garden.
“Yeah, I know. He’s always preferred his flowers to people.”
She stopped, bent down and sniffed at a rose before straightening again. When Margie saw Hunter’s gaze lock briefly on her breasts, she felt a rush of something completely female and had to hide a small smile. Really, she was in serious trouble. She was beginning to enjoy the way Hunter looked at her, and that road would only lead to disappointment.
He didn’t trust her. He made that plain enough every time they were together. But he did want her. That much she knew. Every morning, she woke up to the feel of his heavy leg lying across hers, his strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulling her tightly against his warm, naked body. And every morning, she lay there, quietly, enjoying the feel of him surrounding her, until he woke up, shifted carefully to one side of her and replaced the pillow wall between them.
Margie knew he didn’t realize she was awake for those few brief, incredible moments every morning. And she had no intention of telling him, because he’d find a way to end them and she liked waking up to the feel of his body on hers. To that sense of safety she felt lying next to him.
Oh, God. She looked up at him saw those blue eyes go cool and distant and knew she was only making things more difficult for herself. There was no future here for her at all. Pretending otherwise was only going to make leaving that much harder.
“Why’d you come out here?” he asked, his voice low, his features strained. “Did you really want to talk to Calvin, or were you just following me?”
So much for daydreams. “Were you born crabby, or do I just bring it out in you?”
“What?” He scowled at her.
He probably thought he looked ferociously intimidating. But Margie had seen that look often enough that it hardly bothered her anymore.
“Crabby. You. Why?”
“I’m not crabby,” he said and blew out a breath. “Hell, I don’t know what I am.” Shaking his head, he glanced across the garden and Margie followed his gaze.
The back of the house was beautiful. Late-spring daffodils crowded the walkways in shades from butteryellow to the softest cream. Roses sent their perfume into the air, and columbine and larkspur dipped and swayed brilliantly colored heads in the soft wind off the ocean. It was a magical place, and Margie had always loved it.
“You really like it here, don’t you?” he asked.
“I love it.”
“I did too for a while.” He turned and started along the snaking path of stepping-stones that meandered through the garden. Margie walked right behind him, pleased that he was finally talking to her.
“When I was a kid,” he mused, “it was all good. Coming here. Being with Simon.”
“Your parents died when you were twelve. Simon told me. That must have been terrible for you.” She didn’t even remember her parents, but she’d been told they’d died in a car accident when she was three. She’d give anything to have the few short years of memories of being loved that Hunter no doubt had.
“Yeah, they did.” He tipped his head back to glance at the clouds scuttling across the sky before continuing on through the garden. “And I came here to live, and it was a good place to grow up,” he admitted, now idly dragging the palm of his hand across a cluster of early larkspur. A few of the delicate, pastel blossoms dropped to the ground as they walked on. “The place is huge, so there was plenty of room for a kid to run and play.”
“I can imagine.” Though she really couldn’t. Growing up in a series of foster homes, Margie had never even dreamed of a place like this. She wouldn’t have known how.
As if he’d guessed where her thoughts had gone, he stopped, looked over his shoulder and asked, “Where are you from?”
“Los Angeles,” she answered and hoped he’d leave it at that. Thankfully, he did.
Nodding, he said, “Coming from a city that size, you can understand how small Springville started to look to me.”
“That’s exactly what drew me in when I first moved here. When I answered the ad to become Simon’s assistant, I took one look at Springville and fell in love.” It was the kind of small town that lonely people always dreamed of. A place where people looked out for each other. A place where one person could make a difference. Be counted. But she didn’t tell him all of that.
“I like that it’s small. Big cities are anonymous.”
“That’s one of the best parts,” Hunter said and gave her a quick, brief smile that never touched his eyes. “There’s a sense of freedom in anonymity. Nobody gives a damn what you do or who your family is.”
“Nobody gives a damn, period,” she said quietly.
“Makes life simple,” he agreed.
“Running off to join the SEALs wasn’t exactly an attempt at simple and uncomplicated.”
He laughed shortly. “No, I guess it wasn’t.”
“So, what were you looking for?”
“Why do you care?” He stopped, turned to look down at her and in his eyes there were so many shifting emotions that Margie couldn’t tell one from the next. Then he spoke again, and she was too angry to worry about what he was feeling.
“Seriously, I get why you’re doing this. Five million is hard to ignore. But why do you care when it’s not part of the job description?”
She sucked in a gulp of air and felt the insult of his words like a slap. “I told you. I’m not doing this for the money.”
“Yeah, you told me.”
“But you don’t believe me.” That truth was written on his face.
“I don’t
Margie pushed her hair back from her face when the wind snaked the dark red curls across her eyes. Looking up at him, she found herself torn between wanting to kiss him and wanting to kick him. It was a toss-up which urge would win.
“Is it so hard for you to believe that I might love this place? That I might love Simon?”
“I just don’t see what you get out of it beyond the money,” he told her. “Unless it’s hooking yourself to the Cabot name.”
Understanding began to dawn as she noticed the tone of his voice. “Is that what this is about? Is that why you left? You didn’t want to be a
His jaw clenched. She watched the muscle there flex as if he were biting back words fighting to spill out. Finally he let them come. “In this town, yeah, it’s hard to be a Cabot,” he admitted. “Everybody looking to you to make sure they keep their jobs. Treating you like you’re different. Figuring since you live in a castle, you’re some kind of prince. I wasn’t interested in being small-town royalty.”
Margie laughed at that ridiculous statement. When he frowned, she held up one hand to cut off whatever he might say. “Please. I’ve heard plenty of stories about you when you were a kid, Hunter and in none of them did people talk about you like you were a prince. If anything, it was ‘That Hunter was always into something.’ Or ‘Hunter broke so many of my windows I almost boarded ’em up.’”
A reluctant smile curved his mouth. “All right, I give you that. But…” He paused, looked around the postcard- perfect garden and then to the back of the castle, which seemed to glitter in the late-afternoon sun. “Simon wanted me to be the next link in the Cabot family dynasty. I wanted more. I wanted to be out in the world making my own mark. I didn’t want to catch hold of the Cabot family train and ride on what my family’s always done.”
“So you walked away,” she said softly. “From your friends. Your family.”
She hadn’t tried to mask the accusation in her voice, and he reacted to it. His spine went stiff as a rod, he squared his shoulders and looked down at her as if daring her to question his decisions. “What I do is important.”
“I’m not arguing that,” Margie said. “How could I? You risk your life for your country. For all of us. On a regular basis.”
“Why is it I hear a ‘but’ coming?”
