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The Millionaire and the Maid
Michelle Douglas
The woman who made him smile again…Housekeeper Jo Anderson gets the shock of her life when she meets her new boss! Six months ago, millionaire Mac MacCullum was a charismatic celebrity chef – now he’s scarred and reclusive…The last thing Mac wants is a woman determined to make him confront his demons – especially when Jo clearly has her own! Why else would someone so full of beauty and zest for life feel like the plainest woman in Australia? Maybe it’s time Mac helped her realise just how special she really is…


‘I’m sick to death of this ridiculous belief of yours that you’re not attractive. You’re a beautiful and very desirable woman.’
It frightened her. He frightened her because she wanted to believe him. Yet in her heart she knew it was all lies.
Mac eased away and she tossed her head. ‘I know my worth, Mac, make no mistake. I’m smart and strong and I’m a good friend. But let’s make one thing very clear. Boys like you do not kiss girls like me.’ Not unless it was for a bet or a dare. ‘It’s a fact of life.’
And then he moved in.
She raised her hands. ‘Don’t you—’
His lips claimed hers, swiftly, pushing her back against the house, but he took his time exploring every inch of her mouth. She tried to turn her head to the side but he followed her, his hands cupping her face. He crowded her completely, pressing every inch of his rock-hard self against her.
They both breathed hard, as if they’d run a race.
‘I beg to differ.’
She blinked up at him blankly.
‘Guys like me most certainly do kiss women like you. And what’s more, Jo, they enjoy every moment of it.’
The Millionaire and the Maid
Michelle Douglas


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
MICHELLE DOUGLAS has been writing for Mills & Boon since 2007 and believes she has the best job in the world. She lives in a leafy suburb of Newcastle, on Australia’s east coast, with her own romantic hero, a house full of dust and books, and an eclectic collection of sixties and seventies vinyl. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website: michelle-douglas.com (http://michelle-douglas.com).
To Laurie Johnson for her enthusiasm, insight … and for introducing me to mojitos.
It was a joy to work with you.
Contents
Cover (#u8c48ddb6-e7c5-5d6f-a8ee-caf2e2499a46)
Introduction (#u99438936-a587-5358-9699-738370dd028f)
Title Page (#u70219cd0-114d-51d3-80e7-4abbf8fe9c4e)
About the Author (#uaeb61395-efce-554c-aaec-883618ebb3dc)
Dedication (#u27f25879-2321-554b-9e6a-975c53fc2e58)
CHAPTER ONE (#u7371d96c-99eb-5642-bada-03b8283c8442)
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_03deb7c1-c6dc-54e3-8650-362923e7c63b)
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0aec8326-5337-50e0-be73-0c9ed0d038bb)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE
MAC PRESSED THE heels of his hands to his eyes and counted to five before pulling them away and focussing on the computer screen again. He reread what he’d written of the recipe so far and fisted his hands. What came next?
This steamed mussels dish was complicated, but he must have made it a hundred times. He ground his teeth together. The words blurred and danced across the screen. Why couldn’t he remember what came next?
Was it coconut milk?
He shook his head. That came later.
With a curse, he leapt up, paced across the room and tried to imagine making the dish. He visualised himself in a kitchen, with all the ingredients arrayed around him. He imagined speaking directly to a rolling camera to explain what he was doing—the necessity of each ingredient and the importance of the sequence. His chest swelled and then cramped. He dragged a hand back through his hair. To be cooking...to be back at work... A black well of longing rose through him, drowning him with a need so great he thought the darkness would swallow him whole.
It’d be a blessing if it did.
Except he had work to do.
He kicked out at a pile of dirty washing bunched in the corner of the room before striding back to his desk and reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the floor beside it. It helped to blunt the pain. For a little while. He lifted it to his mouth and then halted. The heavy curtains drawn at the full-length windows blocked the sunlight from the room, and while his body had no idea—it was in a seemingly permanent state of jet lag—his brain told him it was morning.
Grinding his teeth, he screwed the cap back on the bottle.
Finish the damn recipe. Then you can drink yourself into oblivion and sleep.
Finish the recipe? That was what he had to do, but he couldn’t seem to turn from where he stood, staring at the closed curtains, picturing the day just beyond them, the sun and the light and the cool of the fresh air...the smell of the sea.
He kept himself shut away from all that temptation.
But it didn’t stop him from being able to imagine it.
A ping from his computer broke the spell. Dragging a hand down his face, he turned back to the desk and forced himself into the chair.
A message. From Russ. Of course. It was always Russ. Just for a moment he rested his head in his hands.
Hey Bro, don’t forget Jo arrives today.
He swore. He didn’t need a housekeeper. He needed peace and quiet so he could finish this damn cookbook.
If the rotten woman hadn’t saved his brother’s life he’d send her off with a flea in her ear.
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he shook that thought off. He understood the need to retreat from the world. He wouldn’t begrudge that to someone else. He and this housekeeper—they wouldn’t have to spend any time in each other’s company. In fact they wouldn’t even need to come face to face. He’d left her a set of written instructions on the kitchen table. As for the rest she could please herself.
He planted himself more solidly in his chair, switched off his internet connection, and shut the siren call of sunshine, fresh air and living from his mind. He stared at the screen.
Add the chilli purée and clam broth and reduce by a half. Then add...
What the hell came next?
* * *
Jo pushed out of her car and tried to decide what to look at first—the view or the house. She’d had to negotiate for two rather hairy minutes over a deeply rutted driveway. It had made her grateful that her car was a four-wheel drive, equipped to deal with rough terrain, rather than the sports car her soul secretly hungered for. After five hours on the road she was glad to have reached her destination. Still, five hours in a sports car would have been more fun.
She shook out her arms and legs. ‘You can’t put her in that! She’s too big-boned.’ Her great-aunt’s voice sounded through her mind. She half laughed. True, she’d probably look ridiculous in a sport car. Besides, what were the odds that she wouldn’t even fit into one? As ever, though, her grandmother’s voice piped up. ‘I think she looks pretty and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.’
With a shake of her head, Jo shut out the duelling voices. She’d work out a plan of attack for Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith later. Instead, she moved out further onto the bluff to stare at the view. In front of her the land descended sharply to a grassy field that levelled out before coming to a halt at low, flower-covered sand dunes. Beyond that stretched a long crescent of deserted beach, glittering white-gold in the mild winter sunlight.
A sigh eased out of her. There must be at least six or seven kilometres of it—two to the left and four or five to the right—and not a soul to be seen. All the way along it perfect blue-green breakers rolled up to the shore in a froth of white.
She sucked a breath of salt-laced air into her lungs and some of the tension slipped out of her. With such a vast expanse of ocean in front of her, her own troubles seemed suddenly less significant. Not that she had troubles as such. Just a few things she needed to sort out.
She dragged in another breath. The rhythmic whooshing of the waves and the cries of two seagulls cruising overhead eased the knots five hours in the car had conspired to create. The green of each wave as it crested made her inhalations come more easily, as if the push and pull of the Pacific Ocean had attuned her breathing to a more natural pattern.
