Читать книгу Prodigal Prince Charming - Christine Flynn - Страница 10

Utter disbelief kept Madison rooted right where she stood. Mouth open, too stunned to speak, she stared at the pile of crisscrossed beams that had just annihilated her vehicle. Other than those twenty-foot-long, two-ton girders of tempered steel, she couldn’t see anything but part of the white cab’s cratered roof and a spray of glittering glass shards that had been its windows and headlights.

Her first thought as she screamed, “My truck!” and panic sent her into motion was to save what she could of her food. As she darted toward the men, her second was that she smelled gasoline.

Shoving her way past the barrier of bodies and the barricade, intent on saving what she could, it vaguely occurred to her that the gas tank had ruptured.

“Hey, lady! Stay back!”

“Somebody stop her!”

She had no idea who’d yelled at her. “That’s my truck!” she cried again, only to feel something hard clamp around her arm.

That iron grip stopped her cold.

Disbelieving, distraught, she whirled to see Cord holding her back as the other men slipped past the barricade.

“What are you doing?” she screamed, struggling to break his hold.

“I’m saving your neck!” The heat of his palm burned into her, his grip as unyielding as his tone. “That claw is still swinging up there, and the beams it dropped aren’t stable. If one lands on you, it’ll break half the bones in your body.”

Even as he spoke, a long, heavy girder slipped from the top of the pile. It slid to the dirt with the groan of metal and a resounding thud that had men jumping back as if they’d been jerked by strings. Someone yelled for someone else to put out his cigarette. Overhead, the huge black claw that had held the beams swung from its cables like the pendulum of a clock.

Madison’s glance fell back to what was left of her truck and the dark pool slowly seeping from under it. With a shiver, she realized a single spark could turn the pile of collapsed metal into a bonfire.

“You’re lucky you were bringing the coffee,” Cord muttered above her. “If you’d been inside there, you’d have been history.”

Shock turned to incredulity.

“You think my bringing you breakfast saved me from being hurt?” Adrenaline surged as her eyes collided with his. “Are you delusional? If I hadn’t delivered that order, I would have been halfway to my next stop by now. That’s clear over by the docks, miles away from that…that…thing,” she concluded, waving her free arm at the crane.

“Hey,” he soothed. “Take it easy.”

Easy? “How am I supposed to do that?” she demanded, offended that he would even suggest it. “Because I did deliver that order, I’m not going to make that stop or any of my other stops. My truck has been reduced to a manhole cover, and the food I got up at three o’clock to make is mush. That truck is my livelihood, Kendrick, and the people at my stops depend on me to be there on time.”

Her outstretched arm reminded her that he still had her other one shackled. Not caring at all for the patient look he had the nerve to give her, she jerked back. Hard.

Suspecting that she hadn’t freed herself so much as he had let her go, not liking the idea that he held power over her in any form, she spun away, only to spin right back. He actually thought he’d helped her?

“I never should have listened to you,” she insisted, her chin up, her voice quavering with anger and the anxiety that got a firmer grip with each passing second. “I should have stuck to my schedule and not paid any attention to anything you offered or anything you said. You’re the one who told me to park there. Right there. In that very spot,” she reminded him, poking her finger toward the pile. “You even told me to ignore the warning sign. So, don’t you dare act like you’ve done me any favors.”

She was furious. She was distraught. She clearly blamed him and him alone for what had happened.

She also looked as if she could go for his throat because she’d done what he had asked. Fearing she might do just that, anxious to avoid a scene, Cord ignored the lack-of-sleep headache brewing in the base of his skull and started to reach for her again.

She immediately stepped away. Since calming her down by touch didn’t appear to be an option, he made his manner as placating as he could.

“You’ll get another truck,” he assured her. “I’ll buy you a new one and you’ll be back in business in no time.”

Her eyes flashed at his attempt to appease. The bits of gold in their liquid brown depths reminded him of flame. “I need to be back in business now,” she informed him. Her hand darted toward the pile of rubble again “Throwing your money at this isn’t going to fix it. You can’t replace a catering truck the way you can a car. New ones have to be ordered.”

“So I’ll order one.”

“It took me three months to get that one! What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

Cord opened his mouth to reply. Having no idea what to say that wouldn’t just add fuel to her fire, he shut it again. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he watched her walk off. Stalk, actually, though even angry, she moved with a feminine grace that held his focus on the slender line of her back, the gentle flare of her hips, her long, long legs. She did more for cotton knit and denim than most women did for cashmere and silk. Definitely more than many of the women he’d met over the years. Especially the models. There was a softness about her curves that told him she at least had some meat on her bones.

