Runaway Groom (8 page)

Years of dating experience had taught her that men who told her there was more to life than money usually didn’t have any. “What do you love most about bar work?”

He turned and dispensed whiskey from the bottles behind him. “The flexibility of the job suits me.”

She fiddled with her coaster and gave a nervous laugh, which surprised her but for some reason Scott made her feel uncomfortable. “Next you’ll be telling me you’re just doing the job until your band gets its big break,” she quipped, trying to make a joke.

Again his intense gaze hooked hers, the hazel depths filled with an almost somber look that made her feel superficial and frivolous. “Actually, that’s already happened.”

Was he deadpanning her? He was far too clean-cut and boring to be a rock star. She couldn’t work him out at all. Taking a long slug of her beer, she quickly scanned the room, hoping someone had left to give her an escape route from this fraught conversation.

Lance waved to her again.

“Melissa,” Johan’s booming voice sounded behind her, hailing her attention. “How’s my favorite customer?”

She swung back. “Fine, thanks.”
Better now you’re back behind the bar.

Johan beamed and said to Scott, “Melissa’s in here a lot.”

The words sprayed her with a reputation she didn’t want to own. “I don’t think it’s all that often, Johan. I—”

“I see you’ve met my nephew, Scott.” Johan continued ignoring her attempts at an explanation. “He’s just moved to Whitetail and he’s gonna be helping me run the front of the house while I concentrate on the back-end of the business. I hope you’ve given him the Whitetail welcome we’re legendary for.”

The beer she’d drunk tried to return to her mouth.

“She certainly has, Uncle Jo,” Scott said, raising a shot glass in her direction. “We’ve been shooting the breeze and getting along like a house on fire. Turns out we’ve got a bunch of stuff in common.”

Right then she knew Mr. Clean-Cut had just given her the metaphorical finger and although part of her knew she deserved it, she didn’t like it one little bit.

Chapter Six

“Sorry to call you on a Sunday, Beth,” Amy said, gripping her cell phone so hard the edges cut into her palm. “But I need you to—”

“Amy, you don’t work for M.M. Enterprises and I’m not your personal assistant anymore.”

The stoniness of her now ex P.A.’s voice slammed into her, almost winding her. “I do realize that, Beth, but as I left the building so quickly on Friday I need the Kids Plus Foundation files and my personal folder so I can start applying for jobs. Can you please email them to me at—”

“I can’t do that, Amy.”

“Why not?” she asked, trying hard to keep her voice even while infusing some authority into it. “They’re
my
files.”

As her P.A., Beth had been her right hand for three years and in that time they’d become close. They’d exchanged Christmas and birthday gifts, had numerous wine-filled evenings discussing the lack of men in their life and they’d even flirted with a gym membership, although Beth had been much better at attending than Amy. Just last weekend, when Amy had been struck down with stomach flu, Beth had stopped by her apartment with chicken soup and filled her in on all the details of the Kids Plus ball which Amy had organized and then missed due to being ill.

How could things have changed so fast in seven days?

Beth still hadn’t replied and Amy could hear the rumble of a male voice in the background. “Beth?”

“Jonathon says those files belong to the company.”

Jonathon.
Amy’s chest suddenly felt so tight it was hard to move air. “He’s there? At your apartment?”

“Of course he is,” Beth said airily. “We’ve been together for a month now.”

The duplicity socked her hard and she scrambled to stay calm and think clearly. “Put him on the line,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

She didn’t expect Beth to comply but the next moment she heard Jonathon’s smooth yet vindictive voice. “Amy, you have to accept that we’re over.”

Oh
,
we are so over.
She refused to let him draw her down the personal path. This was all about work and nothing to do with an ill-thought-out relationship. “I want my files.”

“I don’t think so, Amy.”

“You know Kids Plus is my baby, not yours.”

“Everything’s mine now, Amy. The promotion you wanted, your P.A. and your little charity. That trip to Ohio was very fortuitous.”