The breeze held a chill she found cleansing. Last week the weather would have been warm enough to swim, and maybe it’d be warm enough for that again next week. Having spent the last eight years working in the Outback, she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed the coast and the beach.
She finally turned to survey the house. A two-storey weatherboard with a deep veranda and an upstairs balcony greeted her. A lovely breezy home that—
She frowned at all the closed windows and drawn curtains, the shut front door. Heavens, Mac MacCallum was still here, wasn’t he? Russ would have told her if his brother had returned to the city.
She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and then folded her arms. Mac would be in there. Russ had warned her that his brother might prove difficult. He’d also had no doubt in her ability to handle difficult.
‘Jeez, you save someone’s life and suddenly they think you’re Superwoman.’
But she’d smiled as she’d said it—though whether in affection at her dear friend and former boss, or at the thought of wearing a superhero outfit she wasn’t sure. Though if she burst in wearing a spangly leotard and cape it might make Mac reconsider the soundness of locking himself away like this.
She planted her hands on her hips.
Painted a sleek grey, each weatherboard sat in perfect alignment with its neighbour—and, considering the battering the place must take from sand, salt, sun and wind, that was a testament to the superior materials used and to whoever had built it. The best that money could buy, no doubt. The galvanised tin roof shone in the sunlight. There was even a chimney, which must mean there was an open fire. Nice! Winter might be relatively mild here on the mid-north coast of New South Wales, but she didn’t doubt the nights could be chilly.
She pulled her cardigan about her more tightly. Still, shut up as it was, the house looked cold and unwelcoming even in all this glorious sunshine.
There’s only one way to change that.
Casting a final longing glance back behind her, she set her shoulders and strode towards the house, mounting the six steps to the veranda two at a time.
A piece of paper, stark white against the grey wood, was taped to the door with ‘Ms Anderson’ slashed across it in a dark felt-tipped pen. Jo peeled the note away. Was Mac out? And was he going to insist on the formality of ‘Ms Anderson’ and ‘Mr MacCallum’?
Ms Anderson
I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working so let yourself in. Your room is on the ground floor beyond the kitchen. There should be absolutely no need for you to venture up onto the first floor.
She let out a low laugh. Oh, so that was what he thought, huh?
He finished with:
I eat at seven. Please leave a tray on the table at the bottom of the stairs and I’ll collect it when I take a break from my work.
She folded the note and shoved it in her pocket. She opened the front door and propped a cast-iron rooster that she assumed to be the doorstop against it, and then latched the screen door back against the house before going to the car and collecting her cases. And then she strode into the house as if she owned it—head high, shoulders back, spine straight.
Malcolm ‘Mac’ MacCallum had another think coming if he thought they were going to spend the next two months or so communicating via notes.
She dropped her suitcases in the hallway, wrinkling her nose at the musty scent of old air and neglect. A large reception room lay to her right. She strode in and flung open the curtains at the three large windows to let light spill into the room. She turned and blew out a breath.
Look at all this gorgeous furniture.
Antiques mingled with newer pieces, creating an elegant warmth that reminded her again of Mac’s success. She glared at a gorgeous leather chair. What use was success if it made you forget the people who loved you? Mac hadn’t visited Russ once since Russ’s heart attack. She transferred her glare to the ceiling, before shaking herself and glancing around the room again. It was all in serious need of spit and polish.
She grimaced. Tomorrow.
She turned her back on it to open the windows. The sound of the sea entered first, and then its scent. She straightened. That was better.
She found her room at the back of the house. Someone had made a half-hearted effort at cleaning it. Mac, she supposed. According to Russ, the last cleaning lady had left over a month ago. It would do for now. She’d tackle that tomorrow as well.
Her window looked out over an unkempt lawn to a garage. She lifted the window higher. She might not have a room with a view, but she could still hear the ocean. She leant against the windowsill, reaching out to touch a banksia flower on the nearby tree.
A moment later she drew her hand back, a breath shuddering out of her as she thought back to that stupid note stuck to the door. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Turning her life upside down like this was probably foolhardy, irresponsible—even insane. After all, geology wasn’t so bad and—
It’s not so good either.
She bit her lip and then straightened. She’d gone into geology to please her father. For all the good it had done her. She wasn’t concerned with pleasing him any longer.
She’d remained in the field to keep the peace. She didn’t want just to keep the peace any more—she wanted to create a new world where peace reigned...at least in her little part of it. She’d stayed where she was because she was frightened of change. Well, Russ’s heart attack had taught her that there were worse things than fear of change.
Fear of regret and fear of wasting her life were two of those things. She couldn’t afford to lose heart now. She wanted a future she could look forward to. She wanted a future that would make her proud. She wanted a future that mattered. That was what she was doing here. That wasn’t foolhardy, irresponsible or insane. On the contrary.
But...what about Mac? What was she going to do? Follow instructions today and then try to corner him tomorrow? Or—?
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the caller ID before lifting it to her ear. ‘Hey, Russ.’
‘Are you there yet?’
‘Yep.’
‘How’s Mac?’
She swallowed. Or not follow instructions?
‘I’ve only just this very minute arrived, so I haven’t clapped eyes on him yet, but let me tell you the view here is amazing. Your brother has found the perfect place to...’
What? Recuperate? He’d had enough time to recuperate. Work without distractions? Hole up?
‘The perfect place to hide away from the world.’ Russell sighed.
Russ was fifty-two and recovering from a heart attack. He was scheduled for bypass surgery in a few weeks. She wasn’t adding to his stress if she could help it.
‘The perfect place for inspiration,’ she countered. ‘The scenery is gorgeous. Wait until you see it and then you’ll know what I mean. I’ll send you photos.’
‘Does a body need inspiration to write a cookbook?’
She had no idea. ‘Cooking and making up recipes are creative endeavours, aren’t they? And isn’t there some theory that creativity is boosted by the negative ions of moving water? Anyway, there’s lots of deserted beach to walk and rolling hills to climb. It’s a good place to come and get strong—away from prying eyes.’
‘You think so?’
‘Absolutely. Give me an hour, Russ, and I’ll call you back when I have something concrete to tell you, okay?’
‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Jo.’
‘We both know that in this instance it’s you who’s doing me the favour.’
It wasn’t wholly a lie.
She’d known Russ for eight years. They’d hit if off from the first day she’d walked into the mining company’s Outback office, with her brand-new soil sample kit and her work boots that still held a shine. Their teasing, easy rapport had developed into a genuine friendship. He’d been her boss, her mentor, and one of the best friends she’d ever had—but in all that time she’d never met his brother.
After his heart attack she’d confided in Russ—told him she wanted out of geology and away from the Outback. She grimaced. She’d also told him she couldn’t go back to Sydney until she’d developed a plan. Her jobless situation would only provide Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith with more ammunition to continue their silly feud. Battle lines would be drawn and Jo would find herself smack-bang in the middle of them. She was already smack-bang in the middle of them! No more. She was tired of living her life to meet other people’s expectations.