With her luminous brown eyes and her incredible mouth, Madison O’Malley looked like pure temptation. Or would have if she hadn’t gone off the deep end about who was responsible for the state of her truck.

Feeling another publicity nightmare coming on, willing to do anything to avoid it, he followed to where she’d made it past two engineers in hard hats scratching their heads over how best to move the beams. He wanted coffee. He wanted food. He wanted to finish his meetings here, get ready for the sailing race in Annapolis next week and forget he’d ever laid eyes on the spitfire now arguing with the site supervisor.

Unfortunately, what he wanted wasn’t possible at the moment.

Madison wasn’t arguing.

She was begging.

“Just let me see if I can get the storage door open. Please,” she asked the weathered-looking man in a chambray shirt blocking her way. “I just want to salvage whatever is left of my food.”

“I keep telling you, ma’am, it’s too dangerous.” He motioned to the driver of a forklift, far less concerned with her problems than his own. Progress had just come to a screeching halt at this section of the huge project. “You saw that beam slip a minute ago. That one there could go next,” he said, pointing to one hovering at eye level. “Let us get this cleared out, then you can do what you need to do. You shouldn’t be here without a hard hat, anyway.”

His glance moved past her shoulder. “I told her she shouldn’t be here, Mr. Kendrick,” he called. “She’s just not listening.”

“It’s okay,” Cord called back, walking toward them as if he owned the place—which, she supposed, he did. “I’ll take care of this.”

It was as obvious as the supervisor’s relief that no one was going to let her near her truck, much less inside any part she might be able to squeeze into. Realizing that, Madison looked from the crossed lengths of steel and frantically switched gears. If she couldn’t save some of her inventory, then she needed to focus on transportation. She needed some way to get to her other stops and tell her customers…

Tell them what? she wondered, deliberately turning from Cord’s approach. That she couldn’t feed them today? That she couldn’t feed them the rest of the week? The month?

Only once in her life had she failed an obligation. That had been years ago, yet she still lived with the consequences of that failure in one form or another every day of her life. She had diligently met every responsibility ever since. The thought of not meeting her commitments now added anxiety to pure distress.

She needed a vehicle. Something large. But her thoughts got no further than wondering whose vehicle she could borrow when she realized her mind was turning in aimless circles, too overwhelmed to think at all.

The staccato beep of a back-up horn joined the shouts of men and the clang of metal as she sank down on a stack of cement blocks. Not sure if she felt bewildered or simply numb, she propped her elbows on her knees and dropped her face into her hands.

She couldn’t phone ahead to her next stop. There was no one in particular to call. It was simply a spot where she parked on the pier between dock 23 and 24. As soon as she arrived, some of the men who unloaded the cargo ships or tended their repairs would start swarming toward her. There were other catering trucks that serviced the area. But each had its own spot and its own loyal customers. Her customers would be waiting for her even now.

The thought that she was letting them down put a knot the size of a muffin in her stomach.

A large hand settled cautiously on her shoulder.

“Hey,” Cord murmured. “Are you all right?”

Beneath his palm, he felt her slender muscles stiffen. He knew she wasn’t okay. Even as insensitive as he’d been accused of being, he could see that. He just hoped she wasn’t crying. He never knew what to do when a woman did that. If she was, though, he’d deal with it—simply because he couldn’t let her walk off without taking care of what had happened.

His hand slipped from her shoulder. He could argue that he was no more at fault for the present condition of her truck than she was. After all, she had made the decision to accept the order and deliver it. And she was the one who’d made the final decision about where to park her vehicle.

He could also point out that the true culprit here was the crane or its operator, both of which belonged to Callaway Construction. As upset as she seemed, he doubted that she’d care about that logic, though. As for himself, all he cared about was avoiding headlines. The last thing he needed was more bad publicity. He especially did not need another woman suing him. His father would disown him for sure.

“Here.” Tugging at the knees of his slacks, he crouched in front of her. Relief hit when she glanced up. Her golden-brown eyes were blessedly clear. Not a tear in sight. As he pulled off his hard hat and pushed his fingers through his hair, he thought she looked awfully pale, though. And more than a little upset. Not that he could blame her. Her truck was scrap metal. “You need to wear this.”

Lifting the silver metal hat, he sat it on her head, tipping it back so he could see her eyes. “It’s the only way Matt will let you stay in this area.”

“What about you now?”

He shrugged. Following rules had never been his strong suit.

