could see him. They might be smiling at him. They might be frowning. Hell, they might be holding a gun. He didn’t know. He’d never know. He was helpless without his eyes and he hated it. Turning to go inside, he stopped when he heard her voice.
“Gardener! Wait!”
He froze at her command.
Jacqueline Rousseau.
He’d recognize her voice till the day he died. His brain had already found a safe place for its keeping.
He turned slowly, bringing his cup to his lips, watching as the dark of her top and light of her pants got closer until he could make out the pink of her skin and the black of her hair. And finally, finally, those emerald-green eyes were only a foot or two away, and he could see them, almost clearly. And he sighed.
She stood before him, just across the railing from him, wearing a skimpy little navy-blue top with a bow in the front and white pants molded to her long legs. Her hair was back again today, but in a ponytail, not a chignon, with a white bow tied low on the back of her neck. She wasn’t wearing deep-red lipstick as she had been last night, but her lips…merde. Slick, pink, and pouty, they were even more tempting today than they’d been yesterday.
“Hi,” she said.
“Mornin’, Duchess.”
“Morning?” She grinned. “It’s almost three.”
“I was up late helpin’ damsels in distress,” he said, feeling foolish the moment the words left his lips.
She chuckled softly, however, making his risk pay off. “I came to thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Do you have another cup?”
He looked down at the mug in his hands. “Of coffee?”
“Yes. Thanks. I’d love some,” she said cheekily.
He suspected she knew he hadn’t really been offering, but his mama hadn’t raised a total cretin either. “Uh, sure. Come on in.”
He turned and headed back into the apartment, turning right to go into the kitchen. He’d moved the bistro table out of the center of the room almost as soon as he’d gotten there, after banging into it twice. His peripheral vision just wasn’t what it used to be.
Taking a mug out of the cupboard over the stove, he set it on the counter and poured her a cup of coffee.
“Milk?” he called. “Sugar?”
“Black,” she answered, and he could tell from the placement of her voice that she’d taken a seat on the sofa where he’d bandaged her head last night.
When he turned around, she was perched on its edge, looking up at him. He held out the mug to her from a safe distance. “Here you go.”
“Thanks,” she said, smiling again as she took a sip. “Mmm. It’s good. What’s in this?”
“It’s chicory coffee,” he said, taking another sip of his own.
“I’ve had this before…Hmm…oh! Ah-ha!” she exclaimed, placing her cup on the coffee table in front of her. “New Orleans! The coffee. Your accent. That’s it. You’re from New Orleans!”
“I am originally.” He nodded. “You’ve been?”
“A couple of times. My brother, Étienne, went to law school there. Mad and I visited him a weekend or two.”
“Mad?”
“Madeleine. My sister.”
“Jax and Mad?” he asked, scowling at her for no good reason except that they had perfectly good names and used ridiculous nicknames instead. Gard had two sisters: Lily and Iris. Everyone called them Lily and Iris.
“That’s us.” She cleared her throat. “And your name is Gardener.”
“I told you that last night. Several times.”
“A gardener named Gardener? Surely you understand my confusion.”
He stared at her, wondering why she was here, why she’d been asking about him, and who had told her his name, but before he could ask her, she’d already asked him another question.
“Why didn’t you just say that Felix was thinking about retiring and you were trying out his job?”
He raised his cup and drank slowly, making her wait. “Why do you feel entitled to an explanation?”
She narrowed her eyes at him and offered primly, “It’s absurd that a gardener should be named Gardener. You know that, don’t you?”
Bossy, brassy, and a little rude when she didn’t get her way, he decided. Probably because beautiful girls with hot bodies get away with a lot.
He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “If you say so, Duchess.”
“I do.”
He cut his eyes back to hers. “Anyone ever tell you that you come across as a snob?”
She raised an eyebrow in surprise, but her lips twitched like she thought he was funny. “Is your name really Gardener?”
“Oui, Duchesse.”
“And are you really the part-time gardener at Haverford Park?”
“For