Get into her pants? Whatever the current phrase might be.

  Actually, the word seduction was much more meaningful since it implied mental persuasion, not to mention a certain finesse when it came to the physical part. Yes, and it was just like her to be distracted by the semantics of the whole thing.

  Wasn’t that exactly what Alec was doing, though—seducing her with his teasing and his smiles, his attention to her comfort and security and the things that gave her pleasure? He might not be the suave, sophisticated type, full of compliments and grand gestures and expensive gifts, but that didn’t make his methods any less effective.

  She had no intention of succumbing. It would be stupid after she had been warned.

  Why would he come on to her? She wasn’t wealthy or well-known. All she had was a decent bank account and a half interest in a house she had inherited with her children under Louisiana heirship laws. Neither was worth the time of a real confidence man. Still, why else would he move in on her except for money?

  It would serve him right if she took him up on his offer, if she used him as he meant to use her. If she accepted the fleeting pleasure he offered and gave nothing in return, he would have no one except himself to blame.

  But could she do that? Did she dare? Would she be able to make love to him and not become emotionally involved? Could she treat sex like food—something to reach for in answer to an appetite? Would she be able to keep her heart under control if she let him take her in his arms?

  Why not? Men did it all the time, didn’t they?

  Oh, but the very idea seemed so cold and mechanical and unloving. Bodies grappling in the dark. Flesh against flesh with each person trying desperately to take pleasure from the other while giving nothing of themselves. A mere—what was the pseudosophisticated phrase?—exchange of bodi
ly fluids. What was the point when both of them would be as alone when it was over as when they had begun?

  Besides, what on earth would she say to him when he came to work in the morning? Don’t work too hard, honey, because you’ll need your strength tonight.

  Good grief, no.

  So why, then, was she rummaging among her principles and less admirable inclinations for answers to fit a situation that might never arise? There was nothing to show that Alec wanted her in any way whatsoever. The man had been joking; that was what men his age did. It was a joke, ma’am, just a joke. Don’t you get it?

  She got it, and why not? It was on her.

  Pushing away from the wall, she moved across to her bed and climbed in. Lying flat on her back in her usual position, she pulled up the sheet and closed her eyes tight against the ache of tears. And when the night was over, all she had to show for it was another rosebud from her own garden.

  She didn’t expect him the next evening until after ten, and she wasn’t disappointed. She had finally figured out that he waited for darkness to cover his approach. With it being Beltane—May Day in the old style, on the night of the full moon—he would have plenty of light to guide him when he returned for the evening. The secrecy seemed a little cloak-and-daggerish to her, but she didn’t mind. She was beginning to look forward to pretending to be nothing more than his employer all day, then letting him in at night like a secret lover.

  She had lemonade ready, as well as some soft, buttery sugar cookies that Maisie had made that afternoon. They ate them sitting on the back steps, talking in a desultory fashion. He wanted to know if her housekeeper had said anything about his night vigil. Maisie hadn’t, as he was being so discreet, leaving no unmade bed, no extra plate and cup in the sink, nothing. Apparently no one had spotted his bike or seen him coming and going, either. At least, no whisper of gossip had yet placed him there at night. Warranted or not, Laurel had the comfortable feeling they were getting away with something.

  She knew they shouldn’t press their luck, however, and so they didn’t linger where they might be seen. Laurel read for a time after she went back into the house—a fascinating medieval romance Maisie had recommended. But it wasn’t long before she turned out her light. She lay for a while, wondering if the porch floor under Alec’s sleeping bag was too hard, if he needed a pillow, or if he was too hot and could use the small electric fan in her closet. She could get up and check, and as a concerned hostess probably should.

  Excuses. Ordering herself to stop and go to sleep, she flounced over onto her back and did deep-breathing exercises until she drifted off.

  She was jarred awake perhaps an hour later. She was groggy with sleep, but alert enough to know something wasn’t right. Some sound lingered at the edge of her consciousness. She couldn’t quite grasp it, but knew full well she should not have heard it.

  Heaving up on one elbow, she flung back the sheet that covered her and slid from the bed. Her caftan lay across the foot of the mattress, and she reached out to drag it on. Barefoot, sure of her way, she crossed the dark room, listened a moment at the door, then pulled it open and stepped into the hall.

  At that instant, the knob of the front door turned with a discreet, stealthy rattle. She stiffened, going completely still as she recognized the same sound that had awakened her. Whipping around, she sped down the hall in the opposite direction. She put both hands on the back door as she eased it open, trying to keep the old-fashioned hinges from shrieking. As she slid out onto the porch, she could see Alec’s sleeping bag. It was empty.

  Where was he? Could it have been him at the front door? It was unlikely. He had stood beside her while she turned the old-fashioned key, making certain the lock was secure.

  Had he heard the prowler, then, and gone to investigate? Was he around in the front garden as before, watching whoever was trying to get in? Or could he be lying hurt somewhere out there after tangling with the intruder?

  She clasped her arms around her, trying to control the tremors that shook her. Think. She had to think. What should she do?