“Look.” He clasped his hands between his spread knees. “We can work this out. I’m going to make sure everything is all right. Okay?”

She said nothing. She just stared at him as if he were speaking some language she didn’t comprehend, while someone shouted for the laborers who’d wandered over to get back to work.

The way her delicate brow finally pinched made him think she might ask how he was going make everything right again. She didn’t seem the type to accept a man’s word on blind faith. His word, anyway.

Instead she asked, “What kind of car do you have?”

“Car?”

“What do you drive?” she clarified.

He nodded toward the closest of the vehicles on the other side of the barricade. “That Lamborghini over there.”

Madison glanced at the squat silver car. As low and flat as it was, it looked as if something heavy had landed on it, too. “Of course,” she murmured.

Taking a deep breath, she shook her head as if willing it to clear. Her fingers trembled as she lifted her hand to her forehead and nudged back the hat’s hard plastic inner band. “I need something bigger.” Curling her fingers into her palm, she lowered her hand to hide the shaking. If she was going to fall apart, it wasn’t going to be where anyone could see it. “I have my lunch restock at the pub. If I can get a van or something of that size and some ice chests, I can get my customers their lunch today and let them know I won’t be there for them tomorrow.”

“A van,” he repeated.

“Your insurance should cover the cost of renting one. I can’t turn this in on my policy.” She’d already had two minor fender-benders. “My premiums are high enough as it is. Something like this will send them through the ceiling.”

Cord held out his hand to quiet her. He needed to keep her calm. He also wanted very much to keep settlement as simple as possible. “Your insurance won’t have to pay a cent,” he assured her, not bothering to add that he would be writing the checks himself to make sure of that.

He wanted to keep insurance companies out of this completely. Hers, Callaway Construction’s and especially Kendrick Investment’s. If insurance carriers were involved, that would mean they would need her statement. There was no reason for his name to appear on the incident report Matt would have to file to satisfy site and government safety regulations. But if she mentioned in a claim statement that he’d told her where to park—and to ignore the warning signs, to boot—that would be all it would take for his name to leak out somehow and for the press to start dragging it through the mud again.

He could see the headlines now.

Prodigal Prince of Camelot Destroys Working Girl’s Livelihood.

There were times when he couldn’t win for losing. All he’d wanted was breakfast.

“Just tell me what you need and I’ll see that you get it. How many ice chests?”

“Enough to hold two hundred sandwiches, a hundred cans of soda, and two hundred cartons of milk and juices.” Doing a quick mental inventory of her normal lunch run, Madison decided she’d have to forget coffee. She had no way to make it. “I can put desserts and fruit in boxes.”

“How soon do you need it?”

Ten minutes ago, she thought. “An hour and a half,” she replied, because that’s when she normally would start her lunch run.

She thought for certain that the man crouched in front of her would tell her there was no way that would happen. At the very least, she expected him to point out that the paperwork alone could take that long. Yet, he gave no indication at all that he expected her needs to be a problem.

Looking very much like a man who never expected needs of any sort to be a problem, he rose with an easy, athletic grace and offered her his hand.

She had no idea why the gentlemanly gesture caught her so off guard.

“Consider it done,” he replied, taking her hand when she didn’t move. He tugged her up, promptly let her go. “An hour and a half,” he agreed. “Where do you want the van delivered?”

She couldn’t believe he was being so cooperative. She didn’t believe, either, that he could pull off such a miracle. “Mike’s Pub on Lexington and Hancock in Bayridge,” she said, wondering if Mike Shannahan could be bribed into letting her borrow his pickup. Mike loved his truck. He polished and pampered it as if the thing had a soul. Maybe if she promised to cook him dinner every night for a month, he’d let her use it. “It’s about five miles southeast of here,” she added, on the outside chance that miracles actually did happen.

Reaching into the front pocket if his khakis, Cord pulled out his money clip and slipped out a twenty-dollar bill. “Have Suzanne in the construction office call you a cab,” he said, as she stared at the money.

“What about my truck?”

“I’ll take care of it. You just do what you need to do with the van. Hey, Matt,” he called, and left her staring at the hat dent in the back of his golden hair as he walked away.

It took nearly an hour for a cab to arrive. Madison spent most of that time pacing between the trailer and the barricade and trying to reach Mike on her cell phone. Mike had been four years ahead of her all through school, so she’d actually known his sisters better when they were all younger, but Mike had always been like a big brother to her. Since she rented the apartment above the pub from him and used the pub’s kitchen to prepare her food, he was also her landlord.

She couldn’t reach him, though. The pub didn’t open until noon and he wasn’t answering his home phone.

