Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set

by Michelle Douglas, Jessica Gilmore, Jennifer Faye

  ‘Are dogs really that simple?’ She gave a funny little grimace. ‘I’ve never had one before.’

  ‘Feed them and treat them with kindness and they’ll love you. End of story. You just need to give him some adjustment time. I’d suggest you set him up a bed in the kitchen or the laundry, so he doesn’t try and wander off at night to find his old home.’ He shrugged at her questioning glance. ‘Russ and I had dogs when we were growing up.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She suddenly leaned away from him and it made him realise he’d been talking to her, facing her, with his scar in full view.

  ‘What are you doing outside anyway? Were you waiting for me to get back? Oh, I didn’t worry you, did I? I didn’t mean to be longer than twenty or thirty minutes but then—’

  ‘Not at all.’ His heart pounded. Hard. ‘I was just going for a walk.’ People went to hell for lying as well as he did.

  She pressed a hand to her chest. Her lovely, generous chest.

  ‘That’s a relief. I was worried you’d think I’d made off with your fabulous car.’ She bit her lip. ‘I don’t suppose Bandit and I could come on that walk too?’

  What could he say to that? He glanced out at the beckoning sea, the field of winter grass and wild native flowers, noted the way the breeze rippled through it all and how the sun shone with winter mildness and tried not to let it filter into him, relax him...gladden him.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I suspect, though, that you should wear a sunhat to protect you...’ She touched the left side of her face to indicate that she meant his burn scar. ‘From sunburn.’

  He should.

  ‘You go get a hat and I’ll put Beauty in the garage.’

  They both rose. Bandit looked at Mac expectantly. Her face fell almost comically.

  ‘You’re not taking that fleabag in my car again,’ he said to mediate her disappointment at the dog’s reaction.

  ‘So much for “It’s just a car, Jo”,’ she muttered, but her lips twitched as she said it. She patted Bandit on the head. ‘You be a good boy. I’ll be back soon.’

  She folded herself into the car and her face broke into the biggest grin when she started it up again. She touched the accelerator just for fun and the car roared in instant response.

  He turned on his heel and strode through the house to hide his sudden laughter. ‘Bandit, I hope one day your new mistress gets herself her dream car. She’ll know exactly how to enjoy it.’

  Bandit wagged his tail, following Mac all the way through the house and up to his bedroom.

  Mac rifled through drawers, looking for a hat. ‘Don’t look at me like that, dog. I’m not your master. She is.’

  Bandit just wagged his tail harder. Mac shook his head and slathered sunscreen across his face. What on earth did Jo think she was going to do with a dog?

  She was waiting on the veranda when he finally returned. She wore a basketball cap. ‘I always have one in The Beast,’ she explained when he glanced at it. ‘Sunstroke is no laughing matter on a survey camp.’

  ‘It’s not a laughing matter anywhere, is it?’

  She shrugged and pulled her hand from behind her back to reveal a tennis ball. Bandit started to bark.

  ‘He came amply provided for.’

  With that, she threw the ball and Bandit hurtled after it. She set off after him, turning back after four or five strides.

  ‘Well? Aren’t you coming?’

  The previous two days he’d walked the property line behind the house and away from the sea. With an internal curse he kicked himself into action, trying not to let the holiday spirit infect him. But when Bandit came back and dropped the ball at Mac’s feet and Jo gave a snort of disgust all he could do was laugh.

  ‘Shut up and throw the ball for the ungrateful bag of bones.’

  So he did.

  They walked down a steeply inclined field, and then across level ground, and the whole time Mac tried to ignore the scent of the sea and the tug of the breeze caressing his face and the feeling of ease that tried to invade him. He hadn’t realised it but he’d grown cramped in the house these last few weeks, and moving now was like releasing a pent-up sigh.

  He didn’t deserve to enjoy any of it.

