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He took her hand and walked her back to the nursery, but Darcy was shaking so hard she could scarcely walk in a straight line. “Wait a minute, perhaps this has nothing to do with Interpol. Couldn’t someone have shot a chauffeur, planned to take his place and kidnap you?”
“It’s a distinct possibility. Just who do you think that kidnapper might be?”
Only one name came to Darcy’s mind—Lyman Vaughn. She hadn’t taken off the necklace he’d given her, and she touched the golden note for luck. She’d known Griffin was trouble, but she’d never dreamed just how terrifying that trouble could be.
Chapter Eight
Darcy forced herself to walk back into the nursery, but the last hour of business passed in a frantic blur. George locked the gate on his way out, and she stayed while Mary Beth ran the total for the day, but then she hurried home to shower. She doused herself in pumpkin pie spice, yanked on her new Levi’s skirt and, hoping to elevate her mood, pulled on a yellow sweater.
Her hands trembled on the wheel as she drove up to Griffin’s, but she made it safely. When he failed to answer the bell, she could have used the key he’d given her, but she quickly discarded the idea now that he was home. Certain he would be out in his Zen garden anyway, she raced around the side of the house and across the terrace.
The sun had already set, but Griffin was still seated on the bench, silhouetted against the sky’s fading rosy glow. Darcy paused to catch her breath and approached him at a sedate walk rather than a desperate sprint. She sat beside him and reached for his hand.
“I’m scared to death,” she confided in a breathless rush.
His voice was soft. “Then why are you here?”
She had an instant reply. “I thought you might need some backup.”
The absurdity of that notion made Griffin laugh for the first time that day. “Thank you for the thought. The yard looks even better than your sketches, but you must have worked nonstop.”
“Not quite, and we still need to build the arbor, plant the wisteria and suspend the fish. None of that seems important now, though.”
“Oh yes, it does,” Griffin argued. “I don’t intend to look over my shoulder everywhere I go, nor will I turn my home into a fortress. Finish the landscaping, but take your time.”
Darcy hadn’t been sure what he would want to do, but she was grateful for the distraction. “Fine. The wood will be delivered in the morning, and the carpenter is scheduled for the afternoon. I plan to sink the posts in cement, but my crew can handle that chore.”
Griffin nodded thoughtfully, then drew her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “I told you the truth about Interpol for a reason, Darcy.”
His touch again created a magical thrill that sizzled up her arm and twisted down her spine. She shivered with a chill unrelated to the coolness of the evening and struggled to find a lucid response. Tomorrow they would have known each other for two weeks. It was a mere blink of an eye, and yet for her, the time before they’d met had already begun to fade into insignificance.
“Did you really expect me to cut and run?” she asked.
“I’d hoped not, but it might be wise. Because of the concert tour, my life is heavily insured, but it doesn’t follow that I’m not eager to continue living it.
“There’s the outside chance that some crazy fool was trying to car-jack the limo, and that my contact’s death had nothing whatsoever to do with me. I choose to think otherwise, however, and if I’m in danger, then anyone who spends time with me is as well.”
Darcy didn’t even want to go there. “You must have contacted Interpol. What did they say?”
“They’re a coolly efficient bunch and merely advised me to remain calm. They’ll investigate the Seattle shooting and replace my contact. The guy was rather abrasive, but I never expected to find him murdered.”
“That must have been horrible.”
Griffin reached over to pull her across his lap. “I’d rather talk about something else, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t want to talk at all,” Darcy exclaimed.
“Better still,” Griffin murmured as he dipped his head to kiss her.
He tasted of peppermint. His hand rested lightly on her knee, and he had such handsome hands that she wished men still wore fancy lace cuffs. There was something so very sexy about the delicacy of lace against a strong, masculine wrist. Yet she scarcely needed such tantalizing thoughts when she was in Griffin’s arms.
She ran her fingers through his wind-ruffled hair. Shiny and black, it was as fine as silk and yet grew in a thick thatch. She’d never enjoyed merely touching a man as she did Griffin, and she drank in his deep kisses with a thirsty abandon. When he ran his fingertips up her inner thigh, she envied the piano on which he usually lavished his attentions.
“You smell absolutely delicious,” he offered in an appreciative sigh. “If you’ll only name your perfume, I’ll buy it by the gallon so you’ll never run out.”
His lips tickled her throat, and she arched into him. “I told you, it’s my own concoction.” He would surely recognize the scent at Thanksgiving, but until then…
He kissed her with increasing passion, and she wound her arms around his neck to hold him tight. He was rubbing her now, tracing gentle circles over her bikini panties. It felt so good, and she tried not to squirm. Perhaps the thrill of his touch was no more than a trick of chemistry, but when combined with his own artistry, it felt indescribably good.
