"Something to drink?" he suggested levelly.
"Iced tea?"
His mother Bridget sometimes drank tea, Irish Breakfast steeped strong enough to stain the cup. The MacNeill men all drank coffee. The one time Con had tried the Southern brew—at a rest stop outside Petersburg, where he'd been forced to pour more oil into his thirsty car—it had coated his teeth like flavored corn syrup.
"The sweet stuff?" he asked cautiously.
"No. I use a herbal blend. Raspberry, mostly."
Worse and worse.
"Fine. I'll give it a shot."
She busied herself with a glass and ice. "Here you go. Thirty-five gallons brewed fresh every morning."
He could see the marks of her warm fingers against the cold, cloudy glass. To test himself, to test her, he deliberately brushed her hand as he took it from her. Her fingers were slim and wet.
She gave him a freezing look. Con grinned at his own conceit. Apparently his libido was safe with her, after all. He followed her through the swinging double doors to the dining room.
Wicker baskets and salt-glazed North Carolina pottery adorned the creamy yellow walls. The mismatched tables had been shipped and painted with fruits and vegetables. Everything looked fresh and bright and attractive. Val Cutler might not know much about bookkeeping, but she understood ambience.
With neat, competent movements, she laid a place at one of the small tables set along the side. Daisies stuck out of a bright blue bottle in the center. The cinnamon rolls steamed seductively on a white china plate. Inhaling, Con felt his shoulders start to loosen up.
Define the problem, he reminded himself. Establish a rapport with the client. He chose a seat on the bench running along the wall, in command of the room. "Join me?"
"I really ought to get back to help Steve—my cook. We open in half an hour."
"He can't manage a few minutes longer without you?"
At his questioning of her staff's ability, she stiffened. "He can manage."
"Then you can join me."
Slowly, she sank onto the ladder-back chair. Even in her floured apron, she managed to look like a queen granting audience to a peasant. Con might have admired her composure if it hadn't challenged his own.
He directed his attention to his plate. "These look very good," he complimented her. "Have you ever considered opening for breakfast?"
Her well-bred face with its incongruous earbobs assumed an expression of polite dismissal. "I've considered it. Unfortunately, I don't think we'd get enough foot traffic to make it worthwhile."
"What about dinner?"
She leaned back defensively in her chair. "You haven't been here long enough to know, Mr. MacNeill, but this town pretty much rolls up the sidewalks at five o'clock. If anyone wants dinner, they go across the street to Arlene's Café for pork barbecue and chicken-fried steak."
He paused in the act of lifting a roll to his mouth. "That suggests that a dinner market exists. You could compete. Add meat to your menu."
She straightened. Her chair thumped as the front legs hit the floor. "Let's get one thing straight right away. I may have been forced to accept you as my accountant—"
"Financial adviser."
"Whatever." She waved the distinction away. "But as far as I'm concerned you're just a glorified bean counter. I won't have you interfering in my kitchen."
He raised his eyebrows. "You cook 'em, I count 'em?" he murmured.
Instant humor danced in her eyes like the sunlight on the gray seas off of Ireland. An undercurrent more dangerous than lust suddenly threatened his balance.
"Something like that," she said.
To distract his unruly body, he took a bite of the fragrant roll in his hand. It was wonderful. Hot and sweet. Soft and sticky. Delicious.
He cleared his throat. "You know, there's no reason this has to be an adversarial relationship. I'm here to do a job, that's all."
"I agree. As long as your job doesn't interfere with mine."
"You'll hardly notice I'm here."
Her gaze skittered over the height and breadth of him, from his shoulders rising above the narrow padded bench to his feet sticking out from under the table.
When she looked back up at his face, her eyes were bright with amusement. "Now, why do I have difficulty believing that?"
Con's blood surged. His jaw tightened. He had a sudden vision of laying her down across the table in front of him like an exotic dish for his delectation. He wanted to free her hair to spill over the edge. He wanted to part her firm, round thighs and push inside her soft, warm body. He wanted to take that pale mouth with its full upper lip and watch those gray eyes darken in passion.
