Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set

by Michelle Douglas, Jessica Gilmore, Jennifer Faye

  Puppies? She smiled. Eight puppies? She groaned. What on earth would she do with eight puppies?

  Maybe Russ would like one after he’d recovered from his surgery. Weren’t pets supposed to be good for people—a form of therapy?

  She bit back a sigh. What Russ really needed was a visit from his brother.

  * * *

  Mac ostensibly studied the cheese soufflé that Jo had set on the table, but all the time his mind whirled. Tomorrow Jo would have been here for a week. What did she mean to tell Russ?

  He glanced at her. She wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans. ‘Does it pass muster?’

  He pulled his attention back to the soufflé. ‘On first glance, yes. It’s a nice colour.’

  She folded her arms, narrowing her eyes.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ He raised his hands. ‘I’d want it higher and fluffier if you were one of my apprentices—but you’re not. This is the very first time you’ve made a soufflé, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Then in that case it definitely passes muster.’

  She sat and motioned for him to serve it.

  He drew the warm scent of the soufflé into his lungs. ‘It smells good.’

  She leaned in closer to smell it too, her lips pursed in luscious plumpness. A beat started up inside him, making his hand clench around the serving spoon.

  ‘So this whole food-assessing thing...it’s a bit like wine-tasting? You check the colour of the thing, smell it and finally taste it?’

  ‘Though in this instance one hopes it doesn’t get spat back out.’

  She sort of smiled. There hadn’t been too many smiles from her in the last day and a half.

  What was she going to tell Russ?

  ‘I’m trying to get away from the demanding level of perfection that’s necessary in a top-notch restaurant. The people who buy my book aren’t cooking for royalty.’ Not like he had. They’d be cooking for their eighty-five-year-old grandmothers. ‘I’m correct in thinking, aren’t I, that they just want to have some fun?’

  ‘Fun.’ She nodded, but he could tell she held back a sigh.

  He shook his head. How was he going to teach her the intricacies of a macaron when she didn’t even like cooking?

  He pushed the thought from his mind and sampled a forkful of soufflé.

  ‘Well?’

  He’d give it to her straight. Somehow she sensed it whenever he fudged. And she didn’t seem to mind the criticism. Because she wants to get better. Yes, but he wasn’t sure her reasons for wanting to get better were going to help her conquer the laborious process of making a macaron tower. He shook that thought away. If she left tomorrow there’d be no need to figure that out.

  The thought of her leaving filled him with sudden darkness. He moistened his lips. He didn’t want her leaving because he wanted her to tell Russ that there was nothing to worry about. That was all.

  He dragged his mind back to the soufflé. ‘An accomplished soufflé should be lighter. You probably needed to whip the egg whites a bit longer. But it’s very good for a first effort.’

  ‘You mean it’s passable?’

  He needed to work on that whole giving-it-to-her-straight thing.

  She sampled it too, and shrugged. ‘I don’t understand the difference between beating, whipping, creaming, mixing and all that nonsense.’

  It wasn’t nonsense.

  ‘What’s all that about anyway?’

  He stared at her. ‘Would it help if I put a glossary defining those terms in the book?’

  ‘Yes!’ She pushed her hair off her face. ‘I mean I’d welcome one.’

  Done.

  ‘And could you also add a definite length of time for how long egg whites should be whipped?’

  ‘That depends on the size of the eggs, the temperature of the room in which you’re whipping them, the humidity in the air and any number of other factors.’

  She stared at him. He wished he could ignore the intriguing shape of her mouth. He wished he could forget their softness and the spark they’d fired to life inside him.

  ‘Mac?’

  He jumped. ‘What?’

  ‘I just asked if you could include a photo, then, of what properly beaten egg whites should look like?’

  He wrote that down on the pad he’d started to keep at his elbow when they had dinner. With the addition of Jo’s suggestions, the cookbook finally felt as if it were taking shape. He just had to remember he wasn’t writing a textbook for apprentices.

  In the kitchen, the oven timer dinged. He frowned. ‘What else are you cooking?’

  She didn’t answer. She was already halfway to the kitchen.

  She returned with a pizza. One of those frozen jobs she’d shoved in the freezer after her first shopping trip. What on earth...?

  She took one look at his face and laughed. ‘I’m a carnivore, Mac. I’m sure cheese soufflé with a vegetable medley is all well and good, in its place, but give me a meat lovers’ pizza every time.’

  She seized a slice and proceeded to eat it with gusto. His stomach tightened, his groin expanded, and it was all he could do not to groan out loud.

  She tilted her chin at the pizza. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘I haven’t eaten that pap since I was a teenager. It’s full of chemicals and MSG and—’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’ She suddenly grinned, and it made him realise how remote and subdued she’d been. ‘Have a slice and I’ll put you out of your misery.’

  His chin came up. ‘What misery?’

  ‘What I’m going to tell Russ tomorrow.’

  He didn’t try pretending that it didn’t matter. It mattered a lot.

  Without another word he took a slice of pizza and bit into it. ‘Yuck, Jo!’ He grimaced and she laughed. ‘This is truly appalling.’

