The Millionaire and the Maid

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 bad day.’ He widened his stance. ‘What do I need to do to convince you that I am, in fact, neither depressed nor suicidal?’

He would not let her go worrying Russ with this. He would not be responsible for physically harming yet another person.

She folded her arms and stuck out a hip—a rather lush, curvaceous hip—and a pulse started up deep inside him.

‘What do you need to do to convince me? Oh, Mac, that’s going to take some doing.’

Her voice washed over him like warm honey. It was a warmth that didn’t sting.

For no reason at all his pulse kicked up a notch. He envied her vigour and conviction. She stalked up to him to peer into his face. To try to read his motives, he suspected. She was only an inch or two shorter than him, and she smelt like freshly baked bread. His mouth watered.

Then he recalled the look in her eyes when she’d recovered from her first sight of him and he angled the left side of his face away from her. Her horror hadn’t dissolved into pity—which was something, he supposed. It had been scorn. Her charge of selfishness had cut through to his very marrow, slicing through the hard shell of his guilt and anger.

‘Stay for a week,’ he found himself pleading.

His mouth twisted. Once upon a time he’d been able to wrap any woman around his little finger. He’d flash a slow smile or a cheeky grin and don the charm. He suspected that wouldn’t work on this woman. Not now. And not back then, when he’d still been pretty, either.

Mind you, it seemed he’d lost his charm at about the same time he’d lost his looks. Now he looked like a monster.

It doesn’t mean you have to act like one, though.

Her low laugh drizzled over him like the syrup for his Greek lemon cake.

‘I believe you’re serious...’

Yeah? Well, at the very least it’d buy Russ another week of rest and—

What the hell? This woman didn’t know him from Adam. She had no idea what he was capable of. He pulled himself upright—fully upright—and the stretch felt good.

‘Name your price.’

He wasn’t sure if it was more scorn or humour that flitted through her eyes. She straightened too, but he still had a good two inches on her. She could try and push him around all she wanted. He—

He grimaced. Yeah, well, if he didn’t want her worrying Russ she could push him around. Whoever happened to be bigger in this particular scenario didn’t make a scrap of difference.

He thrust out his chin. Still, he was bigger.

‘Name my price?’

He swallowed. She had a voice made for radio—a kind of solid-gold croon that would soothe any angry beast.

‘Well, for a start I’d want to see you exercising daily.’

It took a moment for the import of her words rather than their sound to reach him.

Risk being seen in public? No! He—

‘During daylight hours,’ she continued remorselessly. ‘You need vitamin D and to lose that awful pallor.’

‘You do know I’ve been ill, don’t you?’ he demanded. ‘That I’ve been in hospital?’

‘You haven’t been in hospital for months. Do you have any idea how much you’ve let yourself go? You used to have a strong, lean body and lovely broad shoulders.’

Which were still broader than hers. Though he didn’t point that out.

‘And you used to move with a lanky, easy saunter. Now...? Now you look about fifty.’

He glared. He was only forty.

‘And not a good fifty either. You look as if I could snap you in half.’

He narrowed his eyes. ‘I wouldn’t advise you to try that.’

She blinked and something chased itself across her face, as if she’d suddenly realised he was a man—a living, breathing man—rather than a job or a problem she had to solve.

Not that it meant she fancied him or anything stupid like that. How could anyone fancy him now? But...

For the first time since the fire he suddenly felt like a living, breathing man.

‘If you want me to change my mind about you, Mac, I want to see you walk down to the beach and back every day. It’s all your own property, so you don’t need to be worried about bumping into strangers if you’re that jealous of your privacy.’

‘The beach is public land.’ He had neighbours who walked on it every day.

‘I didn’t say you had to walk along it—just down to it.’

‘The land that adjoins my property to the north—’ he gestured to the left ‘—is all national park.’ There’d be the occasional hiker.

‘So walk along that side of your land, then.’ She gestured to the right and then folded her arms. ‘I’m simply answering your question. If you find daily exercise too difficult, then I’ve probably made my point.’

He clenched his jaw, breathed in for the count of five and then unclenched it to ask, ‘What else?’