Con set down the roll slowly. As a plan of action, it had a lot of appeal. As an approach to a woman he barely knew and was hired to analyze and advise, it probably lacked something. Subtlety, maybe. Sense.
His appetite for this woman unnerved him. Maybe this kind of reaction was appropriate for Patrick, blissfully happy with his new wife. It was only to be expected from Sean, whose appreciation for anything female was well-known and often indulged. But Con, the middle brother, the cool, logical one, had always let reason rule his selection of partners.
There was nothing reasonable about this attraction at all.
* * *
Chapter 3
«^»
Blond, bearded Steven, his ponytail secured in a hair net, stuck his head out of the kitchen. "Val, we need you back here."
Val exhaled in relief at the interruption. Her cheeks felt warm and her palms were clammy. She'd like to blame it on the heat of the kitchen, but the bald truth was her father's hired gun raised her temperature. And not only because Con MacNeill was trying to interfere in the running of her restaurant. She expected that. She was prepared for it. Unfortunately, he also challenged her to engage him on some deeper, more personal, man-woman level. And that she was determined to avoid. In the war between the sexes, Aunt Naomi always said, women lost even when they won.
On the other hand, Val didn't want her orderly retreat to look like a rout. "In a minute, Steven."
"We haven't got a minute," he said, aggrieved.
MacNeill stiffened at the blond cook's tone.
Shoot. They were due to open in twenty minutes. She couldn't afford to have Steven in a huff.
"A second, then," Val said equably. "Come meet Con MacNeill. Con, this is Steven Gray, my head chef."
"And you're Edward Cutler's pit bull," Steven said.
Cold temper lit Con's sapphire blue eyes. "That's a hell of a tableside manner you've got, Gray."
The blond beard jutted aggressively. "So what?"
"So, I'm just wondering. They let you out in the dining room much?"
Loyalty—and the need to keep Steven from quitting—smothered Val's spurt of laughter. Wild Thymes was her place. Hers. She'd created a haven of warmth and acceptance here in deliberate contrast to the stiff hostility that permeated her parents' house. She wouldn't stand for her chief cook and her financial adviser facing off like a couple of bull seals on a contested strand of beach.
"Steven is a very talented cook. We can't spare him from the kitchen. Which is where I should be now, too." She smiled in dismissal. "I'll be right there, Steve."
"The gazpacho isn't ready."
She tipped up her chin, looked down her nose. She wouldn't be pressured by his pouting any more than she'd be swayed by her father's manipulation. "I said I'll take care of it."
"Right."
He stalked away. The double doors swung shut behind him.
"You've got a personnel problem," Con observed.
"Besides you, you mean?" she retorted.
He regarded her steadily with that cool, blue, superior gaze that made her see red.
She twitched her braid with annoyance. "All right, yes, I do. So do most restaurants. I still don't want you interfering with my staff. We're shorthanded all the time. Steven's been with me since we opened. I can't lose him, and I won't antagonize him.
So next time you're tempted to make comments, I suggest you wait until you have all the facts."
"The fact is, you shouldn't have to put up with that kind of attitude from hired staff."
She shrugged. "That's your opinion. And if I want that, I'll ask for it."
"I get paid to offer my opinion."
"Not by me." She pushed away from the table and stood, simmering. "Enjoy your breakfast."
She hoped he choked on it. Or at least added an unwanted ounce to his ridged and perfect abs.
Con MacNeill was a Grade A, inspected-and-approved, prime macho pain in the butt. But not, she noted reluctantly half an hour later, a difficult customer. In that, at least, he was different from her father.
She watched him smiling and joking with her two waitresses, sulky seventeen-year-old Jenny and amiable Doralee. Jenny put her shoulders back to show off her two little bosoms. Doralee chuckled and said something in reply. Con's rich laughter rolled across the dining room, making other women shift in their seats, crossing their legs or patting their hair.
