‘What the heck? We’ve always got fish fingers to fall back on.’
She laughed.
‘What if I give you the first recipe tomorrow?’
She nodded. And then glanced around at the lengthening shadows and shivered a little. The warmth quickly leached from the air as the afternoon closed in.
‘Speaking of dinner, I’ll need to get back and start it soon.’ The beef stew she’d planned needed to simmer for at least an hour and a half.
‘And I should get a bit more work done.’
He moved to get up and she started to offer him her hand, and then snatched it back, remembering the way he’d shaken off her touch earlier.
Mac’s gaze narrowed and he leant back on his hands, peering up at her from beneath the brim of his hat. ‘Did my lascivious gaze earlier embarrass you?’
She almost swallowed her tongue. His what? So he had been...? Was he saying...? Surely not!
‘Of course not,’ she lied.
He rose to his feet in one smooth motion. Bandit immediately leapt to his feet too. ‘I did tell you that you were a striking woman.’
She snorted and turned towards the house. ‘You’ve been stuck out here on your own for too long.’
Without warning, cool, firm fingers gripped the suddenly overheated flesh of her forearm, pulling her to a halt. ‘And you’re selling yourself short.’
No, she wasn’t. She just knew what she was. And she wasn’t the kind of woman who turned men’s heads. Mac was just trying to charm her, manipulate her.
‘I should put your mind at rest, though.’ He stroked her skin with his index finger before releasing her. ‘I want to assure you that you’re perfectly safe from unwanted attention. I have no intention of thrusting myself on you. I do mean to act like a perfect gentleman towards you, Jo.’
She wished he hadn’t used the term thrusting.
She drew herself up to her full height but he still towered over her. ‘No other scenario occurred to me, I assure you.’
‘Good.’ His eyes twinkled for a moment. ‘It doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy looking at you, though.’
Jo stumbled. Mac laughed. Bandit barked and raced off towards the house.
* * *
Mac paced back and forth outside the kitchen door.
Jo peered around the doorway. ‘You can come in and watch, you know. You could sit at the table.’
If he did that he’d bark instructions at her the moment she started. He’d make her nervous and she’d have an accident and burn herself. His stomach churned at the thought. If he sat in the kitchen he wouldn’t be able to resist the temptation to take over.
He didn’t deserve to indulge his passion when a boy lay in a hospital bed, suffering because of that passion.
‘So, all I’m doing at the moment is infusing these few ingredients for the béarnaise sauce I’m to make tonight, right?
‘That’s right.’
‘And—’
‘No questions,’ he ordered. ‘I need to know if you can follow the recipe.’
‘Okay—gotcha.’
He couldn’t have said why, but her earnest expression made him want to kiss her.
He could just imagine how she’d recoil from that. He grimaced, and tried to push the thought from his mind, but it didn’t stop the itch and burn that coursed through his body.
‘If you’re not going to watch then you best go somewhere else to pace. You’re making me nervous.’
Go where? Do what? He didn’t have a hope of settling to work at the moment. What if she didn’t understand an instruction? What if—?
‘Go toss a ball for Bandit.’
With a nod, he barrelled outside. The dog had a seemingly boundless reserve of energy.
Mac threw the ball three times. When Bandit brought it back the third time he gave the border collie an absent-minded scratch behind the ears. ‘How do you think she’s getting on in there, boy?’
He glanced back towards the house. It wasn’t as if she had to do anything difficult—just measure out a few ingredients, chop up a tablespoon of onion. Simple, right?
He sprang up the steps and moved soundlessly across to the door. He breathed in deeply but couldn’t smell anything. He straightened, ran a hand back through his hair. He should at least smell the vinegar being brought to the boil by now, surely? She should be reducing the mixture and...
Maybe she hadn’t started the reduction yet.
He reached for the door handle.
Bandit barked.
With a curse, Mac wheeled away and clattered back down the steps. He threw the ball until his arm grew tired and then he switched arms. Bandit didn’t show any signs of tiring. All the while Mac kept his attention cocked for any sign of sound and movement behind him.
Finally Jo emerged from the front door, bearing a plate of sandwiches, a jug of water and two glasses. ‘Hungry?’ she called out.
Not a bit—but he moved to where she’d set the things on the wooden table that stood at one end of the veranda and poured them both glasses of water. He drank his in an effort to appear nonchalant.
‘Run into any problems?’
She settled on the bench that sat between the living room windows, bit into a sandwich and lifted one shoulder.
He peered at her sandwich and blinked. ‘Is that peanut butter and honey?’
‘Yup.’
He stared.
‘What?’ She glared. ‘I like peanut butter and honey. You don’t have to eat one. I made you roast beef and pickles.’
He obeyed the unspoken demand in her voice and selected a sandwich. ‘What did the shrug mean?’ He promptly bit into the sandwich to stop himself pressing her further.
She licked a drizzle of honey from her fingers. It was unconsciously sensuous and very seductive. The fact that she didn’t mean it to be didn’t make a scrap of difference. He forced his gaze away and concentrated on chewing and swallowing.
