by Meg Tilly
“Where’s my food?” he demanded indignantly.
“Your what?”
“You heard me.” He set his jaw, as if daring her to take a shot.
Okay. So, she was officially working for a paranoid madman. She exhaled slowly. “I didn’t steal your food. I cleaned your fridge, but the shelves were already empty. Perhaps your friends cleared out your fridge before they left.”
“I didn’t accuse you of stealing my food.” He shook his hands in the air as if he wished he could wrap them around her neck in frustration, a faint hint of color rising along the ridge of his chiseled cheekbone. “This is why I requested a male assistant. Aren’t so damned emotional. All I did is ask a civil question—”
“Civil? You banged on my door at”—she glanced at the clock on the stove—“eight twenty-four p.m.—”
“I didn’t accuse you of stealing anything,” he roared. “I said, ‘There’s no food in my fridge.’ ” He smacked one hand against the other for emphasis. “When we had our meeting, I specifically said I wanted ‘food in the fridge.’ And I came home to nada.”
“I hate to break it to you,” she replied calmly. “But if you want food in your fridge, you’ve got to leave cash with your gofer.” There was a time when the sound of a raised voice would have caused her to crumple, but the last few years had toughened her up. Sarah Rainsford would be a punching bag, emotional or otherwise, for no man ever again.
“Good God, woman.” He threw his hands in the air. “This is not some sophisticated ploy to rip you off. Buy the damn food, bring me the receipt, and I’ll reimburse you.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied. “That’s not possible. If you require me to purchase something, I’ll need you to pay for it up front.” Unfortunately, her stomach chose that moment to growl like a ravening beast.
His eyes narrowed. She made herself meet his gaze, stand tall, and not fidget.
“You’re broke.”
She felt her face flush, tried to push the feeling of shame back down deep into her gut, where the inner goblins resided. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, lady.” She opened her mouth to protest. “Can it. That East Coast hoi polloi accent won’t work with me. You’re dead broke.” He stated it as fact. “Makes total sense. Only reason a classy act like you would be willing to work for someone like me. Must be pretty hard up to accept a position, room and board in the home of a well-known hell-raiser.”
“Shut up.” Her voice snapped out like the crack of a whip.
Remarkably, he did.
They stared at each other in silence, the sound of the tree frogs deafening in the stillness.
“Besides,” she said, needing to break the silence and lessen the acute embarrassment she was feeling. “When exactly would I have had the time to accomplish this mystery grocery shop, let alone cook? Huh? I was on my hands and knees scrubbing your kitchen floor until fifteen minutes ago. You live like a pig.” Shit. She regretted the words the second they left her lips. Her breath caught in her chest as she waited for the axe to fall. Would he kick her out tonight? Or would he let her leave in the morning?
To her surprise, he didn’t bellow “You’re fired.” Just shrugged like he could care less. However, that tinge of color had returned to stain his cheekbones, the tips of his ears. “And yet here you are, ready and willing to live in the sty.” The words were harsh, but there was no heat in the delivery. Sarah could see in his dark eyes something that looked almost like regret. “Besides, nobody asked you to scrub my floors.”
“That’s what you said you wanted. A clean house, fresh sheets, et cetera, et cetera.”
“Good Lord, woman, use your brain. I didn’t hire you to scrub my toilets. You are to take shorthand and type when I need you to. In your downtime, I want you to organize my home, make it run smoothly. Hire a cleaner. Keep an eye on the gardeners. Make sure they’re doing whatever it is they’re supposed to do. Handle the details. So I’m not ashamed to entertain in my home. Have you looked at my pool? The damn water is green. It’s disgusting. Figure out why. Have somebody fix it.”
