Читать книгу The Millionaire and the Maid - Мишель Дуглас, Michelle Douglas - Страница 8
ОглавлениеJO TOOK A couple of deep breaths before spooning spaghetti and meatballs onto two plates. If Mac said something cutting about her efforts in the kitchen she’d—
She’d dump the contents of his plate in his lap?
She let out a slow breath. It was a nice fantasy, but she wouldn’t. She’d just act calm and unconcerned, as she always did, and pretend the slings and arrows didn’t touch her.
Seizing the plates, she strode into the dining room. She set one in front of Mac and the other at her place opposite. He didn’t so much as glance at the food, but he did glare at her. Was he going to spend the entire week sulking?
What fun.
She stared back, refusing to let him cow her. She’d expected the shouting and the outrage. After all, he wasn’t known as ‘Mad Mac’—television’s most notorious and demanding celebrity chef—for nothing. The tabloids had gone to town on him after the accident, claiming it would never have happened if ‘Mad Mac’ hadn’t been so intimidating.
She bit back a sigh. It was all nonsense, of course. She’d had the inside scoop on Mac from Russ. She knew all of that onscreen TV shouting had been a front—a ploy to send the ratings skyrocketing. It had worked too. So it hadn’t surprised her that he’d donned that persona when she’d stormed in on him earlier. But the sulking threw her.
‘What?’ he bit out when she continued to stare.
She shook herself. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’ She picked up her cutlery and sliced into a meatball.
‘You’re religious?’
‘No.’ The prayer had just seemed a convenient way to handle an awkward silence. ‘I mean, I do believe in something bigger than us—whatever that may be.’
Mac didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move to pick up his cutlery.
She forged on. ‘One of the guys on the mineral exploration camps was a Christian and we all got into the habit of saying Grace. It’s nice. It doesn’t hurt to remember the things we should be grateful for.’
His frown deepened to a scowl. ‘You really think that’s going to work? You really think you can make my life seem okay just by—?’
She slammed her knife and fork down. ‘Not everything is about you, Mac.’ She forced her eyes wide. ‘Some of it might even be about me.’ Couldn’t he at least look at his food? He needn’t think it would taste any better cold. ‘Your attitude sucks. You know that? Frankly, I don’t care if you’ve decided to self-destruct or not, but you can darn well wait until after Russ has recovered from his bypass surgery to do it.’
‘You’re not exactly polite company, are you?’
‘Neither are you. Besides, I refuse to put any effort into being good company for as long as you sulk. I’m not your mother. It’s not my job to cajole you into a better temper.’
His jaw dropped.
And he still hadn’t touched his food.
‘Eat something, Mac. If we’re busy eating we can abandon any pretence at small talk.’
A laugh choked out of him and just for a moment it transformed him. Oh, the burn scars on the left side of his face and neck were still as angry and livid as ever, but his mouth hooked up and his eyes momentarily brightened and he held his head at an angle she remembered from his television show.
It was why she was still here. Earlier this afternoon he’d fired up—not with humour, but with intensity and passion. He’d become the man she’d recognised from the TV, but also from Russ’s descriptions. That was a man she could work with.
Finally he did as she bade and forked a small mouthful of meatball and sauce into his mouth. When he didn’t gag, a knot of tension eased out of her.
‘This isn’t bad.’ He ate some more and frowned. ‘In fact, it’s pretty good.’
Yeah, right. He was just trying to butter her up, frightened of what she might tell Russ.
‘Actually, it’s very good—considering the state of the pantry.’
She almost believed him. Almost. ‘I’ll need to shop for groceries tomorrow. I understand we’re halfway between Forster and Taree here. Any suggestions for where I should go?’
‘No.’
When he didn’t add anything she shook her head and set to eating. It had been a long day and she was tired and hungry. She halted with half a meatball practically in her mouth when she realised he’d stopped eating and was staring at her.
‘What?’
‘I wasn’t being rude. It’s just that I haven’t been to either town. I was getting groceries delivered from a supermarket in Forster.’
‘Was?’
He scowled. ‘The delivery man couldn’t follow instructions.’
Ah. Said delivery man had probably encroached on Mac’s precious privacy. ‘Right. Well, I’ll try my luck in Forster, then.’ She’d seen signposts for the town before turning off to Mac’s property.
He got back to work on the plate in front of him with... She blinked. With gusto? Heat spread through her stomach. Oh, don’t be ridiculous! He’d had his own TV show. He was a consummate actor. But the heat didn’t dissipate.
