For the rest of the day, she'd thrown herself into proving to both of them that the kiss was a mistake on her part and an aberration on his. She avoided the office. Con grimaced as he got out of the car, locking his doors. She avoided him. When their paths inevitably collided, her natural warmth frosted over like a beer glass in a bar.
Con told himself that suited him fine. He had work to do and goals to accomplish. He needed to wrap up this job and get back to Boston while he had half a chance to jump-start his stalled career. He didn't need the feelings Val aroused in him, feelings he could neither define nor solve.
Pausing on the front walk, he examined the restaurant's blackboard with the day's specials chalked in pink and green. Reading them, his mouth set. Today he was discussing the menu with Val whether she wanted to avoid him or not.
He tested the front door—unlocked again, he noted with disapproval—and negotiated his way through the quiet dining room. Val wasn't in the kitchen. Steven Gray looked up from seeding peppers long enough to scowl. The dishwasher guy stacked plates, the college girl—Rhoda? Ronnie?—shook flour into the chugging mixer. She called a greeting. Con smiled reflexively before striding down the narrow hall to Val's office.
He caught himself hurrying and deliberately slowed his pace. He wasn't eager to see her, he told himself. It was just that this dead-end town made him desperate for distraction. He missed his job. He missed Boston. Even fighting with Val Cutler seemed preferable to the mind-numbing boredom.
But when he entered her office, fighting was the last thing on his mind.
Val sat huddled over her desk, surrounded by the sheets of her bank statement and stacks of canceled checks. Her shoulders hunched. Her wrists pressed her temples.
His heart contracted in quick concern. Was she sick? Between her supporting hands, her face was pale and bleak as Niamh Golden-Hair's when Oisin deserted her for Ireland. And then she saw him.
Her head rose, and a corner of her full mouth quirked. "Oh, look, it's Mr. Business Solutions."
He wanted to shake her. He wanted to laugh. And neither action would do her a bit of good. Focus on the problem, he reminded himself.
Setting his briefcase on his inadequate little table, he asked calmly, "What's the matter?"
"Nothing. Not a thing," she enunciated. Reaching over her paper-strewn desk, she grabbed the restaurant's big duplicate checkbook and tossed it at him. "Here."
He caught it two-handed. Folding himself onto his stubby chair, he balanced the book on his lap. He pretended to scan it, all the while sneaking looks at her drawn, discouraged face.
And then he stopped. Frowned. "What is this?"
Her chin tilted defensively. "You have to co-sign the checks. Isn't that right? I can't spend the money without your okay?"
"That's right. And you haven't got it. You should be paying these bills out of operating expenses, not the loan account."
"I would," Val agreed promptly. "If I wanted the checks to bounce."
Con narrowed his eyes. "There's no money in the restaurant account?"
Her controlled flinch made him feel like Scrooge going after Tiny Tim with his crutch.
"Not according to the bank statement," she said.
He had to admire her cool. But at the moment it was damn inconvenient. How could he get to the bottom of whatever was troubling her if she wouldn't confide in him?
"Tell me about it."
"You want me to sob and throw myself on your manly chest, too?"
It sounded good to him. Which only proved he was a bigger fool than he'd previously thought. "Here's the way this consultant gig is supposed to work, Dixie. You define the problem. I solve the problem. What's your problem?"
"Well, according to Customer Service at the bank, my problem is that I'm skimming my accounts. According to my father, I'm too incompetent to manage even that. You pick."
Her flippancy couldn't mask the misery in her eyes.
Con held out his hand. "Let me see your bank statement."
"I've already been over it. I must have made a mistake. Miscalculated the deposits or something."
He admired her staunch acceptance of responsibility. But even as his rational mind conceded the likelihood of her mistake, a rusty intuition protested her guilt. He didn't want to believe she was at fault.
"Let me see," he said again.
"What is it with you? Do you have to have everything in black and white? Can't you trust me to do anything?"
"If I didn't trust you, I'd take your word for it that you screwed up and let it go at that. I want to see the statement from the bank."
