Harlequin Romance April 2015 Box Set (9 page)

He watched the action, suddenly ravenously hungry. Their gazes clashed and she stilled mid-chew. For a moment
she was all that filled his vision, and then she looked away.

‘What’s your question?’

Her voice came out high and thready. He knew why. The same frustration coursed through his veins and made his skin itch. Would a brief physical relationship really be such a bad idea?

He forced himself back in his seat, closed his eyes and drew a deliberate breath into his lungs. He opened his
eyes, but the question on his tongue about the relationship between her, her grandmother and her great-aunt dissolved, to be replaced by an altogether different one.

He leaned towards her and her eyes widened at whatever she saw in his face. ‘What I want to know, Jo, is why you’re so convinced that you’re not beautiful? Who or what made you feel that way?’

She glanced away, traced the
edge of her placemat. She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

‘I want the truth.’ Not the lie he could see forming on her lips. ‘If you won’t give me the truth then don’t give me anything.’

She swallowed and met his gaze. He stared back. He knew how forbidding he must look, but he wanted her to know he was serious about this.

‘We might not be able to explore the physical relationship
I’m aching to explore with you, but out here in the boondocks we can at least be honest with each other.’

Eventually she nodded. ‘Okay.’

She pushed her hair behind her ears and then drained what was left of her wine—which was a not inconsiderable half-glass.

‘When I was in school I was always teased for being a giant. I might have been picked first for basketball games, but I was
always picked last at school dances. Boys obviously didn’t like to date girls who were taller than them.’

He grimaced. Kids could be cruel.

‘But when I was nineteen and at university I fell madly in love with a chemistry student. I thought...I thought he had feelings for me.’ Her knuckles turned white around her glass. ‘It turned out, though, that I was a bet—a dare. It was some kind
of Chemistry Club challenge—the guy with the ugliest date for the Christmas party won.’

Mac couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘He... You—’

He broke off, shaking all over.

‘Me and some of the other girls caught wind of it and dumped them all before the event, but...’

But it had made her doubt her beauty. And she’d been doubting it ever since.

She refilled their glasses
and handed him one, glancing up at him from beneath her fringe, her eyes bruised and wounded.

‘I don’t want to talk about this, Mac. I answered your question and the conversation is now over.’

‘No!’ He exploded out of his chair. ‘I can’t believe you’ve let a bunch of immature jerks let you feel like this—made you feel ugly and worthless. You’re beautiful and you’re worth a million of
them.’

‘Go and see Russ, Mac, and then we can talk about this as much as you like. But until then—zip it.’

She rose, collected their plates and strode into the kitchen. He wanted to go after her, shake her and tell her those boys had been wrong. He curled a hand around the doorframe of the dining room before he could storm through it. If he went after her he’d kiss her. And this time
neither one of them would stop.

He strode out to the front veranda, Bandit at his heels, into the chill night. If only he could get his hands on those cruel twerps. If only he could prove to her that she was beautiful.

You can. Go see Russ. For her.

He sat on the top step and held his head in his hands. That would mean something to her. But...

Go see Russ? Though he wanted
to, with everything that was inside him, he couldn’t break his promise.

* * *

Jo searched for signs of pity in Mac’s face the next day, when he gave her a brand-new recipe to try out—coq au vin—but couldn’t see any.

What did disconcert her was the way his gaze rested on her lips and the answering hunger that rose through her. She didn’t want to want this man. She wished she hadn’t
told him that nasty sordid tale last night. She wished she’d been able to resist his appeal for honesty. He made her feel far too vulnerable.

She gazed at the recipe and gave her brain a metaphorical kick.
Think of something halfway intelligent to say.

‘So, this needs to simmer for a long time?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Simmer, boil, poach, stew—all that nonsense should probably go
in your glossary of terms.’

He wrote that down on his notepad. ‘A genuine simmer is just below boiling point, but where there’s still the occasional bubble surfacing.’

Right.
She filed the information away.

‘C’mon—sit down,’ he ordered, gesturing to the kitchen table. ‘There’s hours before you need to get the stew on to simmer.’

‘There’s a lot of chopping to do,’ she said,
referring to the recipe.

He switched on the laptop he’d brought downstairs with him. ‘Jo, not even
you
need five hours to chop some chicken and vegetables.’