She pulled in a breath. When she was working in a job she loved and doing things that made her happy, the people who loved her—Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith—would be happy for her too. She squinted out of the window. If only she could figure out what it was that would make her happy.
She chafed her arms, suddenly cold. All she knew was that another twenty years down the track she didn’t want to look back and feel she’d wasted her life.
When Russ had found all that out he’d laughed and rubbed his hands together. ‘Jo,’ he’d said, ‘I’ve just the job for you.’
And here she was.
She glanced around, her nose wrinkling.
She loved Russ dearly. She enjoyed his twisted sense of humour, admired the values he upheld, and she respected the man he was. She did not, however, hold out the same hopes for his brother.
She planted her hands on her hips. A brother did not desert his family when they needed him. Russ had been there for Mac every step of the way, but Mac had been nowhere to be found when Russ had needed him. But here she was, all the same. Mac’s hired help. She didn’t even know what her official job title was—cook, cleaner, housekeeper? Russ had dared her to don a French maid’s outfit. Not in this lifetime!
Russ needed someone to make sure Mac was getting three square meals a day and not living in squalor—someone who could be trusted not to go racing to the press. At heart, though, Jo knew Russ just wanted to make sure his little brother was okay.
Cue Jo. Still, this job would provide her with the peace and quiet to work out where she wanted to go from here.
She pulled Mac’s note from her pocket and stared at it.
There should be absolutely no reason for you to venture onto the first floor.
Oh, yes, there was.
Without giving herself too much time to think, she headed straight for the stairs.
There were five doors on the first floor, if she didn’t count the door to the linen closet. Four of them stood wide open—a bathroom and three bedrooms. Mind you, all the curtains in each of those rooms were drawn, so it was dark as Hades up here. The fourth door stood resolutely closed. Do Not Disturb vibes radiated from it in powerful waves.
‘Guess which one the prize is behind?’ she murmured under her breath, striding up to it.
She lifted her hand and knocked. Rat-tat-tat! The noise bounced up and down the hallway. No answer. Nothing.
She knocked again, even louder. ‘Mac, are you in there?’
To hell with calling him Mr MacCallum. Every Tuesday night for the last five years she’d sat with Russ, watching Mac on the television. For eight years she’d listened to Russ talk about his brother. He would be Mac to her forever.
She suddenly stiffened. What if he was hurt or sick?
‘Go away!’
She rolled her eyes. ‘“There was movement at the station.”’
‘Can’t you follow instructions?’
Ooh, that was a veritable growl. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m coming in.’
She pushed the door open.
‘What the hell?’ The single light at the desk was immediately clicked off. ‘Get out! I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘Correction. An anonymous note informed me that someone didn’t want to be disturbed.’ It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She focussed on that rather than the snarl in his voice. ‘Anyone could’ve left that note. For all I knew you could’ve been slain while you slept.’
He threw his arms out. ‘Not slain. See? Now, get out.’
‘I’d like nothing better,’ she said, strolling across the room.
‘What the hell do you think you’re—?’
He broke off when she flung the curtains back. She pulled in a breath, staring at the newly revealed balcony and the magnificent view beyond. ‘Getting a good look at you,’ she said, before turning around.
The sight that met her shocked her to the core. She had no hope of hiding it. She reached out a hand to steady herself against the glass doors.
‘Happy?’
His lips twisted in a snarl that made her want to flee. She swallowed and shook her head. ‘No.’ How could she be happy? He was going to break his brother’s heart.
‘Shocked?’ he mocked with an ugly twist of his lips.
The left side of his face and neck were red, tight and raw with the post-burn scarring from his accident. His too-long blond hair had clumped in greasy unbrushed strands. Dark circles rimmed red eyes. The grey pallor of his skin made her stomach churn.
‘To the marrow,’ she choked out.
And in her mind the first lines of that Banjo Paterson poem went round and round in her head.
There was movement at the station,
for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away
Regret. Got away. She suddenly wished with everything inside her that she could get away. Leave.
And go where? What would she tell Russ?
She swallowed and straightened. ‘It smells dreadful in here.’
Too close and sour and hot. She slid the door open, letting the sea breeze dance over her. She filled her lungs with it even though his scowl deepened.
‘I promised Russ I’d clap eyes on you, as no one else seems to have done so in months.’
‘He sent you here as a spy?’
‘He sent me here as a favour.’
‘I don’t need any favours!’
Not a favour for you. But she didn’t say that out loud. ‘No. I suspect what you really need is a psychiatrist.’
His jaw dropped.
She pulled herself up to her full height of six feet and folded her arms. ‘Is that what you really want me to report back to Russ? That you’re in a deep depression and possibly suicidal?’
His lips drew together tightly over his teeth. ‘I am neither suicidal nor depressed.’
‘Right.’ She drew the word out, injecting as much disbelief into her voice as she could. ‘For the last four months you’ve sat shut up in this dark house, refusing to see a soul. I suspect you barely sleep and barely eat.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And when was the last time you had a shower?’
His head rocked back.
‘These are not the actions of a reasonable or rational adult. What interpretation would you put on them if you were coming in from the outside? What conclusion do you think Russ would come to?’
For a moment she thought he might have paled at her words—except he was already so pale it was impossible to tell. She rubbed a hand across her chest. She understood that one had to guard against sunburn on burn scars, but avoiding the light completely was ludicrous.
He said nothing. He just stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Which just went to show how preoccupied he must have been. When most people saw her for the first time they usually performed a comical kind of double-take at her sheer size. Not that she’d ever found anything remotely humorous about it. So what? She was tall. And, no, she wasn’t dainty. It didn’t make her a circus freak.
‘Damn you, Mac!’ She found herself shouting at him, and she didn’t know where it came from but it refused to be suppressed. ‘How can you be so selfish? Russell is recovering from a heart attack. He needs bypass surgery. He needs calm and peace and...’ Her heart dropped with a sickening thud. ‘And now I’m going to have to tell him...’ She faltered, not wanting to put into words Mac’s pitiable condition. She didn’t have the heart for it.
Mac still didn’t speak, even though the ferocity and outrage had drained from his face. She shook her head and made for the door.
‘At least I didn’t waste any time unpacking.’
* * *
It wasn’t until the woman— What was her name again? Jo Anderson? It wasn’t until she’d disappeared through his bedroom door that he realised what she meant to do.
She meant to leave.
She meant to leave and tell Russ that Mac needed to be sectioned or something daft. Hell, the press would have a field-day with that! But she was right about one thing—Russ didn’t need the added stress of worrying about Mac. Mac had enough guilt on that head as it was, and he wasn’t adding to it.
‘Wait!’ he hollered.
He bolted after her, hurling himself down the stairs, knocking into walls and stumbling, his body heavy and unfamiliar as if it didn’t belong to him any more. By the time he reached the bottom he was breathing hard.
He’d used to jog five kilometres without breaking a sweat.
When was the last time he’d jogged?