Maybe she should stick him in the window to attract new business, Val thought wryly, and then pressed her lips together.
She did not want him here.
He was a dark blot against her butter-hued walls, an alien invader in her cheerful, feminine retreat. Every time she passed his table on her way through to the kitchen, the fine hair on her arms and the back of her neck rose. She tried to tell herself dislike caused the reaction, or caution, but she had never been good at fooling herself.
He got to her.
Val bit her inner cheek. So, what did that prove, except that she was normal?
An attractive man—a man like Con—probably got to a lot of women. It was part of his allure, and part of his danger.
Val had wasted the first half of her life struggling with the limits of her parents' and the town's expectations. Breaking free had been more painful than she liked to remember. Now that she was home to stay, she wasn't risking her wobbly autonomy with some hard-jawed, sharp-eyed financial adviser forced on her by her father.
As if Val needed another cautionary lesson in the misery that love could lead to, Ann walked through the door. Relief swamped Val at the sight of her friend and then coalesced into a tight knot of anger in the center of her chest. Ann shuffled like a marionette, her movements stiff and unfinished.
There was more than one means for a man to get to a woman, Val reflected bitterly. Apparently Rob had gotten to Annie again in the worst possible way.
An old, remembered helplessness froze Val for a moment. And then rage returned, warming and welcome. She handed menus to two young mothers out lunching with their babies and hurried to greet her friend.
"How are you?" she asked, hugging her with care.
She heard Ann's harsh intake of breath as she inadvertently touched someplace that hurt. Her shoulder? A rib?
"Honey, I'm sorry."
"I'm okay," Ann assured her.
Val snorted.
"No, really, I'm fine." Ann's smile was strained, her eyes weary.
"Did you go to the hospital this time? See a doctor?"
"Oh, no. I just had a little accident. I'm okay."
Experience had taught Val that if she pushed Ann would withdraw even further. But the words came out, anyway. "Ann, you don't have to put up with this. There are shelters, programs—" Val broke off as Ann began to shake her head.
"I can't leave him."
Him. Rob. Cutler's golden boy. He dressed well. He smelled good. His people knew your people, and your people still talked about the time star quarterback Rob Cross took tiny Cutler's football team all the way to the state championships.
Frustration choked Val. Swallowing, she said as gently as she could, "Counseling? Maybe if you talked to your pastor…?"
"I can't do that. Rob's on the church board."
Yeah, and he beat his wife. "Annie…"
"I should go."
"No. No, I'm done." Val sighed. "Can I get you anything? Ice packs? Aspirin?"
Ann's smile was so grateful it almost broke Val's heart. "How about something to do?"
"Is that … wise?"
"Probably not. But I need it."
"Whatever you want." Val handed her the sheaf of menus. "The dining room's all yours."
She found plenty of opportunities to make trips in from the kitchen, though, alert to Ann's interactions with the customers, watchful that her friend didn't spend too long on her feet.
Every trip took Val past Con MacNeill. In spite of his aborted restaurant tour, he apparently found plenty to keep himself occupied. Once his plate was cleared away, he sipped from his glass. At some point, she noted, he'd exchanged the raspberry tea for plain water. Occasionally he wrote things down in strong black writing on a long yellow pad.
He stopped Ann to ask her a question. Val felt her hackles rise like a cornered possum's and hurried across the dining room.
But when she reached them, Ann didn't appear in need of rescue. Her thin face animated, she actually smiled at Con before hurrying away.
"Well!" Val exhaled. "What did you say to her?"
Dark brows lifted. "I thanked her for bringing me a menu."
Tugging a cloth from her apron pocket, Val proceeded to wipe off his table. "I told you I didn't want you interfering with the staff."
Con tipped his head back to regard her from beneath lowered lids, his mouth a straight line. "I don't believe I was."
