The Rebel

by J. R. Ward

  “He quit tonight.”

  Nate nodded, thinking that was the way of the kitchen world. You never got tenure as a chef but the trade-off was you didn’t have to give notice.

  She began to tap her foot impatiently, but he wasn’t in a hurry. Taking a look around he saw a desk, a computer, a couple of chairs, some closet doors. There was nothing particularly interesting about the room until he got to the bookcases. To her left, he saw an old photograph of a young family smiling into the camera. Two parents, three children, clothes from the seventies.

  He went over for a closer look but when he picked it up off the shelf, she snatched the frame out of his hand.

  “Do you mind?”

  They were standing close and he became curiously aware of her. In spite of the bangs and the Poindexter glasses, the baggy clothes and the bags under her eyes, his body started to heat up. Her eyes widened and he wondered if she felt it, too—the odd current that seemed to run between them.

  “You looking for someone in your kitchen?” he asked abruptly.

  “I don’t know,” she said, clipping the words short.

  “You sure needed someone tonight. You’d have been up the creek if I hadn’t walked through your door.”

  “How about this, I don’t know if I need you.” She put the photograph back, laying it face down on the shelf.

  “You think I’m not qualified?” He smiled when she remained silent, figuring she probably hated the fact that he’d saved her. “Tell me, just how did I fail to impress you tonight?”

  “You did fine but that doesn’t mean I’m going to hire you.”

  He shook his head. “Fine? Man, you have a hard time with compliments, don’t you?”

  “I don’t waste energy playing spit and polish with egos. Especially healthy ones.”

  “So you prefer being around the depressed?” he retorted mildly.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Nate shrugged. “Your staff’s so beaten down it’s a wonder they can put one foot in front of the other. That poor girl was ready to work herself to death tonight just for a kind word and George soaked up a little praise like he hadn’t heard any in a month.”

  “Who made you an expert on those two?” Her hands were on her hips now as she looked up at him.

  “It’s just obvious, lady. If you took your blinders off once in a while you might see what you’re doing to them.”

  “What I’m doing to them? I’ll tell you what I’m doing to them.” She jabbed a finger at him. “I’m keeping a roof over Joy’s head and George out of a group home. So you can back off with the judgments.”

  As she glared at him, he wondered why he was arguing with her. The last thing the woman needed was another battle. Besides, why did he care?

  “Look, ah—why don’t we start over,” he said. “Can we call a truce here?”

  He stuck his hand out, aware that he’d just decided to take a job he wasn’t being offered. But hell, he needed to spend the summer somewhere and she clearly needed the help. And White Caps was as good as any other place, even if it was sinking. At least he could have some fun and try out some new things he’d been thinking of without the food critics chomping at him.

  When she just stared at him, he prompted her by looking down at his hand.

  She tucked her arms into her body. “I think you better go.”

  “Are you always this unreasonable?”

  “Good night.”

  He dropped his hand. “Let me get this straight. You have no cook. You’re looking at one who’s willing to work. But you’d rather shoot yourself in the foot just because you don’t like me?” When she kept looking at him, buttoned up tight, he shook his head. “Damn, woman. You ever think this place might be going under because of you?”

  The strained silence that followed was the calm before the storm. He knew it because she started to shake and he had a vague thought that he should duck.

  But what came at him wasn’t angry words or a slap or a right hook.

  She started to cry. From behind the lenses, he saw tears well and then fall.

  “Oh, God,” he pushed a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean—”

  “You don’t know me,” she said hoarsely and, somehow, regally. Even through her tears, she faced him squarely as if she had nothing to hide, as if the crying jag was a temporary aberration, nothing that spelled the end of her inner strength. “You don’t know what’s going on here. You don’t—don’t know what we’ve been through. So you can just put your pack on and start walking.”

  He reached out for her, not sure what he would do. Not take her in his arms, certainly. But he had some vague idea he could…pat her on the shoulder. Or something.

  God, how lame was that.

  Nate wasn’t at all surprised when she shrugged him off and left him alone in her wet mess of an office.

  IN THE PANTRY, SURROUNDED by canned vegetables, bags of George’s cookies and jars full of condiments, Frankie pulled herself together. Wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands, she sniffled a couple of times and then tugged her shirt into place.

  She couldn’t believe she’d cracked like that. In front of some stranger.

  It was better than crying in front of Joy, sure, but not by much.

  Boy, he’d nailed her vulnerable point. The idea that White Caps was failing because of her was her biggest fear and the mere thought of it was enough to make her start tearing up all over again.

  God, what was she going to tell Joy if they had to leave? Where would they live? And how could she earn enough to take care of both her sister and Grand-Em?

  What would she tell Alex?

  She closed her eyes and leaned back against the shelves.

  Alex.

  She wondered where her brother was. Last she’d heard from him, he’d been training for the America’s Cup off the Bahamas, but that had been back in February. As a competitive sailor, he traveled all over the world, and tracking his movements would have required a good map and a lot of patience.

  Neither of which she had.