She pulled in a breath. ‘I’m hoping Russ warned you that I’m not much of a cook.’
He froze. Very slowly he lowered his cutlery. ‘Russ said you were a good plain cook. On this evening’s evidence I’d agree with him.’ His face turned opaque. ‘You’re feeling intimidated cooking for a...?’
‘World-renowned chef?’ she finished for him. ‘Yes, a little. I just want you to keep your expectations within that realm of plain, please.’
She bit back a sigh. Plain—what a boring word. Beauty is as beauty does. The old adage sounded through her mind. Yeah, yeah, whatever.
‘I promise not to criticise your cooking. I will simply be...’ he grimaced ‘...grateful for whatever you serve up. You don’t need to worry that I’ll be secretly judging your technique.’
‘I expect there’d be nothing secret about it. I think you’d be more than happy to share your opinions on the matter.’
His lips twitched.
‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’ she rushed on, not wanting to dwell on those lips for too long.
He shook his head.
‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to serve?’
He shook his head again.
There was something else she’d meant to ask him... Oh, that’s right. ‘You have a garage...’
They both reached for the plate of garlic bread at the same time. He waited for her to take a slice first. He had nice hands. She remembered admiring them when she’d watched him on TV. Lean, long-fingered hands that looked strong and—
‘The garage?’
She shook herself. ‘Would there be room for me to park my car in there? I expect this sea air is pretty tough on a car’s bodywork.’
‘Feel free.’
‘Thank you.’
They both crunched garlic bread. He watched her from the corner of his eye. She chewed and swallowed, wondering what he made of her. She sure as heck wasn’t like the women he was forever being photographed with in the papers. For starters she was as tall as a lot of men, and more athletic than most.
Not Mac, though. Even in his current out-of-form condition he was still taller and broader than her—though she might give him a run for his money in an arm wrestle at the moment.
Her stomach tightened. He was probably wondering what god he’d cheesed off to have a woman like her landing on his doorstep. Mac was a golden boy. Beautiful. And she was the opposite. Not that that had anything to do with anything. What he thought of her physically made no difference whatsoever.
Except, of course, it did. It always mattered.
‘You’ve shown a lot of concern for Russ.’
Her head came up. ‘Yes?’
He scowled at her. ‘Are you in love with him? He’s too old for you, you know.’
It surprised her so much she laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ She swept her garlic bread through the leftover sauce on her plate.
His frown deepened. ‘No.’
‘I love your brother as a friend, but I’m not in love with him. Lord, what a nightmare that would be.’ She sat back and wiped her fingers on a serviette.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not a masochist. You and your brother have similar tastes in women. You both date petite, perfectly made-up blondes who wear killer heels and flirty dresses.’ She hadn’t packed a dress. She didn’t even own a pair of heels.
He pushed his plate away, his face darkening. ‘How the hell do you know what type I like?’ He turned sideways in his chair to cross his legs. It hid his scarring from her view.
‘It’s true I’m basing my assumption on who you’ve been snapped with in the tabloids and what Russ has told me.’
‘You make us sound shallow.’
If the shoe fits...
‘But I can assure you that the women you just described wouldn’t look twice at me now.’
‘Only if they were superficial.’
His head jerked up.
‘And beauty and superficiality don’t necessarily go hand in hand.’
No more than plain and stupid, or plain and thick-skinned.
He opened his mouth, but she continued on over the top of him. ‘Anyway, you’re not going to get any sympathy from me on that. I’ve never been what people consider beautiful. I’ve learned to value other things. You think people will no longer find you beautiful—
‘I know they won’t!’
He was wrong, but... ‘So welcome to the club.’
His jaw dropped.
‘It’s not the end of the world, you know?’
He stared at her for a long moment and then leaned across the table. ‘What the hell are you really doing here, Jo Anderson?’
She stared back at him, and inside she started to weep—because she wanted to ask this man to teach her to cook and he was so damaged and angry that she knew he would toss her request on the rubbish heap and not give it so much as the time of day.
Something in his eyes gentled. ‘Jo?’
Now wasn’t the time to raise the subject. It was becoming abundantly clear that there might never be a good time.
She waved a hand in the air. ‘The answer is twofold.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘I’m here to make sure you don’t undo all the hard work I’ve put into Russ.’
He sat back. ‘Hard work?’
She should rise and clear away their plates, clean the kitchen, but he deserved some answers. ‘Do you know how hard, how physically demanding, it is to perform CPR for five straight minutes?’ Which was what she’d done for Russ.
He shook his head, his eyes darkening.