His words rained down on her like acid, burning her resolve not to get personal. “If I hadn’t caught a stomach bug, you would never have got near Ohio.”

“I was always going to take that meeting.”

His quiet yet cutting words sliced into her, eliciting a memory and making her think of how he’d unexpectedly offered to cook supper for her the night before she was due to catch her Ohio-bound flight. “You poisoned me?” Her voice squeaked with incredulity.

“Don’t be overdramatic. You’re fine. You were just indisposed long enough for me to get the job done. Besides, I sent Beth to look after you.”

Anger and deceit almost knocked her off her feet. “You bastard. I’ll tell the board what you did.”

“Will you, Amy? We talked about this on Friday and now, this phone call, which Beth is witnessing, will just add to the texts and the file of evidence I already have against you. Let it go. Go do something else with your life.”

The line went dead.

Amy slumped down onto the sand and gazed out at the lake, tears threatening. She tried to breathe through the pain in her chest that burned so hot and viciously she couldn’t sit up straight. Her whole body was numb. Step one of her plan to get her life back on track and a new job in corporate law had just been blocked by a very real threat.

Her phone rang and she automatically answered it with a very wobbly, “Amy Sagar.”

“Sweetie, are you okay? You don’t sound yourself.”

Oh
,
God.
She should have checked caller ID.
“Mom,” she said, trying frantically to lower the register of her voice. “I’m fine. I...”
Think.
“I just saw that advertisement with the puppies and you know it always makes me tear up.” She blew out a breath and sucked in another. “So, what’s up?”

“Oh, not a lot. Your sisters are coming over for Sunday lunch today and I just wanted to check what time you’re arriving?”

Guilt speared her. Her mom had left a message on Thursday night and with all the drama, she’d totally forgotten to return the call. “I’m sorry, Mom. Work’s been frantic and...um...you know how it is.”

Her mother gave a half laugh, half sigh. “I don’t understand how a company can expect you to work Sundays.”

Her mom had finished high school and nine months later gave birth to Amy. She’d gone on to have three more daughters and now she worked part-time in a drugstore. “If I want to be a V.P., this is what I have to do.”

You are so far from being a V.P.
it’s not funny.

“We’ll miss you, honey. The last time we were all together was the fourth.” She paused for a moment. “How about Daddy and I drive up one night this week and meet you for supper?”

Kill this idea now!
“It’s a long way after you’ve both worked all day and I don’t want to wear you out.”

“I’m just fifty, honey, not eighty-five,” her mother said briskly as if Amy had just insulted her.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” she said, her brain bouncing around her head searching for a plausible reason to prevent her parents visiting her in Chicago when she wasn’t actually there. “I’ve just remembered that my Ohio trip’s been rescheduled.”

A knife stabbed in her heart as she spoke the words.
Really?
Of all the excuses you could have come up with you chose that one?

“I promise, Mom. I’ll come visit really soon.”

When I’ve got a new job
,
which I will tell you about without ever mentioning the real reason for it.
“Have a lovely lunch, say hi to everyone and give my gorgeous baby nephew a hug.”

She ended the call before her mother could say another word.

* * *

The massive size of the house meant Ben could pretty much avoid seeing Amy, which he was taking as a win given he’d kissed her last night. The fact he’d turned his head and brushed her lips with his still shocked him. He had no clue why he’d done it, especially as she’d been doing a no-nonsense Mary Poppins impersonation, which was about as sexy as an old lady without teeth.

He was putting his need to kiss her down to his body finally rebelling against the months of self-imposed celibacy. It was the only answer he could come up with that made any sense of the fact that the moment her soft lips had touched his cheek, he’d wanted to taste her.

And she’d tasted the total opposite to how she so often sounded. Instead of tart lemons, he’d caught a hint of sweet cherry.

