The Millionaire and the Maid. Michelle Douglas

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СКАЧАТЬ the recipe? That was what he had to do, but he couldn’t seem to turn from where he stood, staring at the closed curtains, picturing the day just beyond them, the sun and the light and the cool of the fresh air...the smell of the sea.

      He kept himself shut away from all that temptation.

      But it didn’t stop him from being able to imagine it.

      A ping from his computer broke the spell. Dragging a hand down his face, he turned back to the desk and forced himself into the chair.

      A message. From Russ. Of course. It was always Russ. Just for a moment he rested his head in his hands.

      Hey Bro, don’t forget Jo arrives today.

      He swore. He didn’t need a housekeeper. He needed peace and quiet so he could finish this damn cookbook.

      If the rotten woman hadn’t saved his brother’s life he’d send her off with a flea in her ear.

      Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he shook that thought off. He understood the need to retreat from the world. He wouldn’t begrudge that to someone else. He and this housekeeper—they wouldn’t have to spend any time in each other’s company. In fact they wouldn’t even need to come face to face. He’d left her a set of written instructions on the kitchen table. As for the rest she could please herself.

      He planted himself more solidly in his chair, switched off his internet connection, and shut the siren call of sunshine, fresh air and living from his mind. He stared at the screen.

      Add the chilli purée and clam broth and reduce by a half. Then add...

       What the hell came next?

      * * *

      Jo pushed out of her car and tried to decide what to look at first—the view or the house. She’d had to negotiate for two rather hairy minutes over a deeply rutted driveway. It had made her grateful that her car was a four-wheel drive, equipped to deal with rough terrain, rather than the sports car her soul secretly hungered for. After five hours on the road she was glad to have reached her destination. Still, five hours in a sports car would have been more fun.

      She shook out her arms and legs. ‘You can’t put her in that! She’s too big-boned.’ Her great-aunt’s voice sounded through her mind. She half laughed. True, she’d probably look ridiculous in a sport car. Besides, what were the odds that she wouldn’t even fit into one? As ever, though, her grandmother’s voice piped up. ‘I think she looks pretty and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.’

      With a shake of her head, Jo shut out the duelling voices. She’d work out a plan of attack for Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith later. Instead, she moved out further onto the bluff to stare at the view. In front of her the land descended sharply to a grassy field that levelled out before coming to a halt at low, flower-covered sand dunes. Beyond that stretched a long crescent of deserted beach, glittering white-gold in the mild winter sunlight.

      A sigh eased out of her. There must be at least six or seven kilometres of it—two to the left and four or five to the right—and not a soul to be seen. All the way along it perfect blue-green breakers rolled up to the shore in a froth of white.

      She sucked a breath of salt-laced air into her lungs and some of the tension slipped out of her. With such a vast expanse of ocean in front of her, her own troubles seemed suddenly less significant. Not that she had troubles as such. Just a few things she needed to sort out.

      She dragged in another breath. The rhythmic whooshing of the waves and the cries of two seagulls cruising overhead eased the knots five hours in the car had conspired to create. The green of each wave as it crested made her inhalations come more easily, as if the push and pull of the Pacific Ocean had attuned her breathing to a more natural pattern.

      The breeze held a chill she found cleansing. Last week the weather would have been warm enough to swim, and maybe it’d be warm enough for that again next week. Having spent the last eight years working in the Outback, she hadn’t realised how much she’d missed the coast and the beach.

      She finally turned to survey the house. A two-storey weatherboard with a deep veranda and an upstairs balcony greeted her. A lovely breezy home that—

      She frowned at all the closed windows and drawn curtains, the shut front door. Heavens, Mac MacCallum was still here, wasn’t he? Russ would have told her if his brother had returned to the city.

      She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and then folded her arms. Mac would be in there. Russ had warned her that his brother might prove difficult. He’d also had no doubt in her ability to handle difficult.

      ‘Jeez, you save someone’s life and suddenly they think you’re Superwoman.’

      But she’d smiled as she’d said it—though whether in affection at her dear friend and former boss, or at the thought of wearing a superhero outfit she wasn’t sure. Though if she burst in wearing a spangly leotard and cape it might make Mac reconsider the soundness of locking himself away like this.

      She planted her hands on her hips.

      Painted a sleek grey, each weatherboard sat in perfect alignment with its neighbour—and, considering the battering the place must take from sand, salt, sun and wind, that was a testament to the superior materials used and to whoever had built it. The best that money could buy, no doubt. The galvanised tin roof shone in the sunlight. There was even a chimney, which must mean there was an open fire. Nice! Winter might be relatively mild here on the mid-north coast of New South Wales, but she didn’t doubt the nights could be chilly.

      She pulled her cardigan about her more tightly. Still, shut up as it was, the house looked cold and unwelcoming even in all this glorious sunshine.

       There’s only one way to change that.

      Casting a final longing glance back behind her, she set her shoulders and strode towards the house, mounting the six steps to the veranda two at a time.

      A piece of paper, stark white against the grey wood, was taped to the door with ‘Ms Anderson’ slashed across it in a dark felt-tipped pen. Jo peeled the note away. Was Mac out? And was he going to insist on the formality of ‘Ms Anderson’ and ‘Mr MacCallum’?

       Ms Anderson

       I don’t like to be disturbed while I’m working so let yourself in. Your room is on the ground floor beyond the kitchen. There should be absolutely no need for you to venture up onto the first floor.

      She let out a low laugh. Oh, so that was what he thought, huh?

      He finished with:

       I eat at seven. Please leave a tray on the table at the bottom of the stairs and I’ll collect it when I take a break from my work.

      She folded the note and shoved it in her pocket. She opened the front door and propped a cast-iron rooster that she assumed to be the doorstop against it, and then latched the screen door back against the house before going to the car and collecting her cases. And then she strode into the house as if she owned it—head high, shoulders back, spine straight.

      Malcolm ‘Mac’ MacCallum had another think coming if he thought they were going to spend the next two months or so communicating via СКАЧАТЬ