‘I think I should probably tell you that I’m not up on a lot of cooking terminology. The very first time a recipe told me to “cream the butter and sugar” I thought it was directing me to add cream to the butter and sugar.’
He’d been leaning with a hip against the railing but he surged upright at her words. ‘This recipe didn’t ask you to cream anything.’
She waved a hand through the air. ‘That’s just an example. But...you know...“reduce the mixture by a third” isn’t the kind of thing I read every day.’
‘Do you think I need to add an explanation to describe what reducing means?’
She pursed her lips. ‘No, I figured it out, but...’
He leaned towards her. ‘Yes?’
‘Why go to all the trouble of reducing at all? Why not just add less vinegar, water and onion to begin with?’
‘Simmering the ingredients together infuses the flavours to provide a base for the sauce.’
She sat back and stared. ‘Now that’s interesting.’ She pointed a finger at him. ‘That should go in the cookbook.’
Really?
‘But, you know, I want you to realise that I might be more clueless than your real demographic, so—’
‘No, you’re perfect.’
She glanced up, obviously startled at this statement. Their gazes locked for a moment. They both glanced away at the same time.
Mac’s heart surged against his ribs. Why did this woman have to affect him like this? He’d known beautiful women in the past who had left him cold. Why couldn’t Jo leave him cold?
Oh, no, not her. She threatened to ignite him. And for the first time in months the thought of heat and fire didn’t fill his soul with dread. He glanced back at her. The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered madly. Unlike him, though, it wouldn’t be desire but fear that had sen
t the blood surging through her veins. Fear that he would touch her.
It left a bad taste in his mouth.
‘So...’ She cleared her throat. ‘My reduction is cooling and infusing, and I’ll strain it later when I’m ready to make the sauce. Feel free to go and check it out.’
He started for the door.
‘But...’
He turned back.
‘I didn’t know what tarragon vinegar was.’
He strode back to where she sat, one eyebrow raised.
‘So I just used plain old white vinegar.’
He let out a breath.
‘I briefly flirted with the idea of adding a herb to the mixture—like rosemary.’
He grimaced. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but—
‘Though in the end I decided not to risk it.’
‘It sounds as if you’ve done a great job.’
She didn’t look convinced. ‘I have another request to make. I’ve no idea what a double saucepan is.’
She needed to use one when adding butter—bit by tiny bit—to the reduction later, to create the sauce.
‘I’m not asking you to tell me what it is, but can I bring my laptop into the kitchen with me? I would if I were cooking at home.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘And the final thing,’ she said before he could walk away again. ‘This recipe is Steak with Béarnaise Sauce, but you haven’t said what you want served with it.’
‘New potatoes and green beans.’
‘Then you might want to include that at the end of the recipe too.’
Good point.
She suddenly laughed. ‘I can see you’re itching to check it out, so go. But wash your hands first. I don’t want dog hair in my reduction.’
He raced into the kitchen. He washed and dried his hands and then moved to the small saucepan sitting on the stovetop. He could tell at a glance that she’d used too much onion. He lifted the saucepan to his nose and sniffed. It was a pity about the tarragon vinegar—if she was happy to continue this experiment of theirs then they’d need to stock up on some of the more exotic ingredients—but all in all she’d done okay. The tension bled out of his shoulders.
She glanced up when he stepped back out onto the veranda. ‘Well?’
‘You’ve done a fine job. It’s not exactly how I’d want it, which tells me what parts of my instructions I need to fine-tune.’
Elation suddenly coursed through him. He could make this work. He could! Then there’d be enough money for Ethan’s hospital bills for the foreseeable future.
And after that?
He pushed that thought away. He had every intention of making sure Ethan was looked after for the rest of his life. Maybe he could do a whole series of cookbooks if this one sold well?
‘This was a brilliant idea of yours, Jo. I can’t thank you enough.’
She waved that away.
‘If there’s anything I can do in return...?’
She glanced up. The sage in her eyes deepened for a moment. ‘I believe you mean that.’
‘I do mean it.’ He’d have sat on the bench beside her, but that would mean sitting with the left side of his face towards her. He leant against the railing again instead.
‘Hold that thought.’
She disappeared into the house. She returned a moment later with a picture. His heart sank when she handed it to him. It was that damned macaron tower she’d already mentioned.
‘Macarons are tricky.’
‘Yes, but could you write me a recipe telling me how to make them—how to make that?’
He blew out a breath. ‘This is an advanced recipe.’
‘But practice makes perfect, right? I have plenty of time on my hands. I’ll just keep practising.’
‘Why do you want to make a macaron tower?’ He could name a hundred tastier desserts.
He handed her back the picture. She took it, but a bad taste stretched through him when he realised how careful she was not to touch him.
She stared down at the picture before folding it in half. ‘My grandmother turns eighty-five in two months, one week, four days and—what?—eleven hours twenty minutes? I’ve promised to make her one of these.’
