Undaunted. Diana Palmer
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* *
She had Barnes drop her off at the Frenchwoman’s house. She waved him off and then asked Jeanne Marie if it was all right that she pretended to live there. She couldn’t explain, she added, but she promised it was nothing illegal or immoral.
Jeanne laughed and said of course it was all right. When Emma told her about the next morning’s appointment, Jeanne said that was fine, as well. She was curious. Emma just blushed, and Jeanne asked no more questions.
* * *
All night, Emma agonized about going to breakfast at Connor’s. It seemed like a sound idea, to get to know him, just a little, and then confess what she’d done. If he knew her, he might not jump to conclusions that she’d hit him on purpose.
But it was risky, just the same. She couldn’t go back to her father. She couldn’t go to her friends in Jacobsville, either, without putting them in the line of fire. She knew they wouldn’t mind, but they’d already done enough for her.
At eight the next morning, she got into the expensive sedan with Barnes at the wheel and let him take her to Pine Cottage.
“Eggs, bacon, pancakes,” she enthused as she walked into the dining room and took a long sniff. “What a delicious smell!”
Connor was sitting there at the head of the table, his broad face smiling, his head cocked slightly to one side. He wore a green polo shirt with tan slacks and deck shoes. He looked expensive and so sexy that he made Emma’s toes curl.
But those thoughts were destructive. He was just a man she’d met on the lake. That was all he could ever be.
“It tastes as good as it smells,” he assured her. “Edward has cooked for me for over a decade, but he didn’t want to live on a lake in Georgia. So I left him at my house on the Riviera years ago and hired Marie,” he indicated an older woman with silver hair and a bright smile, “who has a way with herbs and spices.”
Emma started to pull out a chair for herself when Barnes came out of nowhere to do it for her. “Miss,” he said politely, bowing.
“Thanks,” she replied shyly.
“Barnes practically came with the property.” Connor chuckled. “His mother kept house for my father, on his rare visits here.” His face tautened, as if the memory wasn’t a pleasant one.
“It’s true,” Barnes said, smiling. His eyes twinkled. “He’s a terrible boss,” he added suddenly. “You should see him when he loses his temper.”
“Shut up while you still have a job,” Connor muttered, but his eyes were twinkling, too. He waved a hand. “Go build something.”
Barnes winked at Emma and left, grinning.
Connor chuckled. “He weaves baskets as a hobby. He picks up vines out of the woods and twists them into all sorts of shapes. There’s one of his on a side table. Over there, I think.” He indicated an elegant-looking basket on a side table.
“It’s really beautiful,” she said, surprised. Her knowledge of baskets was scanty, but that one looked professional.
“He could make a living with them if he wanted to,” he said. “He has his own website. He sells to designers all across the country.” He shook his head. “When he makes his first million, I’ll have to have a stranger drive me everywhere.” He raised his voice. “I’ll probably be killed in a horrible wreck!”
“I will never make millions!” Barnes called back. “And if I do, I’ll still drive you!”
“Okay,” Connor called back. His sightless eyes were twinkling. Barnes threw up a hand and went out the back door.
“He drove me mad at first. But I tend to get moody. I don’t like strangers in my house, as a rule.”
She fingered her empty coffee cup and remained quiet.
“I didn’t mean you, if that’s what the silence is about,” he mused.
She laughed softly. “Okay.”
He looked in the direction of her voice. “Well? Are you pouring coffee or meditating on it?” he chided.
“I, well, I wasn’t sure if you said grace or...”
“Grace?”
Her eyes widened at the venom in his tone.
His pale eyes glittered with bad humor. “I’m not much on religion. Just pour the coffee. And if you want to say grace, say it silently, please,” he added curtly.
She didn’t know what else to do. She nodded. Then she realized that he couldn’t see her, and guilt washed over her like a wave.
“Well?” he prompted, his tone cutting.
“Sorry. Coffee?”
“Obviously I want coffee. Hence the empty mug right here.” He fumbled for it and rattled it.
“You are a very unpleasant man!” she pointed out.
“And I work hard at it, too.”
She grimaced as she poured his coffee.
He reached for it, managed it on the second try and lifted it to his mouth. “I want bacon and eggs. No pancakes.”
She got up and ladled them onto a plate. She put the plate down in front of him, caught his big hand and put a fork in it. “Bacon at three o’clock, eggs at nine o’clock. Buttered toast?” she added.
“I don’t eat much bread.” He dug into his breakfast, downed a swallow of eggs and coffee and put the cup down. “How did you learn to do that?” he asked.
“What?”
“The positions on the plate.”
“Oh. We had a blind lady who went to our church. I used to sit with her when we had picnics. She taught me. That was how she managed her food. She was eighty-six and she could ride a bike and play the piano. I was very fond of her.”
He finished eating, then leaned back with a sigh and pursed his lips. “Did she teach you anything else about blind people?”
“That you never grab them. It disconcerts them.” She told him about the guide dog the woman had, and her determination to learn Braille.
He was smiling faintly. “You learned a lot.”
“I listened,” she said simply. “People mostly don’t listen. They want to tell you about themselves, they want to discuss the latest vote on the reality shows and the latest fashions.” She sighed. “I never cared about those things. I don’t watch much television.”
“I listen to the news. I don’t follow anything except the stock market.”
There was a brief, companionable silence while she finished her coffee.
“You said you were in between jobs.”
“Just briefly. I’m going to put my name down with one of the temporary agencies in Gainesville...”
“Come work for me.”
She almost dropped the cup. “What?”
“Come work for me,” he repeated. “I have secretaries in all my corporate offices, but I don’t have a private secretary. Administrative assistant. Whatever the hell you call it. Someone to take dictation, answer the phone, make appointments and see to it that I keep them. Things like that. I used to have the Atlanta office send someone up, but I don’t want my condition to get around.”
She knew what he meant. Any bad news about his health would probably drop stock prices. People gossiped.
So he was offering her a job. She didn’t dare. She couldn’t. But she wanted to. “For how long?” she asked breathlessly.
“We’ll give it a month’s probation to