His outright laugh called her an outright liar. He shook his hair like a dog in heat and slid the baseball cap back on his head.

“She said you haven’t been on a date in months. Said you like to go to lunch, attend the historical meetings, teach your classes, and stay boarded up in the Cliff House.” He paused and his gaze raked over her, probed under her clothes, and noted her body, which refused to be ignored. “A shame, really. Something tells me you play as hard as you work. If you’d give someone the chance, that is.”

Their gazes met and locked. Seconds ticked by and neither of them wanted to lose. Julianna told herself time was the only factor that made her finally turn away. “I don’t have time to play games, Mr. Wolfe. I’m sure you’re a man who’s a master, and you wouldn’t have much fun with an amateur.”

“Jack,” he said softly. “And you’re wrong.”

She ignored him and hurried down the pathway. Absolutely ridiculous. She was living a D.H. Lawrence novel and she’d always been an Austen sort of girl. Her frikkin gardener, for God’s sakes. It didn’t get any more cliché than that. And there was one thing she hated more than anything.

Being a cliché.

She smothered the thought and drove away.

* * *

Julianna paused at her keyboard, the mouse hovered above the Send button. Nausea hit her belly, but she knew there were no other options. This wasn’t nineteenth- century England and she didn’t belong in the ton. She had already used her father’s intricate network of social contacts to begin introductions to a number of eligible men, but no one seemed interested in a mousy woman with an old estate and nothing else. Many of the men she dated locally didn’t have enough funds to support a money-suck like the Cliff House. The ones who did were past seventy, which placed them out of the running. She didn’t have the money to travel and meet new prospects. Therefore, there was one social connection she needed to use to further her plan.

The unlimited world of the Internet. Social networking circles so tight-knit and secretive, it was more closely guarded than a sex ring. Many men needed to marry in order to secure companies, or meet a mate with certain specifications in order to claim their inheritances. Others needed an heir. The thought of a child made her heart ache with longing. And hope.

Her ad would be well received by the group and guarded in a private manner. Unfortunately, she had nothing to trade for. Except her name.

Her family came from a long line of aristocrats with royalty in the blood. Her people, among the first to settle in Rhode Island, came from the old English gentry. In early American days, Newport had been a playground for the rich and famous, from the Vanderbilts to the Astors, and her family had taken a prominent place among them.

Julianna knew some people coveted all that. She counted on finding a man who liked the idea of a spouse with a family straight from The Great Gatsby. Never mind that her family was now gone. The past, she'd learned, always survived.

The site catered to men and women who needed to marry for specific purposes. Julianna’s face burned as she compared herself to a prostitute offering her services. Perhaps the man would request breeding papers as evidence of her birthright. Bitterness leaked through yet again and tempted her to consider selling the Cliff House. Walk away with her pride intact and money in her pocket.

"Promise me...."

Her father's voice echoed in her mind. Her prison was also her haven. If she sold the house, she'd have nowhere to go. In the past, the lure of the unknown had excited and tempted her to explore the world and find who she really was.

Now, the thought made her quake with terror. Here, at least, she was safe. Her family memories burned bright within its walls, and if she left the house behind, she'd have nothing left of her past. Only a broken promise to her dying father.

The noose around her neck tightened.

Julianna uploaded her ad and the photo. A plain woman looked back at her, a forced smile on her lips. The specially created email address would receive any initial inquiries or questions before securing a meeting. She took a deep breath and clicked the mouse.

Her fate was sealed.

A knock sounded on the door.

She hesitated, knowing Jack was working outside and having no desire to meet up with him. She had been keeping her distance from the sexy gardener who tied her tongue in knots and made her want to do very bad things. Things she’d craved deep in her soul for so long that she wondered if she’d be satisfied with any man.

She peeked through the window and faced the object of her obsession. Shirtless. Dirty. Sweaty.

She flung open the door, annoyed at the interruption and determined to set him straight regarding their worker/employer relationship.

Then she saw the blood.

He held up his hand, wrapped in his white t-shirt and stained muddy brown. His face looked almost sheepish. “Sorry.  I had an accident. May I use your bathroom?”

Julianna stepped aside and took hold of his hand. She pressed the t-shirt more firmly over the wound and led him down the hall. “What did you do?”

“Made an ass out of myself.”

She couldn’t help the tsking sound she made under her breath at his language. Her father’s strict rules of propriety had been drilled into her from birth. But she fought off a bit of amusement at his temper. Evidently, he despised making mistakes that cost him blood. Too much blood, by the looks of it.

“Sit.” She pushed him down on the closed toilet seat, quickly grabbed some washcloths and ran them under warm water. She winced when she drew the shirt away from the gaping wound. A clean cut crossed his hand, deep enough to warrant stitches from the looks of it. She dumped the shirt on the floor and began wiping away the dirt. “You may need a hospital.”

He shook his head hard enough to remind her of a little boy refusing to go to the doctor. “I’ll be fine. You shouldn’t use those cloths, though. They’ll be ruined.”

She shrugged at the delicate rose lace that adorned the towels and kept pressure on the wound. “I do laundry.”

“Yourself?”

Her brow lifted in annoyance. She concentrated on the task and ignored his curious stare. “I know how to take care of a house. I like my privacy.”

“Still, this is a pretty big house. And you don’t look like the type of woman to… clean.”

