The Millionaire and the Maid. Michelle Douglas

was going to break his brother’s heart.

      ‘Shocked?’ he mocked with an ugly twist of his lips.

      The left side of his face and neck were red, tight and raw with the post-burn scarring from his accident. His too-long blond hair had clumped in greasy unbrushed strands. Dark circles rimmed red eyes. The grey pallor of his skin made her stomach churn.

      ‘To the marrow,’ she choked out.

      And in her mind the first lines of that Banjo Paterson poem went round and round in her head.

       There was movement at the station,

       for the word had passed around

       That the colt from old Regret had got away

      Regret. Got away. She suddenly wished with everything inside her that she could get away. Leave.

      And go where? What would she tell Russ?

      She swallowed and straightened. ‘It smells dreadful in here.’

      Too close and sour and hot. She slid the door open, letting the sea breeze dance over her. She filled her lungs with it even though his scowl deepened.

      ‘I promised Russ I’d clap eyes on you, as no one else seems to have done so in months.’

      ‘He sent you here as a spy?’

      ‘He sent me here as a favour.’

      ‘I don’t need any favours!’

      Not a favour for you. But she didn’t say that out loud. ‘No. I suspect what you really need is a psychiatrist.’

      His jaw dropped.

      She pulled herself up to her full height of six feet and folded her arms. ‘Is that what you really want me to report back to Russ? That you’re in a deep depression and possibly suicidal?’

      His lips drew together tightly over his teeth. ‘I am neither suicidal nor depressed.’

      ‘Right.’ She drew the word out, injecting as much disbelief into her voice as she could. ‘For the last four months you’ve sat shut up in this dark house, refusing to see a soul. I suspect you barely sleep and barely eat.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘And when was the last time you had a shower?’

      His head rocked back.

      ‘These are not the actions of a reasonable or rational adult. What interpretation would you put on them if you were coming in from the outside? What conclusion do you think Russ would come to?’

      For a moment she thought he might have paled at her words—except he was already so pale it was impossible to tell. She rubbed a hand across her chest. She understood that one had to guard against sunburn on burn scars, but avoiding the light completely was ludicrous.

      He said nothing. He just stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. Which just went to show how preoccupied he must have been. When most people saw her for the first time they usually performed a comical kind of double-take at her sheer size. Not that she’d ever found anything remotely humorous about it. So what? She was tall. And, no, she wasn’t dainty. It didn’t make her a circus freak.

      ‘Damn you, Mac!’ She found herself shouting at him, and she didn’t know where it came from but it refused to be suppressed. ‘How can you be so selfish? Russell is recovering from a heart attack. He needs bypass surgery. He needs calm and peace and...’ Her heart dropped with a sickening thud. ‘And now I’m going to have to tell him...’ She faltered, not wanting to put into words Mac’s pitiable condition. She didn’t have the heart for it.

      Mac still didn’t speak, even though the ferocity and outrage had drained from his face. She shook her head and made for the door.

      ‘At least I didn’t waste any time unpacking.’

      * * *

      It wasn’t until the woman— What was her name again? Jo Anderson? It wasn’t until she’d disappeared through his bedroom door that he realised what she meant to do.

      She meant to leave.

      She meant to leave and tell Russ that Mac needed to be sectioned or something daft. Hell, the press would have a field-day with that! But she was right about one thing—Russ didn’t need the added stress of worrying about Mac. Mac had enough guilt on that head as it was, and he wasn’t adding to it.

      ‘Wait!’ he hollered.

      He bolted after her, hurling himself down the stairs, knocking into walls and stumbling, his body heavy and unfamiliar as if it didn’t belong to him any more. By the time he reached the bottom he was breathing hard.

      He’d used to jog five kilometres without breaking a sweat.

      When was the last time he’d jogged?

       When was the last time you had a shower?

      He dragged a hand down his face. God help him.

      He shook himself back into action and surged forward, reaching the front door just as she lugged her cases down the front steps. Sunlight. Sea air. He pulled up as both pounded at him, caressing him, mocking him. He didn’t want to notice how good they felt. But they felt better than good.

      And they’d both distract him from his work. Work you won’t get a chance to complete if Jo Anderson walks away.

      He forced himself forward, through the door. ‘Please, Ms Anderson—wait.’

      She didn’t stop. The woman was built like an Amazon—tall and regal. It hurt him to witness the fluid grace and elegance of her movements. In the same way the sunlight and the sea breeze hurt him. It hurt him to witness her strength and the tilt of her chin and the dark glossiness of her hair.

      Jo Anderson was, quite simply, stunning. Like the sunlight and the sea breeze. There was something just as elemental about her, and it made him not want to mess with her, but he had to get her to stop. And that meant messing with her.

      With his heart thumping, he forced himself across the veranda until he stood fully in the sun. His face started to burn. The burning wasn’t real, but being outside made him feel exposed and vulnerable. He forced himself down the steps.

      ‘Jo, please don’t leave.’

      She stopped at his use of her first name.

      Say something that will make her lower her cases to the ground.

      His heart hammered and his mouth dried as the breeze seared across his skin. It took all his strength not to flinch as the sun warmed his face. He dragged a breath of air into his lungs—fresh sea air—and it provided him with the answer he needed.

      ‘I’m sorry.’

      He sent up a prayer of thanks when she lowered her cases and turned. ‘Are you really? I suspect you’re merely sorry someone’s called you on whatever game it is you’ve been playing.’

      Game? Game! He closed his eyes and reined in his temper. He couldn’t afford to alienate her further.

      ‘Please don’t take tales back to Russ that will cause him worry. He...he needs... He doesn’t need the stress.’

      She stared at him. She had eyes the colour of sage. He briefly wondered if sage was the elusive ingredient he’d been searching for all morning, before shaking the thought away.

      Jo tilted her chin and narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t take anyone’s wellbeing or health for granted, Mac. Not any more. And—’

      ‘This is my life we’re talking about,’ he cut in. ‘Don’t I get any say in the matter?’

      ‘I’d treat you like an adult if you’d been acting like one.’

      ‘You can’t make that judgement based on five minutes’ acquaintance. I’ve been having a very