  Considering the terrible events on the lake, which had left the three of them orphans when Frankie had just turned twenty-two, the fact that Alex lived on the sea was a perennial source of heartache. Like all families of sailors, however, she’d learned to live with the fear and work around it.

  You can do a lot of things if you have to, she thought. She’d turned into Wonder Woman thanks to getting trapped by fate.

  An overworked, cranky Wonder Woman maybe, but she was still doing it all.

  Frankie took a deep breath thinking, just once, she’d like to share the load. Have someone else make a decision. Take a direction. Lead.

  She felt her shoulders sinking toward the floor as she tried to imagine Joy doing anything other than float around. George knew when he needed to eat and when it was time to sleep and not much else. Grand-Em thought it was still 1953.

  But then, with the vividness of a movie clip, she had a vision of Nate’s hands flying around the chicken she’d burned.

  He was right. She did need a cook and he was, evidently, available.

  And the man was good, she thought.

  There was also the reality that there wasn’t a long line of people applying for the job.

  Wheeling around, Frankie burst out of the pantry, prepared to run after him, but she jerked to a halt. He’d been waiting, leaning casually against the island.

  “I didn’t want to leave until I knew you were okay,” he explained.

  “Do you want the job?”

  He cocked an eyebrow, apparently unfazed by her turnaround. “Yeah. I’ll stay until Labor Day.”

  “I can’t pay you much, but then again, there won’t be much you’ll have to do.”

  He shrugged. “Money’s not important to me.”

  At least he had one good trait, she thought, naming what sounded like a pathetically small salary.

  “And I can offer you room and board.” She straightened he
r shoulders. “But I want to be clear about something.”

  “Let me guess, you’re the boss.”

  “Well, yes. More important, stay away from my sister.”

  He frowned. “Angel?”

  “Her name is Joy. And she’s not interested.”

  His laugh was short. “Don’t you think that should be her choice, not yours?”

  “No, I don’t. Do we understand each other?”

  A small smile played over his lips, but she couldn’t divine what he thought was so amusing.

  “Well?” she demanded.

  “Yeah, I understand you perfectly.” He extended his hand and raised that brow again. “You going to touch me this time?”

  It was a taunt, a challenge.

  And Frankie never backed down from anything.

  She grabbed his hand like it was a door handle, in a tough grip meant to tell him that she was all business. But at the contact, she lost her pretensions. A shiver of awareness prickled across every square inch of her body and all she could do was blink up at him in confusion.

  His eyes narrowed, the lids falling down over that fascinating spectrum of color. She felt him squeeze her hand and had a ludicrous image of him pulling her forward so he could kiss her.

  God, what he could do to her, she thought, if they were naked and in a bed together—

  Frankie stepped back quickly, thinking maybe she needed to get hit with some more water.

  “Remember what I said,” she ground out. “Don’t go near my sister.”

  He scratched the side of his neck casually and put his hands into his pockets. She had a feeling that he didn’t take orders well, but couldn’t have cared less. He was working for her, which meant she called the shots. Period. End of story.

  And the last thing Frankie needed to worry about was Joy getting her heart broken. Or being left pregnant and alone at the end of the summer. God knew, they couldn’t afford another dependent.

  “We’re clear?” she prompted.

  He didn’t answer but she knew he understood her by the way his jaw was locked.

  “Then I’ll show you to your room.” She walked around, flipping off lights, then headed for the back stairs.

  When the Moorehouses had been rich, before generations of dandies enjoying the good life had drained the bank accounts and caused the stocks, jewelry and the best of the art to be sold off, the family had stayed in the big bedrooms in the front of the house that faced the lake. Now that they were the servants, they stayed where a fleet of maids and butlers had once slept. The staff wing, which stretched behind the mansion, had low ceilings, pine floors and no ornamentation. It was hot in the summer, drafty in the winter and the plumbing groaned.

  Well, that last one was actually happening in the rest of the house by now, too.

  At the head of the stairs, the corridor went off in both directions and there was no question where the new cook was going to sleep. Frankie didn’t relish the idea of him being close to her, but at least if he was she could keep an eye on him. She headed left, taking them away from Joy’s room.

  As Frankie pushed open a door, she figured he’d be untroubled by the sparse accommodations. He looked as if he might have slept in cars and on park benches on occasion, so a bed was no doubt luxury enough.

  “I’ll go get your sheets,” she said. “You and I are sharing a bathroom. It’s right next door.”

  She went to the linen closet, which was down near Joy’s end of the house. On the way back, she heard the man speaking.

  “Actually, ma’am, I’m the new cook.”

  Oh, God, not Grand-Em.

  Frankie hurried up and burst through the door, ready to peel her grandmother away from the stranger. The idea of insulating him from her family was an impulse she didn’t question.

  “Cook?” Grand-Em looked up at him imperiously. “We have three cooks working here already. Why ever did Papa take you on?”

  Grand-Em was tiny and ornate, a five-foot-two-inch waif dressed in a flowing, faded ball gown. Her long white hair, which hadn’t been cut in decades, fell down her back and she had the unlined face of someone who had never been outside without a parasol. Next to Nate she looked as sturdy as a china figurine.