He had a point. If only she hadn’t done the grocery shopping yesterday afternoon she could have used that as an excuse to avoid him now. She sat, but she’d have much sooner grabbed the broom and started sweeping the laundry, or headed
outside for a spot of weeding.

Anything except being in the same room as him, sitting so close to him. And if he thought they were going to continue last night’s conversation then he was going to be sadly disappointed.

‘What do you want?’

He raised an eyebrow and she knew she wasn’t being particularly gracious—but then she didn’t
feel
particularly gracious. She felt grumpy, out
of sorts, frustrated...

She stuck her nose in the air. ‘I’ll have you know I’m very busy with important housemaidy things.’

His lips twitched. ‘Do you think you can fit the making of tea into all that important housemaid business?’

With an exaggerated sigh, she rose and made tea while he fiddled around with his computer.

When she set the pot and two mugs on the table and took
her seat again he said, ‘We’re going to take a vocational test.’

Something inside her started to shrivel. The sooner she worked out the next stage of her life the sooner she’d leave him in peace, right?

He fixed her with the clear blue of his eyes. ‘You’ve helped me and now I want to help you.’

The shrivelling promptly stopped. He
wasn’t
trying to get rid of her?

‘Ready?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess.’

He turned to the laptop. ‘“Are you more motivated by achievement or appreciation?”’ he read.

She blinked. ‘Um...’ She liked to
see
the results of her hard work—as in the way Mac’s house now currently shone after all her dusting and sweeping. ‘Achievement.’

He leaned back in his chair with a frown. ‘Are you sure?’

She glared back at him. ‘Of course
I’m sure.’

‘Why do you want to make that
macaron
tower for your grandmother, then? Aren’t you hoping to gain her appreciation and help her win a bet?’

What she really wanted to do was bring her grandmother and great-aunt’s differences to an end. She knew they loved each other, so why couldn’t they show it?

Because of her? She’d always been a bone of contention between them.

‘Jo?’

She shook herself. ‘Fine—whatever. Appreciation, then.’

His glare deepened. ‘You have to take this seriously.’

She lifted her hands. ‘I am.’

He glared at her for a few more seconds before returning to his computer. ‘“Do you tend to rely on your past experiences or on hunches?”’

She was tempted to fish a coin from her purse and toss it. ‘Hunches...’

He checked
the appropriate box just as she was about to change her answer.
Oh, well.

‘“Are you more interested in what is real or what is meaningful?”’

He stared at her. She stared back.

‘Meaningful,’ they said at the same time.

He asked her over sixty questions!

At the end he gave her a score. ‘And that means... Hey!’ he said when she took the computer from him.

She shook her
head. ‘Now it’s your turn.’ Let’s see how he liked being put under the microscope. ‘“Do you tend to be easily distracted or able to concentrate well?”’

He glared. ‘I can concentrate just fine when I want to.’

She checked the box for ‘easily distracted’. As far as she could tell Mac actively
searched
for distraction.

‘“In most situations do you rely more on careful planning or improvisation?”’

He dragged a hand down his face. ‘Improvisation—more’s the pity. Or these recipes I’m trying to drag out of my head would be a lot easier to commit to paper.’

‘“Do you prefer step-by-step instructions or to figure things out for yourself?”’

He scowled. ‘If only I
did
prefer step-by-step instructions!’

She was going to have to get him cooking again. Somehow.

When they’d
finished she gave him a score and then read out the associated job suggestions. ‘“Artist”,’ she said. Chef fitted into that category perfectly. ‘“Teacher. Entertainer.”’

‘Very funny.’ He retrieved the computer.

She wasn’t trying to be funny, but she kept her mouth shut.

‘According to your score, you’d make a good girl scout. What
is
this garbage?’

‘You tell me.’

‘No, no—here
we go. It says you’d be a good scientist.’

‘Except I’m tired of being a scientist, remember?’

‘You’re tired of being a
geologist
,’ he corrected. ‘You could go back to university and major in a different science.’

‘Yay,’ she said, with a deplorable lack of enthusiasm. ‘Also, I want to live in a city. Find me a job in one of those.’

‘Why?’

‘I want to go to the cinema, and
the library, and to big shopping centres and all those lovely things.’ All the places she’d missed when working in the Outback.