When the cab arrived, she was trying to think of who else had a truck and wouldn’t be at work that time of day. Twenty minutes later she had concluded that even if she did locate a truck, it would take forever to borrow the ice chests she needed. Still refusing to give up, because giving up simply wasn’t something she did, she decided to rent ice chests and was mentally calculating how long it would take her do that when the cab rolled to a stop.

Mike’s Pub, with its familiar green awnings, leaded-glass windows and angled, corner door, sat on a narrow street that reflected the very essence of the Ridge’s roots. There wasn’t a building or business in the Ridge that hadn’t been there for as long as Madison could remember. Corollis’ Deli sat next door to the pub. Next to the deli, the beauty shop still turned out women with perms and blue hair, but had recently updated to add weaves. Across the street, below two stories of apartments, Reilly Brothers’ Produce anchored one corner, the Bayridge Bookstore the other. In between were sandwiched the pharmacy and an Italian bakery that had been run by three generations of Balduccis.

Surrounding them all was the neighborhood, with its tree-lined streets, tidy houses, cracked sidewalks and bicycles lying on neat lawns.

All Madison noticed after she paid her driver was the white van parked near the corner mailbox.

A young man in a blue mechanic’s uniform met her as she stepped from the cab. After confirming that she was Madison O’Malley, he handed her the van’s keys, told her there were ice chests and ice inside it, and left in a beige SUV that had been waiting nearby to give him a lift back to wherever it was he’d come from.

As she stared at the keys in her hand, it took her a moment to realize she could stop worrying about how she was going to make her lunch stops. Cord had actually done what he’d said he’d do. And with time to spare.

Madison had even more time to spare a few hours later. And spare time wasn’t something she usually had.

She usually finished her lunch route by 12:40 and returned to the pub near 4:00 p.m. With her normal routine seriously shot, she found herself back an hour early because she had no truck to gas up and clean, no leftovers to drop off at the seniors’ center and no idea how she was going to salvage her business.

As she pulled up behind the silver Lamborghini parked at the curb, she also had no idea why the fates had seen fit to throw Cord Kendrick into her path.

Three animated preteen boys hung around the racy car in front of her. Only one seemed able to tear his glance from all that horsepower when she walked over to see what they were up to. Sean Bower’s focus, however, had already turned back to the wide black tires when he spoke.

“Isn’t this way cool, Madison? It must go a hundred miles an hour!”

“Way cool, Sean,” she replied, unable to help smiling at the wide-eyed awe behind his little glasses. The Ridge was a Ford-and-Chevy sort of neighborhood. A car that probably cost more than any of their homes necessarily drew attention. Particularly the attention of the juvenile male variety. Personally, she still thought the thing looked as if something heavy had sat on it. “And I’m sure it does.” She ducked her head to see Sean’s face. “You might want to back up so you don’t get drool on that fender.”

Backing up herself, she glanced toward the ten-year-old Balducci twins. She’d never been able to tell them apart. It didn’t help that they both always wore blue navy SEAL baseball caps. “You boys all keep your hands off the car. Okay?”

The one on the right, Joey, she thought, put his hands behind his back. “We didn’t touch anything.”

“Yes, you did, Jason,” his brother insisted, proving that she’d gotten them wrong again. “You breathed on the rearview mirror and made your nose print on it.”

“Did not!”

“Did, too!”

“Boys?” Madison called, stopping with her hand on the pub door’s ancient brass handle. “Wipe the print off. Okay, Jason? And keep your hands to yourself.”

She didn’t wait to see if the boys would comply. Had Cord’s car been parked a couple of miles farther south, she would have reason to be concerned about the safety of his hubcaps. The kids from this neighborhood, though, rarely caused real trouble. When everyone knew who you were, knew where you lived, who your parents were or who your teacher was, it took considerable creativity to stray too far from the straight and narrow.

When she walked through the door, the sounds of the boys’ animated voices gave way to the voice of a sports announcer coming from the wall-mounted television above the bar. Rumor had it that, except for the TV, the neon beer signs and a new mirror behind the bar, Mike’s Pub hadn’t changed much since the first Michael Patrick Shannahan had opened it a hundred years ago. Four generations and four Michael Patricks later, lace curtains still hung over the front windows, dark wood booths still lined the walls, a dozen scarred wooden bar stools still lined the long, brass-railed bar, and pints of beer still flowed from the taps along with the bartender’s sympathy for whatever injustice or woe a patron had suffered that day.

