The Millionaire and the Maid

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?