The Millionaire and the Maid

‘I’m sick to death of this ridiculous belief of yours that you’re not attractive. You’re a beautiful and very desirable woman.’

It frightened her. He frightened her because she wanted to believe him. Yet in her heart she knew it was all lies.

Mac eased away and she tossed her head. ‘I know my worth, Mac, make no mistake. I’m smart and strong and I’m a good friend. But let’s make one thing very clear. Boys like you do not kiss girls like me.’ Not unless it was for a bet or a dare. ‘It’s a fact of life.’

And then he moved in.

She raised her hands. ‘Don’t you—’

His lips claimed hers, swiftly, pushing her back against the house, but he took his time exploring every inch of her mouth. She tried to turn her head to the side but he followed her, his hands cupping her face. He crowded her completely, pressing every inch of his rock-hard self against her.

They both breathed hard, as if they’d run a race.

‘I beg to differ.’

She blinked up at him blankly.

‘Guys like me most certainly do kiss women like you. And what’s more, Jo, they enjoy every moment of it.’

The Millionaire and the Maid

Michelle Douglas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MICHELLE DOUGLAS has been writing for Mills & Boon since 2007 and believes she has the best job in the world. She lives in a leafy suburb of Newcastle, on Australia’s east coast, with her own romantic hero, a house full of dust and books, and an eclectic collection of sixties and seventies vinyl. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website: michelle-douglas.com.

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To Laurie Johnson for her enthusiasm, insight … and for introducing me to mojitos.

It was a joy to work with you.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

MAC PRESSED THE heels of his hands to his eyes and counted to five before pulling them away and focussing on the computer screen again. He reread what he’d written of the recipe so far and fisted his hands. What came next?

This steamed mussels dish was complicated, but he must have made it a hundred times. He ground his teeth together. The words blurred and danced across the screen. Why couldn’t he remember what came next?

Was it coconut milk?

He shook his head. That came later.

With a curse, he leapt up, paced across the room and tried to imagine making the dish. He visualised himself in a kitchen, with all the ingredients arrayed around him. He imagined speaking directly to a rolling camera to explain what he was doing—the necessity of each ingredient and the importance of the sequence. His chest swelled and then cramped. He dragged a hand back through his hair. To be cooking...to be back at work... A black well of longing rose through him, drowning him with a need so great he thought the darkness would swallow him whole.

It’d be a blessing if it did.

Except he had work to do.

He kicked out at a pile of dirty washing bunched in the corner of the room before striding back to his desk and reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the floor beside it. It helped to blunt the pain. For a little while. He lifted it to his mouth and then halted. The heavy curtains drawn at the full-length windows blocked the sunlight from the room, and while his body had no idea—it was in a seemingly permanent state of jet lag—his brain told him it was morning.

Grinding his teeth, he screwed the cap back on the bottle.

Finish the damn recipe. Then you can drink yourself into oblivion and sleep.

Finish the recipe? That was what he had to do, but he couldn’t seem to turn from where he stood, staring at the closed curtains, picturing the day just beyond them, the sun and the light and the cool of the fresh air...the smell of the sea.

He kept himself shut away from all that temptation.

But it didn’t stop him from being able to imagine it.

A ping from his computer broke the spell. Dragging a hand down his face, he turned back to the desk and forced himself into the chair.

A message. From Russ. Of course. It was always Russ. Just for a moment he rested his head in his hands.

Hey Bro, don’t forget Jo arrives today.

He swore. He didn’t need a housekeeper. He needed peace and quiet so he could finish this damn cookbook.

If the rotten woman hadn’t saved his brother’s life he’d send her off with a flea in her ear.

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he shook that thought off. He understood the need to retreat from the world. He wouldn’t begrudge that to someone else. He and this housekeeper—they wouldn’t have to spend any time in each other’s company. In fact they wouldn’t even need to come face to face. He’d left her a set of written instructions on the kitchen table. As for the rest she could please herself.

He planted himself more solidly in his chair, switched off his internet connection, and shut the siren call of sunshine, fresh air and living from his mind. He stared at the screen.

Add the chilli purée and clam broth and reduce by a half. Then add...