Juliana refused to take the bait. She couldn’t help her tendency to screen her face with a calm, emotionless façade. Lord knew she’d learned her lesson along the way.  Temper tantrums or emotional outbursts did nothing to help matters. “Interesting. You don’t seem like the type of man who doesn’t know how to handle a mower.”

His rich laughter attacked, then soothed her eardrums.

She reached for the brown bottle under the cabinet, determined he would never know how his laughter affected her.

“Nice shot,” he said. “I’m blaming it on the rental company. They gave me crap equipment to work with.”

“Hmmm. Okay, this is going to sting.”

She poured a generous dose of peroxide into the gaping wound and felt his muscles strain against the burning pain. He cursed fluently under his breath and with a creative flair. She kept her touch brisk and impersonal as she examined the wound and retrieved the appropriate dressings and tape.

“Were you ever a nurse?” he asked. “You seem good at this.”

“No.”

“You don’t like to talk much about yourself, do you?”

She took out a large bandage and studied his hand to determine the placement. His skin was still warm from the sun, golden brown and a bit rough. A callus rested on the tip of his finger. She fought back a primal urge to press soothing lips to his wound. The sizzling energy nipped at the nerve endings of her fingers and made her flinch. She answered his question only to distract him from her reaction.

“Not really. Let’s just say I received a fine education, then came back to take care of my parents.”

He seemed to wait for more, but when she didn’t continue, he prodded. “But you teach. Poetry, right? A full professor?”

“Adjunct. I teach at the local college but never had the opportunity to get my PhD. I did my master’s degree online so I didn’t need to leave the house.”

“And?”

Round and round, the tape wrapped his wrist to hold the bandage in place. “And that’s it. My parents needed someone twenty-four seven, and I have no siblings. I’m the end of the line.” A hint of bitterness leaked through her tone.

“What was wrong with your mom?”

“Manic depressive. She needed to be watched at all times, and my father and I were in charge.” Julianna left out the rest. How her traitorous heart had finally felt free to go explore and live her life when her mother finally passed. She’d done her duty as the good daughter.

She dreamed of finally allowing herself the freedom to experience sexual ecstasy. Her body had been as tightly locked up as her mind and emotions, and she longed to immerse herself in pleasure. Of course, the very night she packed her bags to leave, she learned about her father’s cancer. Another disease that wreathed and slithered like a snake, poisoning her father’s body and stealing her own freedom.

She’d done the only thing she could. She pretended she wanted to stay and take care of her father, refusing to leave him with a full-time nurse. The only money they had left was tied up in the estate. And, after all, she was good at taking care of people.

Not counting herself.

“Yet you’re still here.” His words were thoughtful, as if trying to solve a puzzle as she worked on his wound. “Your parents are gone now. Why not leave?”

The ultimate question. Asked, yet not answered. The response tripped over her lips in a desperate attempt to escape. She strangled the words and let them die without a trace. “I don’t know.”

She tested the bandage and was satisfied. Her gaze lifted.

And collided with a full-sized predator.

His eyes were the dark whiskey gold her father liked to pour in heavily cut crystal glasses. Liquid fire, potent and seething with heat. His gaze assessed her story and challenged her for the truth. “I don’t believe you. I think you know exactly why you’re still here.”

She retreated behind a wall of ice, refusing to let the sexual heat between them melt her defenses. She had one goal, and a gardener wasn’t going to distract her at this point. “We’re done. You can go back to work.”

Carved lips curled up a notch. His masculine energy pressed down on her and she battled to hold her ground. “I think,” he said, “that you’re so comfortable behind these walls you’ve given up on living.”

“Coming from a handy man with a Peter Pan complex.”

He laughed and shook his head as if in admiration. “Damn, love, you’re a bit of a spitfire all buttoned up tight. How long has it been since you let a man put his hands on you? Or in you?”

The image knocked out her breath. Her almost virginal body fought for dominance as liquid warmth pulsed between her legs and dampened her panties. Her nipples rose painfully against her bra and demanded freedom. She crossed her arms in front of her chest to hide her reaction.

“Oh, surely you can do better than that.” Her tone dripped icicles. “This is straight out of a book, Mr. Wolfe. Poor spinster locked up in a big old house meets sexy gardener who sets her body free. She’s forever grateful for the experience. Blah, blah, blah. Now, if you rather not get back to work, we will consider your job null and void and you can leave my home.”

“Ah, so you did read Lady Chatterley’s Lover?” he drawled. Slowly, he uncurled over six feet of muscled length and rose from the seat to tower over her. “D.H. Lawrence is one of my favorites. ’Course, I’m the gardener rather than the gamekeeper. And you’re forgetting the husband—which you don’t have. The rest is similar. Uneducated working-class man shows sexually deprived wife how to let go and be free to let her body experience pleasure.”

He paused. Dropped his voice to a rough whisper that raked across her nerve endings like fingernails against naked skin. “Wanna play?”

Her heart pounded so loud the sound in her ears dimmed. “Excuse me?”

He laughed. In one swift movement, he reached out and snagged her wrist. Then tugged hard.

Slightly off balance, she stumbled toward him, where he neatly caught her by the waist and trapped her between himself and the sink. The edge of the marble dug into her back when she tried to retreat. Raw masculine energy assaulted her senses, the sheen of sweat on his bare chest, a mass of carved muscles pressed against the curve of her breasts. The scent of dirt and fresh grass and musk rose to her nostrils in an animal attempt to entice her to mate.