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Prologue
The Ritz, Barcelona, Spain, Present Day
“I won’t kill for you,” Griffin swore. “I’ll gather whatever useful intelligence comes my way, and gladly pass it on to Interpol, but I draw the line at murder, even with a despicable sort like Lyman Vaughn, who most certainly deserves it.”
Lucien LeGran remained silent while Griffin punched diamond studs into his pleated tuxedo shirt. Then the Frenchman nodded thoughtfully. “I must say I’m surprised that someone of your passions hasn’t already killed a man or two.”
“I pour my passions into my music, Lucien, and that’s all you need to know.” Griffin slipped on his shirt, fastened the studs and tied his bow tie with the same deft elegance he displayed at a grand piano. He turned as he picked up his jacket. “It’s time I left for the concert hall.”
His visitor rose and followed him to the door of the luxurious suite. “Lyman Vaughn is too devoted a fan not to surface at one of your concerts soon, and you need only let us know. Your service is greatly appreciated, Griffin. Don’t ever doubt Interpol’s commitment to you.”
Griffin shot him a cynical glance. “You needn’t repeat your speech about the benefit to humanity outweighing the personal risk, because I’ll never be your assassin.”
“What you do is more than enough,” Lucien emphasized, but he could not help but hope that if the time ever came for such decisive action, Griffin Moore would not fail them.
Chapter One
Darcy yanked the hose past a tiered cluster of succulents in hand-thrown terracotta pots and continued spraying off the cement walkways. The paths’ lazy curves lured tourists deep into the heart of the Defy the World Tomatoes’ nursery, and few left without buying at least one unusual plant and filling a green shopping bag with the charming collectibles carried in the adjacent gift shop.
It was early spring, and during the week business was often slow, but even if the paths had been teeming with the usual swarm of weekend tourists, Darcy still would have noticed the tall, dark-haired man standing at the entrance of the pottery shed.
Like most of their customers, he had paused to admire the large iron goldfish suspended from the overhead beam. The separate sections of the striking sculpture formed a dramatic blend of sharp angles and flaring curves and drew a constant stream of compliments.
Darcy assumed the morning’s lone customer garnered effusive praise of his own. He was over six feet in height and broad shouldered. His thick black hair was without the slightest curl and, while superbly cut, brushed the collar of his chambray shirt. He wore scuffed loafers with faded Levi’s slung low on his narrow hips, so clearly he hadn’t sailed into Monarch Bay on his own yacht. Or if he had, he’d changed clothes before leaving the docks for a stroll down Embarcadero.
Despite his casual attire, as he examined the iron fish his gestures held a wealthy man’s confident elegance. Darcy felt assured that, while it was an expensive piece, the cost would be well within his reach. Inspired to promote the charming work rather than simply gawk at the handsome stranger, she quickly retraced her steps, turned off the water and coiled the hose around the frog-topped spigot.
A sunflower appliqué adorned the bib pocket of her forest green overalls, and she adjusted the angle of her matching baseball cap as she approached him.
“Good morning,” she called out. “That sculpture is by Toby McClure, a talented Los Angeles artist. All his work has that same irresistible whimsy.”
The man’s expression held only mild interest as he stepped back and continued to assess the piece. After an uncomfortably long silence, he finally nodded. “I’ll grant you that it’s whimsical, but I just might be able to resist it.”
His deep voice held a delicious hint of an accent Darcy couldn’t place and, up close, he was even better looking than he had been at first glance. A golden tan graced his finely chiseled features. Darcy wished the color of his eyes wasn’t hidden by wire-rimmed sunglasses.
With hair that dark, she feared his eyes were as deep a brown as her own. Unfortunately, she’d never had a bit of luck with brown-eyed men. It wasn’t that she didn’t find them attractive, for she most certainly did, but somehow they never asked her out more than once or twice.
She tried to recall the last time she’d actually been out on a date; then, ashamed of the romantic drift of her thoughts, she licked her lips and made an effort to come up with a witty defense of Toby’s work, but to her dismay, none came to her. She just wanted the man to remove his dark glasses so she would know
whether or not he was a hopeless cause. Inspired, she hoped to lure him inside.
“If you find Toby’s work appealing, perhaps you’d care to look at some other samples. I have photographs of his most recent pieces in my office.”
