Rich, Rugged...Ruthless

by Jennifer Mikels

  Her back to him, his Florence Nightingale stroked a crystal vase that was on the foyer table. “According to your sister—Rachel, you sent the housekeeper off in tears.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. I don’t know.”

  It was probably best to not know, Max decided. He might not like the answer. He crossed the gleaming dark-stained floor and halted at the staircase. To his left was a paneled library. To his right was a living room, complete with a deep blue sofa and a floor-to-ceiling bay window. A mahogany piano occupied one corner. He wondered if he played. “Let’s go,” he said, aware she hadn’t yet moved. “You had directions how to get here. Did you also learn which room is mine?”

  She smirked at him with a look, one he could only interpret as “Gotcha.” “Well, Watson, logic would tell us it’s the biggest.”

  The amusement in her voice irked him. Max leveled a glare at her, not caring to admit he deserved that. “Are you always so cheerful, or is this an act for my benefit?”

  Sliding the straps of his bag over her shoulder, Sam whisked past him and started up the stairs. “I try to be pleasant.”

  What was left unsaid came through clearly. What’s your excuse for being so disagreeable? He could have told her. You.

  Max watched her hips sway as she climbed the stairs ahead of him. He may not know squat about himself but he knew a certain edginess whenever she stood too near. What will it take to make her leave? he wondered. At the second-floor landing, he trailed her to the end of the hallway.

  Huge was his first thought when he entered the room. A masculine room of dark wood, it was decorated in navy and deep burgundy colors. Staring at the brass deer that stood beside a mahogany writing desk, Max assumed Rachel or an interior designer had used a free hand in decorating the house. He didn’t think he would have a knack for it.

  But then what the hell did he know? This was his room and nothing looked familiar. Nothing clicked a switch in his mind. Eyes squeezed shut, he stood in the middle of the room. Think, damn it. Think. Open your eyes. Remember something. Anything.

  At the thump behind him, he snapped open his eyes and looked back to see Samantha standing in the doorway where she’d dropped his bag.

  “I’ll unpack that for you in a little while.”

  He wanted to be alone. He wanted time to think, to explore, to touch. Something in the house had to bring back his past.

  “Be back in a moment.” She gave him that quick smile of hers.

  It annoyed him. She annoyed him. She was too helpful. “Where are you going?”

  “To find my space.”

  Another person would have said room, Max thought. He’d have guessed she was a free spirit. Someone with all that untamed red hair couldn’t be the type easily contained. And him—what had he been like? A bank president. Sounded stuffy. Was he a boring man, one of those pencil pushers who lived for his work? What did he like to do when he wasn’t at work?

  With a turn, he saw his reflection in the mirror. A stranger stared back at him. He noted that he was muscled. From lifting weights or from some other physical activity? He stared into the steel-blue eyes and saw nothing. Just like what was in his head: nothing. Scowling, he turned away from the image.

  From another room, he heard whistling. She didn’t annoy him. She aggravated him. He dropped to the edge of the mattress and listened, trying to name the melody. Offhand, he couldn’t.

  The sound of sneakered feet, hurrying along the hallway, then down the stairs, preceded the slam of the door. She was not quiet.

  Max wanted to go to sleep, to sleep until he was normal again. He flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. So he was home. Now what? He couldn’t carry on as if nothing was wrong and act normal. He didn’t know what normal was.

  Samantha left him alone. They’d have to work their way through this initial awkward period. Eventually Max would realize he did need her. In the meantime, they were living together. She wasn’t the least bit worried about handling him. She’d developed resilience and optimism to combat any adversary, even one who was a tall, dark, handsome grump.

  From the eight guest bedrooms, she chose a cream-colored room with a similar-colored bedspread and area rug. Tiny pink roses bordered the edges of the eyelet throw pillows. Though the room was smaller than the others, it was closest to his. The room was airy and had an upholstered chair to relax in and a writing desk.

