Читать книгу Honeymoon with the Rancher / Nanny Next Door: Honeymoon with the Rancher / Nanny Next Door - Michelle Celmer, Donna Alward - Страница 8

TOMAS had planned on a quick meal for one tonight but instead found himself making locro—a stew of beans, meat, corn and pumpkin. It was simple enough to make and something typically Argentinian for his guest.

Guest. He snorted, stirring the stew. What a mix-up. The first thing he’d done was check the books, but no notation had been made next to the name Antoine Doucette. Then he’d called Miguel’s number in Córdoba. Maria remembered the reservation, but couldn’t remember if she’d cancelled it. Tomas hadn’t pushed; Maria was still traumatized by the fire. When Miguel had suggested they visit, Tomas and Carlos had agreed it would be good for Maria to get away for a few days. Tomas wanted her to see things nearly as good as new when she came back. The spa building had to be reconstructed, but the other outbuildings were nearly repaired. If things went well, they could even have the pool refilled and working in another week.

But it was Maria’s words to him today that had caused him the most trouble. He’d explained the situation and Maria had instantly been sympathetic to Sophia’s plight. “Take care of that girl, Tomas,” she said firmly. Then she’d laughed. “She must be a real firecracker to take her honeymoon alone. She’s your responsibility now. You will see to things until we return.”

As if he needed reminding. He chopped into the pumpkin, scowling. Maria had been mothering him for so long that she sometimes forgot he was a grown man. He knew what his responsibilities were. They were impossible to forget.

“We’ll sort the rest out when Carlos and I come back. Maybe we’ll come Wednesday now.”

“There’s no need …”

But Maria had laughed. “She will be tired of your cooking by then. Wednesday. Just be nice, Tomas.”

“I would never …”

“Yes, you would.” Maria had laughed, but he knew she meant it. Maria and her family knew Tomas better than anyone else on earth. Too well.

Wednesday. That meant he had three days after today in which he not only had to do his work, but had to entertain Sophia as well. She’d put on a brave face, but he knew she had been expecting something totally different from what she was getting. He indulged in a half smile, but then remembered the look on her face when she’d thought he was going to send her away. She had been afraid behind all the lipstick and talk. And he had been just stupid enough to see it and go soft.

He turned down the heat and put the cover on to let the locro simmer. Going soft wasn’t an option for him right now. The estancia wasn’t due to reopen for another few weeks. There was still work to do—and lots of it. The boutique had to be restocked now that it was painted. The horses and the small beef herd Carlos raised still needed to be cared for. The storage shed behind the barn had been rebuilt since the fire, but the paint for the exterior was sitting in the barn, waiting for Tomas to have a few spare moments. As if. And the builders had had another job lined up, which was why it was taking longer for the pool house to be rebuilt.

With Carlos here, they could have muddled through just fine. But they’d agreed that getting Maria away for a few days—letting her visit her son—was a better course of action.

Tomas simply hadn’t counted on babysitting a spoiled princess and playing cook and maid. That was normally Maria’s area of expertise, and he and Carlos stuck to the outdoors. The estancia was a business that ran smoothly, just the way they’d planned, with everyone playing to their strengths. He could stay in the background, exactly where he liked it. He was polite and friendly to guests. They were only strangers passing through, asking nothing more from him than a trail ride and some local history. They made the same mistake Sophia had made today—assuming he was the jack-of-all-trades around the place. That was fine, too. He stayed a silent partner in Vista del Cielo and got the peace and isolation he craved. Carlos and Maria had their livelihood. Everyone was taken care of.

He heard a noise from down the hall and guessed that the princess was waking from her slumbers. He imagined briefly what she would look like asleep on the blue coverlet, her hair spread out in a great auburn curtain around her. He shook his head and reached for a pair of bowls from the cupboard. There was no denying she was beautiful. Stunning, actually, with her dark red curls and roses-and-cream complexion. Maybe she had a sense of entitlement about her and was used to getting her own way, but he could see why. She’d turned her dark eyes on him and said she was tired and he’d left her to nap without a word. Now he was finishing dinner and setting the table when the whole purpose of this place was for everyone to work together. It was one of their biggest selling points. A feeling of family.

