Gray went on to explain that the Jenkins family lived in the farmhouse. The married couple maintained the grounds, but Gray visited a couple of days per month because he enjoyed tending the plants himself. “Sinking my hands into the soil is a balm to the spirit,” he said, and she completely agreed.

They rounded a bend, and she got her first close-up view of the greenhouses. They were huge, each of them larger than the farmhouse where she’d lived most of her life. Keys jangled as Gray unlocked the door to the first greenhouse, and she stepped inside.

It was Eden. Moss and jasmine perfumed the air, and a fountain splashed in the center of the structure. Tables overflowed with potted herbs, climbing roses, and lush vines. Towering palms were tucked into the corners, along with lemon, lime, and fig trees. Heavy fruit she didn’t recognize hung from the tree beside her.

“What is this?” she asked, cupping a smooth green fruit slightly larger than a baseball.

“A mango,” he said. “Native to India.”

“And this?” What a treasure trove he had, a literal feast for the eyes.

“Papaya. Native to Mexico.”

“Oh yes. Yes, yes, yes! I’ve heard of papaya. The Department of Agriculture is trying to import them. A whole team of scientists are seeing if they can be cultivated in California, but I’ve never seen one before.”

She must have said something wrong, for he crossed his arms, and that dark, suspicious look was on his face again. This was ridiculous. They were two people with a common interest, so why did he get so moody all the time? She would confront it with a chiding sense of humor, which was always more effective than scolding.

She pretended to shiver. “That scowl just caused the temperature in here to drop ten degrees. Please tell me what I’ve done.”

He gave a nervous laugh and turned away. Was he actually blushing? She couldn’t read him as he gestured to a cluster of chairs near the fountain.

“Have a seat,” he said, not unkindly. “Let’s talk.”

She joined him, still fascinated by the bounty of ferns, bamboo, and bromeliads. It was such an earthly paradise in here, but she turned her attention to the darkly attractive man opposite her.

“Look,” he began tersely. “The only people I mistrust more than the Smithsonian is the Department of Agriculture.”

“But why?” she sputtered. “That’s like resenting yeoman farmers and the salt of the earth.”

“They give their information away for free,” he said, as though it were a crime. “They use taxpayer money to send scientists all over the world, hunting plants and seeds, then help farmers profit from it. How am I supposed to compete with that?”

It was hard to form a coherent sentence when she was so flabbergasted. “You don’t have to. The information they are compiling is for the good of everyone.”