by JoAnn Ross
THE FIRST THING Clint noticed, as he roused himself from
his drunken stupor, was the tantalizing aroma wafting down the hall from the kitchen. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought it was beef stew. But of course that was impossible. Obviously, his mind was playing tricks on him again. The way it had when he’d thought there were blond women in his living room. Right after he’d shot a damn hole in his wall.
He pushed himself off the bed, and was not surprised when he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here. He’d been blacking out a lot lately. Rather than being upset by the missing hours, and sometimes days, Clint had come to appreciate the blackouts that kept him from remembering things too painful to think about.
He went into the adjoining bathroom and brushed his fuzzy teeth, then rinsed with mouthwash, assuring him self that if he was really flirting with alcoholism, as some of his friends had suggested, he would have swallowed the stuff.
Although he usually tried to avoid it, Clint made the mistake of looking into the mirror. He really did look like hell. Which exactly fit the way he felt.
The twinges of an impending headache began to stir behind his eyes. Having discovered that the most effective way to avoid a hangover was never to completely sober up, he left the bedroom, and headed toward the kitchen where he kept his liquor.
The rich aroma of beef cooking was even stronger out in the hall. “You’re going freaking nuts,” he told himself as he followed the wonderful scent. “Other drunks see bats when they get the d.t.’s. You smell stew.” Which was, he reminded himself, a lot better than the scent of Laura’s cologne he’d not been able to get out of his mind.
The shock hit his system the moment he entered his kitchen. His clean kitchen. Where the blond woman was standing at the stove. If this was a hallucination, it was definitely his weirdest one yet.
“What the hell?”
The woman turned, a wooden spoon in her hand. “Oh, you’re awake,” she said, greeting him with a warm smile as if there weren’t anything unusual about her being in his kitchen.
“I hope you’re hungry. I didn’t know what you liked, but since you’re a rancher, I thought that beef would be a safe bet. And, of course, stew is so nourishing, but if you’d rather—”
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, entering the room on a long-legged, angry stride. “And what do you think you’re doing in my house?”
She’d been right, Sunny thought as she was forced to tilt her head a long way back to look up at the man hovering over her. Clint Garvey was definitely tall.
“You don’t remember?” Sunny had never enjoyed lying. However, since most people tended to disbelieve in the concept of fairy godmothers, she’d learned to hedge.
“If I remembered, I wouldn’t have asked.”
“True.” She gave him her sweetest, most reassuring smile. “I came here earlier today. In answer to your ad.”
“What ad? I didn’t place any damn ad.”
His low growl reminded her of a timber wolf. For a man who’d been unconscious only hours ago, he was definitely radiating an excess of dangerous energy.
“Of course you did.” When forced to lie, Sunny did so blithely. “Let me get you a copy of the paper.”
She went into the next room, and blinked. An oversize leather handbag appeared on the dining room table.
“I know it’s in here somewhere,” she assured him as she began digging through the handbag.
“It’s not there because it doesn’t exist.”
“Of course it does.”
Frustrated, and wishing she’d chosen a smaller bag, she dumped the contents out on the table and began digging through lipsticks, a compact, credit card receipts and…Tampax? Oh, dear. That’s what she got for wishing for the contents of a normal mortal woman’s purse.
Feeling the flush rising in her cheeks, she glanced over at the man who’d followed her into the dining room. But unlike her, he appeared unembarassed by the feminine product.
“You were saying?” he asked, arching a knowing brow that irritated her.
“It’s here,” she insisted as she continued to sort through the female paraphernalia. Heavens, she decided as she put aside a roll of masking tape and two packs of chewing gum, if this is what the average woman had to lug around, she was definitely grateful she wasn’t mortal.
“Aha!” She held up the paper. “Eureka.”
He took the piece of newsprint which appeared to have been torn from the Rim Rock Record’s classified advertising section.
“It’s circled,” she said helpfully. “In red ink.” Personally, she thought that was a nice touch, especially for such a quick extemporaneous effort.
Clint still had a bit of a buzz on, but it didn’t hamper his ability to focus on the ad in question. “‘Wanted,’“ he read out loud, “‘housekeeper-cook. Five days a week. Room and board furnished, salary negotiable.’“ And then, right there in black and white was his name. And directions to the ranch outside of Whiskey River.
He looked down at her. “There’s been a mix-up. I didn’t place this.”
“It’s your name,” she said. As she leaned over to point it out to him, he caught a whiff of fresh spring rains and wildflowers. “And your address.”
She had him there. “I didn’t place it,” he insisted.
Once again Sunny realized this was not going to be easy. She’d foolishly hoped that he’d be so pleased with his clean his house and home-cooked dinner, he’d beg her to stay on. So much for that plan.
Having always prided herself on her ability to improvise, she tried another tact.
“Oh dear.” Sunny felt a bit guilty as her eyes filled with moisture, but she felt the situation called for drastic measures. “If you’re telling the truth—”
“I don’t have any reason to lie, dammit.”