Her eyes were still adjusting to the dimmer light when the men sitting at the bar ahead of her turned to see who’d joined them. Usually when she arrived home, the place was packed with dock workers who worked the seven-thirty to three shift and stopped for a cold beer and conversation on their way home. Since she was a little early, only Ernie Jackson and Tom Farrell were there.

“Hi, Madison.” The craggy-faced Ernie gave her a toothless smile. “Finish up early today?”

“How’s it going, Ernie?” she asked automatically.

“Can’t complain,” he said, and turned back to the beer he’d probably been nursing since noon.

Tom, newly retired from the docks, lifted his coffee mug to her. Madison suspected he was there escaping Mrs. Farrell. According to Grandma Nona, Tom’s wife of forty-three years had drawn up a “honey-do” list a mile long and had harped on him since his first day off to get started on it.

From behind the bar, Mike caught her eye and tipped his head toward a booth near the front door. With his deep auburn hair, green eyes and infectious smile Michael Patrick V was Irish to the core. His smile was missing, though. All she saw in the big man’s freckled features was curiosity.

“You have someone waiting for you,” he said.

She already knew that. “Thanks,” she murmured, and glanced behind her.

Had she not seen Cord’s car, she would have taken the outside staircase to her upstairs apartment as she usually did and, alone and in private, faced the panic clawing at her stomach. Given that she had an audience, she staved off that panic as best she could and walked over to the large and faintly cautious-looking man rising from the booth next to the last.

The way Cord stood at her approach spoke of manners that were more automatic than practiced.

It was a fair indication of how upset she was that something that might have impressed her barely registered. She was too busy thinking that Cord Kendrick looked as out of place in the working-class establishment as his car did out on the street—and wishing she had never laid eyes on his too-handsome face. She structured her entire life around the work that kept her running sixteen hours a day, six days a week. The thought of any part of that structure collapsing had her stomach in knots.

Assuming he wanted the van back, she held out the keys. “Thank you. Very much.”

Rather than taking the keys, he asked, “Did the van work out?”

“It got me where I needed to go.”

“Then, keep it until a new truck can be delivered. That’s what I want to talk to you about,” he said, motioning for her to sit down. “I have no idea what it is you’ll want, so we need to arrange for you to order it yourself.”

Preferring the isolation of the high-backed booth to being the day’s entertainment for the guys at the bar, she slid onto the green Naugahyde bench seat. Cord slid in across from her, his long legs bumping hers.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

As if hoping to coax a smile from her, he smiled himself. It was sort of a half smile really, an expression that held a hint of contrition and male appeal that would have had the hearts of most women melting.

In no frame of mind to be charmed, definitely in no mood to smile, she simply watched him push aside the beer he’d ordered and hadn’t touched.

“So what do you want me to do?”

“Tell me where you want to order the truck from.” Leaning forward, he clasped his hands on the dark and scarred wood, his voice low enough that the men gave up trying to listen and turned their attention back to ESPN. “I’ll get a letter of credit to the dealer. I also need to settle up with you for the food you lost this morning and your lost profits for the day. They took your truck to a salvage yard a few miles from here. I told the owner of the yard not to do anything to it until he heard from you. I don’t know what you had in there that might be of personal value to you, so you might want to check it out. All I was able to get were these.”

He pulled her sunglasses from the inside pocket of his beautifully styled leather jacket, along with his checkbook. The pen he also withdrew looked suspiciously like real gold.

“Thank you,” she murmured, taking the glasses. Considering how flat the cab of her truck had been, it amazed her that they were still intact. He amazed her a little, too. A few hours ago she hadn’t been inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt about much of anything. She had to admit now, that the man seemed to be doing whatever he could.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” she said, voice calm, insides knotted. “And I appreciate the use of the van. But I’m going to lose more than just today’s profits. There are state laws regulating businesses like mine. I can’t meet the refrigeration and sanitation requirements with the van, and I’m not going to risk having my food preparation license pulled. All I’ll be able to sell now is baked goods, fruit and soda,” she told him. “I can’t even sell coffee because I don’t have enough thermoses, and I wouldn’t have any way of filling them on the road. That’s only a third of my business.”

“Coffee is?”

“Baked goods and sodas.”

His broad shoulders lifted in a dismissing shrug. “Then, I’ll pay you the other two-thirds for every day you’re without the right kind of truck.”

He clearly didn’t see a problem. He also seemed to think that all he had to do was open his checkbook and her little crisis would be solved.