The man glanced at the slim gold watch on his right wrist. “Sorry. I like the fish well enough, but I don’t have anywhere to display it. Your sign lists custom landscape design. Do I need an appointment to speak with your landscaper, or is he available now?”
There’d been a time when such a presumptuous question would have prompted a bitterly sarcastic response from Darcy, but as one of the Tomatoes intent upon defying the world, she could ill-afford to lose a customer, even a blatantly chauvinistic one. She forced a smile and doffed her cap with an exaggerated flourish.
“You’re looking at her, but you needn’t apologize. Most people assume all landscape architects are male, but I’ve earned the appropriate college degree and first-hand experience to handle whatever you require.”
As Darcy continued to regard him closely, the man failed to react with either surprise or, God forbid, annoyed disappointment, but she was sorry he hadn’t responded with an encouraging smile. It was unusual to find such an attractive man without a statuesque blonde by his side, but Darcy doubted he would be good company if his mood were always this preoccupied or, perhaps, downright melancholy. A quick glance at his left hand revealed no wedding band, but he hadn’t come seeking a dating service, and she again hauled her wandering thoughts back to business.
“If you have any doubts about my ability,” she stressed, “you’re welcome to view my portfolio.” She gestured toward the building that housed the gift shop. The two-story structure resembled a random collection of upended boxes with long narrow windows cut in the sides, but Darcy’s elegant landscaping softened the sharp angles while the salty sea breeze had aged the wooden siding to the lush, smoky patina of driftwood.
When he still appeared to be hesitant to respond, Darcy drew herself up to her full five feet two inches. He was a good foot taller, but she’d never been intimidated by height. She fought to hang on to her temper, but a peppery edge crept into her voice.
“Are you objecting to me personally, or is it women in general who bother you?”
A faint smile lent a slight curl to the man’s lips. “Women have always bothered me,” he confided in a softly suggestive whisper, “but that’s as it should be. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was simply searching for the best way to describe the job. I just bought the old Hadley place up on Ridgecrest. Do you know it?”
Darcy recognized the name of the exclusive street, if not the particular house. Ridgecrest curved through the mountain slopes encircling Monarch Bay and provided access to a great many beautiful homes. Somehow she doubted “the old Hadley place” was anything less than a tastefully appointed mansion. That meant she definitely wanted any landscaping job he might offer.
She relaxed her stance and softened her voice to its former cordial level. “I’m sorry, but I moved here less than a year ago to open Defy the World with a college friend. I haven’t had much time for sightseeing.”
“That’s all right. You can’t see anything but the gate from the road anyway.”
“You must have a marvelous view of the sea,” she replied. Now certain his home had to be a palatial estate, Darcy sent a mental command for him to yank off his dark glasses, but he stubbornly resisted doing so.
“Yes, the terrace faces the bay. It’s why I bought the place. What I have in mind is a Zen garden overlooking the sea. Have you any experience landscaping those?”
“A Zen garden?” Darcy repeated numbly. Her specialty was the exuberant use of colorful flowering plants and, unfortunately, that was not what was required.
“Of course,” she replied confidently, which was a bald-faced lie. “You’ll want an expanse of white sand carefully raked to suggest ocean waves, a few boulders to conjure up a mountain range, perhaps a wind-tortured cypress or two and a comfortable wooden bench from which to contemplate it all.”
Clearly delighted by her evocative description, the man flashed a wide grin. His teeth were very white and, against his dark skin, the expression had an immediate high-voltage impact. “That’s exactly what I had in mind. How soon can you begin?”
Stunned by his unexpected show of warmth, Darcy had to glance away. She quickly reassessed her opinion of his melancholy bent and wondered how many women had been the object of a similar rakish grin and fainted dead away.
Damn! she cursed silently. It had definitely been too long since she’d been out on a date, and now it was nearly impossible to confine her thoughts to the relevant aspects of their conversation.
Still, she made the attempt. It was Tuesday morning, and she wondered if he had a formal party planned for Saturday night. On more than one occasion, she’d been asked to rip out every sprig of greenery from a yard and, as if by magic, produce the most splendid of gardens by the weekend. At least he’d come by early in the week so the task, while formidable, could be accomplished.
She gathered her resolve and looked him in the eye, or at least the sunglasses. “I’ll need to come up to your house and survey the site, then draw up plans for your approval. If you’ll be home this afternoon, I can come by around two o’clock.”
