Beauty and the Black Sheep. Jessica Bird

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      “Actually, ma’am, I’m the new cook.”

      Oh, God, not Grand-Em.

      Frankie hurried up and burst through the door, ready to peel her grandmother away from the stranger. The idea of insulating him from her family was an impulse she didn’t question.

      “Cook?” Grand-Em looked up at him imperiously. “We have three cooks working here already. Why ever did Papa take you on?”

      Grand-Em was tiny and ornate, a five-foot-two-inch waif dressed in a flowing, faded ball gown. Her long white hair, which hadn’t been cut in decades, fell down her back and she had the unlined face of someone who had never been outside without a parasol. Next to Nate she looked as sturdy as a china figurine.

      “Grand-Em—”

      Frankie was astonished as Nate cut her off with a sharp hand. Bending at the waist, with his head properly bowed, he said, “Madam, it is my pleasure to be of service to you. My name is Nathaniel, should you need anything.”

      Grand-Em considered him thoughtfully and headed for the door.

      “I like him,” she said to no one in particular as she left.

      Frankie sighed and watched her grandmother drift down the hall. The dementia that had curdled that once-active mind was a terrible thief. And to miss someone, even though you saw them daily, was an odd sort of hell.

      “Who is she?” Nate asked softly.

      Frankie snapped to attention, unsure how long she’d leaned against the doorjamb with the towels and sheets in her hands.

      “My grandmother,” she said. “Here are your linens and there are some toiletry packets in the bathroom. Washer and dryer are outside to the right, in the closet. I’m across the hall if you need anything.”

      As she gave the pile of whites over to him, she made the mistake of looking into his eyes. There was intrigue in them, as if he were interested in her family.

      Knowing it would sound downright rude to warn him off of Grand-Em, too, Frankie kept her mouth shut as she turned away.

      “I’ve got a question,” he said.

      “What?” She didn’t look back at him, just stared at the pale pine floorboards as they stretched out down the hall.

      “What’s your name? Other than Boss, of course.” The last bit wasn’t mocking, more affectionate.

      She’d have preferred he made fun of her.

      “I’m Frankie.”

      “Short for Frances?”

      “That’s the one. Good night.”

      She walked across to her room and when she went to close the door, she saw he was standing in his own doorway, watching her. One arm was raised above his head with the elbow propped on the jamb. The other was balancing the linens on his hip.

      He was a very sexy man, she thought, measuring his hooded eyes for an instant.

      “Good night, Frances.” The words were like a caress and she looked down at herself, thinking he had to be crazy. Her shirt had salad dressing spilled on it, her hair was a stringy mess by now and her pants fit her like two trash bags that had been sewn together.

      She didn’t reply and shut her door quickly, leaning against it and feeling her heart pound. She let her head fall back and hit the wood.

      It had been so long since a man had looked at her as something other than a repository for complaints, a source of money for work he’d done or as someone who’d do his thinking for him. When was the last time she’d felt like a real woman instead of a shell that held in boiling anxiety and not much else?

      David, she thought with a shock. She had to go all the way back to David.

      Frankie tilted her body around until her cheek laid against the door panel.

      How had time passed so fast? Day to day, dealing with the fight to keep White Caps alive, she’d been unaware that nearly a decade of her life had been eaten up.

      For some stupid reason she felt like crying again, so she forced herself to cross the shallow length of her bedroom, undressing as she went. She was exhausted but she needed a shower. Throwing on a thick robe, she poked her head out into the hall.

      The coast seemed clear. Nate’s door was shut and she didn’t hear any running water. Hightailing it to the bathroom, she jumped under the hot water, shampooed her hair, soaped herself down and was drying off in under six minutes.

      As she scooted back to her room, she could have done without the stress of having to share a bathroom with the new cook. But it was sure as hell a lot better than having those hazel eyes devouring her sister.

      Chapter Three

      Nate woke up, feeling like someone was tickling the side of his neck. He brushed his hand over the spot a few times and then cursed the irritation.

      Cracking open one eye, he wasn’t particularly surprised by the fact that he didn’t recognize the room he’d slept in. He wasn’t sure whether he was in New York or New Mexico or what he’d agreed to do to earn the bed under him, either.

      He sat up, yawned and stretched his arms out until his shoulder cracked and began to loosen up. It wasn’t a bad room. Simple pine dresser, two small windows, squat ceiling. Its main selling points were that it was clean and quiet. Bed was fully functional. He’d slept like a baby.

      Nate leaned forward, looking out of a window. In the distance, through a hedge, he could see a lake.

      And everything came back as he pictured a woman with brunette hair and heavy framed glasses.

      Frankie.

      He laughed softly and tried to push off whatever was still on his neck.

      Man, that was one frustrating woman but damn, he liked her. That lockjaw tenacity and take-no-prisoners, my-way-or-the-highway attitude piqued his interest something crazy. All that strength and defiance made him want to get under her hard-driving exterior. Go behind those glasses. Take off those baggy clothes of hers and let her unleash her aggression all over his body.

      He shook his head, remembering the vehemence with which she’d warned him off Angel. There was no need to worry there. If he’d seemed taken by the girl when he’d first walked in the kitchen, it was because her fragile beauty was unusual, not because he was attracted to it. In fact, the strawberry blonde made him think about food, not sex. He wanted to sit her down and feed her pasta until she put on a few pounds.

      No, Angel wasn’t for him. He liked women, not girlie girls, and Frankie’s kind of strength, even if it could get annoying, was a virtue he couldn’t get enough of.

      He wondered what it would take to loosen her up so he had a chance with her. She didn’t strike him as the drinking kind, somehow. Much too self-controlled. And she probably wasn’t into jewelry because she СКАЧАТЬ