‘Here we go. As you’re apparently service-orientated you’d also make a good nurse.’

The sight of blood didn’t worry her. But... ‘I hate hospitals.’

He took on a sick pallor. ‘Me too.’

And just like that she wanted to reach out and take his hand, offer
silent support and comfort. He wouldn’t welcome it. He’d probably kiss her in retaliation.

Ooh!

She pulled her hands into her lap. ‘Well, that’s certainly provided me with food for thought.’

‘It was complete and utter nonsense!’

She smiled at him. ‘I appreciate the effort.’

Finally—
finally
—he smiled back.

CHAPTER EIGHT

J
O
PULLED
THE
macarons
from the oven and set the tray on a trivet. Hands on hips, she surveyed them. These weren’t pretty, like the picture on the internet. They were crooked, misshapen and kind of flat. For the love of everything green and good! How hard could it be to make these fussy little confections?

She hunched over her laptop and reread the recipe, but
she couldn’t find where she’d gone wrong.

She’d made a halfway decent cheese soufflé. As far as she could tell her coq au vin had been good, even if Mac hadn’t eaten very much of it. And, okay, so her béarnaise sauce hadn’t held together the way it was apparently supposed to, but it had tasted just fine to her.

Her hands clenched. For a week now she’d been religiously following Mac’s
instructions and cooking recipes with names she couldn’t even pronounce. She’d figured she was ready to try her hand at
macarons
.

She cast a glance at the tray and her lip curled. Apparently not.

Baring her teeth, she made a pot of tea and then pulled another egg carton towards her. She would master this if it was the last thing she ever did.

She separated eggs. She’d need to buy
more. Luckily a nearby hobby farm sold farm-fresh eggs. The way she was going through the rotten things she’d be on a first-name basis with the owners of said hobby farm by the end of the week.

Mac strode into the kitchen, staring down at a sheet of paper in his hands. Tonight’s recipe, she supposed. Yay, more cooking. She forgot all about cooking, though, when she noticed how amply he filled
out his beaten-up jeans. The material stretched across strong thighs and she could almost see the muscles rippling beneath the denim.

He glanced up and froze when he saw what she was doing.

Her chin shot up. Well, bad luck, buddy! She’d been making his recipes for seven days now.
Seven days of cooking.

He turned to leave. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Her voice came out on a snarl.
He turned back and raised an eyebrow. ‘Sit!’ She pointed to a chair. She could see he was about to refuse. ‘I will tie you to it if I have to.’

He blinked. His eyes turned dark and lazy. Deliberately his gaze lowered to her lips, all but caressing them. ‘I’m almost tempted to put that to the test.’

She had to swallow. Wrestling with him would be so very intriguing.

And foolhardy.

She backed up one step and then another. She seized the tray of
macarons
. ‘Look at these.’

He did, and then grimaced.

She dropped the tray to the table and swung away to pour him a mug of tea. She pushed it across the table towards him. ‘Would you like a
macaron
to go with that?’ she asked drily

His lips twitched, but he didn’t sit. ‘No, thanks.’

‘Of course you don’t. No
rational person would touch one of those with a twenty-foot pole. Have you seen anything less appetising in your life?’

He took a hasty slug of his tea.

She glared. Why did this cooking gig have to be so
hard
? ‘If you say one more thing against my béarnaise sauce I’ll...’

‘Tie me up?’

Images pounded at her. ‘Pelt you with my
macarons
.’

He laughed. It seemed like an age
since he’d laughed. ‘A fate worse than death.’

She tilted her chin at the tray. ‘Those suckers would probably knock you out. Please, Mac, I need your help. Can you please, please,
please
tell me what I did wrong?’

He sat and pulled the tray towards him and something inside her chest started to flutter and thrash.
Two birds. One stone.
If she could get him to do something that was halfway
related to cooking it would teach her a technique she obviously needed and maybe—just maybe—it would help him overcome his resistance to preparing food again. Maybe he would find his way back to his passion and find some comfort in losing himself in it for a while.

‘I suspect you didn’t beat the egg whites for long enough.’

There seemed to be a theme emerging there.

‘Or perhaps
you didn’t use enough confectioners’ sugar. Or you cooked them at too high a temperature.’