And that was something he had no desire to feel with Sophia Hollingsworth.

“Something smells delicious.”

He nearly dropped the bowls when she appeared in the doorway behind him.

Her hair was down but slightly tousled from sleep, the curls falling softly over one shoulder. Heavy lidded eyes blinked at him and she was several inches shorter, thanks to the fact that she’d left her shoes in her room and appeared in bare feet. That was why he hadn’t heard her approach. His gaze stuck on ten perfectly painted coral toenails. She had extraordinarily pretty feet, and even without the shoes he could tell she had a great set of legs hiding beneath her straight skirt.

It was the princess, unwrapped, and he swallowed, realizing he found her very appealing indeed. At least physically.

That was the last thing he needed.

“Did you sleep well?” He turned away from her, putting the bowls on the table.

“Yes, thank you. I feel very refreshed.”

Her voice was soft and Tomas felt it sneak into him, down low.

“I didn’t mean to sleep so late,” she apologized, and he swallowed as the husky tone teased his ears. “Whatever you’ve cooked smells wonderful.”

“It’s nothing fancy.” He turned back to her and steeled his features. He would not be swayed by a pretty face and a soft voice. Damn Carlos and Maria. If they were here, they could handle Miss Princess and he would be in the barn where he liked it. “I do not usually do the cooking.”

“I’m not used to a man cooking for me at all, so that in itself is a treat.” She blessed him with a shy smile.

His pulse leapt and he scowled. His physical response to her was aggravating. “I expect you’re more accustomed to five-course meals and staff to wait upon you, right?”

A look of hurt flashed across her face and he felt guilty for being snide. He was just about to apologize when the look disappeared and she furrowed her brow. “What makes you say that?”

“Oh, querida.” The apology he’d toyed with died on his lips and he reached into a drawer for cutlery. “You practically scream high maintenance. It is clear you are used to the best. Which makes your presence here alone all the more intriguing.”

“High maintenance?” A pretty blush infused her cheeks. She really was good, he thought. An intriguing combination of innocent ingénue and diva. Maybe a few days mucking around a ranch would be good for her. It had certainly done wonders for him.

She stepped forward, the soft, injured look gone. “I see,” she said. “You think I’m some sort of pampered creature who lives to be waited upon.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Not even close.”

“Oh, come on.” He finished setting the table and turned to face her. “Designer clothes, perfect hair … You expected to arrive at some retreat or spa, didn’t you? Not a working estancia. Admit it.”

Her cheeks blazed now, not with embarrassment but with temper. “Okay, fine. Yes, this is not what I expected. You are not what I expected.”

He smiled with satisfaction. “No, I am not. If you’re not up to it, say so now. I’ll arrange for you to return to Buenos Aires tomorrow.” There, he decided, he’d given her a perfectly legitimate out. The few hours it would take to drive her back to the city would be worth it to have the rest of the week free to work. Better yet, she’d be gone before Maria and Carlos got back. Maria would get ideas into her head. She’d been prodding lately about Tomas getting away more. That he needed to stop hiding. That he should find a nice girl.

Not that a woman like Sophia, on her solo honeymoon would qualify in Maria’s eyes, but it would be better all around if the potential were erased altogether. Tomas didn’t want a nice girl. He didn’t want to get away more. He wanted the life he’d chosen here on the pampas. Simple and uncomplicated. He’d chosen it to help him forget.

His insides twisted. Some days now he tried to remember. Forgetting seemed so very wrong. Disloyal.

“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you.”

