The Millionaire and the Maid. Michelle Douglas
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could bolt down to the kitchen now, while she was busy up here.
Yeah, like that would convince her to tell Russ all was fine and dandy. He flung the covers back, pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a sweater, and stomped into the en-suite bathroom to splash water on his face. He stood by his bedroom door, counted to three, dragging in a breath on each count before opening it.
‘Morning, Jo,’ he called out. Amazingly his voice didn’t emerge all hoarse and croaky as he’d expected.
She appeared at the end of the hallway. ‘Good morning. Sleep well?’
Surprisingly, he had. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ He remembered his manners. ‘And you?’
‘No.’
She didn’t add any further explanation. He took a step towards her, careful to keep the right side of his face to her. With all the curtains on this level now open there was a lot of light to contend with.
‘Is there something wrong with your room? The bed? The mattress?’
She laughed and something inside him unhitched. ‘I never sleep well in a new place the first night. Plus, I did a lot of driving yesterday and that always makes me feel unsettled. I’ll sleep like a dream tonight.’
He rolled his shoulders. ‘How long did you drive for?’
‘Five hours.’
Five hours? And she’d arrived to... His stomach churned. She’d arrived to his bitterness, resentment and utter rudeness.
‘Mac, we need to talk about my duties.’
That snapped him to.
‘I mean, do you want me to make you a full cooked breakfast each morning? What about lunch?’
He noticed she didn’t give him any quarter as far as dinner went. ‘I’ll help myself for breakfast and lunch.’
‘Not a breakfast person, huh?’
He wasn’t. He opened his mouth. He closed it again and waited for a lecture.
‘Me neither,’ she confessed. ‘Most important meal of the day, blah, blah, blah.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Just give me a coffee before I kill you.’
He laughed, but he was still careful to keep his good side to her. She hadn’t flinched at his scars last night or so far this morning. But he knew what they looked like. He could at least spare her when he could.
One thing was for sure—she didn’t treat him like an invalid, and he was grateful for it.
‘There’s a pot of freshly brewed coffee on the hob.’
He didn’t need any further encouragement, and turned in the direction of the kitchen.
He swung back before he reached the stairs. ‘Jo?’
Her head appeared in the bedroom doorway again.
‘Don’t bust a gut trying to get the house shipshape all at once, will you?’ He’d long since dismissed his army of hired help. ‘I’ve...uh...let it get away from me a bit.’ At her raised eyebrow he amended that to ‘A lot.’
She merely saluted him and went back to work. He made his way down to the kitchen, wondering if he’d passed the don’t worry Russ test so far this morning. He poured himself a coffee, took a sip and closed his eyes. Man, the woman could make a fine brew.
* * *
Mac clocked the exact moment Jo returned from her shopping expedition.
His first instinct was to continue hiding out in his room. He stared at the half-written recipe on his computer screen and pushed to his feet. If he walked away and did something else for half an hour he might remember if he reduced the recipe’s required infusion by a third or a quarter.
If he could just see it in the saucepan and smell it he’d have the answer in an instant and—
He cut the thought off with a curse and went to help Jo unpack the car. She’d only given him a week. He’d better make the most of it.
She glanced up when he strode out onto the veranda, and in the light of her grace and vigour he suddenly felt awkward and ungainly.
He scowled, unable to dredge up a single piece of small talk. ‘I thought I’d help unpack the car.’
She pursed her lips and he realised he was still scowling. He did what he could to smooth his face out—the parts of his face he could smooth out.
‘You have any trouble finding the shops?’
Heck. Scintillating conversation.
‘None at all. You feeling okay, Mac?’
‘I’m fine.’ Striding to the car, he seized as many bags as he could and stalked back into the house with them.
It took them two trips.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do after that, so he leant against the sink and pretended to drink a glass of water as he watched her unpack the groceries. There were the expected trays of meat—hamburger mince, sausages, steak and diced beef. And then there was the unexpected and to be deplored—frozen pies and frozen pizza. Fish fingers, for heaven’s sake!
He flicked a disparaging finger at the boxes. What are those?’
‘I’m assuming you’re not asking the question literally?’
She’d donned one of those mock patient voices used on troublesome children and it set his teeth on edge. ‘Is this to punish me for refusing to teach you to cook?’
She turned from stowing stuff in the freezer, hands on hips. ‘You told me you weren’t a fussy eater.’
‘This isn’t food. It’s processed pap!’
‘You’re free to refuse to eat anything I serve up.’
‘But if I do you’ll go running to Russ to tell tales?’
She grinned, and her relish both irked and amused him.
She lifted one hand. ‘Rock.’ She lifted the other. ‘Hard place.’
Which described his situation perfectly.
She grinned again and his mouth watered. She seized a packet of frozen pies and waved them at him. ‘Pies, mash, peas and gravy is one of my all-time favourite, walk-over-hot-coals-to-get-it meals, and I’m not giving it up—not even for your high-falutin’ standards. And before you ask—no, I haven’t mastered the trick to pastry.’ She shook her head. ‘Life’s too short to fuss with pastry. Or to stuff a mushroom.’
She was wrong. A perfect buttery pastry, light and delicate, was one of life’s adventures. And mushroom-stuffing shouldn’t be sneezed at. But why on earth would she ask him to teach her to cook if that was the way she felt?
‘And I’ll have you know that fish fingers on a fresh bun with a dollop of tartare sauce makes the best lunch.’
‘I will never eat fish fingers.’
‘All the more for me, then.’
He scowled at the pizza boxes.
‘Also,’ her lips twitched, ‘as far as I’m concerned, there’s no such thing as a bad slice of pizza.’
‘That’s ludicrous!’
‘Don’t be such a snob. Besides, all of this food is better than whatever it is you’ve been living on for the last heaven only knows how long. Which, as far as I can tell, has been tinned baked beans, crackers and breakfast cereal.’
She had a point. It didn’t matter what he ate. In fact the more cardboard-like and tasteless the better. It had been his search for excellence and his ambition that had caused the fire that had almost claimed a young man’s life and—
His