‘I’d like you to separate your work and sleep areas. A defined routine to your day will help me believe you have a handle on things. Hence a workspace that’s separate from your bedroom.’

He glared at her. ‘Fine—whatever. And...?’

‘I’d also want you to give up alcohol. Or at least drinking bourbon in your room on your own.’

She’d seen the bottle. Damn!

‘Finally, I’d want you to take your evening meal in the dining room with me.’

So she could keep an eye on him—assess his mental state. He could feel his nostrils flare as he dragged in a breath. He was tempted to tell her to go to hell, except...

Except he might have given up caring about himself, but he hadn’t given up caring about Russ. His brother might be eleven and a half years older than Mac, but they’d always been close. Russ had always looked out for him. The least Mac could do now was look out for Russ in whatever limited capacity he could. With Russ’s health so tenuous Mac couldn’t risk adding to his stress levels.

Jo’s phone rang. She pulled it from the back pocket of her jeans. He stared at that hip and something stirred inside him. And then desire hit him—hot and hard. He blinked. He turned away to hide the evidence, adjusting his jeans as he pretended an interest in the horizon.

What on earth...? He liked his women slim and compact, polished and poised. Jo Anderson might be poised, but as for the rest of it...

He dragged a hand back through his hair. There was no denying, though, that his body reacted to her like a bee to honey. He swallowed. It was probably to be expected, right? He’d been cooped up here away from all human contact for four months. This was just a natural male reaction to the female form.

‘I don’t know, Russ.’

That snapped him back.

‘Yeah...’ She flicked a glance in his direction. ‘I’ve seen him.’

Mac winced at her tone.

‘You have yourself a deal.’ He pitched his words low, so they wouldn’t carry down the phone to Russ, but they still came out savage. He couldn’t help it. He held up one finger. ‘Give me one week.’

‘Hmm... Well, he’s looking a little peaky—as if he’s had the flu or a tummy bug.’

He seized her free hand. Startled sage eyes met his. ‘Please,’ he whispered.

The softness and warmth of her hand seeped into him and almost made him groan, and then her hand tightened about his and his mouth went dry in a millisecond.

When she shook herself free of him a moment later he let out a breath he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding.

‘I expect it’s nothing that a bit of rest, gentle exercise, home-cooked food and sun won’t put to rights in a week or two.’

He closed his eyes and gave thanks.

‘Nah, I promise. I won’t take any risks. I’ll call a doctor in if he hasn’t picked up in a few days. Here—you want to talk to him?’

And before Mac could shake his head and back away he found the phone thrust out to him.

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and took it. ‘Hey, Russ, how you doing?’

‘Better than you, by the sounds of it. Though it explains why you haven’t answered my last two calls.’

He winced. ‘It’s all I’ve been able to do to keep up with my email.’ I’m sorry, bro. He hadn’t been good for anyone. Least of all his brother.

‘Well, you listen to Jo, okay? She’s got a good head on her shoulders.’

He glanced at said head and noticed how the wavy dark hair gleamed in the sun, and how cute little freckles sprinkled a path across the bridge of her nose. She had a rather cute nose. She cocked an eyebrow and he cleared his throat.

‘Will do,’ he forced himself to say.

‘Good. I want you in the best of health when I come to visit.’

He choked back a cough. Russ was coming to visit?

‘Give my love to Jo.’

With that, Russ hung up. Mac stared at Jo. ‘When is he coming to visit?’

She shrugged and plucked her phone from his fingers.

‘Why is he coming?’

‘Oh, that one’s easy. Because he loves you. He wants to see you before he goes under the knife.’ She met his gaze. ‘In case he doesn’t wake up after the operation.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Is it?’

‘Russ is going to be just fine!’ His brother didn’t need to exert himself in any fashion until he was a hundred per cent fit again.

She stared at him for a long moment. ‘Are you familiar with the Banjo Paterson poem “The Man From Snowy River”?’

Her question threw him. ‘Sure.’

‘Can you remember what comes after the first couple of lines? “There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around that the colt from old Regret had got away...”.’

‘“And had joined the wild bush horses—he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray”,’ he recited. His class had memorised that in the third grade.

‘Wild... Worth... Fray...’ she murmured in that honeyed liquid sunshine voice of hers.