Her saucy tone turned his head. “¿PerdÓn?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr. Mendoza? Get me out from under your feet? This wasn’t my mix-up. You think by threatening me with some honest work I’ll run and hide away somewhere where staff will wait on me hand and foot?”

“Isn’t that what you want?”

She paused for a moment, then leveled him with a definitive glare. “No.”

“No?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No. I want to stay.”

“I checked the books and spoke to Maria, by the way.”

“And?”

“And the refund isn’t notated in the regular spot and Maria doesn’t remember. She said she will straighten everything out when she comes back on Wednesday.”

“And then Wednesday you will see,” Sophia replied confidently.

“You realize what I’m saying, right? People who stay at the estancia participate in all kinds of activities. Working with the animals, in the barns. Even in the house. They become one of the family. With the hard work and the benefits, too.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

He looked at her, all hairdo and perfect makeup and pedicured feet. “No, I don’t.”

“Then perhaps we’re in for a week of surprises.” She flashed him a superior smile. “Maybe now you can surprise me with what’s cooking in that pot. I’m starving.”

He’d expected her to heave a sigh of relief and take him up on his offer, not challenge him. He wasn’t sure whether he admired her spunk or was frustrated by it.

But time would tell. Let her enjoy her home-cooked meal and scented bath tonight. Tomorrow would be a different story.

What to wear was definitely a quandary.

Sophia went through the open suitcase one more time, looking for something suitable. Clothing lay scattered on the bed like seaweed on a sea of blue linen. She checked her watch. Tomas had said breakfast at seven sharp, and it was already quarter past. Being late gave him even more ammunition. There had to be something here she could wear!

She held up a pair of trousers the shade of dark caramel and frowned. The only shoes she had that would match were the Jimmy Choo sandals she’d bought on sale during her last trip across the border. Why hadn’t she thought to bring something more casual? A pair of sneakers. Yoga pants. But no, the only exercise wardrobe she’d packed was her swimsuits, thinking she’d be spending time beside the pool. Perhaps relaxing in a sauna. She looked in despair at the flotsam of clothes on the bedspread. How could she have been so stupid?

Seven twenty-five. She was so late. She remembered the way Tomas had looked at her last night and felt anger flow through her veins as she sifted through her suitcase again. He’d been patronizing. Granted, she hadn’t made the best impression, and yes, she’d been shocked. She grabbed a sundress out of her second open case and pulled it over her head, out of time for further deliberation. For the last three years she’d been treated that way. She hadn’t realized it then, but looking back now it was so very clear. She’d been more of a decoration than someone useful. That kind of treatment stopped today. It stopped with Tomas Mendoza and his superior attitude. If it took eating a little humble pie for breakfast, she’d do it.

She hurried down the hall to the kitchen. The smell in the room was to die for. A covered basket sat on the table and she lifted the towel. The rolls were still warm, soft and fragrant. Bread? He’d made bread?

She paused, her hand on the plate left at the place where she’d sat last night. She tried to picture Antoine making bread in the morning. The very idea was preposterous. He wouldn’t even have made pastry out of one of those cans in the refrigerated section of the grocery store. Heck, Sophia had never made bread from scratch in her life.

The breakfast was completed with a bowl of fresh fruit and coffee waiting in the pot, hot and rich.

She’d missed mealtime, and the thought stole the smile from her face. She’d have to eat quickly and then find Tomas. Showing up late was not the way to get off on the right foot. Hurriedly she buttered a roll and poured a half cup of coffee. When she was done she put her plate in the sink and the platter of fruit back in the fridge. She went outside, feeling the warmth of the morning soak into her skin as she searched for Tomas. She nearly ran into him turning a corner towards the outbuildings at the back.

“Oh!” she gasped, stopping short and nearly staggering backwards. She would have if he hadn’t steadied her with a quick hand on her arm. His warm grip sent a shaft of pure pleasure down to her fingertips. He let her go as soon as she was stable and dropped his hand.

“I see you’re up.”