When was the last time you had a shower?
He dragged a hand down his face. God help him.
He shook himself back into action and surged forward, reaching the front door just as she lugged her cases down the front steps. Sunlight. Sea air. He pulled up as both pounded at him, caressing him, mocking him. He didn’t want to notice how good they felt. But they felt better than good.
And they’d both distract him from his work. Work you won’t get a chance to complete if Jo Anderson walks away.
He forced himself forward, through the door. ‘Please, Ms Anderson—wait.’
She didn’t stop. The woman was built like an Amazon—tall and regal. It hurt him to witness the fluid grace and elegance of her movements. In the same way the sunlight and the sea breeze hurt him. It hurt him to witness her strength and the tilt of her chin and the dark glossiness of her hair.
Jo Anderson was, quite simply, stunning. Like the sunlight and the sea breeze. There was something just as elemental about her, and it made him not want to mess with her, but he had to get her to stop. And that meant messing with her.
With his heart thumping, he forced himself across the veranda until he stood fully in the sun. His face started to burn. The burning wasn’t real, but being outside made him feel exposed and vulnerable. He forced himself down the steps.
‘Jo, please don’t leave.’
She stopped at his use of her first name.
Say something that will make her lower her cases to the ground.
His heart hammered and his mouth dried as the breeze seared across his skin. It took all his strength not to flinch as the sun warmed his face. He dragged a breath of air into his lungs—fresh sea air—and it provided him with the answer he needed.
‘I’m sorry.’
He sent up a prayer of thanks when she lowered her cases and turned. ‘Are you really? I suspect you’re merely sorry someone’s called you on whatever game it is you’ve been playing.’
Game? Game! He closed his eyes and reined in his temper. He couldn’t afford to alienate her further.
‘Please don’t take tales back to Russ that will cause him worry. He...he needs... He doesn’t need the stress.’
She stared at him. She had eyes the colour of sage. He briefly wondered if sage was the elusive ingredient he’d been searching for all morning, before shaking the thought away.
Jo tilted her chin and narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t take anyone’s wellbeing or health for granted, Mac. Not any more. And—’
‘This is my life we’re talking about,’ he cut in. ‘Don’t I get any say in the matter?’
‘I’d treat you like an adult if you’d been acting like one.’
‘You can’t make that judgement based on five minutes’ acquaintance. I’ve been having a very bad day.’ He widened his stance. ‘What do I need to do to convince you that I am, in fact, neither depressed nor suicidal?’
He would not let her go worrying Russ with this. He would not be responsible for physically harming yet another person.
She folded her arms and stuck out a hip—a rather lush, curvaceous hip—and a pulse started up deep inside him.
‘What do you need to do to convince me? Oh, Mac, that’s going to take some doing.’
Her voice washed over him like warm honey. It was a warmth that didn’t sting.
For no reason at all his pulse kicked up a notch. He envied her vigour and conviction. She stalked up to him to peer into his face. To try to read his motives, he suspected. She was only an inch or two shorter than him, and she smelt like freshly baked bread. His mouth watered.
Then he recalled the look in her eyes when she’d recovered from her first sight of him and he angled the left side of his face away from her. Her horror hadn’t dissolved into pity—which was something, he supposed. It had been scorn. Her charge of selfishness had cut through to his very marrow, slicing through the hard shell of his guilt and anger.
‘Stay for a week,’ he found himself pleading.
His mouth twisted. Once upon a time he’d been able to wrap any woman around his little finger. He’d flash a slow smile or a cheeky grin and don the charm. He suspected that wouldn’t work on this woman. Not now. And not back then, when he’d still been pretty, either.
Mind you, it seemed he’d lost his charm at about the same time he’d lost his looks. Now he looked like a monster.
It doesn’t mean you have to act like one, though.
Her low laugh drizzled over him like the syrup for his Greek lemon cake.
‘I believe you’re serious...’
Yeah? Well, at the very least it’d buy Russ another week of rest and—
What the hell? This woman didn’t know him from Adam. She had no idea what he was capable of. He pulled himself upright—fully upright—and the stretch felt good.
‘Name your price.’
He wasn’t sure if it was more scorn or humour that flitted through her eyes. She straightened too, but he still had a good two inches on her. She could try and push him around all she wanted. He—
He grimaced. Yeah, well, if he didn’t want her worrying Russ she could push him around. Whoever happened to be bigger in this particular scenario didn’t make a scrap of difference.
He thrust out his chin. Still, he was bigger.
‘Name my price?’
He swallowed. She had a voice made for radio—a kind of solid-gold croon that would soothe any angry beast.
‘Well, for a start I’d want to see you exercising daily.’
It took a moment for the import of her words rather than their sound to reach him.
Risk being seen in public? No! He—
‘During daylight hours,’ she continued remorselessly. ‘You need vitamin D and to lose that awful pallor.’
‘You do know I’ve been ill, don’t you?’ he demanded. ‘That I’ve been in hospital?’
‘You haven’t been in hospital for months. Do you have any idea how much you’ve let yourself go? You used to have a strong, lean body and lovely broad shoulders.’
Which were still broader than hers. Though he didn’t point that out.
‘And you used to move with a lanky, easy saunter. Now...? Now you look about fifty.’
He glared. He was only forty.
‘And not a good fifty either. You look as if I could snap you in half.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to try that.’
She blinked and something chased itself across her face, as if she’d suddenly realised he was a man—a living, breathing man—rather than a job or a problem she had to solve.
Not that it meant she fancied him or anything stupid like that. How could anyone fancy him now? But...
For the first time since the fire he suddenly felt like a living, breathing man.
‘If you want me to change my mind about you, Mac, I want to see you walk down to the beach and back every day. It’s all your own property, so you don’t need to be worried about bumping into strangers if you’re that jealous of your privacy.’
‘The beach is public land.’ He had neighbours who walked on it every day.
‘I didn’t say you had to walk along it—just down to it.’
‘The land that adjoins my property to the north—’ he gestured to the left ‘—is all national park.’ There’d be the occasional hiker.
‘So walk along that side of your land, then.’ She gestured to the right and then folded her arms. ‘I’m simply answering your question. If you find daily exercise too difficult, then I’ve probably made my point.’
He clenched his jaw, breathed in for the count of five and then unclenched it to ask, ‘What else?’
‘I’d like you to separate your work and sleep areas. A defined routine to your day will help me believe you have a handle on things. Hence a workspace that’s separate from your bedroom.’
He glared at her. ‘Fine—whatever. And...?’
‘I’d also want you to give up alcohol. Or at least drinking bourbon in your room on your own.’
She’d seen the bottle. Damn!
‘Finally, I’d want you to take your evening meal in the dining room with me.’
So she could keep an eye on him—assess his mental state. He could feel his nostrils flare as he dragged in a breath. He was tempted to tell her to go to hell, except...
