Writ on Water Read Online Free PDF Page B

gardener was normal, the next thing he would do was either make the sign of the cross, or else say was something fatuous about her gaze. It depended on whether he was more horny or superstitious.
    And if he was the type who liked
Gone With the Wind
, it was likely to be a lulu of a comment.
    Chloe waited a moment in ladylike silence for the gardener to speak, but as he only continued to stare, she decided to take a hand in their conversation.
    â€œHello. So, what do you think?” She gestured at her face.
    Rory blinked. The woman’s eyes were the color of blueberries with the bloom still on them. They were deep wells of southern twilight, a dark shade so near purple that he suspected they were the result of colored contacts. He peered intently, but even the bright light of day failed to show a tell-tale ring around the iris that would reassure him that their color was man-made.
    Witch eyes
.
    The bright light did, however, show a great deal of amusement lurking in her gaze. The dark eyelashes that fringed those amazing irises fluttereddown in broad parody of silent movie flirtation, covering her dark eyes and allowing him a momentary reprieve during which he was able to pull his own gaze away.
    â€œHello. So, what do you think?” she repeated conversationally. “Sparkling sapphires? Or maybe twilight in the arctic, lit by a million gleaming stars?”
    â€œNo.” He shook his head, feeling both bemused and slightly embarrassed by the accuracy of her question, which suggested that people often uttered silly platitudes when confronted with the unusual color of her eyes. “Blueberries.”
    She snorted.
    â€œRipe blueberries,” he amplified, knowing he sounded stupid. “Or perhaps Concord grapes.”
    Her lips, which he finally got around to noticing, twitched once but remained prim in spite of the laughter in her eyes.
    â€œWell, at least that’s in keeping with your profession. So, where would I find Mr. Patrick?”
    â€œSenior, junior or collateral?”
    â€œUh . . . senior.”
    â€œAnd your name is?” he prompted, wanting to be certain that this was the woman his father had been expecting. Nothing MacGregor had said about Roland’s protégé had led him to think that she was particularly bright or so spectacularly gorgeous.
    But then, his father wouldn’t consider her mind to be of primary importance when he was lookingfor an employee. Loyalty and references—and some degree of charm—were all that mattered to MacGregor. Her appearance would simply be a bonus, eye candy to sweeten his day.
    â€œChloe Smith,” she answered, handing over her keys along with her confirmation of identity. She didn’t shake his hand. “Like the perfume. The one in the pretty pink box you see in all the magazines.”
    â€œI don’t wear cologne too often. Is it a nice perfume?” he asked, accepting the keys with a straight face. He decided not to mention that he wasn’t the hired help or that he was familiar with both the perfume and the third century Greek story about the lovers Daphnis and Chloe.
    â€œIt’s supposed to be very sweetening. You should really try it.”
    â€œPeachy?” he asked, clinging to his agricultural theme.
    â€œJust the box.”
    â€œToo bad. I really like Georgia peaches,” he said, still completely deadpan.
    She turned away to fetch two cases from the backseat of the car, but not before he’d seen her smile. It was slow, a tooth by tooth revelation that was halted almost as soon as it had begun.
    â€œAllow me—,” he began, in a belated effort to show some manners.
    â€œNo, thanks.” Her face was once again under control. She wasn’t the type to laugh at the locals, at least not to their faces. “But you can get the suitcasein the trunk for me. Just leave it on the porch—no need to track all that grass inside. So, where will I find Mr.