“Algae,” she murmured. Suddenly tired. So tired. Her parents had had a swimming pool at their beach home in the Hamptons. Sparkling blue water. That first summer after she and Kevin married, she’d joined her parents as she always did to escape the heat and humidity of New York. She used to like swimming. Until one summer’s day, her parents were attending the neighbor’s beach party, four houses down. Sarah had stayed back because Kevin was driving out from the city to spend the weekend. She had been doing laps in the pool and hadn’t heard his car arrive. He’d been pissed off she hadn’t greeted him properly, that was until he discovered a new game he enjoyed. He had shoved her under the water, pinned her there, and watched the show. Then he’d dragged her to the surface by her hair, only for a second before shoving her under again. Over and over, each time keeping her under for longer. Add to that Norman Rockwell memory, the impromptu “dip” in the freezing Pacific Ocean three weeks ago off Solace Island, when she’d had to smash the window and leap from her captor’s yacht. On the upside, she had deprived him of the exquisite pleasure of orchestrating her long, torturous death. Something she took great satisfaction in. However, two unpleasant aquatic memories seemed to have ruined any pleasure she could derive from large bodies of water. Even small ones were now an issue. Used to be there was nothing she liked better than a hot bath to wind up the day. No more. It was a shower or nothing.
“It’s what?”
For a second she couldn’t remember what they had been talking about. Oh yes. The pool. Green water. “Algae.” She leaned against the doorframe, hoping to get a grip on the sick, nauseous feeling that always arose when her mind touched on Kevin. “I’ll get someone on it tomorrow. But again, you’ll have to leave cash for me to pay them.”
He reached out, startling her. “It’s okay.” He released her elbow immediately, backed up slowly, hands up. “I was just steadying you. You got pale. You all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, tugging her mind away from the past, settling into the now. Her stupid stomach rumbled again. Louder this time.
“What have you eaten today?” His gaze was too intent, looking for clues, cracks past the mask to the person inside.
“None of your business.” Her throat felt constricted.
“Have you eaten today?” Acting like it was a casual question, but it didn’t fool her.
“Again.” Working to keep her expression calm. “None. Of your. Business.”
He took another step back. He was now leaning against the metal hand railings that encased the small landing outside her door. He nodded. Shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. Seemed deep in thought. She could hear a few coins jiggling. She used to have spare cash lying around in her previous life. A huge old-fashioned metal milk bucket by the fireplace that she’d picked up at an antique store back home had been full of her spare change. It always amazed her how fast it accumulated. What she wouldn’t give to have access to that milk bucket now.
“Well,” he said, voice brusque. “Since you messed up and failed to stock my fridge—”
She felt her hackles rise but kept her mouth shut. Pointless to argue. Would just prolong the time before he returned to his house and she could lie down again. “I am now forced to leave the comfort of my home and go out for dinner. At this late hour, it would be impossible to find a dinner companion. Since I can’t tolerate eating in a restaurant alone, you’ll have to come with me.”
He wanted her to what? “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s okay,” he said, with an annoying smirk. “I forgive you. A rookie mistake. Tomorrow, though, I’d like to return home to a full fridge.” Irritating man. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . I know. Gotta leave cash. My, you’re such a miserly sort. I expect you’ll be wanting me to pay your hourly rate
to accompany me to dinner?” He shook his head and rolled his eyes as if she was the one who suggested it.
“I said no such th—”
“Fine.” He threw up his hands. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Jones. Well, what are you waiting for? Go get your coat.”
“Coat?”
“Sweater, jacket, whatever it is you wear at night to keep the chill at bay—” His gaze jerked downward. “What the hell is that?”
Charlie poked his head around her legs to check things out.
“My cat.” Sarah had hoped to keep Charlie out of sight. “He’s really well trained.” He wasn’t. “Won’t claw the furniture or anything.” Except when he felt like it. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“I hate cats.”
“I’ll keep him in the apartment. You’ll never know he’s here.”
“We’ll discuss it over dinner. Let’s go. Lock up the beast. I’m starving.”
11
Mick shut his menu and leaned back, slung his arms along the back of the leather-clad corner booth at The Palm. He glanced at Rachel, who was sitting stiffly opposite him. She hadn’t said a word on the ride over. Hadn’t cracked open a menu either. Stubborn. He crooked his fingers, and the waiter approached the table.