“Well, then.” She twisted her hands together in front of her. “If you honestly didn’t place the ad…” Her voice drifted off. In what she thought was a very nice touch, a tear trailed down her cheek. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Reminding himself that he wasn’t responsible for her dilemma, that this was either a mistake or a particularly clever con, Clint steeled himself against her tears.
“I’d suggest you go back to town. Or wherever it is you came from. And try the next ad on your list.”
“But you were my only hope.” Since this was absolutely true, it wasn’t necessary for Sunny to fake the distress in her voice. “And I don’t have any way to get back to town.”
“How did you get all the way out here in the first place?”
“A nice man in a pickup gave me a ride.” She figured that was safely vague enough.
He thought about giving her a lecture about the dangers of hitchhiking, then decided she wasn’t any of his damn business. “All right. I’ll drive you back into Whiskey River.”
“You don’t understand,” she persisted. “I don’t have anywhere else to go. And since you’re obviously in desperate need of a housekeeper—”
“Look.” His voice, sharp as a bullwhip, stung. “Get this straight. I don’t need anyone.”
“That’s not true.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” That was definitely the dumbest approach to winning a job he’d ever witnessed. But then again, Clint reminded himself, he wasn’t interviewing her for any damn job.
“I’m saying that someone with your name who lives at this address has placed an ad for a housekeeper.” She lifted her chin and met his challenging gaze straight on.
“And high time, too,” she continued scathingly, “since I’ve never, in all my life, seen such a mess as your house was. And then, after I spent all day cleaning and scrubbing, not to mention fixing you a lovely dinner, you have the nerve to tell me that it’s all some mistake?”
He appeared as unmoved by her irritation as he’d been her tears. “Where did you get the food?”
“What?”
“I asked where, exactly, did
you get the food to cook this lovely dinner?”
Sunny wasn’t at all pleased with the way he’d heaped an extra helping of scorn on the word lovely. Instead of pressuring her this way, he should be grateful she’d gone to the trouble. She was, after all, next to Hollyhock, the very best cook at Godmother Central.
“Oh. Why, at the market, of course.”
“In Whiskey River.”
“Yes.”
“Want to tell me how you got there? Or did some other friendly man give you a ride all the way into town, then back out here again?”
For someone whose mind should have been dulled by drink, he was certainly being picky, Sunny thought. Still extemporizing, she said, “I brought some basics with me. You did say in the advertisement that you wanted someone who could cook.”
He stared at her for a long time. “I still don’t remember placing any damn ad.”
She could hear the beginning hint of doubt in his voice and realized he was about to give in. At least on this. “I don’t want to insult you,” she said carefully, almost gently, “but it’s obvious from all the empty bottles that I picked up, that you’ve been doing a bit of drinking lately.”
“Gee, and here I thought no one would notice,” he drawled.
He was not a pleasant man. Even after she got him cleaned up, Sunny feared it would not be easy to find him a wife. If she didn’t possess such a trusting nature, she might have suspected she’d been given this assignment in the hope that she’d wash out of the romance program.
Determined that that not happen, she decided to try reason. “Obviously there’s been some sort of mix-up.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Yes. Well…Why don’t we discuss our little problem over dinner?”
As he opened his mouth to tell her that the only one with the problem around here was her, she went back over to the pot and lifted the lid, allowing a mouthwatering steam to escape. Then she took a loaf of fresh-baked, goldentopped bread from the oven.
Hell. He could resist her apparent distress about not getting a job that didn’t exist. He could turn his back on her sweet scent. He wondered for only a second if those wild, springy blond curls were as soft as they looked, and was able to tamp down the hunger stirred by the sight of her bending over the oven door in her short plaid skirt.
Unfortunately, the first real food he’d seen—or smelled—in weeks was irresistible.
“I’m not going to change my mind,” he warned, suspecting a snare the way a wolf senses a trap buried in the forest.
“That’s certainly your prerogative.” She began spooning the stew into deep bowls he hadn’t seen for days. Not since he’d run out of cornflakes.
“But I will pay you for the work you’ve already done.” That was only fair, he decided, wondering how she could have made such inroads into the mess his house had been in such a short amount of time.
She threw him a dazzling smile over her shoulder. “That’s very kind of you. Why don’t we discuss it after dinner?”
“Fine.” He knew what she was doing and wasn’t going to let it happen. He opened the refrigerator, found it stocked with food that hadn’t been there earlier, and pulled out a beer. “We’ll settle it while I drive you back to Whiskey River.”
“Whatever you’d like,” she agreed without missing a beat.
It wasn’t really a lie, Sunny assured herself. Well, perhaps it was a little white one. But since it was for his own good, she conveniently decided that it didn’t count.
2
HUMMING SOFTLY BENEATH her breath, sunny cut several thick slices of bread with a serrated knife, then liberally spread one of them with creamy yellow butter. As he watched it melt, Clint could feel his mouth watering.
