Free Blue Dahlia by Nora Roberts Page A

garden furniture, all before they moved through to the bedding plants.
    With an hour and a half until they opened, and if she could shanghai Harper into helping her with the heavy stuff, she’d have it done.
    She heard footsteps coming through from the back, blew her hair out of her eyes. “Making progress,” she began. “I know it doesn’t look like it yet, but ...”
    She broke off when she saw him.
    Even standing on the ladder, she felt dwarfed. He had to be six-five. All tough and rangy and fit in faded jeans with bleach stains splattered over one thigh. He wore a flannel shirt jacket-style over a white T-shirt and a pair of boots so dinged and scored she wondered he didn’t take pity and give them a decent burial.
    His long, wavy, unkempt hair was the color she’d been shooting for the one time she’d dyed her own.
    She wouldn’t have called him handsome—everything about him seemed rough and rugged. The hard mouth, the hollowed cheeks, the sharp nose, the expression in his eyes. They were green, but not like Kevin’s had been. These were moody and deep, and seemed somehow hot under the strong line of brows.
    No, she wouldn’t have said handsome, but arresting, in a big and tough sort of way. The sort of tough that looked like a bunched fist would bounce right off him, doing a lot more damage to the puncher than the punchee.
    She smiled, though she wondered where Roz was, or Harper. Or somebody.
    “I’m sorry. We’re not open yet this morning. Is there something I can do for you?”
    Oh, he knew that voice. That crisp, cool voice that had left him annoying messages about functional organizational plans and production goals.
    He’d expected her to look like she’d sounded—a usual mistake, he supposed. There wasn’t much cool and crisp about that wild red hair she was trying to control with that stupid-looking kerchief, or the wariness in those big blue eyes.
    “You moved my damn trees.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Well, you ought to be. Don’t do it again.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She kept a grip on the bucket—just in case—and stepped down the ladder. “Did you order some trees? If I could have your name, I’ll see if I can find your order. We’re implementing a new system, so—”
    “I don’t have to order anything, and I don’t like your new system. And what the hell are you doing in here? Where is everything?”
    His voice sounded local to her, with a definite edge of nasty impatience. “I think it would be best if you came back when we’re open. Winter hours start at ten A.M. If you’d leave me your name ...” She edged toward the counter and the phone.
    “It’s Kitridge, and you ought to know since you’ve been nagging me brainless for damn near a week.”
    “I don’t know ... oh. Kitridge.” She relaxed, fractionally. “The landscape designer. And I haven’t been nagging,” she said with more heat when her brain caught up. “I’ve been trying to contact you so we could schedule a meeting. You haven’t had the courtesy to return my calls. I certainly hope you’re not as rude with clients as you are with coworkers.”
    “Rude? Sister, you haven’t seen rude.”
    “I have two sons,” she snapped back. “I’ve seen plenty of rude. Roz hired me to put some order into her business, to take some of the systemic load off her shoulders, to—”
    “Systemic?” His gaze rose to the ceiling like a man sending out a prayer. “Jesus, are you always going to talk like that?”
    She took a calming breath. “Mr. Kitridge, I have a job to do. Part of that job is dealing with the landscaping arm of this business. It happens to be a very important and profitable arm.”
    “Damn right. And it’s my frigging arm.”
    “It also happens to be ridiculously disorganized and apparently run like a circus. I’ve been finding little scraps of paper and hand-scribbled orders and invoices—if you can call them that—all week.”
    “So?”
    “So, if