‘It’s really hard. And all the while your mind is screaming in panic and making deals with the universe.’
‘Deals?’
‘Please let Russ live and I’ll never say another mean word about anyone ever again. Please let Russ live and I promise to be a better granddaughter and great-niece. Please let Russ live and I’ll do whatever you ask, will face my worst fears... Blah, blah, blah.’ She pushed her hair back off her face. ‘You know—the usual promises that are nearly impossible to keep.’ She stared down at her glass of water. ‘It was the longest five minutes of my life.’
‘But Russ did live. You did save his life. It’s an extraordinary thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you want to make sure that I don’t harm his recovery?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Which is why you’re here—to check up on me so you can ease Russ’s mind?’
‘He was going to come himself, and that didn’t seem wise.’
Mac turned grey.
‘But you don’t have it quite right. Russ is doing me a favour, organising this job for me.’
He remained silent, not pressing her, and she was grateful for that.
‘You see, Russ’s heart attack and my fear that he was going to die brought me face to face with my own mortality.’
He flinched and she bit back a curse. What did she know about mortality compared to this man? She reached across to clasp his hand in a sign of automatic sympathy, but he froze. A bad taste rose in her mouth and she pulled her hand back into her lap. Her heart pounded. He wouldn’t welcome her touch. Of course he wouldn’t.
‘I expect you know what I’m talking about.’
Mac’s accident had left him with serious burns, but it had left a young apprentice fighting for his life. She remembered Russ’s relief when the young man had finally been taken off the critical list.
‘What I’m trying to say is that it’s made me reassess my life. It’s forced me to admit I wasn’t very happy, that I didn’t really like my job. I don’t want to spend the next twenty years feeling like that.’
She blew out a breath.
‘So when Russ found out you needed a housekeeper and mentioned it to me I jumped at the chance. It’ll give me two or three months to come up with a game plan.’
* * *
Mac stared at her. ‘You’re changing careers?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She looked a bit green.
‘To do what?’
She turned greener. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
He knew that feeling.
Mac didn’t want to be touched by her story—he didn’t want to be touched by anything—but he was. Maybe it was the sheer simplicity of the telling, the lack of fanfare. Or maybe it was because he understood that sense of dissatisfaction she described. He’d stalled out here in his isolation and his self-pity while she was determined to surge forward.
Maybe if he watched her he’d learn—
He cut that thought off. He didn’t deserve the chance to move forward. He’d ruined a man’s life. He deserved to spend the rest of his life making amends.
But not at the expense of other people. Like Russ. Or Jo.
‘You’re wrong, you know?’
She glanced up. ‘About...?’
‘You seem to think you’re plain—invisible, even.’ Not beautiful.
‘Invisible?’ She snorted. ‘I’m six feet tall with a build some charitably call generous. Invisible is the one thing I’m not.’
‘Generous’ was the perfect word to describe her. She had glorious curves in all the right places. A fact that his male hormones acknowledged and appreciated even while his brain told him to leave that well enough alone.
He leaned back, careful to keep the good side of his face to her. ‘You’re a very striking woman.’ Don’t drool. ‘So what if you’re tall? You’re in proportion.’ She looked strong, athletic and full of life. ‘You have lovely eyes, your hair is shiny, and you have skin that most women would kill for. You may not fit in with conventional magazine cover ideals of beauty, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t beautiful. Stop selling yourself short. I can assure you that you’re not plain.’
She gaped at him. It made him scowl and shuffle back in his seat. ‘Well, you’re not.’
She snapped her mouth shut. She wiped her hands down the front of her shirt, which only proved to him how truly womanly she happened to be. The colour in her cheeks deepened as if she’d read that thought in his face.
‘There’s another reason I’m here,’ she blurted out.
The hurried confession and the way her words tripped over themselves, the fact that she looked cute when flustered, all conspired to make him want to grin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled, let alone grinned. He resisted the urge now too. In the end, grinning... Well, it would just make things harder, in the same way the sunlight and the sea breeze did.
But he did take pity on her. ‘Another reason?’ he prompted.
She moistened her lips. Like the rest of her they were generous, and full of promise.
‘Mac, one of the reasons I came out here was to ask if you would teach me to cook.’ She grimaced. ‘Well, if we’re being completely accurate, if you’d teach me to make a macaron tower.’
His every muscle froze. His nerve-endings started to scream. For a moment all he could see in his mind was fire—all red and heat. A lump the size of a saucepan wedged in his throat. It took three goes to swallow it.
‘No.’ The word croaked out of him.