There were too many variables. With a growl she finished separating the eggs—a full dozen—and shoved the bowl and a whisk at him. ‘Show me how it’s done,’ she demanded. ‘There must be something wrong with my technique.’

His face closed up and his body drew in on itself, tight and unbending. ‘You
know I—’

‘I’m ready to beg. And it’s not real cooking, Mac. It’s just whisking.’

And then it hit her—how she could keep him in the kitchen with her. She moistened her lips. ‘I haven’t really told you why it’s so important that I master this stupid
macaron
tower, have I?’

‘You mentioned the bet between your grandmother and great-aunt.’

She snorted. ‘Ah, the bet. It wasn’t our
finest hour I’m afraid. My grandmother had been flicking through a magazine and came across a picture of one and made some throwaway comment. I said it was pretty. Great-Aunt Edith then said there was no way on God’s green earth—her words—that I could make one for my grandmother’s next birthday. Grandma, thinking she was standing up for me, said I could do it standing on my head.’

He winced.

‘Naturally, of course, I said it’d be a piece of cake.’
What an idiot.

‘And then the pearls were put up as a stake...?’

‘It’s like something from a bad comedy.’ And she was caught squarely in the middle.

‘Why did you let yourself get drawn in?’

‘Habit. But lately I’ve been thinking it’s a bad habit all round—this adversarial bent we’ve developed.’

‘It must’ve been
there before you came along.’

‘I guess so, but I want to do something to change it. I want to mend it.’

He leaned in towards her and her heart did some more of that fluttering and thrashing.

‘You know the whole “Russ having a heart attack and me suddenly re-evaluating my life” stuff. I know they love each other. So...’

‘How are you going to change it?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Isn’t making a
macaron
tower just falling in with their continued rivalry?’

She shrugged. ‘My plan so far is that I make the best damn
macaron
tower that’s ever been seen and then I take the pearls and claim them for my own.’

He started to laugh. ‘I suspect that’d be something to see.’ He sobered. ‘But, Jo, isn’t the necklace just the object of something that goes deeper between
them?’

She slumped into a chair. ‘I guess.’

‘Tell me about them.’

So she did. She told him about Great-Aunt Edith first. ‘I mean I know she loves me. And she’s the one I most physically resemble. So it’s odd—I can’t understand why she’s been on my case since, like, for
ever
. I shouldn’t wear this and I shouldn’t say that, and I shouldn’t act like this and I shouldn’t draw attention
to myself like that, and I shouldn’t wear my hair like this. On and on and on.’

It wore her out just thinking about it.

‘It made me rebel in every dreadful way when I was a teenager. I wore tight pants and even tighter tops—things that didn’t suit me. I’m afraid she was right on that subject.’

‘And your grandmother?’

‘My grandmother is the opposite. She’s pretty, petite, and
oh-so ladylike. She’s stuck up for me forever, declaring I should wear, say and do whatever I damn well please—always telling me that I look gorgeous and pretty regardless of my get-up.’ She glanced at Mac. ‘And I’m afraid that’s not always been the best advice to be given.’

It was her grandmother’s vision that she’d never really been able to live up to.

He leaned back. ‘They love each
other, you say?’

‘Oh, yes.’ There wasn’t a single doubt about that. ‘But after one particularly vehement argument twelve months ago Great-Aunt Edith moved out.’ Which was crazy. Her grandmother and aunt belonged together.

‘Is it possible your great-aunt feels like you do—overshadowed by the petite women who surround her and made to feel she’s never measured up?’

As far as Jo could
tell, her great-aunt was indestructible.

Or was that just the attitude she assumed?

She sat up straighter.

‘That attitude—it’s wrong. You’re a beautiful woman, Jo, which means your great-aunt must’ve been a great beauty too. But if she didn’t believe herself beautiful, can you imagine how she must’ve felt, growing up with a sister who fitted into society’s “classically beautiful”
mould?’

Jo’s throat tightened.

‘If they love each other, as you say...’

‘They do.’ She might not be certain of much, but she was certain of that.

‘Could it be that your grandmother is showing her love and acceptance for your great-aunt through you? If your great-aunt has felt overshadowed all these years then your grandmother treating you—the child who looks so like her much-loved
sister—with adoration and such disregard for what the world thinks... Well, that’s powerful stuff.’

Wow.