  If she liked pizza that much he’d make her a pizza that would send her soul soaring—

  He would if he still cooked, that was.

  She reached for a second slice. ‘On one level I know that. Whenever I eat pizza from a restaurant I can tell how much better it is. But this...? I don’t know—I still like it.’

  He finished his slice and gazed at what was left.

  ‘It’s strangely satisfying. Addictive.’

  She was right. He reached for a second slice and polished it off. ‘What are you going to tell Russ?’

  He watched as she delicately licked her fingers—eight of them. He adjusted his jeans. He drained his glass of water. Don’t look. Don’t think. Don’t kiss her again.

  She rose and opened the bottle of red wine sitting on the sideboard. He hadn’t noticed it before. He didn’t know if she was making him wait to punish him, or whether she was trying to gather her thoughts.

  She handed him a glass of wine and sat. ‘I’m going to tell Russ that you’re one of the most pig-headed, stubborn men I’ve ever met. I’m going to tell him you argue every point, and that whenever your work is interrupted you have creative type-A tantrums that would do a toddler proud. I’m going to tell him that you sulk and scowl and swear under your breath. And I’m going to tell him you’ve stolen my dog.’

  He stared at her and the backs of his eyes prickled and burned. ‘I could kiss you.’

  Everything she’d just said was designed to allay each and every one of Russ’s fears. He couldn’t have done better himself.

  ‘I’m not going to tell him that.’

  The air between them suddenly shimmered with a swirl of unspoken desires and emotions as the memory of the kiss they’d shared rose up between them. He knew she recalled it too, because her eyes dilated in exactly the same way as they had before he’d kissed her the last time.

  And it had to be the last time. Don’t kiss her again! />
  But the way her lips parted and her breathing became shallow...it could slay a man.

  She dragged her gaze away and took a sip of wine, but even in the dim light he could see how colour slashed high on her cheekbones. He searched his mind for something to say.

  ‘Do you really mind about Bandit?’

  Her lips twisted. ‘More than I should, I suspect. But not so much now I know there are puppies on the way.’

  Her chin came up and her gaze lasered him to the spot.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  He set his glass down. ‘If I get to ask one of you in return.’

  She twirled her glass in her fingers. Eventually she set her glass down too.

  ‘Deal.’

  He stiffened his shoulders, because he didn’t expect her question would be an easy one. That was okay. Neither was his.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Why won’t you visit Russ?’

  He tried to not let her words bow him. He should have known this was what she’d ask.

  ‘It’s funny...you don’t seem a particularly vain man.’

  He wasn’t.

  ‘But actions speak louder than words.’

  What was she talking about?

  ‘Are you really that afraid of showing your ugly mug to the outside world?’

  At any other time he’d have laughed at the ‘ugly mug’. He happened to know for a fact that she was rather partial to his particular ‘ugly mug’ no matter how much she tried to hide it. Except...

  Was that what she really thought of him?

  His shoulders slumped. ‘I’m not vain, Jo.’

  She gnawed at her bottom lip, but didn’t say anything.

  He dragged a hand down his face. ‘I made a promise to Mrs Devlin that I would lie low and stay out of the limelight until Ethan was out of hospital. Tabloid journalists would hound me like a dog if they knew I was in Sydney.’

  She opened her mouth, but he continued before she could voice her protests.

  ‘They’d find out—no matter how quiet I tried to keep it.’

  ‘Why did you make such a promise?’

  ‘Because the media brouhaha surrounding me and the accident was seriously upsetting for Ethan.’

  ‘And you wanted to do what you could to make things easier for him.’

  ‘At the time I’d have done anything either he or his mother asked of me.’ He still would. He leaned towards her. ‘Why don’t you think what I’m doing for Ethan is good enough?’

  She reached out and twirled the stem of her wine glass in her fingers. ‘Is that your question?’

  Dammit! ‘No.’

  She didn’t say a word. Just sat there like the rotten sphinx, sipping her wine. She picked a piece of pepperoni from the pizza and popped it into her mouth.

  He watched the action, suddenly ravenously hungry. Their gazes clashed and she stilled mid-chew. For a moment she was all that filled his vision, and then she looked away.

  ‘What’s your question?’

  Her voice came out high and thready. He knew why. The same frustration coursed through his veins and made his skin itch. Would a brief physical relationship really be such a bad idea?

  He forced himself back in his seat, closed his eyes and drew a deliberate breath into his lungs. He opened his eyes, but the question on his tongue about the relationship between her, her grandmother and her great-aunt dissolved, to be replaced by an altogether different one.

  He leaned towards her and her eyes widened at whatever she saw in his face. ‘What I want to know, Jo, is why you’re so convinced that you’re not beautiful? Who or what made you feel that way?’

  She glanced away, traced the edge of her placemat. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

  ‘I want the truth.’ Not the lie he could see forming on her lips. ‘If you won’t give me the truth then don’t give me anything.’