“Yes, I’m sorry I’m late. I slept so well …” She would sweeten him up. She would let him know his garrulousness didn’t get to her. “My bed is very comfortable.”

“Apparently.”

The pleasure went out of Sophia like air from a balloon. But she wouldn’t give up yet. She’d kill him with kindness if that’s what it took. “The rolls were still warm. Did you make them?”

He stood back, looking at her as if he were measuring and finding her wanting. “Yes, I did. Maria showed me how long ago. When she returns you’ll have real cooking, not my second-rate impression of it.”

“I wouldn’t call your cooking second-rate. The stew last night was delicious.”

“I’m glad you liked it.”

The politeness was a cold veneer, meaning little when she felt it wasn’t sincere.

“So what did I miss?”

“Today’s activity,” he remarked dryly, and swept out an arm.

Behind them was a utility shed. Beside it were supplies for painting—a large bucket of paint, two smaller cans and brushes.

“Painting?” This was a vacation. Shouldn’t there be guided tours? Even without the pool and other amenities, shed painting was hardly a unique Argentinian experience.

He shrugged. “You did say you were prepared to surprise me. So here we are. It needs to be done.”

He was trying to get the best of her. She was sure of it. He was planning on pushing her until she quit. But she would not be dismissed. She smiled, quite enjoying the liberating feeling of making up her own mind. If Tomas said paint, she’d paint.

Just not in a sundress and heels.

“I’ll need a change of clothes. I’m afraid I came unprepared for painting.”

He shrugged again and headed towards the paint supplies.

“Señor Mendoza!”

To her credit, she did a brilliant job of rolling out the ñ in señor. He turned around, surprise flattening his face. She reveled in that expression for a fleeting second before continuing. “If you will please find me something to wear, it would be greatly appreciated.”

“Do I look like a clothing store, Miss Hollingsworth?”

He put the emphasis on the miss just as she had with señor and it had her eyebrows lifting in challenge.

“There were brochures in my room.” Oh, if she’d only thought to look at them at home before packing! Seeing them last night had made her cheeks flush with embarrassment, but there was nothing to be done about it now. “I know you have a boutique on site. Perhaps I might find something there?”

He scowled and she felt victory within her grasp.

“If you have any trousers at all, put them on. And meet me back here in five minutes.” With a put-upon sigh, he disappeared.

She had gotten the better of him, and while it was a small victory, it felt good. He had to know she was not a meek little sheep that needed caring for. She was discovering she had a daring, adventurous side she’d never known existed. Oh, perhaps painting a shed wasn’t very adventurous. But after being the girl who’d done as she was told, too afraid to do otherwise, all this felt absolutely liberating.

She skipped to the house and came back moments later wearing the caramel trousers and a white linen blouse. It was as casual as she had in her cases, but she’d remedy that somehow. Tomas came back holding a navy bundle in his hands and she drew her eyebrows together, puzzled. It didn’t look like something from a boutique.

“Put these over your clothes,” he said, handing her a pair of paint-splattered coveralls.

“You’re kidding.”

“You don’t want paint on those clothes, do you?”

“No, but …”

“Anything from the boutique is brand new—you don’t want paint on those things, either, do you?”

Why did he have to be right?

She put on the coveralls, hating the baggy fit but zipping them up anyway. The sleeves were too long and she rolled them up. And felt ridiculous standing there in her sandals.

She caught a glimpse of a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. “Sure, go ahead, laugh. I know I look silly.”

“Put these on,” he said, handing her a pair of shoes.

“What are these?”

“Alpargatas.”

She put on the canvas and rope shoes that looked like slipon sneakers. They were surprisingly comfortable.

“I believe I am ready.”

“I hope so. The morning is moving along.”

Like she needed another reminder that she was late.

She followed him to the shed, admiring the rear view despite herself. Today he was wearing faded brown cotton pants and a red T-shirt that showed off the golden hue of his skin, not to mention the breadth of his back and shoulders. He was unapologetically physical and she found herself responding as any woman would—with admiration. Seeing how capable he was made her want to succeed, too, even if it was just at the most menial task.