Val grinned. "Mmm. Well, you've charmed the socks off Doralee. And if Jenny comes by any more often to fill your water glass, she's going to wear a track in the linoleum."
The blue eyes widened. And there it was again, that spark of humor, that arc of understanding, that flared between them as brightly and suddenly as an electrical connection. Her breath caught.
"You've got very attentive service," Con said blandly. "And you, of course, did nothing to encourage them," she teased.
"Not a thing." With the sole of one shoe, he pushed out the chair opposite him, silently inviting her to stay.
She sat. Somehow, she needed to find a way to work with this man. She needed his signature on her checks, at least.
"So, what's the matter with your hostess?" Con asked. Val blinked. She hadn't expected him to notice anything wrong with Ann. No one else did. No one cared, except for her.
Carefully, trying to preserve Ann's privacy and whatever dignity she had left, Val said, "She's not feeling too well today."
"Not feeling well, my foot. Somebody knocked her around."
Her face must have betrayed her surprise.
Con's smile showed the edges of his teeth. "I was a boxer in high school. I recognize the signs. That lady's ribs are hurting. Will she let you help?"
Shame and frustration made her abrupt. "No."
"Tough," he said sympathetically. "She lose a lot of time for sick leave?"
Val straightened. "Are you about to tell me that I can't afford to pay for absentee help?"
"Nope."
"Good." She relaxed a little in her chair. "Besides, Ann isn't actually an employee. She just comes in to help out."
He nodded and made a note on his yellow pad. "You ever consider offering her a salary?"
Val put up her chin at the implication she might be taking advantage of Ann's friendship. "I need money to do that. Besides, she won't take it. Rob doesn't want his wife to work."
"That settles that, then."
"You think a woman shouldn't work without her husband's permission?"
"I think it's real unlikely a battered woman would take the chance," he responded coolly. "Next time you're tempted to make comments, you might wait until you've heard me out."
She heard the echo of her own rebuke and flushed. "You're good."
"That's what I'm trying to prove," he said smoothly.
An edge to his voice snagged her attention. He was determined to prove something, all right. But what? And to whom? Val sorted through the threads of her own experien
ce for one that might produce a corresponding pull in him.
"Only child?" she guessed.
If he felt a tug, he didn't let on. "Middle."
"'We're Number Two, We Try Harder'?"
He looked back at her steadily, giving nothing away.
She tried again. "You mentioned brothers?"
"Two."
She toyed thoughtfully with her earring, a long loop of blue and silver beads. In her experience, most men expanded at any opportunity to tell a sympathetic woman all about themselves. Con MacNeill, she was discovering, was not most men. His very reluctance to hand out bits and pieces of himself roused her interest and challenged her own reserve.
"And what do they do?"
"What is this? Twenty questions?"
"Something like that," she admitted. "Since I'm being forced to work with you, I'd like to know something about you. You already know all about me."
"Not quite all," he drawled.
A shock of pure sexual energy arced between them. Val fought the connection as it crackled and sparkled all the way down to her toes. Good heavens.
"So, are you animal, vegetable or mineral?"
She thought she saw a glint of appreciation in his eyes. "Let's make a deal," he offered, leaning his elbows on the table. "I tell you about my family, and you show me your books."
Val gnawed the inside of her lower lip. She was going to have to show him the books eventually, anyway. She might as well get something out of it. "Deal. Mother and father?"
He settled back against the padded seat, debating, she thought, how much to tell her. "Mom's a trauma nurse, Quincy Community Hospital. Dad's a career marine. Sergeant major, retired."
Interesting. Edward Cutler usually chose pedigreed associates. But the military background fit. Con had that decisive, commanding air. Bossy, Val corrected herself.
"And did you ever…?"
"Enlist? No. Patrick followed Dad into the Corps. He left after his son was born. He's a charter pilot now over in Jefferson. Married a doctor in the burn unit there. Nice lady."
So he didn't have a prejudice against working women. She should find that reassuring. "And the other one?"
THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Page 3