  Going back into the house was out of the question. Whoever had been at the door might be inside by now. Nor could she stay where she was—not when Alec might need help. But if she went stumbling in the dark to find him, she might get in the way of whatever he was doing to protect her.

  The night beyond the screen was not truly dark. The rich, silver light of a full moon shone down, beckoning in its brilliance. It shimmered on the grass, reflected, glittering, in the water mirrors grouped near the corner of the lawn, and turned the leaves of trees and shrubs to shapes cut from black glass. In its bright glory there were few places to hide.

  Where was Alec?

  She couldn’t just stand there, waiting for him to come back, waiting for the prowler to find her. She had to do something even if it was wrong.

  Swinging around, she slipped from the back porch, closing its screen door behind her with exquisite care. She scurried down the steps and along the path to the corner of the house. Pausing beside the old cistern with its burden of pots, she glanced quickly about her. Nothing moved except gray-black tree shapes shifting with an occasional breeze. Nor could she hear a sound beyond water noises and the muted shrilling of crickets and peeper frogs from the woods.

  The unearthly beauty of the moonlight and the fervid life that flowed through it tugged at her. She had no time for it, however; not when every patch of shadow might hide some unknown danger, when every step might bring her face-to-face with whoever had killed Sticks. Her heart was pounding. Her palms were sweaty in spite of the shuddering chill deep inside her. It was an enormous effort to make herself move, stepping softly along the shadowed walk. Two steps. Stop to listen. Two steps more.

  At the rounded end of the front veranda, she stood on tiptoe to peer along its length. Nothing moved beneath the high ceiling. She stifled a moan of dismay. If no one was there, where had they gone? She whipped around in a convulsive movement, suddenly terrified they were behind her.

  Nothing. She let out the breath she had been holding on a tremulous sigh.

  Where in the name of heaven was Alec and what was he doing? What was she doing, for that matter, hiding here, playing cat and mouse with some weirdo? If she had been thinking straight, she would have found her pistol, brought it with her, but it had never occurred to her. She clenched her fists, trying to hold the terror at bay. At the same time, she felt a bitter rage that she could no longer be safe and hidden in her own home.

  Hidden. That word came to mind so easily. Could Alec be right, then? Was she really hiding out, afraid of life and living? It seemed possible, and yet she couldn’t pinpoint the moment when she had decided never to leave Ivywild. Her reluctance to get in her car and face people had slid into deep seclusion so gradually that she hadn’t recognized it.

  Now she had been routed from her house, forced outside into the moonlit night. But she had no place to go. All that was left was to find Alec.

  Tears threatened, but she blinked them away. She would not descend into maudlin self-pity. Neither would she be hounded and threatened without fighting back. She would reclaim her peace, she would do what she wanted with her house and land, her time, her money, and her life, and no one was going to stop her. No one.

  Which was all very well, but she was still shaking with fear. She forced herself to move along the path again.

  The fountain leaped and splattered among the glossy-leaved new roses. The spice of Bath’s pinks mingled with rose fragrance, shifting like a vapor on the warm air. Turning at the front steps, Laurel moved around the brick basin of the fountain toward the front gate. She stopped with her hands on its pickets. Above her, the Zéphrine Drouhin roses nodded pale heads whose dark rose color was bleached to lavender gray by the moon.

  Then she heard it: the scrape of a footstep somewhere behind her, whispering on the path, coming around the corner of the house where she had just walked. Had whoever was there seen her? Did they know where she was?


  Laurel didn’t wait to find out. Pushing open the gate, she swung around it. Then she put her head down and ran.

  She fled along the picket fence and down the drive that led to the garage, then swerved to sprint around behind it. The backyard was spread before her, a bright space shadowed by the trees and shrubs along the rear edge and by the great black wedge shape of the house. She had to cross it to reach the back steps. Once inside again, she could get her pistol. If she could scare off the prowler, then she could find Alec. With her gaze fastened on the geometric pattern of the moonlit steps and their black shadow, she made that last dash.

  Something big and dark suddenly loomed before her. She cried out, tried to swerve, but slammed into a warm and rock-hard wall. Arms like steel ropes whipped around her, wrenching her to a halt. As she drew in air to scream, a firm hand was clamped over her mouth. Warm breath fanned her cheek, sifted through her hair, as Alec growled near her ear, “Gotcha. Finally.”

  She sagged against him, her teeth chattering. Her chest heaved as she tried to get air into her lungs. She trembled so uncontrollably that her voice came out in shaken gasps. “I thought…you were…”

  “For God’s sake, why?” He removed his hand from her mouth as he braced his legs and caught her close.

  “I heard the front doorknob…rattle, and you were…gone.”

  “I was just checking to be sure it was still secure. I didn’t mean to give you such a scare.”

  He had said something before about making a circuit of the house. Like a policeman on a beat, he would ensure everything was locked up tight at each security point. She had overreacted. Knowing that helped, but it didn’t make the painful residue of terror go away. With a mute shake of her head, she burrowed into his strength, needing his solid presence and hard clasp to regain her equilibrium. Her cheek brushed his smooth heated skin where his heart beat in steady, endless cadence. He wore no shirt. That startling discovery penetrated, quieting her as nothing else could.