Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set Read online

  ‘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?’

&nb
sp; 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

  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—