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quibble with the architectural oddities. Whatever else might have been done with outer gardens that lined the drive, those closest to the house were immaculate and conventional, and pre–Civil War in their manicured magnificence. She hated to think what MacGregor Patrick paid for their upkeep.
    The only anachronism she spotted, after turning off the radio and climbing out of the car, was an abandoned tractor-mower that someone had left sitting in the shade of an ancient pecan tree. It seemed plausible to her that the gardener had been turned into a garden gnome by some southern cousin of the Medusa who attacked all pedestrians and transformed them into plaster garden ornaments, but it was more likely that he was at lunch. Or perhaps taking a siesta while waiting for the heat of the day to pass. Or maybe themower had been abandoned by the boy at the river while he went fishing for bowling shoes. She wouldn’t blame him for choosing the watery shade over the sunny lawn. It would take a truly ambitious person to tackle the remainder of the acre-plus meadow that was still unshorn while the temperatures were in the nineties and the humidity just as high.
    Chloe stepped out of the car and enjoyed the old-fashioned sound of oyster shells crunching underfoot as she turned around to get a full view of the premises. She breathed deeply of the warm air that smelled of green things like honeysuckle and mown grass. On cue, the pure notes of birdsong filled the air.
    â€œAshley Wilkes, I’ve come home.”
    â€œYeah. It’s a regular Twelve Oaks,” said a deep voice behind her. “We’re short a few slaves though.”
    Chloe jumped and turned around, confronting a tall, tanned chest of the male variety. It was also a very sweaty chest, and had bits of grass lodged in its red-gold curls. The man—alas—couldn’t be MacGregor Patrick. He was at least three decades too young.
    The missing gardener, she thought with relief, urging her heart to calm down even as she pulled her eyes up another foot to somewhere near the seventy-two inch mark where it was more polite to stare. It wasn’t a complete hardship to give up on the chest, as the face was likewise very attractive,though also sheened with sweat and adorned with grass clippings.
    She couldn’t guess how he had managed to sneak up on her over the oyster shells.
    â€œI’m Rory,” he told her, head tipped to one side as he studied her face. His smile was polite, but not particularly inviting. He didn’t offer his hand either, but stayed three feet back while he stared hard into her sunglasses-covered eyes.
    Intuition told her that his gaze was more assessing than admiring, and the failure to offer a hand in greeting was from reserve rather than a concern with staining her clothes or offending her nostrils with his body odor. Given the level of friendliness she had encountered in town, this cool first reaction suggested that there wasn’t much chance for an immediate friendship with the hired help. It also quite ruined her fantasy about southern gentleman being invariably hospitable to the gentler sex.
    Of course, he wasn’t a
gentleman;
he was a lower-class working stiff. MacGregor would be different. Her fantasy could remain intact.
    Amused with herself and the gardener’s almost rude stare, Chloe’s lips twitched as she turned her body to face the man dead-on. She took off her sunglasses and returned his cool gaze. Granny Claire had taught her how to use
the eye
to good effect; the man’s hazel gaze at once riveted on her own and stayed there unblinking, just as it should.
    This man might be staring like a besotted idiot, but that didn’t mean anything. He was just doing the same double-take everyone did when they saw her irises in daylight for the first time. She had her Granny Claire’s eyes, and she knew how mesmerizing they could be when they focused, unblinking, on their target. If the