Rescued by a Millionaire

In future. Help. Jenna’s breath caught in panic as she stared across at this large, disconcerting male. She was stuck here for three days.

‘Can I interest you in baked beans?’

It was a thoughtful drawl from Riley and she looked up at his face, sharply suspicious. It was as if he could read her thoughts. She didn’t like the sensation.

Food. Concentrate on food. In truth, she must be hungry. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She needed to wake Karli and persuade her to eat as well. But baked beans? Karli hardly ate anything and to persuade her to eat beans seemed impossible.

Once more her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Riley’s dark eyes creased into laughter.

‘This place is not a five-star restaurant, lady,’ he told her.

‘No.’ Trying to get her face in order, she knelt by the crate that seemed to hold all the food cans. ‘Do you have nothing but beans? You’ll get scurvy.’

‘Yeah, but I’ll die happy.’ He was standing above her, disconcertingly male. Disconcertingly big. ‘I like beans.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Lady…’

‘And neither does Karli,’ she said, unconscious of the fact that he was staring down at her with a very strange expression on his face. ‘I need to make her eat. Surely you don’t just exist on baked beans. No one could.’

‘I’m tough.’

‘Yeah, but surely not stupid. Or not that stupid.’ She was lifting cans out and inspecting their labels. Spaghetti. Baked beans. Spaghetti. Baked beans. But at the bottom were a few different labels, tossed in as if the packer hadn’t expected them to be used but had put them in as if to satisfy a conscience. They were cans of interesting things like water chestnuts, snow peas and capsicum. There were a few packets of herbs and spices. A few withered onions lay ignored underneath, and there was also a large packet of rice.

‘Can I use these?’ she asked, and Riley stooped beside her to take a look. His bare chest brushed her arm. He was so close. She edged away and almost toppled over. His hand came out and steadied her—which didn’t steady her in the least.

‘I opened a can of those water chestnut things once,’ he told her as if he was totally unaware of how aware of his closeness she was. ‘I tipped them over spaghetti. They tasted like—’

‘I can imagine how they tasted,’ Jenna said faintly. ‘Why did you pack them if you don’t like them?’

‘I didn’t pack them. Maggie packs for me. I make her put in the beans and spaghetti, but she always shoves in a few of those foreign jobs.’ He grinned and held up his hands as if in surrender. ‘You and Maggie would get along fine. You have a common interest in scurvy. Maggie says at the first sign of bandy legs or bleeding gums I’m to open them and eat them, regardless.’

‘Sensible woman.’ She sorted through the cans some more, still achingly aware of his body. ‘So who’s Maggie? Your wife?’

‘A wife?’ Was she imagining it or was there suddenly a trace of bitterness in his words. ‘No, ma’am. Maggie is…well, Maggie is my resident scurvy defence.’

‘She’s not resident here.’

‘Very acute, Miss Svenson. No, Maggie is not here. This place was my woman-free zone until you and Karli arrived, and I hope it will be again very soon.’

‘You don’t like women, then?’ It was a stupid question, she conceded. She had no business asking, but it just came out of left field. Then she had to concentrate on her cans as Riley stared at her and disconcerted her all over again.

There was a long silence. Finally he spoke again, and when he did Jenna knew she’d been right when she’d thought she detected bitterness. She’d hit a nerve and the nerve was still raw.

‘It’s not that I don’t like women,’ he told her. ‘It’s just that I don’t have time for them.’

‘Except for Maggie.’

‘As you say.’ He smiled at that. ‘Yep. Hooray for Maggie.’ He lifted a can of beans. ‘Let’s get these heated. I need to go to bed.’

‘Let me cook,’ she told him, rising with her hands full of the smaller cans. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll throw together something that’s edible.’

‘Beans are edible.’ He sounded hurt.

‘Not in my book,’ she retorted. Then at the look on his face—for heaven’s sake, he looked like a pup who’d just been kicked!—she relented. ‘Tell you what. You try what I cook, and if you don’t like it you can heat your beans. How’s that for a deal?’

‘Very generous—seeing it’s my food.’

Jenna grinned. ‘Noble’s my middle name. Why don’t you go away and I’ll call you when it’s ready?’

‘What, sit in the parlour and watch television on my chaise longue?’ Riley settled his long body onto a chair and placed his bare feet on the table. He leaned back, tilting his chair at a precarious angle and crossing his arms with the air of a man settling down to watch a show. ‘No way, Miss Svenson. For one thing, televisions and chaises longues are thin on the ground around here. For another, if you’re cooking my food then it’s my job to supervise. I can see that it’s my duty and I’m not a man to shirk my duty—especially if I can do it with a can of cold beer in my hand.’

‘Fine, then.’ Jenna swallowed the qualms she was feeling about being supervised by such a disconcerting male and she even managed a smile. She plonked two onions on the table, turned to the sink to collect a knife, and then faced him square on. ‘There is just one decision to be made.’

‘Which is?’ Riley was watching her with sudden caution. Which might have something to do with the very large knife she was now holding.

‘You have a choice,’ she told him. ‘The menu at the moment is stir-fried vegetables and rice, Chinese style. But unless those feet are removed, Riley Jackson, I’m adding fresh meat. Stir-fried toes, to be precise.’

She raised her knife.

There was a moment’s startled silence. He stared at the knife. He stared at his toes.

He stared at her.

His face changed.

It was as if he thought she meant her threat, she thought incredulously. Or maybe…maybe she was threatening something else. Something he didn’t want threatened.

The silence went on and on. Finally, still staring straight at her, he removed the offending toes.

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he drawled and it was as if his drawl was to hide some deeper emotion. He sat back and steadied his chair. ‘My toes aren’t on anyone’s menu.’

‘Just as well,’ she managed, lowering her knife and looking at the man before her with a slight frown. It was as if there were an electric charge underlying this light-hearted banter and she didn’t understand it one bit. ‘It’s my bet any toes of yours would be as tough as old boots.’

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