  He slammed to a halt. But it was going to prove necessary if he was to remain healthy. Jo was right about that. And he had to remain healthy. He had a debt to pay off.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  That warm honey voice flowed over him, somehow intensifying the sun’s warmth and the silk of the breeze.

  ‘Not tired out already, are you?’

  He kicked forward again. ‘Of course not.’ That wasn’t to say that the hill on the way back wasn’t going to give him a run for his money. ‘I’m just...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m just trying to figure out the best way to apologise for my behaviour on Monday, when you arrived.’

  ‘Ah.’ She marched up a low sand dune.

  He didn’t want to go onto the beach. He hadn’t guarded his privacy so fiercely to blow his cover now. As if sensing his reluctance, she found a flat patch of sand amongst a riot of purple pigface and sat to watch as Bandit raced down to the water’s edge to chase waves. After a moment’s hesitation he sat beside her. He kept his right side towards her.

  ‘You were expecting me on Monday, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why the foul temper? You didn’t seriously expect to live under the same roof as someone and manage to avoid them completely, did you?’

  Had he? He wasn’t sure, but he could see now what a ludicrous notion that was. ‘I’ve obviously fallen into bad habits. It wasn’t deliberate, and it certainly wasn’t the object of the exercise.’

  ‘By exercise I suppose you’re referring to holing up out here in royal isolation? What’s the object?’

  ‘The object is to write this darn cookbook, and I was having a particularly rough day with it on Monday.’

  She let out a breath. ‘And I waltzed in like a...’

  ‘Like a cyclone.’

  ‘Wreaking havoc and destruction.’

  ‘And letting in the fresh air.’

  She turned to stare at him. His mouth went dry but he forced himself to continue. ‘You were right. I’ve been shutting myself up for days on end, hardly setting foot outside, and some days barely eating. If you hadn’t shown up and shaken me up I’d have been in grave danger of falling ill. And I can assure you that’s not what I want.’

  He wasn’t on a suicide mission.

  He readied himself for a grilling—did he mean what he said or was he trying to manipulate her for Russ’s benefit, et cetera, et cetera?

  Instead she turned to him, her gaze steady. ‘Why is the cookbook so important?’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  WAS THE COOKBOOK a way for Mac to take his mind off the fact he no longer had a television show? No longer had a job? His fisted hands and clenched jaw told her it consumed him, and not necessarily in a good way.

  When he didn’t answer she tried again. ‘What’s the big deal with the cookbook, Mac?’

  He finally turned to look at her. ‘Money.’

  ‘You have a deal with a publisher?’

  He gave a single nod before he turned back to stare at the sea.

  ‘If you hate it that much—’ and she was pretty certain he did ‘—can’t you just...?’ She shrugged. She didn’t know how these things worked. ‘Change your mind? Apologise and pay back the advance?’

  ‘You don’t understand.’

  Obviously not.

  ‘I need the money.’

  She had no hope of hiding her surprise, but she did what she could to haul her jaw back into place in super-quick time. ‘But you must’ve made a trucklo
ad of money from your TV show.’

  Not to mention all those guest appearances and endorsements. Still, if he’d gone around buying expensive cars willy-nilly she supposed he might have burned through it pretty quickly. Not that it was any of her business. And it wasn’t any of Russ’s business either.

  ‘I... Sorry, I just thought you were rolling in it.’

  ‘I was.’

  So what on earth had he done with it all?

  She had no intention of asking, but possibilities circled through her mind—bad investments, gambling, living the high life with no thought for the future.

  ‘It’s all gone on medical bills.’

  That had her swinging back. ‘Yours was a workplace accident.’ It had occurred during the filming of one of his TV episodes. ‘Insurance should’ve taken care of the medical expenses.’

  ‘Not my medical bills, Jo. The money hasn’t gone on my medical bills.’

  A world of weariness stretched through his voice. And then it hit her. That young apprentice who’d also been involved in the fire. ‘Ethan?’ she whispered.

  He didn’t respond with either a yea or a nay.