‘Why?’

She shook herself. ‘No reason. Just an earworm.’

She seized her suitcases and strode back towards the house with them, and he couldn’t help feeling his fate had just been sealed by a poem.

And then it hit him.

Honey! The ingredient he’d been searching for was honey.

CHAPTER TWO

JO TOOK A couple of deep breaths before spooning spaghetti and meatballs onto two plates. If Mac said something cutting about her efforts in the kitchen she’d—

She’d dump the contents of his plate in his lap?

She let out a slow breath. It was a nice fantasy, but she wouldn’t. She’d just act calm and unconcerned, as she always did, and pretend the slings and arrows didn’t touch her.

Seizing the plates, she strode into the dining room. She set one in front of Mac and the other at her place opposite. He didn’t so much as glance at the food, but he did glare at her. Was he going to spend the entire week sulking?

What fun.

She stared back, refusing to let him cow her. She’d expected the shouting and the outrage. After all, he wasn’t known as ‘Mad Mac’—television’s most notorious and demanding celebrity chef—for nothing. The tabloids had gone to town on him after the accident, claiming it would never have happened if ‘Mad Mac’ hadn’t been so intimidating.

She bit back a sigh. It was all nonsense, of course. She’d had the inside scoop on Mac from Russ. She knew all of that onscreen TV shouting had been a front—a ploy to send the ratings skyrocketing. It had worked too. So it hadn’t surprised her that he’d donned that persona when she’d stormed in on him earlier. But the sulking threw her.

‘What?’ he bit out when she continued to stare.

She shook herself. ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’ She picked up her cutlery and sliced into a meatball.

‘You’re religious?’

‘No.’ The prayer had just seemed a convenient way to handle an awkward silence. ‘I mean, I do believe in something bigger than us—whatever that may be.’

Mac didn’t say anything. He didn’t even move to pick up his cutlery.

She forged on. ‘One of the guys on the mineral exploration camps was a Christian and we all got into the habit of saying Grace. It’s nice. It doesn’t hurt to remember the things we should be grateful for.’

His frown deepened to a scowl. ‘You really think that’s going to work? You really think you can make my life seem okay just by—?’

She slammed her knife and fork down. ‘Not everything is about you, Mac.’ She forced her eyes wide. ‘Some of it might even be about me.’ Couldn’t he at least look at his food? He needn’t think it would taste any better cold. ‘Your attitude sucks. You know that? Frankly, I don’t care if you’ve decided to self-destruct or not, but you can darn well wait until after Russ has recovered from his bypass surgery to do it.’

‘You’re not exactly polite company, are you?’

‘Neither are you. Besides, I refuse to put any effort into being good company for as long as you sulk. I’m not your mother. It’s not my job to cajole you into a better temper.’

His jaw dropped.

And he still hadn’t touched his food.

‘Eat something, Mac. If we’re busy eating we can abandon any pretence at small talk.’

A laugh choked out of him and just for a moment it transformed him. Oh, the burn scars on the left side of his face and neck were still as angry and livid as ever, but his mouth hooked up and his eyes momentarily brightened and he held his head at an angle she remembered from his television show.

It was why she was still here. Earlier this afternoon he’d fired up—not with humour, but with intensity and passion. He’d become the man she’d recognised from the TV, but also from Russ’s descriptions. That was a man she could work with.

Finally he did as she bade and forked a small mouthful of meatball and sauce into his mouth. When he didn’t gag, a knot of tension eased out of her.

‘This isn’t bad.’ He ate some more and frowned. ‘In fact, it’s pretty good.’

Yeah, right. He was just trying to butter her up, frightened of what she might tell Russ.

‘Actually, it’s very good—considering the state of the pantry.’

She almost believed him. Almost. ‘I’ll need to shop for groceries tomorrow. I understand we’re halfway between Forster and Taree here. Any suggestions for where I should go?’

‘No.’

When he didn’t add anything she shook her head and set to eating. It had been a long day and she was tired and hungry. She halted with half a meatball practically in her mouth when she realised he’d stopped eating and was staring at her.

‘What?’

‘I wasn’t being rude. It’s just that I haven’t been to either town. I was getting groceries delivered 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—