He closed his eyes to force air into protesting lungs and then opened them again, his skin growing slick with perspiration.
‘No.’ The single word came out cold and clear. ‘That’s out of the question. I don’t cook any more.’
‘But—’
‘Ever.’ He pinned her with his gaze and knew it must be pitiless when she shivered. ‘It’s absolutely out of the question.’
He rose.
‘Now if you don’t mind. I’m going to do a bit of work before I retire for the night. I’ll move my sleeping quarters to the end bedroom tomorrow.’
She seemed to gather herself. ‘I’ll clean it first thing.’
That reminded him that she meant to do a grocery shop tomorrow too. ‘There’s housekeeping money in the tin on the mantel in the kitchen.’
‘Right.’
He hated the way she surveyed him. Turning his back, he left, forcing knees that trembled to carry him up the stairs and into his room. He lowered himself to the chair at his desk and dropped his head to his hands, did what he could to quieten the scream stretching through his brain.
Teach Jo to cook?
Impossible.
His chest pounded in time with his temples. Blood surged in his ears, deafening him. He didn’t know how long it took for the pounding to slow, for his chest to unclench, and for his breathing to regain a more natural rhythm. It felt like a lifetime.
Eventually he lifted his head. He couldn’t teach her to cook. She’d saved his brother’s life and he owed her, but he couldn’t teach her to cook.
He rose and went to the double glass doors. With the curtains pushed back they stood open to the moonlight. Below, starlight dappled navy water. He couldn’t teach her to cook, but he could do everything else she’d asked of him. He could ensure that Russ didn’t have one thing to worry about on Mac’s account.
One week of halfway human behaviour? He could manage that.
He thought back to the way he’d just left the dining room and dragged a hand through his hair. She must think him a madman. Hauling in a breath, he rested his forehead against cool glass. He might not be able to help her on the cooking front, but could he help her in her search for a new vocation?
The sooner she found a new direction the sooner she’d go, leaving him in peace again. A low, savage laugh scraped from his throat. He would never find peace. He didn’t deserve it. But he could have her gone. He’d settle for that.
* * *
Mac had been awake for over an hour before he heard Jo’s firm tread on the stairs. She moved past his door and on to the bedroom at the end. No doubt to clean it, as she’d promised. The need for caffeine pounded through him. So far he’d resisted it—not ready to face Jo yet.
He blamed the light pouring in at the windows. It had disorientated him.
Liar. It wasn’t the light but a particular woman he found disorientating.
He could bolt down to the kitchen now, while she was busy up here.
Yeah, like that would convince her to tell Russ all was fine and dandy. He flung the covers back, pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a sweater, and stomped into the en-suite bathroom to splash water on his face. He stood by his bedroom door, counted to three, dragging in a breath on each count before opening it.
‘Morning, Jo,’ he called out. Amazingly his voice didn’t emerge all hoarse and croaky as he’d expected.
She appeared at the end of the hallway. ‘Good morning. Sleep well?’
Surprisingly, he had. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ He remembered his manners. ‘And you?’
‘No.’
She didn’t add any further explanation. He took a step towards her, careful to keep the right side of his face to her. With all the curtains on this level now open there was a lot of light to contend with.
‘Is there something wrong with your room? The bed? The mattress?’
She laughed and something inside him unhitched. ‘I never sleep well in a new place the first night. Plus, I did a lot of driving yesterday and that always makes me feel unsettled. I’ll sleep like a dream tonight.’
He rolled his shoulders. ‘How long did you drive for?’
‘Five hours.’
Five hours? And she’d arrived to... His stomach churned. She’d arrived to his bitterness, resentment and utter rudeness.
‘Mac, we need to talk about my duties.’
That snapped him to.
‘I mean, do you want me to make you a full cooked breakfast each morning? What about lunch?’
He noticed she didn’t give him any quarter as far as dinner went. ‘I’ll help myself for breakfast and lunch.’
‘Not a breakfast person, huh?’
He wasn’t. He opened his mouth. He closed it again and waited for a lecture.
‘Me neither,’ she confessed. ‘Most important meal of the day, blah, blah, blah.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Just give me a coffee before I kill you.’
He laughed, but he was still careful to keep his good side to her. She hadn’t flinched at his scars last night or so far this morning. But he knew what they looked like. He could at least spare her when he could.
One thing was for sure—she didn’t treat him like an invalid, and he was grateful for it.
‘There’s a pot of freshly brewed coffee on the hob.’
He didn’t need any further encouragement, and turned in the direction of the kitchen.
He swung back before he reached the stairs. ‘Jo?’