What the hell came next?

* * *

Jo pushed out of her car and tried to decide what to look at first—the view or the house. She’d had to negotiate for two rather hairy minutes over a deeply rutted driveway. It had made her grateful that her car was a four-wheel drive, equipped to deal with rough terrain, rather than the sports car her soul secretly hungered for. After five hours on the road she was glad to have reached her destination. Still, five hours in a sports car would have been more fun.

She shook out her arms and legs. ‘You can’t put her in that! She’s too big-boned.’ Her great-aunt’s voice sounded through her mind. She half laughed. True, she’d probably look ridiculous in a sport car. Besides, what were the odds that she wouldn’t even fit into one? As ever, though, her grandmother’s voice piped up. ‘I think she looks pretty and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.’

With a shake of her head, Jo shut out the duelling voices. She’d work out a plan of attack for Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith later. Instead, she moved out further onto the bluff to stare at the view. In front of her the land descended sharply to a grassy field that levelled out before coming to a halt at low, flower-covered sand dunes. Beyond that stretched a long crescent of deserted beach, glittering white-gold in the mild winter sunlight.

A sigh eased out of her. There must be at least six or seven kilometres of it—two to the left and four or five to the right—and not a soul to be seen. All the way along it perfect blue-green breakers rolled up to the shore in a froth of white.

She sucked a breath of salt-laced air into her lungs and some of the tension slipped out of her. With such a vast expanse of ocean in front of her, her own troubles seemed suddenly less significant. Not that she had troubles as such. Just a few things she needed to sort out.

She dragged in another breath. The rhythmic whooshing of the waves and the cries of two seagulls cruising overhead eased the knots five hours in the car had conspired to create. The green of each wave as it crested made her inhalations come more easily, as if the push and pull of the Pacific Ocean had attuned her breathing to a more natural pattern.

The breeze held a chill she found cleansing. Last week the weather would have been warm enough to swim, and maybe it’d be warm enough for that again next week. Having spent the last eight years working in the Outback, she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed the coast and the beach.

She finally turned to survey the house. A two-storey weatherboard with a deep veranda and an upstairs balcony greeted her. A lovely breezy home that—

She frowned at all the closed windows and drawn curtains, the shut front door. Heavens, Mac MacCallum was still here, wasn’t he? Russ would have told her if his brother had returned to the city.

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and then folded her arms. Mac would be in there. Russ had warned her that his brother might prove difficult. He’d also had no doubt in her ability to handle difficult.

‘Jeez, you save someone’s life and suddenly they think you’re Superwoman.’

But she’d smiled as she’d said it—though whether in affection at her dear friend and former boss, or at the thought of wearing a superhero outfit she wasn’t sure. Though if she burst in wearing a spangly leotard and cape it might make Mac reconsider the soundness of locking himself away like this.

She planted her hands on her hips.

Painted a sleek grey, each weatherboard sat in perfect alignment with its neighbour—and, considering the battering the place must take from sand, salt, sun and wind, that was a testament to the superior materials used and to whoever had built it. The best that money could buy, no doubt. The galvanised tin roof shone in the sunlight. There was even a chimney, which must mean there was an open fire. Nice! Winter might be relatively mild here on the mid-north coast of New South Wales, but she didn’t doubt the nights could be chilly.

She pulled her cardigan about her more tightly. Still, shut up as it was, the house looked cold and unwelcoming even in all this glorious sunshine.

There’s only one way to change that.

Casting a final longing glance back behind her, she set her shoulders and strode towards the house, mounting the six steps to the veranda two at a time.

A piece of paper, stark white against the grey wood, was taped to the door with ‘Ms Anderson’ slashed across it in a dark felt-tipped pen. Jo peeled the note away. Was Mac out? And was he going to insist on the formality of ‘Ms Anderson’ and ‘Mr MacCallum’?

Ms Anderson

I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working so let yourself in. Your room is on the ground floor beyond the kitchen. There should be absolutely no need for you to venture up onto the first floor.

She let out a low laugh. Oh, so that was what he thought, huh?

He finished with:

I eat at seven. Please leave a tray on the table at the bottom of the stairs and I’ll collect it when I take a break from my work.

