Laura Wright - Playboy's Ruthless Payback - Playboy's Ruthless Payback

He picked up the spotless glasses that were laid out on a towel on the island and followed her into the dining room.

“Well, what do you think?” she asked, setting the bottle down on an impressive black hutch.

This woman wasn’t fooling around. She was damn good at what she did, and it showed in every detail. She’d set the table with unusually modern-looking china, gleaming stemware and silver silk napkins. But the most impressive part was the centerpiece, which sat in the middle of a round walnut table. It looked as though she’d brought the outdoors inside with cut branches from his yard, white candles and small silver bells.

He set down the wineglasses and released a breath. “It’s perfect.”

“Good.” She checked her watch. “Your guests will be here in thirty minutes. You’d better wash up and change your clothes.”

“I have time.”

She gave him an impatient look. “It would be rude, not to mention awkward, if you weren’t here when the doorbell rings.”

“Careful, or someone might think you’re the woman of the house,” Mac said with amusement, wondering how long it would take to kiss that pink gloss off her mouth.

Reaching for the dimmer switch on the wall, Olivia lowered the lights a touch. “For all intents and purposes this weekend, I am.”

His gaze swept over her. “Did I tell you how much I like the color pink?”

“No, you didn’t,” she said primly, putting her arm through his and walking him toward the stairs. “But we really don’t have time for that now. I have a dinner to get on the table, and I won’t allow anything to burn.”

He grinned. “Of course, can’t have things getting too hot now, can we?”

She glared at him, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. “I think a shower would be good for you.”

He nodded and said with sardonic amusement, “Yes, dear,” then took the stairs two at a time. She was right. He needed a shower, a really cold shower. Hell, he thought, chuckling to himself, he might do better diving into one of those piles of snow burying his lawn.

Harold DeBold was one of those guys people just liked the minute they met him. Hovering somewhere around forty, he was very tall and thin, and had pale blond hair and wintery blue eyes. He reminded Olivia of a surfer, relaxed and free-spirited. His wife Louise, on the other hand, was dark-skinned, dark-eyed, completely city-sexy in her gorgeousness and totally high-strung. But she also seemed sincere, and when she was told that Olivia was going to be their chef for the weekend, instead of thinking it odd that the person Mac had hired to help him was not going to stay in the kitchen and/or serve, but was going to eat and socialize with them, she’d acted as though it were the most normal thing in the world—even adding that she was thrilled that Olivia was going to cook some down-home Minnesota fare for them.

“Honestly,” the woman said to Olivia, curling her diamond-encrusted hand around her wineglass. “I feel like all I’ve eaten for days is foie gras, caviar and squid ink. I’m over it.”

Chuckling, Harold told Mac, “We’ve been in New York for the past week.”

They were waiting for the DeBolds’attorney and her husband to arrive as they sat in Mac’s den, which had been completely transformed into a contemporary, masculine, but family-friendly retreat with his two existing leather chairs and several other pieces of dark blue chenille furniture curled around the fire. Cozy rugs dressed the hardwood floor, and lights had been installed outside to showcase the wintery-forest view from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Mac reached over and topped off Louise’s wine. “You two were in Manhattan for a week and you didn’t get around to pasta?”

Louise snorted. “Unfortunately, no.”

“Next time you go, let me know,” Mac said seriously. “There’s this tiny hole-in-the-wall in Little Italy that you’ve got to check out. The spiciest pasta puttanesca—not to mention the best-tasting parmesan cheese I’ve ever had.”

“Cheese.” Chuckling, Harold said with dramatic flair, “City folk think that all us backcountry Wisconsinites get to eat is cheese, so they refuse to take us anywhere that might serve it. Instead, they figure they’ve got to impress us with all those fancy, unpronounceable, unrecognizable foods .” As he said the last word he mimed air quotes.

Olivia held out a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Well, everything you’re going to eat tonight is as easy to pronounce as it is to eat.”

Louise sipped her wine and said, “Thank God.”

Harold took one of Olivia’s famous blue cheese jalapeño poppers wrapped in bacon and practically sighed when he ate it. “Oh, my,” he said to Olivia, his blue eyes so warm she couldn’t help but wonder if he was flirting with her just a little bit. “If these are any indication of your culinary skill, then you might never get me to leave.”

Louise agreed. “These tomato basil tarts are over the top.”

Olivia smiled, pleased that her fun and flavorful finger food was such a hit. “Thank you.”

“Are you self-taught, Olivia?” Louise asked.

“I actually went to culinary school, then I worked for several chefs in town before starting my business.”

Harold’s brows drew together. “And what kind of business is that exactly? Catering? Or are you a personal chef?”

Olivia looked over at Mac, who was sitting in a dark blue wing-back chair by the fire. He didn’t appear concerned by the question, and even winked at her, so she was as honest as she needed to be. “Myself and two other women provide catering, decorating, party planning …those kinds of services to clients.”

“And are your clients mostly clueless men or women?” Louise asked, her eyes dancing with humor until she realized she was including her host in that question. She offered him an apologetic smile. “Of course, I didn’t mean you, Mac.”

Mac laughed. “No apology necessary—I know where my skills lie and they’re not in the kitchen.”

“Mine, either, sadly,” Louise said on a sigh.

“All it takes is a little practice,” Olivia told Louise sympathetically.

Harold shook his head wistfully. “She has tried, Olivia.”

“Hey, there.” Louise gave him a playful swat on the arm.

The doorbell chimed over the laughter in the room, and Mac stood. “I’ll get that. Must be Avery.”

When Mac was gone, Harold turned to Olivia. “My lawyer and her husband are great people, and are usually very punctual.”

Olivia smiled warmly. “We’re in no rush tonight.”

“I like that attitude,” Louise said, snatching up another tomato tart. Male laughter erupted from the front hall, and Louise rolled her eyes. “Boys. We just found out that Mac went to college with Tim, fraternity buddies or something.”

It was as if time slowed after Louise had said the name Tim , and Olivia couldn’t seem to find her breath. Even the room spun slightly. “Tim?” she managed to say. “That’s your attorney’s husband?”

Louise may have answered her, but Olivia’s ears were buzzing. It wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him.

“Sorry we’re late,” came a voice that Olivia recognized at once. She swallowed. What was in her throat? It felt like a rock. She wouldn’t turn around—couldn’t turn around. He was coming and she felt frozen to the couch.

“Avery couldn’t decide on which shoes to wear,” he said dryly.

“Don’t you blame me, Tim Keavy, you know it was your fault.” The woman sniffed and added, “The Vikings game was on.”

“Typical.” Mac chuckled. “Avery, Tim, I’d like to introduce our amazing chef for the evening.”

No.… She didn’t want to.

“Olivia?” Mac said.