Sweet Thing / Make Me Want. Nicola Marsh
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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?”