Things started to fall into place.

Holy Cow!
‘I don’t know what to say.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not going to cry, are you?’

She tipped up her chin. ‘Most certainly not.’

And that was when she noticed that he was whisking her egg whites. A fist tightened about
her heart even as she noticed that his technique was way better than hers.
Keep it casual.

‘Wouldn’t it be easier to use an electric beater?’

He glared and she raised her hands. ‘Sorry—is that some weird food purist thing?’

Humour lit his eyes although it didn’t touch his lips. ‘It
would
be easier.’

‘But?’

‘But this kitchen doesn’t happen to be stocked with that kind of
equipment.’

Oh, that sealed it. She was going out and buying an electric mixer first thing tomorrow.

‘Here—you try.’

She took the bowl and tried to mimic his whisking action.

He didn’t grimace, but she suspected he wanted to. ‘It just takes a bit of practice,’ he assured her.

She wished she felt reassured.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Jo!’ he exploded a moment later. ‘That
whisk isn’t a hammer. You’re trying to whisk air into those egg whites.’

She held the bowl out to him. He didn’t shrink back, but she could see what was going through his mind.

She snapped, ‘This isn’t
real
cooking. It’s just some stupid egg whites and a rotten whisk.’

He ground his teeth together, snatching the bowl from her. ‘You have an attitude problem when it comes to the kitchen.’

Wasn’t that the truth?

‘Look—
this
is how you’re meant to be doing it.’

He demonstrated what he meant. He looked so at home with a whisk—kind of commanding and...right. She could watch him do this all day.

‘Why did you grow up with your grandmother and great-aunt?’

She’d answer all the questions he wanted if he’d just keep whisking.

‘There was a twenty-year age difference
between my father and my mother. When I was five, my mother left. I think she was tired of hanging out with older people. When she left, Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith moved in.’

‘Do you still see your mother?’

‘Occasionally.’ She peered into the bowl. ‘She lives in the UK now. Aren’t they done?’

‘No. Test it.’

He kept hold of the bowl but handed her the whisk. She swirled it
through the mixture.

‘See?’ he said. ‘It’s not thick enough yet.’

Right... She glanced at the tray on the table. Well, that was one question answered. She bounced up and measured out confectioners’ sugar and set it on the table within Mac’s easy reach.

‘And your father?’

She wrinkled her nose. ‘We’re not close. He moved out to a bachelor pad when I was six. He’s a geologist.
I became a geologist because I thought it might give us something to talk about.’

‘But?’

‘But I don’t like being a geologist—and if he has a problem with that then he can just suck it up.’

Mac stopped whisking to stare at her.

‘Relationships are two-way streets. If he wants a proper relationship with me then he needs to put in an effort too.’

‘You sound kind of well-adjusted
on that?’

She simply shrugged.

‘Here—test the mixture now.’

She did.

‘Feel how much stiffer it is? That’s what you’re aiming for.’

Oh, okay.
So that explained the cheese soufflé too...

Mac looked ready to leave again. She handed the whisk back to him.

‘My father is what he is. Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith have raised me, loved me and stood by me even when we’ve
all been at loggerheads with each other. They’re my family and they’re important to me. I don’t want to think what my childhood would’ve been like if it wasn’t for them.’

‘And that’s why you want to bring their silly feuding over the pearls to an end? And you think a
macaron
tower will help?’

‘It can’t hurt.’

‘Well, there’s a start.’ He pushed the bowl over to her. ‘Perfectly whisked
egg whites.’

He stood.

He couldn’t leave yet! She took the sugar she’d measured out earlier and went to tip the lot into the egg whites.

Mac’s hand on her wrist stopped her. ‘What are you doing?’

He sounded utterly scandalised.

She forced her eyes wide. ‘I’m adding the sugar.’

‘You’re supposed to add it
slowly
.’

He proceeded to show her exactly how to add it,
and how to beat it into the mixture. She might have feigned a bit more stupidity than necessary, but it was worth it to see him work. Surreptitiously she measured out the other ingredients and had them ready whenever he needed them.

She moistened her lips.
Keep telling him stories. Don’t give him time to think about what he’s doing
.

‘Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith are the reason I want
to move back to the city. They’re eighty-five and eighty-three, respectively. I want to spend more time with them.’