Привет, моя радость! или Новогоднее чудо в семье писателя. Олег Рой
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“He was. Is. He was stricken with a sudden illness, and the company sent me to take his place.”
“Humph,” the old man snorted. “That’s ridiculous. We can’t have a woman on the place.”
“So Mr. Rand said,” Rebecca said dryly, wondering if every man on Rand Ranch would dislike her on sight. “I’m guessing that you must be Hank?”
“That’s right. How’d you know?”
“Mr. Rand mentioned that one of the four men staying here didn’t care for women.”
“That’s right. I don’t. Women are nothin’ but trouble.”
“I promise I’ll do my best not to cause any trouble,” Rebecca assured him gravely.
“Hah. Promise all you want, won’t make any difference. Trouble follows women, regardless of what they say.”
Rebecca could see that the conversation wasn’t getting anywhere.
“I was just making a mug of tea, Mr., um, Hank. Would you like one?”
He gave her a withering glare. “No. Don’t drink tea. That’s a woman’s drink, ’cept for iced tea loaded with sugar in the summertime.”
“Oh.” Rebecca bit the inside of her lip to keep from grinning. Hank reminded her of elderly Mr. Althorpe, her neighbor at her condo in San Francisco. He proclaimed long and loud that he hated women, but he was a soft touch for the double-chocolate brownies she brought him from the bakery on the next block. She wondered briefly if the bakery would give her the recipe so she could try chocolate bribery on Hank.
“Men drink coffee, beer or whiskey,” the old man proclaimed, stomping to the sink. He scrubbed his hands and face, drying them on the towel hung on a rack inside the lower cabinet door.
“Would you like me to make you coffee, then?”
“No.” He shot her a scathing glance. “Women never make it strong enough.”
“Ah, I see.” She collected her tea, tossed the tea bag in the trash, stirred in sugar and retreated to the relative safety of the table.
“If you’re gonna be livin’ here, you’re gonna have to help with chores,” Hank warned.
“Certainly. Is there a schedule?”
“Of sorts. I do most of the cookin’ and everybody else helps out with cleanin’ up in the kitchen and the rest of the house.”
Rebecca didn’t miss the pointed look Hank gave her. Clearly, the kitchen was Hank’s territory.
“Can I help you with dinner tonight?” she offered, expecting him to refuse. To her surprise, he didn’t.
“Since I’m runnin’ late tonight, I suppose you can,” he agreed grumpily.
“What can I do?” She stood.
“You can get five good-sized baking potatoes from the sack in the basement. The door to the cellar is on the back porch.”
“Right.” Rebecca stepped into the utility room. A washer and dryer took up half of one wall, the other half lined with coat hooks and a collection of jackets. Below them, several pairs of rubber or leather boots stood. The far wall had more hooks for jackets and the door to the back step, standing open with the screen door outside closed. To her left, cabinets lined the wall on each side of a door. She pulled open the door, flicked on the switch and carefully descended steep stairs to the cool, concrete-walled basement. Rough plank shelves lined the walls, filled with enough canned goods to feed an army. She found the gunny sack of potatoes leaning against the wall. Juggling an armful, she left the basement for the kitchen and crossed to the sink. Hank shot her a glance when she tumbled the pile into the sink and began to wash them. Without commenting, she scrubbed them clean, deftly stabbed each three times with a knife from the block atop the counter and slipped them into the oven, setting the temperature at four hundred.
“Potatoes are in,” she told Hank. “What else can I do?”
When Jackson opened the back door and stepped into the utility room off the kitchen, it was nearly six-thirty. He was hot, dirty and tired. And he still hadn’t decided what he was going to do about Rebecca Wallingford.
He saw her through the screen door to the kitchen the minute he stepped into the utility room. She was standing with her back to him, stirring something in a pan on the stove. Gone was the sophisticated black business suit and heels, replaced by a gathered white skirt that cinched in at her narrow waist and left the smooth, tanned length of legs bare from above her knees. The old radio on the shelf by the back door was tuned to a rock-and-roll station, and her ebony ponytail swung back and forth, brushing her nape as she swayed to the music.
Emotions, basic and primitive, stirred in Jackson. He easily recognized the surge of lust in the mix. Rebecca Wallingford was a beautiful woman; he’d have to be a eunuch not to respond to her. The other reactions were more difficult to analyze. He suspected that it had something to do with coming in from work and finding a beautiful woman cooking dinner in his kitchen. The inferences to hearth and home and a woman of his own were obvious.
Oh, no. I’m not going there.
He stepped inside the kitchen and turned down the volume on the radio. Rebecca spun around, her hand flying to her heart.
“Oh, it’s you. You startled me.”
“Sorry.” For a long moment, he couldn’t look away from wide emerald eyes fringed with thick black lashes. She had a mouth that conjured up erotic fantasies, and the green tank top clung to full breasts that the suit jacket she’d worn earlier had concealed. He realized that he was staring and yanked his gaze away from her chest to glance past her at the stove. “Where’s Hank?”
“He went to the basement to find canned peaches for dessert.”
Behind Jackson, the sound of male voices and laughter grew louder. The back-room door slapped shut, then the inner screen door opened and two men stepped into the kitchen. They halted abruptly just inside the door and stared at Rebecca with identical expressions of surprise and interest.
“Whoa. Who’s this?”
The taller of the two grinned at her, his blue eyes alive with interest on an open, friendly face beneath close-cropped blond hair. The other man was shorter, with dark brown hair and a handsome face. Rebecca instinctively liked the taller man and withheld judgment on the handsome one.
She glanced at Jackson and found him watching her reaction, eyes narrowed.
“This is the accountant. She’ll be staying here for the next couple of months or so. Rebecca Wallingford,” he nodded at the blond man, “this is Gib Thompson…”
“Hello.” The lanky young man grinned and nodded a greeting.
“…and Mick Haworth.”
“Pleased to meet you.” An engaging smile wreathed Mick’s handsome face.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Where are you from, Rebecca?” Gib asked.
“San Francisco.”
“Yeah? Are you…”
“Out of the way.” Hank’s testy voice interrupted them. He elbowed his way past Mick and Gib and shot them a glare. “If you two want to eat tonight, you’d better get washed up. I ain’t waitin’ dinner on you while you stand here jawin’ with Rebecca.”
The two shot Rebecca apologetic looks and left the room. Their boots sounded on the stairs, the din of their friendly arguing floating behind them down the stairway.
“You, too, boss.”
Jackson left the kitchen without comment. The radio played an old Stones tune as his boots sounded on the stair treads.
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