She folded the note and shoved it in her pocket. She opened the front door and propped a cast-iron rooster that she assumed to be the doorstop against it, and then latched the screen door back against the house before going to the car and collecting her cases. And then she strode into the house as if she owned it—head high, shoulders back, spine straight.

Malcolm ‘Mac’ MacCallum had another think coming if he thought they were going to spend the next two months or so communicating via notes.

She dropped her suitcases in the hallway, wrinkling her nose at the musty scent of old air and neglect. A large reception room lay to her right. She strode in and flung open the curtains at the three large windows to let light spill into the room. She turned and blew out a breath.

Look at all this gorgeous furniture.

Antiques mingled with newer pieces, creating an elegant warmth that reminded her again of Mac’s success. She glared at a gorgeous leather chair. What use was success if it made you forget the people who loved you? Mac hadn’t visited Russ once since Russ’s heart attack. She transferred her glare to the ceiling, before shaking herself and glancing around the room again. It was all in serious need of spit and polish.

She grimaced. Tomorrow.

She turned her back on it to open the windows. The sound of the sea entered first, and then its scent. She straightened. That was better.

She found her room at the back of the house. Someone had made a half-hearted effort at cleaning it. Mac, she supposed. According to Russ, the last cleaning lady had left over a month ago. It would do for now. She’d tackle that tomorrow as well.

Her window looked out over an unkempt lawn to a garage. She lifted the window higher. She might not have a room with a view, but she could still hear the ocean. She leant against the windowsill, reaching out to touch a banksia flower on the nearby tree.

A moment later she drew her hand back, a breath shuddering out of her as she thought back to that stupid note stuck to the door. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. Turning her life upside down like this was probably foolhardy, irresponsible—even insane. After all, geology wasn’t so bad and—

It’s not so good either.

She bit her lip and then straightened. She’d gone into geology to please her father. For all the good it had done her. She wasn’t concerned with pleasing him any longer.

She’d remained in the field to keep the peace. She didn’t want just to keep the peace any more—she wanted to create a new world where peace reigned...at least in her little part of it. She’d stayed where she was because she was frightened of change. Well, Russ’s heart attack had taught her that there were worse things than fear of change.

Fear of regret and fear of wasting her life were two of those things. She couldn’t afford to lose heart now. She wanted a future she could look forward to. She wanted a future that would make her proud. She wanted a future that mattered. That was what she was doing here. That wasn’t foolhardy, irresponsible or insane. On the contrary.

But...what about Mac? What was she going to do? Follow instructions today and then try to corner him tomorrow? Or—?

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She glanced at the caller ID before lifting it to her ear. ‘Hey, Russ.’

‘Are you there yet?’

‘Yep.’

‘How’s Mac?’

She swallowed. Or not follow instructions?

‘I’ve only just this very minute arrived, so I haven’t clapped eyes on him yet, but let me tell you the view here is amazing. Your brother has found the perfect place to...’

What? Recuperate? He’d had enough time to recuperate. Work without distractions? Hole up?

‘The perfect place to hide away from the world.’ Russell sighed.

Russ was fifty-two and recovering from a heart attack. He was scheduled for bypass surgery in a few weeks. She wasn’t adding to his stress if she could help it.

‘The perfect place for inspiration,’ she countered. ‘The scenery is gorgeous. Wait until you see it and then you’ll know what I mean. I’ll send you photos.’

‘Does a body need inspiration to write a cookbook?’

She had no idea. ‘Cooking and making up recipes are creative endeavours, aren’t they? And isn’t there some theory that creativity is boosted by the negative ions of moving water? Anyway, there’s lots of deserted beach to walk and rolling hills to climb. It’s a good place to come and get strong—away from prying eyes.’

‘You think so?’

‘Absolutely. Give me an hour, Russ, and I’ll call you back when I have something concrete to tell you, okay?’

‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Jo.’

‘We both know that in this instance it’s you who’s doing me the favour.’

It wasn’t wholly a lie.