“Don’t you have horses to feed or something?”

He shook his head. “I did most of the chores while the bread was rising.”

“You didn’t need to make bread on my account.” She pictured his hands kneading the dough and wet her lips. He really was a jack-of-all-trades. It wasn’t fair that he was so capable and, well, gorgeous. A total package. It made her feel very plain and not very accomplished at all.

“I was up. In Maria’s absence, it is up to me to make sure you’re looked after.”

Great. He didn’t need to say the words obligation and burden for her to hear them loud and clear.

“Is there nothing you can’t do?”

“When the gaucho is out on the pampas, he is completely self-sufficient. Food, shelter, care of his animals … he does it all.”

“And have you always been so capable?”

A strange look passed over his features, but then he cleared his expression and smiled. The warmth didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Oh, not at all. It was Carlos who taught me. And I’ll be forever in his debt.”

Sophia wanted to ask him what that meant, but he reached down and grabbed a stick to stir the paint.

“Tomas?”

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up from his paint. He kept stirring while Sophia’s heart hammered. Getting the best of Tomas was one thing. But dealing with this relentless … stoicism was another. There was no sound here. Nothing familiar. All that she might have was conversation. It was the only thing to connect her to anything. And the only person she could connect to was Tomas.

“Could we call a truce?”

His hand stilled and he looked up.

“I know this is not what either of us planned. Can’t we make the best of it rather than butting heads?”

His gaze clung to hers and in it she saw the glimmerings of respect and acceptance and something that looked like regret. That made no sense. But it was all there just the same.

“I am not generally very good company.”

Sophia laughed a little. “Shocker.”

Even Tomas had to grin at that. She saw the turn of his lips as he bent to his work again.

He handed her a can and a brush. “I thought you could start on the trim. You probably have a steadier hand than I do.”

The shed wasn’t big, but it did have two doors that opened out and a window on each of the north and south sides. Sophia held the can in her hand and wondered where to start. The door and windows had been taped to protect against errant brush strokes. She stuck the brush into the can and drew it out, heavy with the white paint.

“You’ve never painted before, have you?”

She shook her head.

Tomas sighed. Not a big sigh, but she heard it just the same and felt a flicker of impatience both at him and at herself for not being more capable. “It was never …” She didn’t know how to explain her upbringing. Or her mother’s philosophy on what was done and what wasn’t. You hired people to do things like painting and repairs. They were the help. It had been made especially clear after Sophia’s father had moved out. It was then that Sophia’s mother had put her foot on the first rung of the social climbing ladder.

“We weren’t much for do-it-yourselfing,” was all she could bring herself to say.

He came over and put his hand on top of hers. “You’ve got too much paint on the brush. It will just glop and run. This way.”

Sophia bit down on her lip. His hand was strong and sure over hers, his body close. Her shoulder was near his chest as he guided her hand, wiping excess paint off the bristles. “There. Now, if you angle your brush this way …” He showed her how to lay the brush so the paint went on smoothly and evenly. “See?”

“Mmm hmm.” She couldn’t bring herself to say more. She was reacting to his nearness like a schoolgirl. His body formed a hard, immovable wall behind her and she wondered for a moment what it would be like to be held within the circle of his arms.

She pulled away from his hand and applied the paint to the trim, chiding herself for being silly. The purpose of the trip was to do something for herself, to show her independence. It was not to get besotted over some grouchy gaucho.

Tomas cleared his throat and went back to pick up his own brush.

As they put their efforts into painting the shed, Sophia stole a few moments to look around. The morning was bright, the air clear and fresh. The area around the barn was neat and trimmed and beyond it she saw a half-dozen horses or so seeking shade at one end of a corral, their hides flat and gleaming. Birds flitted between bits of pampas grass, singing a jaunty tune.