Her gaze dropped to the papers on her desk. She started to slide them together. One of those damn envelopes she kept her receipts in spilled its contents, and her neat, narrow hands hovered over the mess before she lifted and opened them in a gesture of letting go. His heart lurched at the vulnerable gesture.
"Here," she said abruptly. "You might as well sit down. This is probably going to take a while."
Con lifted his brows in surprise. As long as she'd relegated him to a tiny table in a corner of her room, Wild Thymes was still her sandbox. Was she finally yielding control of the playground?
"Probably," he agreed coolly. "Thanks."
Val slid out of his way. She watched him take his seat—her seat—with an unsettling combination of resignation and resentment churning in her stomach. But then, he'd already familiarized himself with her inadequate bookkeeping system. How much lower could his opinion go?
She sat slowly, watching as he selected a pencil from the ceramic pig on her desk. Today he'd unbuttoned and turned back his starched white cuffs to reveal strong-boned wrists and the rise of muscled forearms. Silky dark hair dusted the backs of his hands. Her breathing hitched.
Oh, no. So the man had nice hands. So what?
Her face, her whole body, burned as she recalled his laconic reaction to their one kiss. Tell yourself you're not interested, if you want to, Dixie. But don't tell me.
Had she sent mixed signals? She honestly didn't know. She was too used to seeing herself as others saw her, that was her problem. For twenty-eight years she'd defined herself as Sylvia Cutler's neat and shiny little girl or the high school quarterback's homecoming queen or Edward Cutler's runaway daughter.
It was this darn town.
It was coming home.
She'd sworn not to let herself be defined by someone else's expectations ever again. So if this Yankee had decided Val Cutler was some sex-starved socialite from a complicated Southern novel, she was just going to have to prove him wrong.
Unless… Her hand crept up to toy with her earring. Unless she really was attracted?
She studied the lean, clever profile bent over her books, aware of the little bump in her heart rate. Shoot. And here she'd been hoping her judgment had improved some since high school.
What did she know about this guy, after all? Her father had hired him to whip her back in line, she was sure of that. Yet for all of Con's irritating male assurance, he'd been gentle with Ann and patient with Mitchell. He hadn't yet taunted Val with her shortcomings. He hadn't disregarded her ideas or dismissed her presence.
But at that moment, he turned his head and asked, "Aren't you supposed to be in the kitchen?"
Val squinted at him. "I thought the line was 'barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen.'"
Instant humor leapt into those blue, blue eyes, but his mouth gave nothing away. "It's an appealing picture, Dixie, but actually I was looking at the time. Your chef usually starts bawling for help about now."
She looked at the wall clock. He was right. She was due in the kitchen.
Reluctantly, she stood. "I'll leave you to it, then."
"Fine."
He sounded distracted, already absorbed by the task in front of him. She might as well not be in the room. Fighting the urge to sulk, Val wiped her hands on her apron and went out to deal with the lunchtime crowd.
She blew back in three hours later, flushed from the sto
ve and success. Maybe she had left Con in charge of her books and in possession of her office, but that didn't mean she had to let money—or the lack of it—dictate all her choices. Her new pasta salad had passed the dining room test with flying colors, and she'd convinced the Misses Minniton to give salsa corn chowder a try.
Besides, she thought with satisfaction, she had money now. Some, anyway.
She dropped the gray zippered bag full of the day's take splat in the middle of her suspiciously clear desk and smiled into Con MacNeill's surprised face.
"What's this?" he asked.
"Lunch money. I'm going down to the bank to make a deposit."
"Fine. Get me your receipts and I'll total them up."
She shoved a wandering strand of hair out of her face. She was not letting Mr. Business Solutions spoil her sense of accomplishment. "Is that still strictly necessary?"
"More necessary than ever." He smiled, showing the edges of his white, even teeth. A wolf grin. "I think you may not have made a mistake, after all."