Except he might have given up caring about himself, but he hadn’t given up caring about Russ. His brother might be eleven and a half years older than Mac, but they’d always been close. Russ had always looked out for him. The least Mac could do now was look out for Russ in whatever limited capacity he could. With Russ’s health so tenuous Mac couldn’t risk adding to his stress levels.
Jo’s phone rang. She pulled it from the back pocket of her jeans. He stared at that hip and something stirred inside him. And then desire hit him—hot and hard. He blinked. He turned away to hide the evidence, adjusting his jeans as he pretended an interest in the horizon.
What on earth...? He liked his women slim and compact, polished and poised. Jo Anderson might be poised, but as for the rest of it...
He dragged a hand back through his hair. There was no denying, though, that his body reacted to her like a bee to honey. He swallowed. It was probably to be expected, right? He’d been cooped up here away from all human contact for four months. This was just a natural male reaction to the female form.
‘I don’t know, Russ.’
That snapped him back.
‘Yeah...’ She flicked a glance in his direction. ‘I’ve seen him.’
Mac winced at her tone.
‘You have yourself a deal.’ He pitched his words low, so they wouldn’t carry down the phone to Russ, but they still came out savage. He couldn’t help it. He held up one finger. ‘Give me one week.’
‘Hmm... Well, he’s looking a little peaky—as if he’s had the flu or a tummy bug.’
He seized her free hand. Startled sage eyes met his. ‘Please,’ he whispered.
The softness and warmth of her hand seeped into him and almost made him groan, and then her hand tightened about his and his mouth went dry in a millisecond.
When she shook herself free of him a moment later he let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.
‘I expect it’s nothing that a bit of rest, gentle exercise, home-cooked food and sun won’t put to rights in a week or two.’
He closed his eyes and gave thanks.
‘Nah, I promise. I won’t take any risks. I’ll call a doctor in if he hasn’t picked up in a few days. Here—you want to talk to him?’
And before Mac could shake his head and back away he found the phone thrust out to him.
He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and took it. ‘Hey, Russ, how you doing?’
‘Better than you, by the sounds of it. Though it explains why you haven’t answered my last two calls.’
He winced. ‘It’s all I’ve been able to do to keep up with my email.’ I’m sorry, bro. He hadn’t been good for anyone. Least of all his brother.
‘Well, you listen to Jo, okay? She’s got a good head on her shoulders.’
He glanced at said head and noticed how the wavy dark hair gleamed in the sun, and how cute little freckles sprinkled a path across the bridge of her nose. She had a rather cute nose. She cocked an eyebrow and he cleared his throat.
‘Will do,’ he forced himself to say.
‘Good. I want you in the best of health when I come to visit.’
He choked back a cough. Russ was coming to visit?
‘Give my love to Jo.’
With that, Russ hung up. Mac stared at Jo. ‘When is he coming to visit?’
She shrugged and plucked her phone from his fingers.
‘Why is he coming?’
‘Oh, that one’s easy. Because he loves you. He wants to see you before he goes under the knife.’ She met his gaze. ‘In case he doesn’t wake up after the operation.’
‘That’s crazy.’
‘Is it?’
‘Russ is going to be just fine!’ His brother didn’t need to exert himself in any fashion until he was a hundred per cent fit again.
She stared at him for a long moment. ‘Are you familiar with the Banjo Paterson poem “The Man From Snowy River”?’
Her question threw him. ‘Sure.’
‘Can you remember what comes after the first couple of lines? “There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around that the colt from old Regret had got away...”.’
‘“And had joined the wild bush horses—he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray”,’ he recited. His class had memorised that in the third grade.
‘Wild... Worth... Fray...’ she murmured in that honeyed liquid sunshine voice of hers.
‘Why?’
She shook herself. ‘No reason. Just an earworm.’
She seized her suitcases and strode back towards the house with them, and he couldn’t help feeling his fate had just been sealed by a poem.
And then it hit him.
Honey! The ingredient he’d been searching for was honey.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_8934e604-3133-58b3-a952-f630d3d46eb6)
JO TOOK A couple of deep breaths before spooning spaghetti and meatballs onto two plates. If Mac said something cutting about her efforts in the kitchen she’d—
She’d dump the contents of his plate in his lap?
She let out a slow breath. It was a nice fantasy, but she wouldn’t. She’d just act calm and unconcerned, as she always did, and pretend the slings and arrows didn’t touch her.
Seizing the plates, she strode into the dining room. She set one in front of Mac and the other at her place opposite. He didn’t so much as glance at the food, but he did glare at her. Was he going to spend the entire week sulking?
What fun.
She stared back, refusing to let him cow her. She’d expected the shouting and the outrage. After all, he wasn’t known as ‘Mad Mac’—television’s most notorious and demanding celebrity chef—for nothing. The tabloids had gone to town on him after the accident, claiming it would never have happened if ‘Mad Mac’ hadn’t been so intimidating.
She bit back a sigh. It was all nonsense, of course. She’d had the inside scoop on Mac from Russ. She knew all of that onscreen TV shouting had been a front—a ploy to send the ratings skyrocketing. It had worked too. So it hadn’t surprised her that he’d donned that persona when she’d stormed in on him earlier. But the sulking threw her.
‘What?’ he bit out when she continued to stare.
She shook herself. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’ She picked up her cutlery and sliced into a meatball.
‘You’re religious?’
‘No.’ The prayer had just seemed a convenient way to handle an awkward silence. ‘I mean, I do believe in something bigger than us—whatever that may be.’
Mac didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move to pick up his cutlery.
She forged on. ‘One of the guys on the mineral exploration camps was a Christian and we all got into the habit of saying Grace. It’s nice. It doesn’t hurt to remember the things we should be grateful for.’
His frown deepened to a scowl. ‘You really think that’s going to work? You really think you can make my life seem okay just by—?’
She slammed her knife and fork down. ‘Not everything is about you, Mac.’ She forced her eyes wide. ‘Some of it might even be about me.’ Couldn’t he at least look at his food? He needn’t think it would taste any better cold. ‘Your attitude sucks. You know that? Frankly, I don’t care if you’ve decided to self-destruct or not, but you can darn well wait until after Russ has recovered from his bypass surgery to do it.’
‘You’re not exactly polite company, are you?’
‘Neither are you. Besides, I refuse to put any effort into being good company for as long as you sulk. I’m not your mother. It’s not my job to cajole you into a better temper.’
His jaw dropped.
And he still hadn’t touched his food.
‘Eat something, Mac. If we’re busy eating we can abandon any pretence at small talk.’
A laugh choked out of him and just for a moment it transformed him. Oh, the burn scars on the left side of his face and neck were still as angry and livid as ever, but his mouth hooked up and his eyes momentarily brightened and he held his head at an angle she remembered from his television show.
It was why she was still here. Earlier this afternoon he’d fired up—not with humour, but with intensity and passion. He’d become the man she’d recognised from the TV, but also from Russ’s descriptions. That was a man she could work with.
Finally he did as she bade and forked a small mouthful of meatball and sauce into his mouth. When he didn’t gag, a knot of tension eased out of her.