  “Grand-Em—”

  Frankie was astonished as Nate cut her off with a sharp hand. Bending at the waist, with his head properly bowed, he said, “Madam, it is my pleasure to be of service to you. My name is Nathaniel, should you need anything.”

  Grand-Em considered him thoughtfully and headed for the door.

  “I like him,” she said to no one in particular as she left.

  Frankie sighed and watched her grandmother drift down the hall. The dementia that had curdled that once-active mind was a terrible thief. And to miss someone, even though you saw them daily, was an odd sort of hell.

  “Who is she?” Nate asked softly.

  Frankie snapped to attention, unsure how long she’d leaned against the doorjamb with the towels and sheets in her hands.

  “My grandmother,” she said. “Here are your linens and there are some toiletry packets in the bathroom. Washer and dryer are outside to the right, in the closet. I’m across the hall if you need anything.”

  As she gave the pile of whites over to him, she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. There was intrigue in them, as if he were interested in her family.

  Knowing it would sound downright rude to warn him off of Grand-Em, too, Frankie kept her mouth shut as she turned away.

  “I’ve got a question,” he said.

  “What?” She didn’t look back at him, just stared at the pale pine floorboards as they stretched out down the hall.

  “What’s your name? Other than Boss, of course.” The last bit wasn’t mocking, more affectionate.

  She’d have preferred he made fun of her.

  “I’m Frankie.”

  “Short for Frances?”

  “That’s the one. Good night.”

  She walked across to her room and when she went to close the door, she saw he was standing in his own doorway, watching her. One arm was raised above his head with the elbow propped on the jamb. The other was balancing the linens on his hip.

  He was a very sexy man, she thought, measuring his hooded eyes for an instant.

  “Good night, Frances.” The words were like a caress and she looked down at herself, thinking he had to be crazy. Her shirt had salad dressing spilled on it, her hair was a stringy mess by now and her pants fit her like two trash bags that had been sewn together.

  She didn’t reply and shut her door quickly, leaning against it and feeling her heart pound. She let her head fall back and hit the wood.

  It had been so long since a man had looked at her as something other than a repository for complaints, a source of money for work he’d done or as someone who’d do his thinking for him. When was the last time she’d felt like a real woman instead of a shell that held in boiling anxiety and not much else?

  David, she thought with a shock. She had to go all the way back to David.

  Frankie tilted her body around until her cheek laid against the door panel.

  How had time passed so fast? Day to day, dealing with the fight to keep White Caps alive, she’d been unaware that nearly a decade of her life had been eaten up.

  For some stupid reason she felt like crying again, so she forced herself to cross the shallow length of her bedroom, undressing as she went. She was exhausted but she needed a shower. Throwing on a thick robe, she poked her head out into the hall.

  The coast seemed clear. Nate’s door was shut and she didn’t hear any running water. Hightailing it to the bathroom, she jumped under the hot water, shampooed her hair, soaped herself down and was drying off in under six minutes.

  As she scooted back to her room, she could have done without the stress of having to share a bathroom with the new cook. But it was sure as hell a lot better than having those hazel eyes devouring her sister.

  CHAPTER THREE

  NATE W
OKE UP, FEELING like someone was tickling the side of his neck. He brushed his hand over the spot a few times and then cursed the irritation.

  Cracking open one eye, he wasn’t particularly surprised by the fact that he didn’t recognize the room he’d slept in. He wasn’t sure whether he was in New York or New Mexico or what he’d agreed to do to earn the bed under him, either.

  He sat up, yawned and stretched his arms out until his shoulder cracked and began to loosen up. It wasn’t a bad room. Simple pine dresser, two small windows, squat ceiling. Its main selling points were that it was clean and quiet. Bed was fully functional. He’d slept like a baby.

  Nate leaned forward, looking out of a window. In the distance, through a hedge, he could see a lake.

  And everything came back as he pictured a woman with brunette hair and heavy framed glasses. Frankie.

  He laughed softly and tried to push off whatever was still on his neck.

  Man, that was one frustrating woman but damn, he liked her. That lockjaw tenacity and take-no-prisoners, my-way-or-the-highway attitude piqued his interest something crazy. All that strength and defiance made him want to get under her hard-driving exterior. Go behind those glasses. Take off those baggy clothes of hers and let her unleash her aggression all over his body.

  He shook his head, remembering the vehemence with which she’d warned him off Angel. There was no need to worry there. If he’d seemed taken by the girl when he’d first walked in the kitchen, it was because her fragile beauty was unusual, not because he was attracted to it. In fact, the strawberry blonde made him think about food, not sex. He wanted to sit her down and feed her pasta until she put on a few pounds.

  No, Angel wasn’t for him. He liked women, not girlie girls, and Frankie’s kind of strength, even if it could get annoying, was a virtue he couldn’t get enough of.

  He wondered what it would take to loosen her up so he had a chance with her. She didn’t strike him as the drinking kind, somehow. Much too self-controlled. And she probably wasn’t into jewelry because she didn’t wear any of it. Flowers? Having faced off her level stare, tender blooms seemed frivolous.

  Maybe she wouldn’t mind a good, hard kiss or two.