Her heart stuttered in stupid hope. She was too old to believe he'd simply waved his magic pencil and slain all her dragons. "What are you talking about?"
"Here." Con pulled a sheet of the bank statement toward him, his long, blunt finger stabbing at printed columns. "And here. Your record of deposits. It's inconsistent."
Val sighed. "Well, it would be. We always do a greater volume of business on Tuesdays and Fridays."
"Yeah, but the total deposits should be consistent week to week. This week here?" He pointed. "Where you thought you'd made the deposit error? You're under by several hundred dollars. In fact, a lot of these totals are low, based on my projections of your profits."
"So, what you're saying is, I actually have money in addition to the loan?"
"I didn't say that. Without the register receipts, it's difficult to prove anything."
"My fault, right?"
He met her gaze evenly. "Like I said, it's too soon to tell who's at fault. Although more accurate record-keeping would certainly help us get to the bottom of this mess."
At least he wasn't condemning her right off the bat. It made a change. A pleasant one.
"So, what will you do?" she asked.
"I want a look at the bank's cash-in tickets. I scheduled a meeting for this afternoon with somebody in the proof department."
Val winced. "Rob Cross?"
"Yeah, I think that was his…" Something registered behind those blue eyes. "Ann's husband?"
"Yes."
"The guy who can't keep his fists to himself?"
"That's the one."
His teeth gleamed in his corporate shark smile. "This will be fun."
Well.
Val had always dreaded her quarterly bank visits. She hated Rob's smug assumption of superiority, the slick confidence he owed to his high school star status and his college education and his eight-hundred-dollar suits. She loathed the way he watched her over his desk, blandly discussing business, his brown eyes hot and knowing.
Maybe there were advantages to keeping a shark around.
She smiled back. "Let me know if you draw blood."
Con's expression sobered. "I can't literally fight him, you know."
"Because he reports to my father?"
"Because I do. I can't march into a client's place of business and start throwing punches."
She was absurdly disappointed. "Oh, and of course Daddy will be thrilled when you march in and question his bank's deposit system," she mocked.
Con stiffened. "It's a reasonable request."
"Maybe. But if it makes me look good and it makes him look bad, he's not going to like it." She tilted her head. "In fact, if you make Rob look bad, my father's not going to like it. So you better figure out who you're really working for, MacNeill."
Her shot thumped home square in Con's pride.
"I work for myself," he answered through his teeth. "And right now I've accepted the job of hauling your restaurant's profits out of the basement. Which means, we are overdue for a discussion of your menu."
Immediately, she went on the defensive. "There's nothing wrong with my menu."
"Not wrong," he corrected her. "Lacking. It would be nice to be able to get a real sandwich around here once in a while."
She arched a brow. "Instead of the free lunch you're getting now?"
Lord, she was a piece of work. And the Lord only knew why she appealed to him. He almost grinned. "No. As part of the free lunch I'm getting now. Beef. Turkey. Something I could recognize and sink my teeth into."
"Well, you would recognize turkey," she said sweetly.
"This isn't personal, Dixie."
"It sounded personal to me."
"I'm talking about expanding your target market."
"No. You were talking about your lunch. I'm not changing my menu to suit you."
He stood up. "Fine. Suit yourself."
"I always do."
"But don't expect it to build your bottom line. And don't expect me to foot the bill."
Her eyes simmered with temper. "I don't expect squat from you, MacNeill."
If his goal was to drive some distance between them, he'd succeeded beyond his wildest designs. So why did he feel so empty inside?
"Then you won't be disappointed," he said. He picked up a sheaf of papers from the desk and stuffed it into his briefcase. "I've got a meeting at the bank."
Damned if she didn't get the last word, anyway.
"Don't hurry back," she said.
* * *
"Val, honey?" Ann's soft voice was filled with concern. "You all right?"
Up to her elbows in sudsy water, Val plunked another pot into the rinse tub and swished it around savagely. "Peachy."
Ann took another step forward, her narrow feet in their flat shoes making no sound at all on the linoleum floor. "You sure? You want a hand washing up?"