Wondering if life was always that easy for him, and suspecting it must be, considering who he was, she forced patience upon her growing unease. “This isn’t just about money. Money isn’t going to feed my customers or get me my work back,” she explained, needing him to understand that dollars couldn’t begin to replace the structure of her carefully ordered life. “I get up at three o’clock in the morning to do my baking and make sandwiches. At eight-twenty I load my truck and leave for my first stop. I finish my breakfast-and-break run, come back for lunch restock and finish the lunch run by twelve-forty. After that, I gas up my truck, drop off leftovers at the seniors’ center, stop at the produce market and come back here so I can clean up the truck, refill the dispensers and get my dry ingredients mixed up for the next morning’s baking.

“All I’m going to be able to do now is a breakfast-and-break run,” she continued, only now allowing herself to consider what tomorrow would bring. With all she’d had to deal with that day, she had managed to avoid that prospect so far. With her sense of anxiety growing, she truly wished she could avoid it now. “That means I won’t have to bake nearly as many cookies and I won’t make sandwiches at all. And I won’t have my lunch run to make, or my truck to take care of when I get back, so that means I won’t have nearly as much to do when I get back in the afternoon.”

She shook her head, wondering how many hours that left unfilled. Not wanting to know, self-recrimination lowered her voice to a mutter. “If I hadn’t wanted the money for that stupid chafing dish, everything would be fine.”

Cord watched the pretty, sable-haired woman across the booth from him rub her forehead. Her short, neat nails were unpolished, her slender fingers ringless, her dark and shining hair pulled back and clipped casually at her nape. Her lush mouth was unadorned, free of the shiny sticky gloss worn by so many of the women he knew. There was a freshness about Madison O’Malley that wasn’t terribly familiar to him, a lack of studied polish that spoke of interests beyond the hours he knew some women—his own mother and sisters included—spent being manicured, pedicured, highlighted, waxed, masked and massaged. On the other hand, it didn’t sound as if she had time for such fussing. From what he’d just heard of her schedule, she barely had time to sleep.

That she also now seemed as upset with herself as she was with him wasn’t lost on him, either.

Overlooking the fact that anyone else would be grateful for the break, and hoping to cash in on the blame she seemed to be feeling toward herself, he focused on the chafing dish she’d just mentioned. He had no idea how it figured into what had happened, but he’d buy a gross of them for her if it would help fix this little mess.

“This chafing dish,” he said, ducking his head to see her eyes. “Is it something you need for your business?”

“It’s one of a lot of things.” Absently pulling a napkin from the holder, she lifted her head. “I’m trying to expand my catering business, but I don’t have the equipment and serving pieces I need for parties. If I’d had a couple of good double chafers I wouldn’t have had to turn down Suzie Donnatelli’s wedding last week. Not that she asked,” she admitted, sounding as if she were talking more to herself than to him as she rolled the napkin’s edges, “but I know she would have if I’d told her I could do it.

“That’s why I took the coffee and muffins to the trailer,” she hurried on, her racing thoughts leaving him in the conversational dust. “It wasn’t worth being off schedule for twenty dollars worth of coffee and food, but a fifty-dollar tip would make a serious contribution to my equipment fund. As it was, the tip you gave me would almost buy the blasted thing, but it wound up costing me my truck.”

For a moment Cord said nothing. He just sat there wanting very much to keep her away from her last thought.

“Okay,” he said, buying himself a few seconds while he weighed the new information she’d more or less given him. If he read this woman correctly, she was actually more upset about having time on her hands than she was her loss of income. She also had something more she wanted to do, but hadn’t been able to because she hadn’t had the extra income to do it with.

“If I get you equipment and catering jobs, would that help?”

Madison opened her mouth, blinked and closed it again.

“I can buy you whatever you need,” he said, thinking that anything he had to pay would be a bargain compared to what it would cost him if he couldn’t make her happy enough to stay away from insurance companies and lawyers. “And I know lots of people who entertain. You can work on that end of your business until your new truck gets here.”

His expression mirrored hers when her eyebrows pinched.

“What?” he asked, needing to stay up with her, if not one step ahead.

“It’s not just the equipment I lack. Not exactly,” she confessed, sounding as if one set of concerns had just given way to another. “It’s the experience. I’ve done a few small parties,” she explained. “I’ve just never done anything of any size that wasn’t just hors d’oeuvres.” Suddenly looking a little self-conscious, she dropped her voice another notch. “I’m sort of still in the planning stages.”

Cord drew a slow, deep breath. When he’d walked in, he had thought that he could write out a couple of checks, make sure she got an even better truck than the one she’d had so she would have no cause for complaint, and hope that would be the end of it. There was also the little matter of getting her to sign a release of claim for Callaway Construction, but there were details to iron out first.

