Marion Lennox - Stranded With The Secret Billionaire

‘So what about the Sheila we just saw you drive in with?’ Bert demanded. ‘Have you replaced Pete with a bit of fluff?’

‘I haven’t. She was stuck in the creek and I pulled her out. She’s stuck here too and, before you ask, I suspect she might be able to brew a decent tea but not much else.’

‘Great,’ Bert growled. ‘That’s just great.’

‘Sorry,’ Matt told him. ‘But that’s the situation and we’re stuck with it.’

And also a cute blonde with curves?

Do not go there. What was wrong with him? That was the second time he’d thought it.

Two weeks...

Stay well clear, he told himself. The last thing he needed was yet another woman complicating his life.

CHAPTER THREE

MATT RETURNED TO FIND Penny on the veranda, trying to make friends with Donald’s dog. He greeted her curtly. There was a lot to be done before he could sleep. If she was expecting to be entertained he might as well make things clear now.

He showed her which bedroom she could use. It was big, it overlooked the garden and it had the extra advantage of being as far away from his as possible. Plus it had its own bathroom. For a Hindmarsh-Firth it might still be slumming it, he thought, but it’d be a thousand times better than the accommodation she’d get at Malley’s Corner.

What on earth was she intending to do at Malley’s? He’d ask some time, he thought, but he had to be up before dawn to make sure the first mob was ready to go, he had to check the sheep again tonight and he needed to eat.

But he should offer to feed her, he decided. From tomorrow he was faced with feeding the multitude. He might as well start now.

‘Dinner’s in half an hour,’ he told her as he dumped her gear in her bedroom—how much stuff could one woman use? ‘At seven.’

‘I can help.’ She hesitated. ‘I’d like to.’

‘I’ll do it.’ He wanted to eat and run, not sit while she fussed over something fancy. ‘Thirty minutes. Kitchen. Oh, and there’s dog food...’

‘Samson has his own dog food.’

‘Of course he does,’ he said shortly and left her to her unpacking.

Showered, clean of the river sand, he felt better but not much. He tossed bacon and tomatoes into a frying pan, put bread in the toaster and set plates on the table.

Right on seven she walked in the door. She’d changed too. She’d obviously showered as well, for her curls were still damp. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and she’d caught her curls back in a ponytail.

He glanced around as she came into the room and had to force himself to turn back to the frying pan.

She looked fresh and clean and...cute? More than cute.

Curvy? Bouncy?

Sexy.

Cut it out, he told himself and concentrated on the bacon.

‘The house is lovely,’ she told him. ‘Thank you for taking me in.’

‘It’s not like I had a choice.’ He thought about that for a moment and decided he sounded a bore. ‘Sorry. You’re welcome. And yes, it’s lovely. Eggs?’ Then he figured as a conversational gambit it needed a little extra. ‘How many?’

‘Two, please.’ Her feet were bare. She padded over to the bench beside the firestove and hauled herself up so her legs were swinging. ‘You can fry on this? I’ve never used a slow combustion stove.’

‘It’s a skill,’ he said, deciding to sound modest.

‘What else can you do on it?’

Uh oh. She’d called him out. He grinned and cracked an egg into the pan. ‘Sausages,’ he told her. ‘And I can boil stuff.’

‘So you use the big oven?’

‘Not usually. The firestove suits me. If it’s a cold morning I put my boots in the oven. Oh, and the occasional live lamb.’

‘You put lambs in the oven?’

‘It’s the best place for a lamb that’s been caught in the frost,’ he told her. ‘I can fit a lamb and boots in there all at once. Lamb and boots come out warm and ready to go. It’s a win-win for everyone. Who needs an oven for baking?’

‘But you can still bake in it?’

‘I could try,’ he told her. ‘But anything I put in there might come out smelling of wet wool and boot leather.’

‘Yum,’ she said and then looked down at his frying eggs. ‘Don’t let them get hard.’

‘What?’ He stared down at the five eggs he’d cracked. He picked up the egg slice to flip them but Penny put her hand out and held his. Stopping him mid-flip.

‘You want runny yolks?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Runny’s nicer.’

‘Yeah, but...’

‘Just spoon a little hot fat over them. It’s much less likely to burst the yolks.’

‘I don’t have time for nice.’

‘Then let me,’ she told him and jumped down, grabbed a spoon and edged him out of the way.

Her body hit his and all of a sudden they were close. Too close.

He felt... He didn’t know what he felt. How long since he’d stood beside a woman in a kitchen?

This was not a sensation he needed to be feeling tonight.

He edged away fast, and stood and watched while she carefully spooned hot fat over the yolks.

‘Done,’ she said.

She flicked bacon and tomatoes he’d fried earlier onto the toast and then carefully slid the eggs on top.

How had she done that? It was weird but somehow she’d made it look...sort of gourmet? When he piled eggs and bacon onto a plate they looked like eggs and bacon. She’d sort of set the tomatoes at one side and then made a round of bacon. The eggs slid on top and it looked...great.

He’d been hungry. Now he was even hungrier.

And so, it seemed, was she. She sat down and tackled her eggs and bacon as if she hadn’t seen food in a week. She was enjoying every mouthful of this very plain meal.

He thought of the few women he knew and the way they ate. Not like this. This was almost sensual.

‘Wow,’ she breathed as she finished her first egg and tackled her bacon. ‘Yum!’

‘It’s all in the cooking,’ he said and she grinned. It was a great grin, he decided. Kind of endearing.

‘Yeah, great fat scooping.’ She shook her head. ‘Nope. These eggs... This bacon...’

‘Home grown,’ he told her. ‘They’re Donald’s projects.’

‘Donald?’

‘I told you about him. He used to own this property. He got too old to run it; he sold it but the thought of leaving broke his heart. I offered him one of the shearers’ cottages in return for keeping up the garden. He’s been with me for ten years now, running a few of his precious pigs, caring for his hens and keeping my garden magnificent. Win-win for everyone.’

‘Are the eggs free range too?’ she asked.

‘We lock ’em up at night. Which reminds me...’ He headed for the sink, dumping his dishes. ‘I need to go. Sleep well. Anything you need in the morning, help yourself. I’ll be gone before dawn.’

‘You start shearing before dawn?’

‘The pens are already full for the dawn start but I’ll run the south mob into the home paddock to refill the pens as the men work. But I’ll be back here by about nine to make sandwiches.’

‘You’re making sandwiches?’

‘Yeah.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s all they’re getting. But it doesn’t affect you. Just stay away from the sheds, that’s all I ask. I don’t like distractions.’

‘I’m a distraction?’

He turned and looked at her. Cute, he thought again. Definitely cute.

Her poodle was at her feet. Most of the shearers had dogs.

Penny and Samson in the shearers’ shed? No and no and no.

‘Definitely a distraction. Stay away,’ he growled, possibly more gruffly than he intended.

But she looked distracted now. She was frowning. ‘You’re making sandwiches?’ she said again.

‘Yes.’

‘And you just said all you can do is sausages and boiling stuff.’