The Millionaire and the Maid. Michelle Douglas

from a supermarket in Forster.’

      ‘Was?’

      He scowled. ‘The delivery man couldn’t follow instructions.’

      Ah. Said delivery man had probably encroached on Mac’s precious privacy. ‘Right. Well, I’ll try my luck in Forster, then.’ She’d seen signposts for the town before turning off to Mac’s property.

      He got back to work on the plate in front of him with... She blinked. With gusto? Heat spread through her stomach. Oh, don’t be ridiculous! He’d had his own TV show. He was a consummate actor. But the heat didn’t dissipate.

      She pulled in a breath. ‘I’m hoping Russ warned you that I’m not much of a cook.’

      He froze. Very slowly he lowered his cutlery. ‘Russ said you were a good plain cook. On this evening’s evidence I’d agree with him.’ His face turned opaque. ‘You’re feeling intimidated cooking for a...?’

      ‘World-renowned chef?’ she finished for him. ‘Yes, a little. I just want you to keep your expectations within that realm of plain, please.’

      She bit back a sigh. Plain—what a boring word. Beauty is as beauty does. The old adage sounded through her mind. Yeah, yeah, whatever.

      ‘I promise not to criticise your cooking. I will simply be...’ he grimaced ‘...grateful for whatever you serve up. You don’t need to worry that I’ll be secretly judging your technique.’

      ‘I expect there’d be nothing secret about it. I think you’d be more than happy to share your opinions on the matter.’

      His lips twitched.

      ‘Is there anything you don’t eat?’ she rushed on, not wanting to dwell on those lips for too long.

      He shook his head.

      ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like me to serve?’

      He shook his head again.

      There was something else she’d meant to ask him... Oh, that’s right. ‘You have a garage...’

      They both reached for the plate of garlic bread at the same time. He waited for her to take a slice first. He had nice hands. She remembered admiring them when she’d watched him on TV. Lean, long-fingered hands that looked strong and—

      ‘The garage?’

      She shook herself. ‘Would there be room for me to park my car in there? I expect this sea air is pretty tough on a car’s bodywork.’

      ‘Feel free.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      They both crunched garlic bread. He watched her from the corner of his eye. She chewed and swallowed, wondering what he made of her. She sure as heck wasn’t like the women he was forever being photographed with in the papers. For starters she was as tall as a lot of men, and more athletic than most.

      Not Mac, though. Even in his current out-of-form condition he was still taller and broader than her—though she might give him a run for his money in an arm wrestle at the moment.

      Her stomach tightened. He was probably wondering what god he’d cheesed off to have a woman like her landing on his doorstep. Mac was a golden boy. Beautiful. And she was the opposite. Not that that had anything to do with anything. What he thought of her physically made no difference whatsoever.

      Except, of course, it did. It always mattered.

      ‘You’ve shown a lot of concern for Russ.’

      Her head came up. ‘Yes?’

      He scowled at her. ‘Are you in love with him? He’s too old for you, you know.’

      It surprised her so much she laughed. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ She swept her garlic bread through the leftover sauce on her plate.

      His frown deepened. ‘No.’

      ‘I love your brother as a friend, but I’m not in love with him. Lord, what a nightmare that would be.’ She sat back and wiped her fingers on a serviette.

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I’m not a masochist. You and your brother have similar tastes in women. You both date petite, perfectly made-up blondes who wear killer heels and flirty dresses.’ She hadn’t packed a dress. She didn’t even own a pair of heels.

      He pushed his plate away, his face darkening. ‘How the hell do you know what type I like?’ He turned sideways in his chair to cross his legs. It hid his scarring from her view.

      ‘It’s true I’m basing my assumption on who you’ve been snapped with in the tabloids and what Russ has told me.’

      ‘You make us sound shallow.’

       If the shoe fits...

      ‘But I can assure you that the women you just described wouldn’t look twice at me now.’

      ‘Only if they were superficial.’

      His head jerked up.

      ‘And beauty and superficiality don’t necessarily go hand in hand.’

      No more than plain and stupid, or plain and thick-skinned.

      He opened his mouth, but she continued on over the top of him. ‘Anyway, you’re not going to get any sympathy from me on that. I’ve never been what people consider beautiful. I’ve learned to value other things. You think people will no longer find you beautiful—

      ‘I know they won’t!’

      He was wrong, but... ‘So welcome to the club.’

      His jaw dropped.

      ‘It’s not the end of the world, you know?’

      He stared at her for a long moment and then leaned across the table. ‘What the hell are you really doing here, Jo Anderson?’

      She stared back at him, and inside she started to weep—because she wanted to ask this man to teach her to cook and he was so damaged and angry that she knew he would toss her request on the rubbish heap and not give it so much as the time of day.

      Something in his eyes gentled. ‘Jo?’

      Now wasn’t the time to raise the subject. It was becoming abundantly clear that there might never be a good time.

      She waved a hand in the air. ‘The answer is twofold.’ It wasn’t a lie. ‘I’m here to make sure you don’t undo all the hard work I’ve put into Russ.’

      He sat back. ‘Hard work?’

      She should rise and clear away their plates, clean the kitchen, but he deserved some answers. ‘Do you know how hard, how physically demanding, it is to perform CPR for five straight minutes?’ Which was what she’d done for Russ.

      He shook his head, his eyes darkening.

      ‘It’s really hard. And all the while your mind is screaming in panic and making deals with the universe.’

      ‘Deals?’

      ‘Please let Russ live and I’ll never say another mean word about anyone ever again. Please let Russ live and I promise to be a better granddaughter and great-niece. Please let Russ live and I’ll do whatever you ask, will face my worst fears... Blah, blah, blah.’ She pushed her hair back off her face. ‘You know—the usual promises that are nearly impossible to keep.’ She stared down at her glass of water. ‘It was the longest five minutes of my life.’

      ‘But Russ did live. You did save his life. It’s an extraordinary thing.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And now you want to make sure that I don’t harm his recovery?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Which