“You can practice on me,” he concluded, tightening his grasp on the only negotiating tool he’d been able to find. “I’m having a few people in this weekend. Saturday night. Nothing formal,” he assured her, since that seemed to be a concern. “I’m not a formal kind of guy.” That was his family’s forte. He could hold his own with a wine list, and he enjoyed the finer things as much as the next man. He just didn’t like having to put on a tux to do it. “I thought I’d call a restaurant and have them deliver, but the job is yours if you want it.”

When Madison felt excited, nervous or uncertain, she needed to move. Needing to move now, she slid from the booth, took a step away, then turned back.

“You want to hire me?” she asked, looking incredulous, sounding doubtful.

“It works for me, if it works for you.”

Madison promptly started to pace. Three steps one way, three steps back. Cord Kendrick had connections in circles it would take a miracle for her to enter on her own. And there he was, his impossibly blue eyes following her every move while he waited for her to accept or decline the offer of her lifetime.

His mother had been royalty.

His older brother was the governor of the state.

His father was related to the Carnegies or the Mellons. Or maybe it was the Vanderbilts. All she knew was that he’d come from old money that had made tons more.

Granted, from what she’d read, the Kendrick family had little to do with Cord himself, but the circle he reputedly ran in wasn’t that shabby, either: Grand Prix racers, supermodels, platinum recording artists. Owners of large, multimillion-dollar construction companies.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, pacing away from him. “I’d planned to practice more on my friends first.” It was one thing to help them out with their parties. She knew what it took to please them. But catering was all about referrals. “What if your dinner is a disaster? If I’m really not ready, I could end my career before I even get started.”

Because she kept turning away, and because her voice was still low, Cord was having trouble catching what she said. Wishing she would stand still, he levered his long frame out of the booth and caught up with her two empty booths down.

“You’ll be fine,” he assured her.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve tasted your cooking.”

Her tone went flat. “You had a muffin,” she reminded him over the scream of race cars on a motor oil commercial. “That’s not exactly chicken Florentine.

“Can you make chicken Florentine?” he asked as she paced the other way.

“I can make lots of things.” She tried out new recipes and new twists on old ones on her family all the time. “There are just some things I’ve never made for more than four people.”

“This will only be for seven or eight. And Florentine would be great. Throw in some pasta, a salad and something for dessert and you’re home free.”

Her uncertainty remained as she turned back. “What kind of pasta?”

He shrugged, took a step closer. One dinner party disaster would hardly be the end of the world for him. But if it wasn’t a disaster and he could help her get more business, he would have made up for the loss of work she was so upset about now. “Something northern Italian. White sauce, not red.”

She started pacing the other way. Grabbing her arm, he turned her right back. “Will you stand still?”

Her faint frown met his. “I think better when I’m moving.”

“Well, you’re making me dizzy.”

“Hey, Madison. Everything okay over there?”

Apparently grabbing her hadn’t been the wisest thing to do. Dropping his hand, Cord turned to see the burly bartender scowling at him from the other side of the bar. The two men bellied up to it weren’t looking too friendly toward him, either.

“Everything is fine,” Madison assured the man. “We’re just talking.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

The ledge of Mike’s brow lowered with the glance he gave Cord before looking back to her. “You just let me know if you need anything.”

“Honest, Mike. Everything’s okay.” A smile smoothed some of the strain from her delicate features as she glanced toward the other men. “Thanks, guys.”

Cord watched the customers turn back to the mirror, where they could keep an eye on his and Madison’s reflections. As if to be sure she truly wasn’t being harassed, the guy she’d called Mike kept a more direct focus on them. At least, he did until the ring of the phone demanded his attention.

The quick concern of the men for her had seemed almost brotherly. As if they regarded her as…family. He’d had that same impression from some of the men around her truck at the construction site, too.

Cord hadn’t had a lot of experience with the sort of protectiveness he sensed here. And certainly not within his own family. Not that he could identify, anyway. But he had friends. More than he could count. There just weren’t many he truly trusted, and of those not a single one was female.

He had discovered long ago that women only wanted two things from him: a good time and his money. He’d never been opposed to a good time himself, and as long a woman was willing to play by his rules and keep her mouth shut around the press, he’d take her along for the ride. But this woman was nothing like anyone he’d ever met. She had workaholic written all over her, and she didn’t seem interested in his money at all. At least not beyond what it would take to replace her truck.