‘This isn’t bad.’ He ate some more and frowned. ‘In fact, it’s pretty good.’
Yeah, right. He was just trying to butter her up, frightened of what she might tell Russ.
‘Actually, it’s very good—considering the state of the pantry.’
She almost believed him. Almost. ‘I’ll need to shop for groceries tomorrow. I understand we’re halfway between Forster and Taree here. Any suggestions for where I should go?’
‘No.’
When he didn’t add anything she shook her head and set to eating. It had been a long day and she was tired and hungry. She halted with half a meatball practically in her mouth when she realised he’d stopped eating and was staring at her.
‘What?’
‘I wasn’t being rude. It’s just that I haven’t been to either town. I was getting groceries delivered from a supermarket in Forster.’
‘Was?’
He scowled. ‘The delivery man couldn’t follow instructions.’
Ah. Said delivery man had probably encroached on Mac’s precious privacy. ‘Right. Well, I’ll try my luck in Forster, then.’ She’d seen signposts for the town before turning off to Mac’s property.
He got back to work on the plate in front of him with... She blinked. With gusto? Heat spread through her stomach. Oh, don’t be ridiculous! He’d had his own TV show. He was a consummate actor. But the heat didn’t dissipate.
She pulled in a breath. ‘I’m hoping Russ warned you that I’m not much of a cook.’
He froze. Very slowly he lowered his cutlery. ‘Russ said you were a good plain cook. On this evening’s evidence I’d agree with him.’ His face turned opaque. ‘You’re feeling intimidated cooking for a...?’
‘World-renowned chef?’ she finished for him. ‘Yes, a little. I just want you to keep your expectations within that realm of plain, please.’
She bit back a sigh. Plain—what a boring word. Beauty is as beauty does. The old adage sounded through her mind. Yeah, yeah, whatever.
‘I promise not to criticise your cooking. I will simply be...’ he grimaced ‘...grateful for whatever you serve up. You don’t need to worry that I’ll be secretly judging your technique.’
‘I expect there’d be nothing secret about it. I think you’d be more than happy to share your opinions on the matter.’
His lips twitched.
‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’ she rushed on, not wanting to dwell on those lips for too long.
He shook his head.
‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to serve?’
He shook his head again.
There was something else she’d meant to ask him... Oh, that’s right. ‘You have a garage...’
They both reached for the plate of garlic bread at the same time. He waited for her to take a slice first. He had nice hands. She remembered admiring them when she’d watched him on TV. Lean, long-fingered hands that looked strong and—
‘The garage?’
She shook herself. ‘Would there be room for me to park my car in there? I expect this sea air is pretty tough on a car’s bodywork.’
‘Feel free.’
‘Thank you.’
They both crunched garlic bread. He watched her from the corner of his eye. She chewed and swallowed, wondering what he made of her. She sure as heck wasn’t like the women he was forever being photographed with in the papers. For starters she was as tall as a lot of men, and more athletic than most.
Not Mac, though. Even in his current out-of-form condition he was still taller and broader than her—though she might give him a run for his money in an arm wrestle at the moment.
Her stomach tightened. He was probably wondering what god he’d cheesed off to have a woman like her landing on his doorstep. Mac was a golden boy. Beautiful. And she was the opposite. Not that that had anything to do with anything. What he thought of her physically made no difference whatsoever.
Except, of course, it did. It always mattered.
‘You’ve shown a lot of concern for Russ.’
Her head came up. ‘Yes?’
He scowled at her. ‘Are you in love with him? He’s too old for you, you know.’
It surprised her so much she laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ She swept her garlic bread through the leftover sauce on her plate.
His frown deepened. ‘No.’
‘I love your brother as a friend, but I’m not in love with him. Lord, what a nightmare that would be.’ She sat back and wiped her fingers on a serviette.
‘Why?’
‘I’m not a masochist. You and your brother have similar tastes in women. You both date petite, perfectly made-up blondes who wear killer heels and flirty dresses.’ She hadn’t packed a dress. She didn’t even own a pair of heels.
He pushed his plate away, his face darkening. ‘How the hell do you know what type I like?’ He turned sideways in his chair to cross his legs. It hid his scarring from her view.
‘It’s true I’m basing my assumption on who you’ve been snapped with in the tabloids and what Russ has told me.’
‘You make us sound shallow.’
If the shoe fits...
‘But I can assure you that the women you just described wouldn’t look twice at me now.’
‘Only if they were superficial.’
His head jerked up.
‘And beauty and superficiality don’t necessarily go hand in hand.’
No more than plain and stupid, or plain and thick-skinned.
He opened his mouth, but she continued on over the top of him. ‘Anyway, you’re not going to get any sympathy from me on that. I’ve never been what people consider beautiful. I’ve learned to value other things. You think people will no longer find you beautiful—
‘I know they won’t!’
He was wrong, but... ‘So welcome to the club.’
His jaw dropped.
‘It’s not the end of the world, you know?’
He stared at her for a long moment and then leaned across the table. ‘What the hell are you really doing here, Jo Anderson?’
She stared back at him, and inside she started to weep—because she wanted to ask this man to teach her to cook and he was so damaged and angry that she knew he would toss her request on the rubbish heap and not give it so much as the time of day.
Something in his eyes gentled. ‘Jo?’
Now wasn’t the time to raise the subject. It was becoming abundantly clear that there might never be a good time.
She waved a hand in the air. ‘The answer is twofold.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘I’m here to make sure you don’t undo all the hard work I’ve put into Russ.’
He sat back. ‘Hard work?’
She should rise and clear away their plates, clean the kitchen, but he deserved some answers. ‘Do you know how hard, how physically demanding, it is to perform CPR for five straight minutes?’ Which was what she’d done for Russ.
He shook his head, his eyes darkening.
‘It’s really hard. And all the while your mind is screaming in panic and making deals with the universe.’
‘Deals?’
‘Please let Russ live and I’ll never say another mean word about anyone ever again. Please let Russ live and I promise to be a better granddaughter and great-niece. Please let Russ live and I’ll do whatever you ask, will face my worst fears... Blah, blah, blah.’ She pushed her hair back off her face. ‘You know—the usual promises that are nearly impossible to keep.’ She stared down at her glass of water. ‘It was the longest five minutes of my life.’
‘But Russ did live. You did save his life. It’s an extraordinary thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘And now you want to make sure that I don’t harm his recovery?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Which is why you’re here—to check up on me so you can ease Russ’s mind?’
‘He was going to come himself, and that didn’t seem wise.’
Mac turned grey.
‘But you don’t have it quite right. Russ is doing me a favour, organising this job for me.’
He remained silent, not pressing her, and she was grateful for that.
‘You see, Russ’s heart attack and my fear that he was going to die brought me face to face with my own mortality.’
He flinched and she bit back a curse. What did she know about mortality compared to this man? She reached across to clasp his hand in a sign of automatic sympathy, but he froze. A bad taste rose in her mouth and she pulled her hand back into her lap. Her heart pounded. He wouldn’t welcome her touch. Of course he wouldn’t.