  She swallowed and met his gaze. He stared back. He knew how forbidding he must look, but he wanted her to know he was serious about this.

  ‘We might not be able to explore the physical relationship I’m aching to explore with you, but out here in the boondocks we can at least be honest with each other.’

  Eventually she nodded. ‘Okay.’

  She pushed her hair behind her ears and then drained what was left of her wine—which was a not inconsiderable half-glass.

  ‘When I was in school I was always teased for being a giant. I might have been picked first for basketball games, but I was always picked last at school dances. Boys obviously didn’t like to date girls who were taller than them.’

  He grimaced. Kids could be cruel.

  ‘But when I was nineteen and at university I fell madly in love with a chemistry student. I thought...I thought he had feelings for me.’ Her knuckles turned white around her glass. ‘It turned out, though, that I was a bet—a dare. It was some kind of Chemistry Club challenge—the guy with the ugliest date for the Christmas party won.’

  Mac couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘He... You—’

  He broke off, shaking all over.

  ‘Me and some of the other girls caught wind of it and dumped them all before the event, but...’

  But it had made her doubt her beauty. And she’d been doubting it ever since.

  She refilled their glasses and handed him one, glancing up at him from beneath her fringe, her eyes bruised and wounded.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this, Mac. I answered your question and the conversation is now over.’

  ‘No!’ He exploded out of his chair. ‘I can’t believe you’ve let a bunch of immature jerks let you feel like this—made you feel ugly and worthless. You’re beautiful and you’re worth a million of them.’

  ‘Go and see Russ, Mac, and then we can talk about this as much as you like. But until then—zip it.’

  She rose, collected their plates and strode into the kitchen. He wanted to go after her, shake her and tell her those boys had been wrong. He curled a hand around the doorframe of the dining room before he could storm through it. If he went after her he’d kiss her. And this time neither one of them would stop.

  He strode out to the front veranda, Bandit at his heels, into the chill night. If only he could get his hands on those cruel twerps. If only he could prove to her that she was beautiful.

  You can. Go see Russ. For her.

  He sat on the top step and held his head in his hands. That would mean something to her. But...

  Go see Russ? Though he wanted to, with everything that was inside him, he couldn’t break his promise.

  * * *

  Jo searched for signs of pity in Mac’s face the next day, when he gave her a brand-new recipe to try out—coq au vin—but couldn’t see any.

  What did disconcert her was the way his gaze rested on her lips and the answering hunger that rose through her. She didn’t want to want this man. She wished she hadn’t told him that nasty sordid tale last night. She wished she’d been able to resist his appeal for honesty. He made her feel far too vulnerable.

  She gazed at the recipe and gave her brain a metaphorical kick. Think of something halfway intelligent to say.

  ‘So, this needs to simmer for a long time?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Simmer, boil, poach, stew—all that nonsense should probably go in your glossary of terms.’

  He wrote that down on his notepad. ‘A genuine simmer is just below boiling point, but where there’s still the occasional bubble surfacing.’

  Right. She filed the information away.

  ‘C’mon—sit down,’ he ordered, gesturing to the kitchen table. ‘There’s hours before you need to get the stew on to simmer.’

  ‘There’s a lot of chopping to do,’ she
said, referring to the recipe.

  He switched on the laptop he’d brought downstairs with him. ‘Jo, not even you need five hours to chop some chicken and vegetables.’

  He had a point. If only she hadn’t done the grocery shopping yesterday afternoon she could have used that as an excuse to avoid him now. She sat, but she’d have much sooner grabbed the broom and started sweeping the laundry, or headed outside for a spot of weeding.

  Anything except being in the same room as him, sitting so close to him. And if he thought they were going to continue last night’s conversation then he was going to be sadly disappointed.

  ‘What do you want?’

  He raised an eyebrow and she knew she wasn’t being particularly gracious—but then she didn’t feel particularly gracious. She felt grumpy, out of sorts, frustrated...

  She stuck her nose in the air. ‘I’ll have you know I’m very busy with important housemaidy things.’

  His lips twitched. ‘Do you think you can fit the making of tea into all that important housemaid business?’

  With an exaggerated sigh, she rose and made tea while he fiddled around with his computer.

  When she set the pot and two mugs on the table and took her seat again he said, ‘We’re going to take a vocational test.’

  Something inside her started to shrivel. The sooner she worked out the next stage of her life the sooner she’d leave him in peace, right?

  He fixed her with the clear blue of his eyes. ‘You’ve helped me and now I want to help you.’

  The shrivelling promptly stopped. He wasn’t trying to get rid of her?

  ‘Ready?’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  He turned to the laptop. ‘“Are you more motivated by achievement or appreciation?”’ he read.

  She blinked. ‘Um...’ She liked to see the results of her hard work—as in the way Mac’s house now currently shone after all her dusting and sweeping. ‘Achievement.’

  He leaned back in his chair with a frown. ‘Are you sure?’

  She glared back at him. ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  ‘Why do you want to make that macaron tower for your grandmother, then? Aren’t you hoping to gain her appreciation and help her win a bet?’