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'Gardening.' Fran flushed slightly at the soft, in-
credulous sound from the man beside her. She kept her
gaze firmly fixed on Florence Tarrant's surprised interest.
'My grandmother said it wasn't any kind of job for a
well brought-up young lady, and I wasn't very assertive
back in those days so I chose second-best. But I've kept
up gardening as a hobby and taken several extensive
courses on horticulture. Since I've become a qualified
nurseryman—'
'Nurseryperson,' corrected Tessa with a grin which Fran returned in brief.
'—my friend Christina—who runs a plant shop—and I have been making plans to expand her shop into a garden centre as a base for a contract-gardening business. We were having trouble with our bank loan and probably would have had to postpone for another few years until...well...when Grandfather died I realised that our problems were solved.'
'One door closing, another opening.' Mrs Tarrant eased Francesca's fear that they would think her mercenary. 'I wish you the best of luck, Francesca, it'll be a great adventure. I'm a keen gardener, too, but I'm not terribly knowledgeable. Perhaps you'd like to give me some advice...I've got some stubborn spots where nothing seems to grow...'
Ross settled back in his chair, turning his powerful body in Fran's direction as she ignited to his mother's interest.
So...Francesca wasn't going to invest her unexpected windfall in blue-chip stock or a nice, safe, retirement fund. She was going to risk it on the roll of a die! For, in the current economic climate, anyone starting up a small business, even one with solid financial backing, was taking a gamble.
How she had enjoyed throwing it in his face. Ross looked down at the fast-fading indentations in the back of his hand and smiled inwardly. At least her tit-for-tat revelation had defused her anger at his own. She could hardly start throwing stones in his direction now. He lifted his eyes to her animated profile, amused by her determination to ignore him, but content to study her at leisure as she chatted with his mother. Some of that bright confidence was bravado, he realised... typically Fran. She was such a mixture of fierce independence and sweet vulnerability, bravery and cowardice, that it wasn't surprising that she had confused him at times. In all probability she confused herself even more. She would never admit it, of course, but Fran was starved for praise, for approval... for love... it showed in the way that she flowered shyly under the slightest sign of interest, and the startled pleasure she took in the easy acceptance of his family. And yet a veneer of protective caution prevented her from reaching out, from trusting that she wouldn't be rebuffed. It was typical that even in making this quantum leap into an unknown future she was still following some immutable plan, her eyes fixed firmly on her goal, allowing for no deviation from her set course.
Ross intended to show her some interesting detours, only slightly concerned that he had no particular destination in mind, only a series of intriguing signposts to follow. He wasn't sure when she had stopped being merely an intellectual and sexual challenge—and he was never one to resist that! If the compulsion to have her had been merely physical he could have done so by now, he had that much confidence in the mutuality of the attraction, but the complex shadings of her deceptive personality had added a completely unpredictable element to his desire.
Francesca, becoming increasingly uncomfortable at the silent, heavy-lidded stare she could feel from the man next to her, was grateful for Mrs Tarrant's suggestion of a tour of her gardens. But she couldn't escape Ross for long. He came out to tell his mother that she was wanted on the telephone, then stood, barring Francesca's way through a vine-covered arch between the barn and double garage.
'Are we quits, Frankie?' he asked softly, tilting his head to one side so that the sun gilded his hair and the smooth, hard line of his jaw.
Fran stiffened her shoulders. 'I suppose you thought it great fun to pretend to be some out-of-work hobo. You must have really laughed when I worried about your health!'
'Actually, it annoyed the hell out of me,' he said wryly. 'I'm afraid I was too busy trying to strut my macho stuff to thank you at the time. Thanks for caring, Fran.'
'I didn't care,' she denied with a sniff. 'I would have been the same whoever you were. It was nothing personal.'
'Does your impersonal concern always lead to your seducing your patients?' he enquired with interest, and to her fury she blushed.
'You... you... you...' She sought for an adequate description.
'Doctor!' spat out Ross in such tones of loathing that Fran felt a traitorous frisson of laughter shiver up her spine. 'Somehow it doesn't sound as insulting as gigolo, does it?' he asked coaxingly.
'Ross—' Her voice trembled on the edge of a laugh. How dared he make her laugh when she wanted to be furious with him!
'Ah, Fran, stop trying to pretend that you're a prig. I think we've disproved that one entirely, haven't we? No woman with such passionate responses as yours could be a prig. I think your affinity with plants and nature is your basic earthiness seeking an outlet...'
Passionate? Earthy? Fran stared at him blankly. Neither she nor anyone else thought of her in those terms. Practical, disciplined, compassionate, yes...except in Ross's presence—then all those neatly dove-tailing pieces of her personality tended to break apart and float dizzily away. Each time she had more and more difficulty fitting them back together again. While she pondered the disquieting mental image, Ross moved closer until she became aware of the sun reflecting off his soft white linen shirt, warming the skin of her face. His blue eyes, like twin seas, beckoned her into deep waters.
'Let's face it, Frankie,' he said softly. 'It was you, not me, who was so anxious to preserve your misconceptions. . .I just went along for the ride. I'll admit that, at first, I thought you deserved the come-uppance, but that was before I realised why it was so important for you to think that I was an uncouth, muscle-bound, immoral reptile. It was both a defence and a weapon. You were afraid of your feelings for me. You were attracted to me, but you didn't want to commit yourself to that attraction. You felt safe wrapped in your moral outrage, because it meant that you could experience the vicarious sexual thrill of being with me without risking the emotional involvement that intimacy inevitably brings. In short, Princess, you were running scared.'
'Why, you conceited moron!' Fran was appalled at the accuracy of his guess. For the first time she wondered what kind of doctor he was. Was he, God forbid, a psychiatrist? Used to probing for motives and meanings? 'Is that a pompous way of accusing me of being a tease?'
She was horrified the moment the words popped out. She hadn't meant to say that. Hurriedly, she tried to recover. 'I mean, do you assume that every woman you meet is wildly attracted to you? That's one way of turning a rejection into an ego booster, I suppose.'