No traffic. No horns honking or elbows pushing. Also no shops, no conveniences, no restaurants.

It was stunning, but it was very, very isolated.

“How long have you been at Vista del Cielo?

“Three years.”

“You’ve worked for the Rodriguezes all that time?” She slid excess paint off her brush against the lip of the can, but looked around the corner when Tomas paused in answering.

“Pretty much.”

Hmm. Having him answer questions about the estancia wasn’t much easier than their previous conversations.

“It is quite beautiful here,” she persisted. “You can see for miles. And the air is so clear.”

“I’m glad it meets with your approval in some way,” Tomas replied.

She defiantly re-wet her brush and worked on the trim of the window as Tomas moved to the main section around the corner. If this was a working ranch, then she’d work. Just like anyone else. Just because she’d never had to didn’t mean she couldn’t. She continued swiping the paint on the wood. What would Antoine say if he could see his very perfect fiancée now? The idea made her smile. She might hate the baggy coveralls, but knowing Antoine would drop his jaw at the sight of her gave her perverse satisfaction. And the work was surprisingly pleasant. Simple and rewarding.

“Is the morning meal something the female guests would do with Maria?” she asked, more determined than ever to get Tomas talking.

“Sure,” he answered, filling his can once more with the white paint. “But not just the female guests. Everyone helps where they can. Before the fire, we had one guest who made cornbread every morning for a week. It melted in your mouth, even without butter. He said he got the recipe from his grandmother. But his wife, she was hopeless in the kitchen. She was terrific at rounding up cattle, though. Once she got started.”

Sophia grinned. “Well, well. A regular speech at last. I must make a note—cornbread makes Tomas talk.”

He sent her what she supposed was a withering look, but there was little venom behind it this time, and she laughed.

“What are you good at, Sophia?” He efficiently turned the verbal tables.

She swallowed. The question took her by surprise. The lack of an answer was even more shocking. Was she really so lacking in self-assurance she couldn’t recognize her own strengths? “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

Her pride was stung. She had worked as Antoine’s assistant and had done a good job. She doubted Tomas would see it that way. “I’m good at answering phones and taking messages and keeping a schedule. I can type seventy-five words a minute.”

Resentment bubbled up once more at how Antoine had used her capabilities for his own purposes, with complete disregard for any true feelings she might have. She stabbed the brush back into the can. “I’m good at showing up on time in the appropriate outfit, and saying the right things.” She realized how empty and foolish that sounded. “I’m not good at much, it seems.”

“Those things have their place,” he said graciously, and she began to feel a bit better. “But not at an estancia.”

The bubble burst. “I’m beginning to see that.”

“Giving in?” he asked mildly.

She took out her brush and gave the window trim an extra swipe. “You wish. Maybe it’s time I learned a new skill set. How’m I doing?”

It felt wonderful to let some of the old resentment go, to look forward. When she got back to Ottawa, she’d make some changes. She’d already resigned her job and this time she’d do something she enjoyed. Truth be told, she hated politics. She frowned, her brush strokes slowing. She thought about all the private meetings she’d set up, the hand shaking and air kissing. It was all so fake. There wasn’t a man or woman among that crowd who wouldn’t stab you in the back if it suited them. Then she thought of the wardrobe sitting in her suitcases. Yes, she loved those pretty things. They had made her feel feminine and, in her own way, important.

But maybe, just maybe, she’d sold her soul a bit to get them. Maybe Antoine hadn’t been the only one to lie. Maybe she’d been lying to herself, too. Maybe she’d made up for the lack of the right things in her life by filling it up with stuff. Was she more like her mother than she thought? For years her mother had insisted Sophia participate in one thing or another, when all she had wanted was to curl up in her room with a good book. When had that shifted? When had status become so important to her, too?

How many other lies had she told herself?

She bit down on her lip and dipped her brush in the can. It was something to think about.