“Yes, Mr. Talford.” The waiter’s pad and pen were at the ready. “You’ve made a decision?” The waiter turned to Rachel. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll just have some water, please. I’m not hun—”
“Like hell you will. I’m not about to stuff my face with you looking on.” He glanced at the waiter’s name tag. “Tom, bring us a couple of four-pound lobsters, some of that three-cheese potatoes—”
“I can’t eat a . . .” Rachel’s eyes looked huge in her face.
“You don’t like lobster?”
“Of course I do. Who doesn’t? It’s just—four pounds? Seriously?”
“They only do big at this restaurant. If you can’t finish your food, we’ll bring it home. Cold lobster makes a good snack. Actually, make ’em five pounders. I’m ravenous. Hey.” Mick rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I got a great idea. Let’s do surf and turf. Bring us a rib eye, too. We can split it. How do you like it cooked? Medium work for you?” She just stared at him as if he’d lost his mind, which pleased him enormously. “Great. Medium it is. And a couple of your fancy sauces, too, green peppercorn, béarnaise, et cetera.”
“Mick. Seriously—”
“Fine.” Mick sighed like they were an old married couple and she was nagging him. “We’ll get some vegetables. Give us some creamed spinach, asparagus, and one of your chop-chop salads.” He spread his arms wide. “Anything else, my dear?”
“I’m not ‘your dear’—or your anything else, for that matter.”
“Wow. Impressive,” Mick said. “Very difficult to speak through clenched teeth, but you managed admirably. And I hate to niggle about pesky little details, but you are my personal assistant.”
“Insufferable,” Rachel muttered, but he could see the hint of a reluctant smile lurking behind the clamped-together lips.
“Cocktails? Wine?” the waiter cut in smoothly.
“Yeah.” Mick snapped his fingers. “Thanks, Tom. Almost forgot. We’ll have a bottle of Amarone. Unless my companion would prefer white, or a cocktail?”
“I don’t drink alcohol, but thank you for the offer,” she said. “Mineral water with a little lime would be great.”
“Do you still want the bottle of Amarone, sir?” the waiter asked.
“Nah. Do you sell it by the glass?”
“Of course, Mr. Talford. I’ll put your order in and get your drinks right away.”
The waiter left. Mick watched Rachel glide her fingers lightly over the silverware, as if memorizing the pattern. Then she moved her utensils to their appropriate spots, carefully unfolded her napkin and placed it on her lap. There was a feeling of sacred ritual to her movements, a dreaminess that caused a softening on her face, a slight inner smile curving the corners of her lips.
“Do you abstain for religious reasons?”
“Pardon?”
“You said you don’t drink. That a God thing?”
“No.” The smile disappeared, leaving only the constant tinge of sadness in her eyes.
He should leave it be. “You ever tasted an alcoholic beverage?” So much for changing the subject. It was his damned curiosity—his strength and his kryptonite. “Or do you just reject the concept out of hand?”
“Of course not.” She looked at him, her expression inscrutable. Then she lifted her chin, her steady gaze unapologetic. “I’ve found alcohol doesn’t agree with me. I don’t like the taste.”
“Are you an alcoholic?”
“No.” She smoothed the napkin in her lap. “I just don’t like the way booze makes me feel.”
“You don’t like being out of control.”
“Who does?” She lifted a shoulder nonchalantly, but he could sense something beyond what she was saying.
“I do,” he replied. “Sometimes it’s fun to let loose, go wild, swing from the rafters, whether it be booze, hot sex, fast cars. I also find at the end of the day a drink or two can help soften the edges, make the world a more palatable place.”
“And I’ve found I need the sharp edges clearly visible and delineated so I can see where they are. I’d prefer not to cut myself on them and bleed out on the floor.” She said it like a joke, but he could feel the truth shimmering behind the statement.
“Ah . . .” he murmured. “How old were you when you quit?”
