“Because he knows you’re a pushover. Bongo.” At Michael’s voice, the pup lifted his head and grinned sheepishly. Michael could almost hear the sentiment: “Well, gee, Mick, just having a little fun here.” Michael snapped his finger, pointed, and Bongo padded out, shook himself, and sat politely.

Torn between disgust and admiration, Laura hissed between her teeth, “How do you get him to do that?”

“It’s a gift.”

“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 red-woods. 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.”