Darcy nodded. “That’s right. It looked like a simple choice to me, and we hadn’t pulled up more than half a dozen bushes when she calmed down enough to discuss a payment plan. Now that’s an afternoon I’ll never forget, and the whole nasty scene could have been avoided if I’d just insisted that she read and approve my estimate. Only fools don’t learn from their mistakes, Mr. Moore, and I don’t repeat mine.”
Griffin gave a grudging nod to concede the point. “I’ll not ask you to compromise your principles, Ms. MacLeod, but please be assured I’ll okay whatever figure you select.”
“Darcy,” she reminded him.
“Darcy.” His faint accent caressed her name obligingly, but he turned away without asking to be called Griffin.
Insulted, Darcy couldn’t draw a deep breath until he’d returned to the house, and even then she wasn’t certain who had actually won that exchange. Deciding it’d probably been a draw, she took comfort in the familiar, made some quick measurements of the scruffy lawn, then sat on the terrace steps to create a sketch. Knowing what was required, she’d prepared some rough figures before leaving the nursery and was about to complete her written estimate when Griffin began to play the piano.
She’d once dated a man who could produce a passable version of “Memories” from CATS, and a few Beatles tunes. That’s all she’d expected from Griffin, but he was playing an intricate classical piece whose lofty strains soared to the living room’s twenty-foot ceiling and then rolled out over the terrace in thunderous waves. The only classical selections she could name were the “1812 Overture” and Ravel’s “Bolero”, and it was neither of those.
She quickly added the costs entailed in constructing the Zen garden, then got up and crossed the terrace to stand at the french doors Griffin had left ajar. She hesitated to enter the living room for fear of disturbing him even more than she already had, and so simply propped her shoulder against the jamb and waited for him to finish whatever it was he was playing and look up.
The piece was a lengthy one, however, and Griffin demonstrated far more than mere technical brilliance. He played with the very same passionate fire she’d glimpsed in his dark eyes. The music washed through her in a sensuous rush and, far from being annoyed at having to wait, she stood transfixed, caught up in the melody Griffin coaxed from the keys with a fury that would surely have reduced a lesser instrument to a heap of kindling.
Other than the sticks Darcy had tapped together in the rhythm band in kindergarten, she had no experience in creating music. She’d been to a couple of rock concerts, even seen the Grateful Dead once in San Francisco, but she’d never attended a symphony performance. Still, even a novice such as she would have recognized Griffin’s genius.
When he finally drew the piece to a crescendo of pulse-pounding chords, she couldn’t help but shout, “Bravo! That was fantastic.”
Griffin glanced up and for a terrible moment appeared not to recall who she was. Afraid she’d disturbed him after all, Darcy approached the piano with a cautious step. “I’m sorry if I interrupted you, but I thought you were finished. I’ve never heard anyone play so well.”
She remembered hearing the Russians were passionate and mentioned the only composer who came to mind, praying she didn’t sound as ignorant as she truly was. “Was that Tchaikovsky?”
Griffin left the piano bench with an easy stretch. “Franz Liszt. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
He came forward with a slow, smooth stride, and Darcy couldn’t seem to make her feet take a step backward even after he’d invaded her personal space by several inches. He came to a halt so close she had to crane her neck to look up at him. She thrust her clipboard into his solar plexus to jolt him into stepping back and create more distance between them.
“At the top of the form, I’ve made a drawing to show the placement of the cypress and boulders. My total is at the bottom. If you’d like to get other bids, please go right ahead. I’ll not be offended, and you’ll find my prices are competitive.”
Griffin took hold of her clipboard and, after a quick glance at the form, reached toward her. “Do you mind?” he asked.
Darcy was too shocked to object when he plucked the rose-topped pen from her bib pocket, but his fingertips grazed her breast to coil an electric charge around her ribcage. With an almost painful sweetness, lingering sparks drifted downward to leave her moist with desire. She shook her head, but it wasn’t simply to offer the pen.
Griffin’s slightest touch brought such a heart-stopping thrill that she couldn’t help but wonder if she would survive should he ever show her the same unbridled passion he’d just lavished on his piano.
Then, with a slight tremble, she wondered how she could bear to exist if he didn’t.
Chapter Two
Darcy pulled into her parking space behind the Defy the World Tomatoes nursery, but she was uncertain how she’d made it down the winding mountain road. She hadn’t had a crush on a man in years—if fascination this intense could even be defined as such—while the hypnotically attractive Griffin Moore was clearly immune to her charms.
Yet that morning he had slyly admitted that women had always bothered him. His voice had taken on a breathless edge that had made her ache to hear far more intimate confessions. That proved to be his most revealing remark of the day, however, and she knew little more about him than when he’d sauntered into Defy the World shortly after she’d rolled open the gate.
His dark good looks stirred a real physical hunger, but his voice held an elusive quality that made her cling to his every word. Clearly he was American, but his faint accent made her suspect he might have spent his formative years in Europe, or some exotic isle in the South Pacific where French was the principal language.
She relaxed her grip on the steering wheel and sat back to draw a deep breath. An army brat, she’d been an only child. Her family had moved so often she couldn’t really say where she’d grown up. She’d been born in Georgia while her father was stationed at Fort Benning, but her only memory of the state was a blur of green. They’d spent three years in Germany when she was in grammar school, and she’d been to Paris, London and Rome before she was old enough to understand what a privilege being able to travel truly was.
Now she liked staying home and, with t
hat marvelous house, perhaps that was also Griffin’s desire. Unfortunately, as self-contained as he was, he was going to have to stay put for a very long time for them to become friends.
“Not bloody likely,” she mumbled to herself. Finally leaving her truck, she entered the nursery through the rear gate.
She was pleased to find half a dozen people strolling the paths, and there were even more in the gift shop. She had to wait for Mary Beth, the clerk who also did their bookkeeping, to ring up a sale before she caught her attention.
“I gave my client a receipt,” she assured Mary Beth and then handed over the office copy of Griffin’s estimate along with five crisp one hundred-dollar bills, and the twenty for the CD.
Mary Beth wore her long, curly brown hair tied neatly at her nape. She preferred tailored clothes, and her one concession to the garden theme of Defy the World Tomatoes was a floral print vest worn over her oxford cloth shirt and denim skirt.