Her head appeared in the bedroom doorway again.
‘Don’t bust a gut trying to get the house shipshape all at once, will you?’ He’d long since dismissed his army of hired help. ‘I’ve...uh...let it get away from me a bit.’ At her raised eyebrow he amended that to ‘A lot.’
She merely saluted him and went back to work. He made his way down to the kitchen, wondering if he’d passed the don’t worry Russ test so far this morning. He poured himself a coffee, took a sip and closed his eyes. Man, the woman could make a fine brew.
* * *
Mac clocked the exact moment Jo returned from her shopping expedition.
His first instinct was to continue hiding out in his room. He stared at the half-written recipe on his computer screen and pushed to his feet. If he walked away and did something else for half an hour he might remember if he reduced the recipe’s required infusion by a third or a quarter.
If he could just see it in the saucepan and smell it he’d have the answer in an instant and—
He cut the thought off with a curse and went to help Jo unpack the car. She’d only given him a week. He’d better make the most of it.
She glanced up when he strode out onto the veranda, and in the light of her grace and vigour he suddenly felt awkward and ungainly.
He scowled, unable to dredge up a single piece of small talk. ‘I thought I’d help unpack the car.’
She pursed her lips and he realised he was still scowling. He did what he could to smooth his face out—the parts of his face he could smooth out.
‘You have any trouble finding the shops?’
Heck. Scintillating conversation.
‘None at all. You feeling okay, Mac?’
‘I’m fine.’ Striding to the car, he seized as many bags as he could and stalked back into the house with them.
It took them two trips.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do after that, so he leant against the sink and pretended to drink a glass of water as he watched her unpack the groceries. There were the expected trays of meat—hamburger mince, sausages, steak and diced beef. And then there was the unexpected and to be deplored—frozen pies and frozen pizza. Fish fingers, for heaven’s sake!
He flicked a disparaging finger at the boxes. What are those?’
‘I’m assuming you’re not asking the question literally?’
She’d donned one of those mock patient voices used on troublesome children and it set his teeth on edge. ‘Is this to punish me for refusing to teach you to cook?’
She turned from stowing stuff in the freezer, hands on hips. ‘You told me you weren’t a fussy eater.’
‘This isn’t food. It’s processed pap!’
‘You’re free to refuse to eat anything I serve up.’
‘But if I do you’ll go running to Russ to tell tales?’
She grinned, and her relish both irked and amused him.
She lifted one hand. ‘Rock.’ She lifted the other. ‘Hard place.’
Which described his situation perfectly.
She grinned again and his mouth watered. She seized a packet of frozen pies and waved them at him. ‘Pies, mash, peas and gravy is one of my all-time favourite, walk-over-hot-coals-to-get-it meals, and I’m not giving it up—not even for your high-falutin’ standards. And before you ask—no, I haven’t mastered the trick to pastry.’ She shook her head. ‘Life’s too short to fuss with pastry. Or to stuff a mushroom.’
She was wrong. A perfect buttery pastry, light and delicate, was one of life’s adventures. And mushroom-stuffing shouldn’t be sneezed at. But why on earth would she ask him to teach her to cook if that was the way she felt?
‘And I’ll have you know that fish fingers on a fresh bun with a dollop of tartare sauce makes the best lunch.’
‘I will never eat fish fingers.’
‘All the more for me, then.’
He scowled at the pizza boxes.
‘Also,’ her lips twitched, ‘as far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as a bad slice of pizza.’
‘That’s ludicrous!’
‘Don’t be such a snob. Besides, all of this food is better than whatever it is you’ve been living on for the last heaven only knows how long. Which, as far as I can tell, has been tinned baked beans, crackers and breakfast cereal.’
She had a point. It didn’t matter what he ate. In fact the more cardboard-like and tasteless the better. It had been his search for excellence and his ambition that had caused the fire that had almost claimed a young man’s life and—
His chest cramped. He reached out an unsteady hand and lowered himself into a chair at the table. He had to remember what was important. He wanted to do all he could to set Russ’s mind at rest, but he couldn’t lose sight of what was important—and that was paying off his debts.
A warm hand on his shoulder brought him back to himself. ‘Mac, are you okay?’
He nodded.
‘Don’t lie to me. Do you need a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Russell told me you were physically recovered.’
‘I am.’ He pulled in a breath. ‘It’s just that I don’t like talking about food or cooking.’
Realisation dawned in those sage-green eyes of hers. ‘Because it reminds you of the accident?’
It reminded him of all he’d had. And all he’d lost.
