Stranded With The Secret Billionaire. Marion Lennox

      ‘I don’t have time for nice.’

      ‘Then let me,’ she told him and jumped down, grabbed a spoon and edged him out of the way.

      Her body hit his and all of a sudden they were close. Too close.

      He felt... He didn’t know what he felt. How long since he’d stood beside a woman in a kitchen?

      This was not a sensation he needed to be feeling tonight.

      He edged away fast, and stood and watched while she carefully spooned hot fat over the yolks.

      ‘Done,’ she said.

      She flicked bacon and tomatoes he’d fried earlier onto the toast and then carefully slid the eggs on top.

      How had she done that? It was weird but somehow she’d made it look...sort of gourmet? When he piled eggs and bacon onto a plate they looked like eggs and bacon. She’d sort of set the tomatoes at one side and then made a round of bacon. The eggs slid on top and it looked...great.

      He’d been hungry. Now he was even hungrier.

      And so, it seemed, was she. She sat down and tackled her eggs and bacon as if she hadn’t seen food in a week. She was enjoying every mouthful of this very plain meal.

      He thought of the few women he knew and the way they ate. Not like this. This was almost sensual.

      ‘Wow,’ she breathed as she finished her first egg and tackled her bacon. ‘Yum!’

      ‘It’s all in the cooking,’ he said and she grinned. It was a great grin, he decided. Kind of endearing.

      ‘Yeah, great fat scooping.’ She shook her head. ‘Nope. These eggs... This bacon...’

      ‘Home grown,’ he told her. ‘They’re Donald’s projects.’

      ‘Donald?’

      ‘I told you about him. He used to own this property. He got too old to run it; he sold it but the thought of leaving broke his heart. I offered him one of the shearers’ cottages in return for keeping up the garden. He’s been with me for ten years now, running a few of his precious pigs, caring for his hens and keeping my garden magnificent. Win-win for everyone.’

      ‘Are the eggs free range too?’ she asked.

      ‘We lock ’em up at night. Which reminds me...’ He headed for the sink, dumping his dishes. ‘I need to go. Sleep well. Anything you need in the morning, help yourself. I’ll be gone before dawn.’

      ‘You start shearing before dawn?’

      ‘The pens are already full for the dawn start but I’ll run the south mob into the home paddock to refill the pens as the men work. But I’ll be back here by about nine to make sandwiches.’

      ‘You’re making sandwiches?’

      ‘Yeah.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s all they’re getting. But it doesn’t affect you. Just stay away from the sheds, that’s all I ask. I don’t like distractions.’

      ‘I’m a distraction?’

      He turned and looked at her. Cute, he thought again. Definitely cute.

      Her poodle was at her feet. Most of the shearers had dogs.

      Penny and Samson in the shearers’ shed? No and no and no.

      ‘Definitely a distraction. Stay away,’ he growled, possibly more gruffly than he intended.

      But she looked distracted now. She was frowning. ‘You’re making sandwiches?’ she said again.

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you just said all you can do is sausages and boiling stuff.’

      ‘I’ll boil a couple of slabs of beef for lunch.’

      The thought of it was almost overwhelming but who else would do it? Ron and Harv could be depended on to keep the sheep coming in and clear the pens but their cooking skills were zero. Donald was eighty-seven. That was his pool of workers.

      He could imagine the reaction of the shearers if he went over there now and said: Hey, do any of you cook? Care to swap jobs?

      But he was eyeing the woman at the table with caution. She’d known how to cook an egg. That was about twenty per cent of his cooking skill. Maybe...

      But she drove a pink car. She had a poodle. She came from one of the richest families in Australia.

      Ask.

      ‘I employ a shearers’ cook,’ he told her. ‘The best. Pete sent me lists. I have everything I need—except Pete. He’s stuck on the far side of the floodwater.’ He hesitated. ‘So I’m stuck with cooking. But any help you could give me...’

      ‘I’ll cook.’

      Silence.

      I’ll cook.

      Two magic words.

      ‘You can cook?’

      ‘Don’t sound so shocked. Why do you think I was heading for Malley’s Corner?’

      ‘You were going to Malley’s to cook?’ He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

      ‘What’s wrong with that?’ She glared. ‘Just because my family’s...’

      ‘The richest family in Australia?’

      ‘We’re not. There are mining magnates richer than us.’

      ‘Of course there are.’

      ‘Don’t be sarcastic. Besides, this has nothing to do with money. Though...’ she considered ‘...I’m stuck here so I might as well make myself useful. Consider it payment for board.’

      ‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to cook for a shearers’ team?’

      ‘You were going to do it.’

      ‘Now you sound sarcastic.’

      And she grinned. ‘I do,’ she conceded. ‘But I can do better than sandwiches.’

      ‘We have a team of twenty shearers, classers and roustabouts. Do you have any idea how much they eat?’

      ‘I’ve cooked for hundreds.’

      ‘You...’

      ‘You say that like I’m some sort of amoebic slug,’ she said carefully. ‘Why shouldn’t I cook? Why do you think Malley hired me?’

      ‘Malley would employ anyone with a pulse. Come to think of it, rumour was that his last cook didn’t have one.’

      ‘Then he’s about to be surprised. I even have qualifications.’

      ‘You’re kidding.’

      ‘Only a basic apprenticeship,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve done lots of cooking classes in amazing places. Mum and Dad approved of those.’

      ‘I just read an article online,’ he told her. A man had to be careful but he might as well say it. Not that he had a recruitment pool of hundreds but he needed to know what he was getting into. ‘It described you as a PR assistant in your family corporation. It also said you were nursing a bruised ego and a broken heart.’

      She froze. ‘You checked up on me.’

      ‘I did. About the broken heart bit. Your sister... I’m sorry...’

      And all of a sudden the apologetic, polite blonde was transformed by temper.

      ‘Don’t you dare go there,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want sorry. Every one of my so-called friends are sorry, but not sorry enough to refuse an invitation to the massive wedding my parents are organizing right now. My father says a big function’s important to show there’s no family rift. So there’s no family rift. Business as usual.’