Val turned and regarded her friend with affection. "Bless you, Annie. No, I'm fine. Just feeling a little sorry for myself and ticked at men generally."
"Yes," Ann said. Val recoiled at the understanding in her eyes, green and brittle as broken glass.
"I didn't mean—"
Ann shook her head, as if to rob her own reply of significance. "I guess George going off early left you in a bind."
"Not George," Val grunted, dumping the big boiler kettle into the third tub to disinfect. Water sloshed to the floor. "It's MacNeill."
"Oh." Ann stepped back, out of the way of the spreading puddle. "What's he done?"
"Nothing."
She heard the bitter echo of her own words in her head. I don't expect squat from you. And MacNeill's mocking reply: Then you won't be disappointed.
"He wants me to change the menu."
Ann nodded. "And you don't want to."
"Actually, I'd been thinking about it," Val admitted. "I mean, when we opened, there was no way I could compete with the café's fried chicken and barbecue. I didn't want to. But if we could draw in more customers by adding something fresh and still healthy…"
"Seafood?" Ann suggested tentatively.
Val shrugged. "Possibly. Not if it's crammed down my throat, though."
Ann looked down and away, her lashes dark against her pale cheeks. In spite of the June temperatures outside, her tucked white blouse was buttoned to the neck. Val wondered if Ann buttoned up to pander to Rob's idea of modesty, or if the demure collar hid the marks of his fingers.
More secrets, she thought. Bile rose in her throat. Swallowing, she asked gently, "Annie, how are—"
"Don't ask." Ann moistened her lips. "Please? I'm so…"
"What?"
Hurt? Tired? Scared?
"Sick of lying," Ann whispered.
It was as close as Ann had come to admitting that her perfect life with her successful, handsome husband was falling apart, battered to bits by his fists.
Val let another pot slide into the water. She wiped her hands on her damp apron, anxious to give her friend a hu
g.
"Ann, if there's anything I can do, if you need a place to stay for a while, will you tell me?"
"I don't … I can't leave him."
Frustration knotted under her ribs. "I understand. But if you needed to get away—even just for a little while—you know you could come to me."
"Would you call the police?"
"Well, of course I—" Val caught herself at the flat look that entered Ann's eyes. "Only if you wanted me to. I won't make you do anything you aren't ready for."
Ann lifted her hands in oblique apology. "It's just … Chief Palmer's son … he was on the football team with Rob."
Val remembered Maddox Palmer, the policeman's son who was always in trouble. The intense center had protected quarterback Rob all the way to the state championships. Val was pretty sure Maddox left town the year before she did. But maybe that didn't make a difference in a town fueled by gossip and oiled by old loyalties. After all these years, maybe Ann was worried the Palmer family would still defend the team star.
"Okay. But you come, all right? Anytime you need to, and we'll take it from there."
The metal double doors that separated the kitchen from the dining room bumped open. Rob Cross, his blond hair boyishly disheveled, strolled through, smiling like a car salesman.
"Take what where?" he asked.
Val looked for some sign of his meeting with Con, but there wasn't a bite on him. Shoot. "Nothing, Rob."
"We were just talking," Ann said.
"Telling stories, baby?"
Val felt a spurt of dislike. "Why? Do you know any good ones?"
"Oh, yes. I know lots." His heavy gaze reminded her of all he knew and remembered. Beside her, Ann hugged her elbows. "Fortunately, I'm the silent sort. Not everybody's so discreet. I'd suggest you tell that MacNeill fellow you don't need him poking around in your business."
"What did he tell you?"
Rob frowned. "I don't need to bother you with all the details. But he sure doesn't understand how we do business down here. He your accountant now?"
"Financial adviser," Val said. Stupid. What did it matter what his job title was? "And my father hired him."
"Edward hired him?"
She was surprised Rob didn't know. If Con reported to Edward Cutler, and Rob had come to warn her… What power game was her father playing? And who was on her side?
THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Page 6