Wow.
‘I want to do something nice for her.’
‘Nice’ would be taking her flowers, or treating her to lunch at a decent restaurant. Or making her a macaron tower.
‘Please, Mac, don’t look like that! This has to be possible. I’m not that much of a klutz in the kitchen. This is something I can build up to.’
‘Of course you can.’
‘He says with fake jollity,’ she said, so drily he had to laugh.
‘I didn’t mean that you can’t do it. I’m just blown away by the fact you want to.’
‘I love my grandmother. I want to do something that will make her happy. She’s as fit as a horse, and as sharp as a tack, but she’s still coming up to eighty-five.’
She rose and seized the other half of her peanut butter and honey sandwich and came to lean beside him on the railing, on his left side. He turned to stare out to sea, giving her his right side instead.
‘My grandmother and my great-aunt raised me. Their relationship has always been tempestuous. My grandmother always praised me and indulged me. My great-aunt always thought it in my best interests to...um...not to do that.’
He stilled and glanced at her, but he couldn’t read her face.
‘There’s an ongoing dispute over the rightful ownership of my great-grandmother’s pearl necklace. My great-aunt scoffed at the idea of my making that macaron tower and I’m afraid my grandmother has staked the pearl necklace on the fact that I can.’
His jaw dropped.
‘I believe my so-called womanly qualities have always been in dispute, and I’m afraid my great-aunt is now convinced that the necklace is hers.’
He straightened. ‘What exactly does she mean by womanly qualities?’ As far as he could see Jo’s ‘womanly qualities’ were exemplary. ‘You mean the domestic arts?’
She pointed what was left of her sandwich at him. ‘Exactly.’
He reached around her for another sandwich. It brought him in close. She smelled faintly of onions, vinegar and honey. His mouth watered. He ached to reach across, touch his lips to her cheek to see what she tasted like.
Jo polished off the rest of her sandwich and pushed away from the railing to amble down the veranda a little way before turning. ‘I don’t mean to give up without a fight.’
He turned to face the house again, presenting her with his good side. ‘I can understand that.’ But didn’t she resent being piggy in the middle between the two older women?
‘Why do you keep doing that?’
A chill fluttered through him. ‘Doing what?’
‘Keeping the right side of your face towards me? Isn’t it tiring?’
CHAPTER FIVE
IT WAS REALLY starting to bug her, the way Mac tried to hide his scar. Jo understood physical self-consciousness all too well, but Mac couldn’t spend the rest of his life trying to hide one side of his face. It just wouldn’t work.
‘The way you’re going, you’ll give yourself whiplash.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
How cold he could sound when he wanted—but she knew better. Mac wasn’t cold. He was... Well, he was hot. But that wasn’t what she meant.
He was devoting his life to making Ethan Devlin’s life better. Those weren’t the actions of a cold man.
‘Really?’ she said, walking around to his left side and deliberately surveying his scars. She’d noticed them before, of course, but scars didn’t make the man, and she’d had other issues with Mac that had nothing to do wit
h what he looked like.
The scars were red and angry. She sucked in a breath. Heck, they must hurt!
The pulse at the base of his jaw pounded. He held his body taut, as if it were taking all his strength to remain where he stood, and let her look at him.
He finally turned to glare at her, eyes flashing and lips pressed into a thin line. ‘Satisfied?’
She stared back at him and had to swallow. Mac, when he was riled like this, was pretty virile. She had a feeling that the glare, the set of those shoulders and the angle of his jaw were all supposed to have her shaking in her boots. Uh, no. Though it certainly had her pulse racing. She moistened her lips. What it really made her want to do was run to him—not away from him.
Lord, wouldn’t he laugh if he knew?
‘I don’t precisely know what you mean by satisfied, Mac.’
He swung away to stare out to sea, presenting her with his ‘good’ side again. ‘Satisfied,’ he growled, ‘as in have you had your fill of looking at it?’
Oh.
He kept his gaze firmly fixed in front of him, but she had a feeling he didn’t see the glorious view—the cobalt sky, the indigo and aquamarine of the sea, the white foam of the surf and the golden beach, all at their most vivid at this time of the year before the sun bleached everything pale with summer intensity.
‘Doesn’t it sicken you to look at it?’
Her head rocked back. ‘Of course not.’
He turned to glare, a blast of arctic chill from frigid eyes. ‘When you first arrived you said these scars shocked you to the core. Those were your exact words.’
She drew herself upright. ‘I wasn’t referring to your scars, you stupid—’ She bit back something rude and vulgar. ‘I was referring to how much you’d let yourself go!’
His jaw dropped.
She reached out and poked him in the shoulder. ‘Don’t you dare accuse me of being so shallow.’
His shoulders unbent.
She frowned and adjusted her stance. ‘Does it sicken you whenever you look in a mirror?’
One of those lovely shoulders lifted. ‘I’m used to it.’
‘But what? You don’t think anyone else can get used to it? You don’t think anyone else can see past it?’
Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set Page 7
