Читать книгу The Millionaire and the Maid - Мишель Дуглас, Michelle Douglas - Страница 9
ОглавлениеMAC TENSED BENEATH her touch and Jo snatched her hand back, suddenly and searingly aware that while Mac wasn’t in peak physical condition he was still a man. He still had broader shoulders than most men she knew, and beneath the thin cotton of his sweater his body pulsed hot and vibrant.
But at this moment he looked so bowed and defeated she wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him it would all be okay, that it would work itself out.
She grimaced. She could just imagine the way he’d flinch from her if she did. Besides, she didn’t know if it would be all right. She didn’t know if it would work itself out or not.
She moved away to the other side of the kitchen. ‘I can make you one promise, Mac.’
He glanced up.
‘I promise to never feed you fish fingers.’
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. But something inside him unhitched a fraction and his colour started to return. ‘I suppose I should give thanks for small mercies.’
‘Absolutely. Have you had lunch yet?’
He shook his head.
She seized an apple from the newly replenished fruit bowl and tossed it to him.
This time she’d have sworn he’d laugh, but he didn’t.
‘I can see I’m going to get nothing but the very best care while you’re here.’
‘Top-notch,’ she agreed. She grabbed her car keys from the bench. ‘I’m going to put The Beast in the garage.’
Mac didn’t say anything. He just bit into his apple.
The moment she was out of sight Jo’s shoulders sagged. If Mac looked like that—so sick and grey and full of despair—just at the thought of the accident, at the thought of cooking...
She had no hope of getting him to give her cooking lessons. None at all. She twisted her fingers together. It was obvious now that it had been insensitive and unkind to have asked.
Why do you never think, Jo?
With a sigh, she started up her car and drove it around to the garage. It didn’t solve her problem. She needed to make a macaron tower and she had just over two months to learn how to do it.
She pushed her shoulders back. Fine. She had a whole two months. She’d just teach herself. There’d be recipes online, and videos. What else was she going to do out here? Keeping house and cooking dinner would take—what?—three or four hours a day tops? Probably less once she had the house in order.
A macaron tower? How hard could it be?
‘Don’t say that,’ she murmured, leaping out of her car to lift the roller door to one of the garage’s two bays. The bay she’d chosen stood empty. Out of curiosity she lifted the second door too.
She had a French cookbook Great-Aunt Edith had given her. Maybe there was something in there—
Her thoughts slammed to a halt. She stood there, hands still attached to the roller door, and gaped at the vision of loveliness that had appeared in front of her.
Eventually she lowered her hands, wiped them down the sides of her jeans. Oh. My. Word.
Oh.
Dear.
Lord.
The sky-blue classic eighties sports car was her very own fantasy car brought to life and it was all she could do to not drop to her knees and kiss it.
‘Oh, my God, you are the most beautiful car ever,’ she whispered, daring to trail a finger across the bodywork as she completed a full circle around it, admiring the front curves, the fat spoiler, its gloss, its clean lines and its shape. What wouldn’t she do to test drive this car?
What wouldn’t she do just to sit in one!
She tried the driver’s door. Locked.
With a jump, she spun around and closed the garage door. One needed to protect a piece of perfection like this from damaging elements. She parked The Beast in the bay beside the sleek machine.
Beauty and The Beast.
She cast one more longing look at Mac’s beautiful car before closing the second roller door and racing into the house. Mac was still in the kitchen—eating a sandwich now, rather than the apple.
He glanced up when she clattered in. ‘I take it I’m allowed to help myself to the provisions?’
‘You have my dream car in your garage!’
‘Is that a yes?’
How could he be so cool? She gaped at him and then mentally kicked herself. She spread her arms wide. ‘Of course! You can help yourself to anything.’
He stared at her and his eyes darkened. He licked his lips and she had a sudden feeling he wasn’t thinking about food, but an altogether different primal need. She pulled her arms back to her sides, heat flooding her veins. Don’t be ridiculous. Men like Mac didn’t find women like her attractive.
Mac turned away from her on his chair as if he’d just come to the same conclusion. She dragged a hand back through her hair to rub her nape.
‘You said something about my car?’
She swallowed back the request that he let her drive it—just once. She swallowed back asking him if he’d just let her sit in it. For all she knew that might be as insensitive as asking him to teach her to cook.
‘I... It’s beautiful.’
He glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged, unsure what to say, unsure what constituted a safe topic—because she never wanted to witness that look of defeat and despair on his face again. So she shrugged again and filled the jug. She measured out tea leaves.
‘Feel free to take it for a spin any time you want.’
The jug wobbled precariously as she poured boiling water into the teapot.
Mac leapt up. ‘Don’t burn yourself!’
She concentrated on setting the jug back in its place. ‘I didn’t spill a drop.’ Her heart thump-thumped. ‘I’m fine.’ She set the teapot and two mugs onto the table. ‘But I gotta tell you, Mac, you shouldn’t offer a girl her heart’s desire while she’s pouring out boiling water—and for future reference probably not while she’s wielding sharp implements either.’
She smiled as she said it. Mac didn’t smile back. He just stared at the jug with haunted eyes, the pulse in his throat pounding.
She sat down as if nothing in the world was amiss. ‘Would you truly let me take your car out for a drive?’
He sat too. He wiped a hand down his face before lifting one negligent shoulder. ‘Sure.’ But he reached out to pour the tea before she could. ‘It could use a run. I turn it over a couple of times a week, but I don’t take it out.’
She gaped at him. ‘You’d let me drive it? Just like that?’
That same slow lift of his shoulder. ‘Why not?’
It took an effort of will to drag her gaze from that broad sweep of corded muscle. ‘I...uh... What if I pranged it?’
‘The insurance would cover it. Jo, it’s just a car.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s...’ She reached out to try and pluck the appropriate description from the air. ‘It’s a gem, a jewel—a thing of beauty. It’s—’
‘Just a car.’
‘A piece of precision German engineering.’
She almost asked how he could not want to drive it, but choked the question back at the last moment. That would be tactless. He’d been in the most dreadful accident, had suffered a long and painful recovery, and would bear the scars for the rest of his life. He’d been hounded by the media. She could see how fast cars might have lost their appeal.
So why hadn’t he sold it?
She stared at him and pursed her lips. Maybe Mac hadn’t given up on life as completely as he thought.
He glared. ‘What?’
‘You wouldn’t consider selling it, would you?’
He blinked. ‘Could you afford it?’
‘I’ve been working in the Outback for the last eight years, making decent money but having very little to spend it on.’
He scratched a hand through his hair. ‘But you’re not earning a decent wage now.’
She was earning enough to cover her needs.
He jabbed a finger at her. ‘And you may, in fact, be training for a new job shortly.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t be the most practical of moves.’
He glared. ‘You can say that again.’
He didn’t want to sell it! She bit back a grin. There was still some life in Mac after all.
He settled back in his seat with a harrumph. ‘But the offer stands. You can take it for a spin any time you want.’
‘Lord, don’t say that,’ she groaned, ‘or your house will never get cleaned.’
He laughed. It made his eyes dance, it softened his lips, and Jo couldn’t drag her gaze away. ‘You...uh...’ She moistened her lips. ‘You wouldn’t want to come along for a spin?’
His face was immediately shuttered, closed, and she could have kicked herself. ‘Well, no, I guess not. You’re busy writing up your recipes and stuff.’
‘Speaking of which...’ He rose, evidently intent on getting back to work.
She surveyed his retreating back with a sinking heart. Well done, Jo.