  As she’d lugged her suitcases up the stairs, she’d noticed the abundance of chandeliers, the stained- and leaded-glass windows, the stone fireplaces. Planning to unpack later, she left her bags in her room and wandered back down the stairs. She ambled through a library and a sunroom with a fountain.

  She loved the honey-colored oak floors in the bedrooms, and here in the living room with its vaulted ceiling, exposed beams and stone fireplace.

  She thought she’d died and gone to heaven when she came across the kitchen with its teak cabinetry, brick floor and butler’s pantry. Even before she’d brought in her bags, she’d been itching to get into the kitchen, eager to cook something.

  Because Rachel had promised to hire someone by the end of the week to do the cleaning and laundry, Samantha had agreed to do the cooking until a cook could be hired. Sam had known she’d have the time, since her patient would require minimal care. Chock-full of nervous energy, she’d never been a couch potato or television addict, the thought of preparing meals was a welcome one.

  In passing through the huge dining room, she’d rescued several wilting plants and carried them with her into the kitchen. Setting them in the sink, she fingered the drooping leaf of a philodendron on the kitchen windowsill. Because she was away from home so much, she had no pet or plants. It would be fun to nurture this one and the others.

  Spotting a radio in a corner, she flicked on a favorite station. To the sultry sound of “Mood Indigo,” Sam made coffee, then inventoried the contents of the refrigerator, freezer and the pantry. As promised during a phone conversation, Rachel had done some grocery shopping. Spotting thawed ground beef, Sam came up with a quick dinner idea for their first meal. After she slid the meat loaf into the oven, she peeled potatoes for pan roasting, then climbed the steps to Max’s room.

  It was empty.

  She searched through the bedrooms on the second floor. Steps from a closed bathroom door, she heard his curse. One word. Loud. A person of lesser courage would take the expletive as a warning to stay clear. Sam marched forward and knocked on the door, ready to deal with his crisis. “Need help?”

  The bathroom door flung open. Happy, he wasn’t. “You keep saying that to annoy me, don’t you?”

  Sam managed a smile. “I say it because that’s what I’m being paid to do. Help you. What’s the problem?”

  He held up the arm in the cast. “I give.” He turned the scowl that had been directed on her to the stuck zipper of his jeans.

  Challenge number one, Sam decided. “Material is stuck.”

  “No kidding.”

  Sam narrowed her eyes at him. She could leave him like this. No, she couldn’t. This had to be embarrassing for him. Stepping near, she reached down and tugged at the denim stuck in the teeth of the zipper. She felt the bulge against her knuckles. The heat. The hardening. And she heard him suck in a breath. “I think I’ve got it.” She gritted her teeth and tugged at the denim. She’d kill herself if she blushed like some adolescent. “There. Your—” Her voice died.

  Though not a hand touched her, she looked up and was trapped by that steely gaze. Something fluttered within her. “Your sister left a list of what you like to eat.” She wished her legs felt as firm as her voice sounded.

  “Like what?”

  “Like—” She was certain he stood closer. A lot closer. “I need to go. Check on it.”

  What she needed was a moment alone, time to think clearly. He didn’t cooperate. She heard his footsteps behind her on the stairs.

  “You didn’t tell me what you’re cooking.”

  A tr
ace of amusement in his voice caused her to falter in mid-stride as she entered the kitchen. Was he having a laugh at her expense? Sam turned a speculative look on him. He looked deadly serious. There wasn’t even an inkling of a smile. She must have been wrong, she decided. “Meat loaf.”

  He grimaced. “Save me.” He flicked off the radio, abruptly ending a jazzy piano version of “Blue Moon.”

  Sam sighed with exasperation. Poison might work. She laughed at her own thought and flung open the freezer door to remove a package of frozen strawberries.

  “Is that your best offer?”

  She disregarded what sounded like a deliberate sarcastic goad. “Actually it isn’t. I could whip up great tamales, spinach enchiladas, beef and broccoli stir fry, fettuccine alfredo. I worked for a lady who loved to cruise and took me with her when she traveled. While with her, I lived in a home in Acapulco. I studied how to make the Mexican cook’s fabulous dishes.” Her smile firmly in place, Sam pivoted toward him. “Do you like Mexican food? Because if you do, I’ll make something like that one night.”