‘I expect you know what I’m talking about.’
Mac’s accident had left him with serious burns, but it had left a young apprentice fighting for his life. She remembered Russ’s relief when the young man had finally been taken off the critical list.
‘What I’m trying to say is that it’s made me reassess my life. It’s forced me to admit I wasn’t very happy, that I didn’t really like my job. I don’t want to spend the next twenty years feeling like that.’
She blew out a breath.
‘So when Russ found out you needed a housekeeper and mentioned it to me I jumped at the chance. It’ll give me two or three months to come up with a game plan.’
* * *
Mac stared at her. ‘You’re changing careers?’
‘Uh-huh.’ She looked a bit green.
‘To do what?’
She turned greener. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
He knew that feeling.
Mac didn’t want to be touched by her story—he didn’t want to be touched by anything—but he was. Maybe it was the sheer simplicity of the telling, the lack of fanfare. Or maybe it was because he understood that sense of dissatisfaction she described. He’d stalled out here in his isolation and his self-pity while she was determined to surge forward.
Maybe if he watched her he’d learn—
He cut that thought off. He didn’t deserve the chance to move forward. He’d ruined a man’s life. He deserved to spend the rest of his life making amends.
But not at the expense of other people. Like Russ. Or Jo.
‘You’re wrong, you know?’
She glanced up. ‘About...?’
‘You seem to think you’re plain—invisible, even.’ Not beautiful.
‘Invisible?’ She snorted. ‘I’m six feet tall with a build some charitably call generous. Invisible is the one thing I’m not.’
‘Generous’ was the perfect word to describe her. She had glorious curves in all the right places. A fact that his male hormones acknowledged and appreciated even while his brain told him to leave that well enough alone.
He leaned back, careful to keep the good side of his face to her. ‘You’re a very striking woman.’ Don’t drool. ‘So what if you’re tall? You’re in proportion.’ She looked strong, athletic and full of life. ‘You have lovely eyes, your hair is shiny, and you have skin that most women would kill for. You may not fit in with conventional magazine cover ideals of beauty, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t beautiful. Stop selling yourself short. I can assure you that you’re not plain.’
She gaped at him. It made him scowl and shuffle back in his seat. ‘Well, you’re not.’
She snapped her mouth shut. She wiped her hands down the front of her shirt, which only proved to him how truly womanly she happened to be. The colour in her cheeks deepened as if she’d read that thought in his face.
‘There’s another reason I’m here,’ she blurted out.
The hurried confession and the way her words tripped over themselves, the fact that she looked cute when flustered, all conspired to make him want to grin. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled, let alone grinned. He resisted the urge now too. In the end, grinning... Well, it would just make things harder, in the same way the sunlight and the sea breeze did.
But he did take pity on her. ‘Another reason?’ he prompted.
She moistened her lips. Like the rest of her they were generous, and full of promise.
‘Mac, one of the reasons I came out here was to ask if you would teach me to cook.’ She grimaced. ‘Well, if we’re being completely accurate, if you’d teach me to make a macaron tower.’
His every muscle froze. His nerve-endings started to scream. For a moment all he could see in his mind was fire—all red and heat. A lump the size of a saucepan wedged in his throat. It took three goes to swallow it.
‘No.’ The word croaked out of him.
He closed his eyes to force air into protesting lungs and then opened them again, his skin growing slick with perspiration.
‘No.’ The single word came out cold and clear. ‘That’s out of the question. I don’t cook any more.’
‘But—’
‘Ever.’ He pinned her with his gaze and knew it must be pitiless when she shivered. ‘It’s absolutely out of the question.’
He rose.
‘Now if you don’t mind. I’m going to do a bit of work before I retire for the night. I’ll move my sleeping quarters to the end bedroom tomorrow.’
She seemed to gather herself. ‘I’ll clean it first thing.’
That reminded him that she meant to do a grocery shop tomorrow too. ‘There’s housekeeping money in the tin on the mantel in the kitchen.’
‘Right.’
He hated the way she surveyed him. Turning his back, he left, forcing knees that trembled to carry him up the stairs and into his room. He lowered himself to the chair at his desk and dropped his head to his hands, did what he could to quieten the scream stretching through his brain.
Teach Jo to cook?
Impossible.
His chest pounded in time with his temples. Blood surged in his ears, deafening him. He didn’t know how long it took for the pounding to slow, for his chest to unclench, and for his breathing to regain a more natural rhythm. It felt like a lifetime.
Eventually he lifted his head. He couldn’t teach her to cook. She’d saved his brother’s life and he owed her, but he couldn’t teach her to cook.
He rose and went to the double glass doors. With the curtains pushed back they stood open to the moonlight. Below, starlight dappled navy water. He couldn’t teach her to cook, but he could do everything else she’d asked of him. He could ensure that Russ didn’t have one thing to worry about on Mac’s account.
One week of halfway human behaviour? He could manage that.
He thought back to the way he’d just left the dining room and dragged a hand through his hair. She must think him a madman. Hauling in a breath, he rested his forehead against cool glass. He might not be able to help her on the cooking front, but could he help her in her search for a new vocation?
The sooner she found a new direction the sooner she’d go, leaving him in peace again. A low, savage laugh scraped from his throat. He would never find peace. He didn’t deserve it. But he could have her gone. He’d settle for that.
* * *
Mac had been awake for over an hour before he heard Jo’s firm tread on the stairs. She moved past his door and on to the bedroom at the end. No doubt to clean it, as she’d promised. The need for caffeine pounded through him. So far he’d resisted it—not ready to face Jo yet.
He blamed the light pouring in at the windows. It had disorientated him.
Liar. It wasn’t the light but a particular woman he found disorientating.
He 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 chest cramped. He reached out an unsteady hand and lowered himself into a chair at the table. He had to remember what was important. He wanted to do all he could to set Russ’s mind at rest, but he couldn’t lose sight of what was important—and that was paying off his debts.
A warm hand on his shoulder brought him back to himself. ‘Mac, are you okay?’
He nodded.
‘Don’t lie to me. Do you need a doctor?’
‘No.’
‘Russell told me you were physically recovered.’
‘I am.’ He pulled in a breath. ‘It’s just that I don’t like talking about food or cooking.’
Realisation dawned in those sage-green eyes of hers. ‘Because it reminds you of the accident?’
It reminded him of all he’d had. And all he’d lost.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_f52719f7-47d1-5887-8252-25ab0c92aad9)
MAC TENSED BENEATH her touch and Jo snatched her hand back, suddenly and searingly aware that while Mac wasn’t in peak physical condition he was still a man. He still had broader shoulders than most men she knew, and beneath the thin cotton of his sweater his body pulsed hot and vibrant.
But at this moment he looked so bowed and defeated she wanted to wrap her arms around him and tell him it would all be okay, that it would work itself out.
She grimaced. She could just imagine the way he’d flinch from her if she did. Besides, she didn’t know if it would be all right. She didn’t know if it would work itself out or not.