  She rubbed a hand across her forehead, readjusted her cap. ‘But the insurance should’ve covered his medical expenses too. I—’

  He swung to her, his eyes blazing. ‘He’s still in hospital! He still has to wear a bodysuit. His family wanted to move him to a private facility, where he’d get the best of care, but they couldn’t afford the fees.’

  Living the high life with no thought for tomorrow? Oh, how wrong she’d been!

  She reached out to clasp his arm. ‘Oh, Mac...’ He’d taken on so much.

  He shook her off and leapt to his feet. She pulled her hands into her lap, stung. A man like Mac would resent the sympathy of a woman like her.

  Striking, huh? Yeah, right.

  He spun to her, lips twisting. ‘Who should pay but me? I’m the reason he’s lying in a hospital bed with second-and third-degree burns to sixty per cent of his body. I’ve ruined that young man’s life. I’m the guilty party. So the least I can do is—’

  ‘What a load of codswallop!’ She shot to her feet too. ‘If we want to take this right down to brass tacks it’s the producers and directors of your television show who should be paying in blood.’

  Kitchen Encounters, as Mac’s television show had been called, had followed the day-to-day dramas of Mac’s catering team as they’d gone from event to event—a charity dinner with minor royalty one week, a wedding the next, then perhaps a gala awards night for some prestigious sporting event. Throughout it all Mac had been portrayed as loud, sweary and exacting—an over-the-top, demanding perfectionist. So over the top that even if Jo hadn’t had the inside line from Russ she’d have known it was all for show—for the ratings, for the spectacle it created.

  That wasn’t how the press had portrayed it after the accident, though. They’d condemned Mac’s behaviour and claimed the Kitchen Encounters set had been an accident waiting to happen. All nonsense. But such nonsense sold newspapers in the same way that conflict and drama sold TV shows.

  Mac remained silent. He fell back to the sand, his shoulders slumping in a way that made her heart twist. Standing above him like this made her conscious of her height. She sat again, but a little further away this time, in the hope she wouldn’t do something stupid like reach out and touch him again.

  She moistened her lips. ‘Russ told me that the persona you adopted for the show was fake—that it was what the producers demanded. He also said everyone on the show was schooled in their reactions too.’

  Conflicts carefully orchestrated, as in any fictional show or movie, to create drama, to create good guys and bad guys. Some weeks Mac had played the darling and others the villain. It had led to compulsive viewing.

  ‘The accident wasn’t your fault. You were playing the role you were assigned. You weren’t the person who dropped a tray of oysters and ice into a pot of hot oil.’ That had been Ethan. ‘It was an accident.’ A terrible, tragic accident.

  ‘For God’s sake, Jo, I was yelling at him—bellowing at him to hurry up. He was nineteen years old, it was only his second time on the show, and he was petrified.’

  He didn’t yell or bellow now. He spoke quietly, but there was a savage edge to his words that she suspected veiled a wealth of pain.

  ‘He was acting. Just like you were.’

  ‘No.’

  He turned and those eyes lasered through her. Blond hair the colour of sand, blue eyes the colour of the sea, and olive skin that was still too pale. His beauty hit her squarely in the chest, making it hard to breathe.

  ‘He was truly petrified. I just didn’t realise until it was too late.’

  She gripped her hands tightly in her lap to stop them from straying. ‘From all accounts if you hadn’t acted so quickly to smother the fire Ethan would be dead.’ The other actors on the set had labelled Mac a hero.

  ‘He hasn’t thanked me for that, Jo.’

  It took a moment for her to realise what he meant. She stared out to sea and blinked hard, swallowing the lump that was doing its best to lodge in her throat.

  ‘Do you know how painful his treatment is? It’s like torture.’

  ‘He’s young,’ she managed to whisper. ‘One day this will all be behind him.’