She’d known Russ for eight years. They’d hit if off from the first day she’d walked into the mining company’s Outback office, with her brand-new soil sample kit and her work boots that still held a shine. Their teasing, easy rapport had developed into a genuine friendship. He’d been her boss, her mentor, and one of the best friends she’d ever had—but in all that time she’d never met his brother.

After his heart attack she’d confided in Russ—told him she wanted out of geology and away from the Outback. She grimaced. She’d also told him she couldn’t go back to Sydney until she’d developed a plan. Her jobless situation would only provide Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith with more ammunition to continue their silly feud. Battle lines would be drawn and Jo would find herself smack-bang in the middle of them. She was already smack-bang in the middle of them! No more. She was tired of living her life to meet other people’s expectations.

She pulled in a breath. When she was working in a job she loved and doing things that made her happy, the people who loved her—Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith—would be happy for her too. She squinted out of the window. If only she could figure out what it was that would make her happy.

She chafed her arms, suddenly cold. All she knew was that another twenty years down the track she didn’t want to look back and feel she’d wasted her life.

When Russ had found all that out he’d laughed and rubbed his hands together. ‘Jo,’ he’d said, ‘I’ve just the job for you.’

And here she was.

She glanced around, her nose wrinkling.

She loved Russ dearly. She enjoyed his twisted sense of humour, admired the values he upheld, and she respected the man he was. She did not, however, hold out the same hopes for his brother.

She planted her hands on her hips. A brother did not desert his family when they needed him. Russ had been there for Mac every step of the way, but Mac had been nowhere to be found when Russ had needed him. But here she was, all the same. Mac’s hired help. She didn’t even know what her official job title was—cook, cleaner, housekeeper? Russ had dared her to don a French maid’s outfit. Not in this lifetime!

Russ needed someone to make sure Mac was getting three square meals a day and not living in squalor—someone who could be trusted not to go racing to the press. At heart, though, Jo knew Russ just wanted to make sure his little brother was okay.

Cue Jo. Still, this job would provide her with the peace and quiet to work out where she wanted to go from here.

She pulled Mac’s note from her pocket and stared at it.

There should be absolutely no reason for you to venture onto the first floor.

Oh, yes, there was.

Without giving herself too much time to think, she headed straight for the stairs.

There were five doors on the first floor, if she didn’t count the door to the linen closet. Four of them stood wide open—a bathroom and three bedrooms. Mind you, all the curtains in each of those rooms were drawn, so it was dark as Hades up here. The fourth door stood resolutely closed. Do Not Disturb vibes radiated from it in powerful waves.

‘Guess which one the prize is behind?’ she murmured under her breath, striding up to it.

She lifted her hand and knocked. Rat-tat-tat! The noise bounced up and down the hallway. No answer. Nothing.

She knocked again, even louder. ‘Mac, are you in there?’

To hell with calling him Mr MacCallum. Every Tuesday night for the last five years she’d sat with Russ, watching Mac on the television. For eight years she’d listened to Russ talk about his brother. He would be Mac to her forever.

She suddenly stiffened. What if he was hurt or sick?

‘Go away!’

She rolled her eyes. ‘“There was movement at the station.”’

‘Can’t you follow instructions?’

Ooh, that was a veritable growl. ‘I’m afraid not. I’m coming in.’

She pushed the door open.

‘What the hell?’ The single light at the desk was immediately clicked off. ‘Get out! I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Correction. An anonymous note informed me that someone didn’t want to be disturbed.’ It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She focussed on that rather than the snarl in his voice. ‘Anyone could’ve left that note. For all I knew you could’ve been slain while you slept.’

He threw his arms out. ‘Not slain. See? Now, get out.’

‘I’d like nothing better,’ she said, strolling across the room.

‘What the hell do you think you’re—?’

He broke off when she flung the curtains back. She pulled in a breath, staring at the newly revealed balcony and the magnificent view beyond. ‘Getting a good look at you,’ she said, before turning around.

The sight that met her shocked her to the core. She had no hope of hiding it. She reached out a hand to steady herself against the glass doors.

‘Happy?’

His lips twisted in a snarl that made her want to flee. She swallowed and shook her head. ‘No.’ How could she be happy? He 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.