She moved away to the other side of the kitchen. ‘I can make you one promise, Mac.’
He glanced up.
‘I promise to never feed you fish fingers.’
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. But something inside him unhitched a fraction and his colour started to return. ‘I suppose I should give thanks for small mercies.’
‘Absolutely. Have you had lunch yet?’
He shook his head.
She seized an apple from the newly replenished fruit bowl and tossed it to him.
This time she’d have sworn he’d laugh, but he didn’t.
‘I can see I’m going to get nothing but the very best care while you’re here.’
‘Top-notch,’ she agreed. She grabbed her car keys from the bench. ‘I’m going to put The Beast in the garage.’
Mac didn’t say anything. He just bit into his apple.
The moment she was out of sight Jo’s shoulders sagged. If Mac looked like that—so sick and grey and full of despair—just at the thought of the accident, at the thought of cooking...
She had no hope of getting him to give her cooking lessons. None at all. She twisted her fingers together. It was obvious now that it had been insensitive and unkind to have asked.
Why do you never think, Jo?
With a sigh, she started up her car and drove it around to the garage. It didn’t solve her problem. She needed to make a macaron tower and she had just over two months to learn how to do it.
She pushed her shoulders back. Fine. She had a whole two months. She’d just teach herself. There’d be recipes online, and videos. What else was she going to do out here? Keeping house and cooking dinner would take—what?—three or four hours a day tops? Probably less once she had the house in order.
A macaron tower? How hard could it be?
‘Don’t say that,’ she murmured, leaping out of her car to lift the roller door to one of the garage’s two bays. The bay she’d chosen stood empty. Out of curiosity she lifted the second door too.
She had a French cookbook Great-Aunt Edith had given her. Maybe there was something in there—
Her thoughts slammed to a halt. She stood there, hands still attached to the roller door, and gaped at the vision of loveliness that had appeared in front of her.
Eventually she lowered her hands, wiped them down the sides of her jeans. Oh. My. Word.
Oh.
Dear.
Lord.
The sky-blue classic eighties sports car was her very own fantasy car brought to life and it was all she could do to not drop to her knees and kiss it.
‘Oh, my God, you are the most beautiful car ever,’ she whispered, daring to trail a finger across the bodywork as she completed a full circle around it, admiring the front curves, the fat spoiler, its gloss, its clean lines and its shape. What wouldn’t she do to test drive this car?
What wouldn’t she do just to sit in one!
She tried the driver’s door. Locked.
With a jump, she spun around and closed the garage door. One needed to protect a piece of perfection like this from damaging elements. She parked The Beast in the bay beside the sleek machine.
Beauty and The Beast.
She cast one more longing look at Mac’s beautiful car before closing the second roller door and racing into the house. Mac was still in the kitchen—eating a sandwich now, rather than the apple.
He glanced up when she clattered in. ‘I take it I’m allowed to help myself to the provisions?’
‘You have my dream car in your garage!’
‘Is that a yes?’
How could he be so cool? She gaped at him and then mentally kicked herself. She spread her arms wide. ‘Of course! You can help yourself to anything.’
He stared at her and his eyes darkened. He licked his lips and she had a sudden feeling he wasn’t thinking about food, but an altogether different primal need. She pulled her arms back to her sides, heat flooding her veins. Don’t be ridiculous. Men like Mac didn’t find women like her attractive.
Mac turned away from her on his chair as if he’d just come to the same conclusion. She dragged a hand back through her hair to rub her nape.
‘You said something about my car?’
She swallowed back the request that he let her drive it—just once. She swallowed back asking him if he’d just let her sit in it. For all she knew that might be as insensitive as asking him to teach her to cook.
‘I... It’s beautiful.’
He glanced at her, raised an eyebrow, and she shrugged, unsure what to say, unsure what constituted a safe topic—because she never wanted to witness that look of defeat and despair on his face again. So she shrugged again and filled the jug. She measured out tea leaves.
‘Feel free to take it for a spin any time you want.’
The jug wobbled precariously as she poured boiling water into the teapot.
Mac leapt up. ‘Don’t burn yourself!’
She concentrated on setting the jug back in its place. ‘I didn’t spill a drop.’ Her heart thump-thumped. ‘I’m fine.’ She set the teapot and two mugs onto the table. ‘But I gotta tell you, Mac, you shouldn’t offer a girl her heart’s desire while she’s pouring out boiling water—and for future reference probably not while she’s wielding sharp implements either.’
She smiled as she said it. Mac didn’t smile back. He just stared at the jug with haunted eyes, the pulse in his throat pounding.
She sat down as if nothing in the world was amiss. ‘Would you truly let me take your car out for a drive?’
He sat too. He wiped a hand down his face before lifting one negligent shoulder. ‘Sure.’ But he reached out to pour the tea before she could. ‘It could use a run. I turn it over a couple of times a week, but I don’t take it out.’
She gaped at him. ‘You’d let me drive it? Just like that?’
That same slow lift of his shoulder. ‘Why not?’
It took an effort of will to drag her gaze from that broad sweep of corded muscle. ‘I...uh... What if I pranged it?’
‘The insurance would cover it. Jo, it’s just a car.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s...’ She reached out to try and pluck the appropriate description from the air. ‘It’s a gem, a jewel—a thing of beauty. It’s—’
‘Just a car.’
‘A piece of precision German engineering.’
She almost asked how he could not want to drive it, but choked the question back at the last moment. That would be tactless. He’d been in the most dreadful accident, had suffered a long and painful recovery, and would bear the scars for the rest of his life. He’d been hounded by the media. She could see how fast cars might have lost their appeal.
So why hadn’t he sold it?
She stared at him and pursed her lips. Maybe Mac hadn’t given up on life as completely as he thought.
He glared. ‘What?’
‘You wouldn’t consider selling it, would you?’
He blinked. ‘Could you afford it?’
‘I’ve been working in the Outback for the last eight years, making decent money but having very little to spend it on.’
He scratched a hand through his hair. ‘But you’re not earning a decent wage now.’
She was earning enough to cover her needs.
He jabbed a finger at her. ‘And you may, in fact, be training for a new job shortly.’
‘I suppose it wouldn’t be the most practical of moves.’
He glared. ‘You can say that again.’
He didn’t want to sell it! She bit back a grin. There was still some life in Mac after all.
He settled back in his seat with a harrumph. ‘But the offer stands. You can take it for a spin any time you want.’
‘Lord, don’t say that,’ she groaned, ‘or your house will never get cleaned.’
He laughed. It made his eyes dance, it softened his lips, and Jo couldn’t drag her gaze away. ‘You...uh...’ She moistened her lips. ‘You wouldn’t want to come along for a spin?’
His face was immediately shuttered, closed, and she could have kicked herself. ‘Well, no, I guess not. You’re busy writing up your recipes and stuff.’
‘Speaking of which...’ He rose, evidently intent on getting back to work.
She surveyed his retreating back with a sinking heart. Well done, Jo.

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