  ‘And he’ll be disfigured for life. All because I played the game the TV producers wanted—all because I was hungry for ratings and success and acclaim. At any time I could’ve said no. I could’ve demanded that we remain true to the “reality” part of our so-called reality show. I could’ve demanded that everyone on set be treated with courtesy and respect.’

  If he had, she suspected the show wouldn’t have lasted beyond a single season.

  ‘I didn’t. I chose not to.’

  There was nothing wrong with wanting to be successful, with wanting praise and applause for a job well done. If anyone took a poll she’d bet ninety-nine per cent of the population wanted those things too.

  ‘My pursuit of ratings has ruined a boy’s life.’

  And now he was doing all he could to make amends, to make Ethan’s life as comfortable as he could. She shuddered to think how expensive those medical bills must be. She didn’t believe for a moment that Mac should hold himself responsible, but neither did she believe she had any hope of changing his mind on that.

  What a mess!

  One thing seemed certain, though. If he didn’t ease up he’d become ill. At least he seemed to recognise that fact now.

  Or was that just a clever manipulation on his behalf so she wouldn’t go telling tales to Russ?

  She glanced at Mac from the corner of her eye as Bandit came racing up from the beach, tongue lolling out and fur wet from the surf. He collapsed at Mac’s feet, looking the epitome of happy, satisfied dog. If only she could get a similarly contented expression on Mac’s face her job here would be done.

  Unbidden, an image punched through her, so raunchy that she started to choke. That wasn’t what she’d meant! She leapt to her feet and strode a few steps away. Mac would laugh his head off if he could read her mind at the moment.

  Laughter is good for the soul.

  Yeah, well, in this instance it would shrivel hers.

  She put the image out of her mind, pulled in a breath and turned to face him. His gaze was fixed on her hips. He stared for another two beats before he started. Colour slashed high across his cheekbones.

  Had he been checking out her butt?

  She wiped her hands down her jeans. Ridiculous notion.

  But he couldn’t meet her gaze, and then she couldn’t meet his. She stared up at the sky. ‘So what’s the problem you’ve been having with your recipes?’

  ‘They’re complicated.’

  ‘Naturally. It’s one of t
he reasons your show was so gripping. There seemed to be so many things that could go wrong with each individual dish.’

  ‘I promised the publisher a troubleshooting section for each recipe.’

  That sounded challenging.

  ‘I’m not a writer!’ He dragged both hands back through his hair. ‘This stuff—the explanations—doesn’t come naturally to me. I don’t know if they’re coherent, let alone if a lay person could follow them.’

  And if he refused to actually cook the dishes then how much harder was he making this on himself? He’d always proclaimed himself an instinctive chef. Just getting the order right of when to do what must be a nightmare.

  It hit her then. How she could help him. And how he could help her.

  She moistened her lips. ‘Why don’t you give me the drafts of your recipes and we’ll see if I can make them? See if they make sense to me?’

  She shifted her gaze to Bandit—it was easier than looking at Mac—but she couldn’t help but notice how Mac’s feet stilled where they’d been rubbing against Bandit’s back.

  ‘You’d do that?’

  Forcing in a breath, she met his gaze. His eyes held hope, and something else she couldn’t decipher. ‘I’ll try, but you have to understand that I’m no cook.’

  ‘You’re the perfect demographic.’

  She was?

  ‘A plain cook who wants to branch out and try her hand at something new—something more complicated and exotic.’

  That wasn’t her at all. She just wanted to learn how to make a macaron tower.

  ‘This would help me out. A lot.’

  And her too, she hoped. He might refuse to stand side by side with her in a kitchen and show her how to make fiddly little macarons, but he might be worked on to create a sensible, within the realms of possible, macaron recipe for her.

  ‘If you’re sure?’ he added.

  So much for the demanding, overbearing kitchen tyrant. Russ had always chortled at Mac’s on-air tantrums. She was starting to see why.

  ‘As long as you’re prepared to eat the odd disaster for dinner if things don’t always work out.’