Michelle Douglas - The Millionaire and the Maid

‘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 is why you’re here—to check up on me so you can ease Russ’s mind?’

‘He was going to come himself, and that didn’t seem wise.’

Mac turned grey.

‘But you don’t have it quite right. Russ is doing me a favour, organising this job for me.’

He remained silent, not pressing her, and she was grateful for that.

‘You see, Russ’s heart attack and my fear that he was going to die brought me face to face with my own mortality.’

He flinched and she bit back a curse. What did she know about mortality compared to this man? She reached across to clasp his hand in a sign of automatic sympathy, but he froze. A bad taste rose in her mouth and she pulled her hand back into her lap. Her heart pounded. He wouldn’t welcome her touch. Of course he wouldn’t.

‘I expect you know what I’m talking about.’

Mac’s accident had left him with serious burns, but it had left a young apprentice fighting for his life. She remembered Russ’s relief when the young man had finally been taken off the critical list.

‘What I’m trying to say is that it’s made me reassess my life. It’s forced me to admit I wasn’t very happy, that I didn’t really like my job. I don’t want to spend the next twenty years feeling like that.’

She blew out a breath.

‘So when Russ found out you needed a housekeeper and mentioned it to me I jumped at the chance. It’ll give me two or three months to come up with a game plan.’

* * *

Mac stared at her. ‘You’re changing careers?’

‘Uh-huh.’ She looked a bit green.

‘To do what?’

She turned greener. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

He knew that feeling.

Mac didn’t want to be touched by her story—he didn’t want to be touched by anything—but he was. Maybe it was the sheer simplicity of the telling, the lack of fanfare. Or maybe it was because he understood that sense of dissatisfaction she described. He’d stalled out here in his isolation and his self-pity while she was determined to surge forward.

Maybe if he watched her he’d learn—

He cut that thought off. He didn’t deserve the chance to move forward. He’d ruined a man’s life. He deserved to spend the rest of his life making amends.

But not at the expense of other people. Like Russ. Or Jo.

‘You’re wrong, you know?’

She glanced up. ‘About...?’

‘You seem to think you’re plain—invisible, even.’ Not beautiful.

‘Invisible?’ She snorted. ‘I’m six feet tall with a build some charitably call generous. Invisible is the one thing I’m not.’

‘Generous’ was the perfect word to describe her. She had glorious curves in all the right places. A fact that his male hormones acknowledged and appreciated even while his brain told him to leave that well enough alone.

He leaned back, careful to keep the good side of his face to her. ‘You’re a very striking woman.’ Don’t drool. ‘So what if you’re tall? You’re in proportion.’ She looked strong, athletic and full of life. ‘You have lovely eyes, your hair is shiny, and you have skin that most women would kill for. You may not fit in with conventional magazine cover ideals of beauty, but it doesn’t mean you aren’t beautiful. Stop selling yourself short. I can assure you that you’re not plain.’