“Twenty.”
“Not even legal.”
“Legal enough.” A flicker of something flitted across her face, and then it was gone. “And I hate to break it to you, but from the copious amounts of empty bottles that were scattered around your house, I’d say you indulge in more than a drink or two.”
If she was expecting him to be offended, she was sorely mistaken, because he was enjoying the hell out of her tart rejoinders. Made him feel seen, human, with foibles and flaws, instead of this God-like persona that his box office successes had created. He didn’t know why people seemed to flock to his movies when there were so many films out there that were better crafted, more deserving. Mick had spent the last nine years on a wild roller-coaster ride that only seemed to climb higher and higher. Felt as if he couldn’t breathe sometimes, his breath held shallow in his chest, because he knew the safety bar was defective.
“It wasn’t just me who drank all of that. As you can probably ascertain, I’ve got a lot of . . . friends.” The devil in him made him lean on the word slightly, and sure enough, color rose in her face. Never mind that he was lying. He didn’t have a lot of friends. Not true ones. Hangers-on and sycophants—those were the sorts of “friends” that tumbled in and out of his house, drank all his booze, ate whatever food was in his fridge.
The waiter walked by with a basket of garlic cheese toast, momentarily capturing Rachel’s gaze like a catnip toy dangling on a string, before she yanked her eyes back and focused on the linen tablecloth in front of her. He could see her throat constrict as she swallowed hard. The fumes of delicious food were probably wreaking havoc on her salivary glands. And he was filled with a perverse sense of satisfaction that he’d crafted a way for her to accept his invitation to dinner with her pride intact. Not hungry, my ass.
* * *
* * *
Sarah forced herself to eat slowly, to savor, even though she could have happily planted her face into her food and not lifted it until the plate was licked clean. She placed a juicy, butter-doused chunk of lobster into her mouth. An involuntary moan escaped from her lips.
“I know.” Mick grinned happily as he plopped some creamed spinach onto his plate. “It’s good, huh?”
“It’s delicious,” she said, and then cleared her throat because her voice had
come out in that low, husky cadence that happened only with delicious food or mind-blowing sex. “I’m glad you wanted company.” That was better. Her voice sounded almost normal, not like she was on the fringe of a food-induced orgasm. She carved another piece of lobster, squeezing lemon over it, and dunked it in the butter. “They have a . . .” What the hell? Shut up, girl. She stuffed the bite of lobster in her mouth and chewed.
“They have a what?” Mick said, of course, because nothing seemed to get by the bastard. He was cutting into the rib eye, but she could see him watching her through his disgustingly long lashes. It was criminal that such lush, thick lashes were wasted on a man.
“A comfortable decor,” she said with a smile, heart thumping because for a second she had relaxed her guard.
“That’s not what you were going to say.” A slight smile on his face, eyes gleaming like he was so damned smart. He was right, of course. She’d been thinking about summers as a child spent at their beach house in East Hampton. Saturday was the staffs’ day off, and so at the end of the day—sun-kissed and tiny particles of sand still clinging between her toes no matter how much she rinsed off—Sarah would climb into the back seat of the Rolls-Royce, the cream-colored leather upholstery smooth and slippery against her sundress. The car was her dad’s baby. He had spent hours on the weekends polishing its deep-blue exterior or tinkering under the hood of the 1973 Corniche coupé. Her mom and dad would ride in front, relaxed and carefree in their summer linens and tans. They’d go to The Palm in the Hamptons. It was tradition.
“Sure, it was,” she lied. “I like the wooden beams and the comfy booths. Would you pass the cheesy potatoes, please?”
He leaned forward, propped his head on his hand, elbow on the table, a hint of laughter in his eyes.
“Potatoes?” she said, brazening it out, polite inquiry on her face.
He sat back, slapped his thigh with a hoot of laughter that had people’s heads turning toward their table. “You are something,” he said, shaking his head. He sounded almost admiring, which didn’t make sense. “Balls the size of cantaloupes.”