  “You talk a lot.”

  Leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb, he studied her with that narrowed, deciphering look.

  “I’ve been told that before.” Distance from him had helped. Feeling less unsettled, she turned on the sink spigot and let water rush over the frozen package of fruit. Never before had she intimidated easily. She smiled with a fond memory of a Fortune 500 CEO. Stuck in traction, he’d barked orders constantly and had never fazed her. “Did you rest at all?”

  “Too much in the hospital.” He circled the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards.

  “I doubt if you’re familiar with this room.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re a wealthy man, Mr. Montgomery.” She opened the package of strawberries and dumped the fruit in a bowl. “Wealthy people don’t usually hang out in the kitchen.”

  “What do wealthy people do?”

  Again she thought she heard humor in his voice. It didn’t matter if he was having fun at her expense. In fact, she hoped he was. He needed to let loose a little. “They play tennis. They go swimming.” She thought the answer to his question was obvious since there was a kidney-shaped pool at the back of the house.

  “Hardly.” He held up the arm in the cast. “Busted wing.”

  “I didn’t mean at this moment. It’s raining.” Sam sent him an easy smile. “Do you like to walk in it? I do.”

  He shrugged and ambled to the window. “Who knows?” He motioned toward the table in front of the bay window that was set for one. On top of a hunter-green-and-burgundy-patterned place mat, she’d placed a matching napkin, a hunter-green dinner plate and a water goblet. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “That is for me,” Sam said.

  “And me?” An obstinate tone entered his voice. “I’m not eating in bed.”

  She’d never considered the idea, but felt a tease rise within her. “People of leisure often eat in bed.”

  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

  She actually thought she saw him grin. “Pardon?”

  “Carter, is aggravating me part of the therapy?”

  She couldn’t hold back a laugh. “Of course not.”

  “Then quit the mumbo jumbo and answer my question.”

  “Actually, you never asked one. You told me you weren’t eating in bed. I never thought you would. I set the dining room table for you.”

  “Alone?”

  Sam would have preferred company. During other jobs, she’d usually eaten with the person in her care, had been treated not as a servant or an employee but as a companion. But she wasn’t quite sure of her position with Max Montgomery.

  “Forget that idea. We’ll eat together. Here or there.”

  “I’d like that.” She said the words to his back. “I’d prefer here. It’s less formal.”

  Idly he scanned the room. “Suits me. When will dinner be ready?”

  “In a few minutes. But if you want to rest—”

  “I don’t.”

  Feeling as if they’d made headway, Sam ignored the curtness in his voice. “Your sister said you lost weight while in the hospital. Everyone does.”

  She looked up from the bowl of strawberries and saw him wandering toward the French door. As he opened it and stepped outside onto the patio, she concentrated on finishing the meal preparation. What hurt does he harbor? she wondered. From what she’d heard about him, he’d been a distant man. He’d also suffered a recent tragedy, the death of his younger sister. Sam wondered if anyone had told him about that since he’d regained consciousness. She needed to find out. She certainly didn’t want to say something about Christina Montgomery if he had no idea who she was and what had happened to her.

  Sam clicked on the radio again, feeling more at ease with music around her. In between steaming string beans and unrolling a package of crescent biscuits, she danced around the kitchen. Singing “Fever” along with Peggy Lee, she gave a final bump and grind and whirled around.

  And saw him standing in the doorway. Rain glistened on his hair, a soft misty sheen clung to his skin.

  Inwardly she tensed. Deep-set eyes were locked on her. Without doing anything but looking at her, he unsettled her. He skittered sensation through her. She took in a deep breath and tried to ignore the pressure in her chest, the quickened beat of her heart. “You’re wet.” Brilliant comment, she berated herself.