The thought of the press had him heading back to their booth and picking up his pen. After writing out a check, he used her curled-up napkin to write his address on.

“My home and cell numbers are on that, too,” he said, handing the napkin and check to her. “The check is for whatever food you have to buy for the dinner. You can give me a bill later for whatever you want to charge for your time.

“I have to go, but there’s something I need you to do for me,” he continued, his back to the bar as he glanced from his watch to the confusion in her expression. He hated to rush, but he had already bailed on Matt to take care of Madison, and he needed to get back to their meeting. Callaway Construction’s next construction draw hinged on the reports he had to review and sign. He tended to blow off responsibilities others imposed on him, simply because they were someone else’s idea of what he should do and not his own. The responsibilities he chose himself, however, he took quite seriously. He wasn’t about leave his best friend to cover paychecks and costs for materials from his own pocket.

Three other customers walked in, men coming in for a beer after work, from the looks of their grease-streaked clothes. They didn’t seem to notice him and Madison. Not yet, anyway. They were too busy bantering about the Lamborghini outside as they headed for the bar, and speculating about who it belonged to. It wouldn’t be long before they did notice them though. And the fewer people who recognized him, the better.

His voice dropped. “I need you to keep any conversation we have just between us.” He was going to take a chance that she was exactly what she seemed. A woman who just wanted her business back. She hadn’t said or done a thing that would lead him to believe that she was looking for a quick million dollars the way others had when they thought they had something on him. And she definitely didn’t appear to be interested in acquiring his money by showing any interest in him personally.

That part actually stung a little.

“Just between you and me,” he continued, pocketing his checkbook before the newcomers could glimpse much more than his profile, “I have a real knack for drawing bad publicity. It will be a lot easier for both of us if you don’t mention my name to anyone. Especially to the press. Just tell your friends that everything is being handled by Callaway Construction and that I’m its representative. Things are only going to get complicated if we don’t keep the details just between us.” He held out his hand. “Okay?”

Madison glanced from his hand to the odd intensity in his eyes. Despite his casually confiding tone, she couldn’t help feeling that her agreement meant far more to him than anything else they’d discussed.

Living in the Ridge, she knew how crazy things could get when other people started poking their noses into someone else’s business. She had never considered it before, but she supposed that poking its figurative nose in people’s business was exactly what the press did every time something went into print. It occurred to her that he routinely faced the nosiness of the Ridge on a global scale.

“Okay,” she said. Considering all he was willing to do for her, and having no desire to sabotage any of it, she took his hand. “Just between us.”

His grip tightened. “Thank you.”

Her heart did an odd bump against her ribs at his relieved smile. Not sure what to make of the little tug of sympathy she felt toward him, she slowly withdrew her hand.

“You have my number,” he continued, once more relaxed. “Call me with the name of the dealership for your truck and to set up a time for you to come to my place Saturday. I’d like dinner around eight.”

It occurred to her as she watched him give her a nod, go to the door, then hold it so two other customers could walk in before he walked out, that she hadn’t actually agreed to do his party. They’d only been in the discussion stages, and the last she remembered, she’d been balking because she truly didn’t feel ready. Yet somehow in the course of their conversation he had managed to let her know what he wanted, for how many and when, and walked out the door as if there had never been any question about whether or not she would take the job.

“Hey, Madison,” Mike called as, insides shaky, she headed for the door at the back of the bar. “Who was that guy? He looks familiar.”

“Just someone who’s going to help me replace my truck,” she replied, too excited about the opportunity Cord offered to feel railroaded, too apprehensive about it to overlook his knack for talking her into what he wanted.

Unfastening her fanny pack from around her waist, she took out the key to her apartment. She really didn’t want to go into details with Mike now, but she couldn’t leave him with only that. “It got totaled on a construction site.”

A dozen heads turned toward her. “You all right, girl?” old Tom asked.

“Oh, I’m fine,” she assured, pushing open the door to the kitchen. “I wasn’t anywhere near it when it happened. I just have to order another one now.”

Mike set the glass he’d just dried on the shelf behind him. “What about your route?”

“I have a van for the breakfast and break runs. I’ll tell you about it when I come back to make dough.”

She would mix up dough for her cookies and dry ingredients for her muffins after she dumped the ice chests, swept out the inside of the van and came up with a way to provide her customers with coffee. It relieved her to have those things to do. Being occupied kept her from thinking about things she didn’t want to think about. And right now what she didn’t want to think about was the man who had totally wrecked what had started out to be a perfectly pleasant day.

Unfortunately, her reprieve was short-lived. Word was already out about her truck.