She put the bowls and basket of bread on the table she’d set earlier. From the way he’d been staring at the food, she expected he’d immediately sit down and begin wolfing it down. Instead he stunned her by pulling out her chair.
They ate in silence for a time. Clint’s attention was directed solely on his food, while Sunny watched him surreptitiously from beneath lowered lashes as she ate her dinner.
“You’re not a bad cook,” he said after a while.
“Thank you.” She smiled across the table at him, wondering what he’d say if she’d told him that she’d once cooked dinner for Julius Caesar.
“Where did you get the flowers?”
She’d put the arrangement of red and white carnations and holly in the center of the table after cleaning off what appeared to be months of newspapers.
“I found them in the grocery store. I thought they’d add a little holiday spirit.”
“Holiday?”
“You know. Christmas?”
“Oh, yeah.”
His disinterest was easy to understand, she thought. Obviously, he wouldn’t be looking forward to a season that celebrated the family and the hope a baby brought into the world.
“I can take them away,” she offered. “If you don’t like them.”
“I don’t care one way or the other. But I suppose you’ll expect me to reimburse you for them, too.”
The temper that Sunny had not known she possessed flared again. “Do you know,” she said, pointing her spoon at him, “it’s one thing to suffer a loss. I can understand how you might not feel like being overly cheerful after the year you’ve had. However, that is no excuse for ill manners.”
His eyes narrowed, and pinned her with a cold deadly look. “What the hell do you know about the year I’ve had?”
“Well, it isn’t exactly a secret,” she replied. Actually, from what she’d read of the case in the file that had magically appeared on the table beside her conjured-up bag, the death of Clint’s married lover—whose husband had been reported to be the Republicans’ great hope to regain the White House—had made headlines all over the world.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a master of understatement?” he asked dryly. He’d been reaching for his beer, but instead, his hand curled into a fist on the top of the table. “Hell, they probably know about Laura’s murder on Mars.”
He flinched as he said his sweetheart’s name, and Sunny’s irritation was replaced by compassion. Allowing her heart to rule her head, as she so often did, she reached across the table and covered his fisted hand with hers.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t kill her,” he muttered.
“No. But I wish I could bring her back for you.”
He laughed at that, but the cold wintry sound chilled her blood. “You and me both, baby.”
It was not often Sunny was allowed a sojourn on earth, and usually one of the things she looked forward to most on such occasions was the amazing variety of food she was able to prepare and enjoy. But a dismal mood had settled over the room, like a depressing, wet gray fog. The stew suddenly lost its appeal and the bread, which earlier had possessed a wonderfully yeasty flavor now tasted like ashes in her mouth.
It did not escape her attention that Clint, too, seemed to have lost his appetite. He polished off the beer, went over to the refrigerator for another, then seemed to reconsider. He shut the door and instead pulled down a new bottle of whiskey from the cupboard next to the stove.
“I’m not certain you should do that,” she said quietly.
“What did you say your name was?” he snapped. “Jiminy Cricket?”
“It’s Sunny,” she said, ignoring that conscious crack. “And I was only suggesting that if you intend to drive me back down that twisting road to town, perhaps you should refrain from drinking any more alcohol.” She had no intention of leaving, of course, but that wasn’t the point at the moment.
“Now you sound like a public service commercial.” He tore the seal and unscrewed the cap. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk, isn’t that how it goes?”
Although there was a rack of glasses beside him, he ignored them and took a long swig directly from the bottle. While he swallowed, he kept his eyes
on hers in what Sunny understood to be a challenge.
“Actually, I’m amazed you have any friends left,” she murmured.
The whiskey burned in a soothing, familiar sort of way. Soon, with any luck, not only would he not be able to drive, he wouldn’t be able to think. To remember.
“My friends, or lack of them, aren’t any of your business.”
“True. But although I’ve been called reckless in my time,
I’m not stupid enough to get into a truck with a man who’s been drinking.”
Unfortunately, she had a point. He had enough guilt on his conscience as it was. There was no way he wanted to risk killing this woman whose only crime had been to clean his house, cook him the best meal he’d had in months, hell, perhaps ever, and still somehow manage to be a royal pain in the ass.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“What?” She folded her arms across the front of her scarlet sweater embroidered with a trio of black scotties wearing plaid hair bows that matched her short skirt. The motion drew his attention to her breasts which, although not voluptuous, filled the sweater out nicely.
“I’ll drink however much I want. But I’ll give you the keys to the truck and you can drive yourself back to town.”
“Then how will you get it back again?”
He shrugged. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll figure out a way.”
“When you’re sober.”
He heard the censure in her tone and didn’t like it. “Yeah.” He took another swig. “When I’m sober.”
Becoming more frustrated by the moment, Sunny decided that if Clint Garvey kept behaving like a bratty twoyear-old, she was going to forget she’d ever felt sorry for him. “And when do you think that will be?” she asked. “Sometime in the next millennium?”
His laugh was short and mirthless. “Anyone ever tell you that you’ve got a smart mouth?”