  Her pulse still beating fast, she watched him run his hand over his damp face, then turn away. Alone, she leaned against the counter. It didn’t matter that she was attracted to him, that he sparked desire. Max Montgomery had to be off limits.

  Dinner was a silent affair. Sam waited for him to take as much as he wanted from the serving platters and bowls, then she cut the food into bite-size portions for him. He looked pained by his limitations. While he could feed himself and she imagined he’d have no problem with bathing except for out-of-reach places such as his back, he needed her help somewhat. From their initial encounter, she’d gathered that he hated depending on anyone for anything.

  She’d tried—she’d honestly tried—to engage him in conversation when they’d first sat down. But after receiving a dozen monosyllabic answers from him, she’d given up. She’d resigned herself to silent meals when midway through the dinner, he broke the silence.

  “Meat loaf is hamburger,” he said suddenly.

  What was his point? she wondered. “Don’t Montgomerys eat hamburger?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I assure you that Mayor Ellis Montgomery will devour his share of hot dogs and hamburgers while on the campaign trail.” Noticing his empty cup, Sam nudged back her chair to get the coffeepot. “You do know about his political plans?”

  He only nodded. Sam resolved to have some kind of conversation with him, even if it was mostly one-sided. “Do you remember your mother?” she went on while she filled their coffee cups. To her pleasure, he took another slice of meat loaf from the serving plate.

  “No, I don’t.” He poked his fork into a potato chunk. “Who knows why?”

  Sam didn’t buy his cavalier attitude. What he was going through was frightening. His past had been erased. He had no emotional ties because he couldn’t remember them. To another patient, she might have tried to talk about the amnesia and bring out feelings. But sensing how private he was, she thought he would need time to be ready for that.

  Despite his claim not to like her meat loaf or the pan-roasted potatoes, he devoured two helpings. While he ate a huge serving of the strawberry shortcake, Sam cleared away their dinner plates.

  “Why don’t you work at a hospital?” he asked out of the blue.

  Pleased he’d initiated conversation this time, Sam took a seat across the table from him again. She noticed that he looked tired. The first day home often was the hardest. “I like working one-on-one with a patient,” she explained. “And I have more freedom this way.”

  “I’d think you’d have less. You
’re stuck here. At a hospital, you’d leave when your shift is over and go home.”

  “But the shift would be the same hours every day. One lady I worked for liked to get up at five in the morning, take a four-hour nap in the afternoon, and stay up until two.”

  A frown creased a line between his brows. “You liked that?”

  “It was fun for a while. And then there was an elderly man recovering from a hip replacement who lived five days a week in Phoenix and two at a cabin in the woods. He always was on the go.”

  Max didn’t want to be interested, but she doled out just enough information to make him curious. “You lived in Arizona?”

  “And California and Colorado.” She paused to sip the hot brew. “I came here five years ago.”

  “From where originally?”

  “Oklahoma. Well, not exactly. My mama fell for a cowboy with an Oklahoma twang when I was three and we moved there from Kansas. Then she met a fellow who thought he was the next Waylon Jennings, and we moved to Nashville.”

  What looked like curiosity sprang into his eyes. “With him?”

  “Yes.” Sam usually didn’t tell so much about her personal life to a patient. Well, that wasn’t really true. Usually she waited until she’d been working for the person at least a week; by then, she was good friends with them. Over the rim of her coffee cup, she found herself the recipient of another frown. It might take longer than a week with Max, but she’d turn him around.

  “Why did you stay in Whitehorn if you have no family here?”

  Sam went to the sink. “I loved the country,” she said over the rush of water as she rinsed a plate. “Like you.”

  “Like me?”

  Over her shoulder, she saw his frown deepen to a scowl. “I heard you’ve lived in a lot of places, but you settled here,” she said.

  “Because of work, I moved around.” Max had gotten that information from Ellis—his father. He felt no strong affection for the man and wondered if he ever had. He’d felt different when Rachel had visited him in the hospital, had been glad to see her.

  “Are you remembering something?”