"That's just great." Disgust won. She dragged her hands through her hair. "I can't control a five-pound puppy."
"Just takes practice, and patience."
"Well, I don't have time to practice now." She was down on her knees in a flash, salvaging bedding plants.
"And I'm out of patience. Old Joe is going to kill me for this."
"Laura." Though it seemed obvious to point it out, Michael crouched and pointed it out anyway. "He works for you."
"A lot you know," she muttered, desperately smoothing upturned mulch with her bare hands. "If I so much as sniff an undesignated rose in his garden, he—'' she broke off, scowling. "Don't just sit there. Help me."
"I thought you didn't need any help."
"Shut up, Michael." She brushed a hand over her cheek, smeared it with garden dirt. "Just shut up and save these pansies before Bongo and I both end up in the pound."
"Since you ask so nice." He shoved roots back into soil and heard her let out a long, keening moan.
"Not like that. For Lord's sake, you're not planting redwoods. Have a little delicacy."
"Sorry. It's my first day on the job." He shook his head as she shifted and knelt in the dirt in a way that was sure to send her trim pastel slacks into the rag heap. And all, he thought, to save the sensibilities of an ancient gardener.
"You run scared of the rest of your staff, too?"
"Damn right. Most of them have been here longer than I have. This could work." Her hands, coated now with black soil, smoothed and patted. "You'll hardly be able to tell when I'm done here. But who am I fooling? He can tell if you pluck a spray of crabgrass, which is fine, as long as you've asked first."
"It's looking fine to me."
"Like you'd know a pansy from a geranium," she muttered.
"Now you're getting nasty. You've got something…" Casually, he swiped his hand over her cheek, adding a fresh layer of dirt. "There. And here, you need a little to even out the look."
"I suppose you think that's funny." Struggling for dignity, she brushed at her face and only succeeded in making it worse.
"No." He picked up a handful of damp pine mulch and dropped it onto her hair. "That's funny."
"A pity I don't have your raucous sense of humor. But let me try." She rubbed both of her filthy hands over his shirt. "There. I'm dying from laughter now."
He glanced down at his shirt. He'd just washed the damn thing. "Now you've done it," he said quietly.
The tone warned her not to inch back, not to bother with reason and excu
ses. But to run. She sprang to her feet, sending the dog into frantically joyful barks. She managed two sprinting yards before he snagged her around the waist and lifted her off her feet.
"You started it," she managed between choked laughs.
"Uh-huh. So I'm obliged to finish it."
"I'll have your shirt cleaned. Whoops." She watched the world revolve as he flipped her over into his arms. "Why, Mr. Fury, you're so… masterful, so strong, so—what are you doing?" Amusement turned to panic as she caught a glimpse of his direction and realized his intention. "Michael, this isn't funny now."
"Just my raucous sense of humor again," he told her as he strode toward the edge of the pool.
"Don't. Now I mean it, Michael." In self-defense, she locked her arms around his neck. "I'm covered with dirt, and it's chilly, and I've just cleaned the pool."
"Just look at the way it sparkles, too." Controlling her frantic wiggling, he toed off his shoes. "Looks so pretty in the twilight, doesn't it?"
"I will make you pay," she vowed. "I swear I will make you pay if you dare—"
"Hold your breath," he suggested and jumped in.