Millionaires' Destinies: Isn't It Rich? / Priceless / Treasured. Sherryl Woods
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out how the evening had gone so dreadfully awry. It wasn’t as if she’d never been propositioned before. It happened all the time. It wasn’t as if Richard had pushed after she’d said no. In fact, he’d taken her at her word and remained reasonably good-humored about the firm rejection.
And wasn’t that the real problem? Had she wanted him to ride roughshod over her objections? Had she wanted him to sweep her into his arms, kiss her until she melted and then carry her up to this very romantic bed? She’d never been one to lie to herself, and the truth was that a part of her had wanted exactly that. Thankfully, sanity had prevailed—his apparently more so than hers. Her principles remained intact, as much a credit to his restraint as to her stern words. She would be able to face him in the morning with head held high.
She picked up a down pillow and pummeled it. Fat lot of comfort those principles were going to be during the rest of this long, cold night.
Richard was up at dawn after a restless night. He felt oddly disgruntled, as if he’d done something wrong, something he ought to apologize for, but damned if he knew what that was. He’d made his desire for Melanie clear. She’d said no. He’d accepted that. The exchange should have ended the evening with no hard feelings.
Instead, she’d stalked off as if he’d offended her. Damned if he would ever understand women. He thought he’d given her what she wanted, a night alone in her own bed.
Of course, what she really wanted was that consulting job, and he wasn’t prepared to offer her that. She’d drive him crazy in days, maybe even hours.
He was drinking his first cup of his special-blend coffee, when he heard her tentative footsteps coming downstairs. Uncertain what to expect, he tightened his grip on his cup and watched the doorway with a grim expression.
Instead of the dour, accusing woman he was expecting, in walked Little Mary Sunshine, all smiles and bright eyes.
“Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Isn’t the snow gorgeous? I’ve never been at the beach after a snowstorm before. It really is like a winter wonderland out there, don’t you think?”
“I suppose,” he said cautiously.
“Haven’t you even looked outside?”
“Of course I have.” The truth was, he’d been too dismayed by the sight of the impassable roads to take much joy in the picturesque landscape.
As if she’d read his mind, she laughed. “You’re panicked because there’s no chance of me getting out of here this morning, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure you have things you’d rather be doing,” he said defensively. “Places you’d rather be.”
“Not really,” she said cheerfully.
Richard stared at her. Only after he’d studied her closely did he detect the faint wariness in her eyes. She was putting on a show for him, and it was a pretty decent one. It had almost had him fooled.
“Want some breakfast?” he asked.
“Cereal will do.”
“I was thinking of making French toast with maple syrup. That’s what Destiny always makes when we’re here. She considered it a vacation treat.”
Her eyes lit up, and this time her enthusiasm seemed genuine. “And you can make French toast?”
He laughed at the hint of amazement in her voice. “It’s not that hard.”
He moved past her, gathered a few eggs, butter and milk from the refrigerator.
“I’ll set the table,” she said, heading toward the dishwasher.
“I’ve already put the dishes away,” he told her.
“How long have you been up?”
“Hours.”
She gave him a knowing look. “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I’m always an early riser.”
“Not me. I like sleeping in. Being up at dawn is unnatural.”
“Not once you’ve seen a sunrise over the river,” he said. “Grab a couple of plates and a bowl, then come over here.”
She set the dishes on the table, then regarded him warily. “Why over there?”
“I’m going to teach you how to make this. You might as well go away from this weekend with one new skill.”
She backed off as if he’d suggested teaching her alligator-wrestling. “I don’t think so. You probably only have a dozen eggs here. I can ruin more than that without half-trying.”
Richard refused to back down. “Over here, or I’ll think you’re scared of being close to me.” He met her gaze. “Maybe even tempted to take me up on that proposition I made last night.”
“That was a bad idea,” she reminded him.
“Yeah, I got that.”
“But I’m not scared of you.”
He bit back a grin. “If you say so.” He held out an egg. “Break this into the bowl. Try not to get any shell in there.”
She smashed it with so much enthusiasm, he suspected she was pretending it was his skull. Egg and shell dribbled into the bowl. He dumped the mess into the sink and handed her another egg. “Try again.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just went ahead and did it?”
“Easier, but you wouldn’t learn anything.”
“It’s not your job to be my cooking instructor.”
“It is if I ever expect you to prepare a meal for me.”
Her hand stilled over the bowl. “I thought we’d settled that. There’s not going to be anything personal between us.”
“That would be the smart plan,” he agreed, not entirely sure why he was so determined to pursue this. He was always, always smart. He skirted around mistakes at all costs, especially when they were staring him right in the face in a way that made them totally avoidable.
“It’s the only plan,” she insisted.
“Not really.” He placed a hand over hers and guided it gently to the side of the bowl, then cracked the egg. It fell neatly into the bowl without so much as a sliver of shell. Melanie stared at it in obvious surprise.
“Now do that without my help,” he instructed.
She broke another egg and then a third one, looking more incredulous each time she succeeded. “Well, I’ll be darned.” She gazed up at him. “Now what?”
“Now we add a little milk, a touch of vanilla, and whip it till it’s frothy.”
Clearly more confident, she reached for the milk and added a too-generous splash. She was a little too stingy with the vanilla, but he refrained from comment and handed her the whisk. She stared at it as if it were a foreign object. Richard bit back another smile. “You use it to whip the eggs.”
“Why not a beater?”
“This is easier.” He nudged her aside with his hip and took the whisk. “Like this.”
She watched him closely, a little furrow of concentration knitting her brow. He couldn’t help wondering if she was this intense about everything she did. Best not to go there.
“Now you do it,” he said, handing the whisk back.
She tackled the task with more enthusiasm than finesse, but she got the job done with only a minimal amount of splashing. There was enough egg left in the bowl for at least a couple of pieces of French toast.
Hiding his amusement, Richard put some butter in a pan, then handed her the bread. “Dip it in the eggs till both sides are coated, then put it in the pan once the butter’s