Fortunately, sanity had prevailed and he’d moved his mouth or she’d pulled away. He wasn’t certain of the order but the look on her face had told him that she felt exactly the same as he did. The kiss—no, it could barely be called a kiss; it was more like the momentarily sweep of lips—had been a mistake. A big mistake. Since then, he’d only seen her on three separate occasions. All of them thankfully brief—twice when she’d helped him get his T-shirt off last night and on again this morning, and then at dinner. That is, if you could call the meal she’d produced last night, dinner.

He’d been taking advantage of the only plus of being stuck in Whitetail—this house had everything and then some, and he’d been sitting in the home theater watching a movie when she’d appeared and thrust a brown paper bag at him. The curly writing on the outside proclaimed it to be from Del’s Diner and inside was a burger, fries and a chocolate shake. Before he’d had time to respond, she’d said, “Put your dirty washing in the chute and breakfast’s at nine.” Then she’d abruptly left the room.

Now his stomach rumbled, reminding him it was past noon and he was starving. When he’d come down for breakfast earlier, there’d been no sign of Amy but she’d stuck a note on the coffee maker telling him there were Danish pastries in the fridge. More sweet, sticky food that in his book didn’t come close to being called breakfast and it didn’t last a damn in killing his hunger.

For the first time, he’d regretted not going grocery shopping with her. At this point, he’d kill for fruit. Hell, he’d kill for some unprocessed real food and, sadly, he needed her help to get it. He stood in the center of the great room and yelled, “Amy.”

Silence greeted him.

He really needed to get her cell number because finding her in this house could take days. He walked out onto the veranda that ran across the front of the house and the cool autumn wind whipped him. He looked down toward the beach and thought he could make out someone huddled on the sand as if trying to reduce their wind exposure. Surely it wasn’t Amy? She had acres of house to sit in, which was a damn sight warmer.

He yelled her name again.

A flash of red crossed his vision and then Amy was on her feet, trudging slowly back toward the house looking as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. As she got closer he noticed she was wearing sweatpants, which she’d teamed with the same blouse and suit jacket she’d worn yesterday. What the hell was with her clothing choices? Given this house, she’d obviously grown up with money and yet she lurched between corporate attire and mismatched homeless grunge. “That’s an interesting combination.”

Amy forced her hand to stay by her side rather than allowing it to race to her mouth so she could bite her knuckle. Every morning she bemoaned the way she’d flung random clothes into her suitcases on Friday without any thought for how they’d coordinate, or to be more precise, how they wouldn’t coordinate at all. “I packed quickly.”

Amusement danced in his eyes. “I would have thought you’d have an entire vacation wardrobe down here permanently.”

It’s your house
,
remember.
“I stored away my clothes at the end of summer and with all the stuff going on with
you
—” she deliberately hit the word with extra emphasis to take the spotlight off her, “—I haven’t gotten round to unpacking them.”

Liar
,
liar
,
pants on fire.
It’s scary how good at this you’re getting.

She shut out the voice by concentrating on Ben, who’d thankfully interrupted her pity party on the beach or who knew how long she’d have been there rocking back and forth on the sand. The wind was picking up his hair and the longer strands fell across his eyes, giving him a boyish look which was at complete odds with the leather-wearing biker that he was. “So,” she said briskly, “you yelled?”

“Can we do lunch? I’m starving.” His plaintive words added to the image.

She laughed. “Oh you poor malnourished thing. I’ll get my keys and we’ll go eat in town.”

He shook his head hard. “I want a home-cooked meal.”

Her stomach plummeted to her feet. She was a good lawyer but she didn’t cook. Feeling out of her depth, she tried to cover. “I’m doing your laundry and helping you with your...” The image of his golden skin slick with water dried her mouth.

“Showering?”

“Yes,” she said, hating the way he managed to raise one brow and make her feel like a silly, inexperienced schoolgirl, although that wasn’t too far from the truth. “I don’t want to have to cook and clean as well. After all, it’s my house. Surely I get some say.”

Oh, God, now she sounded like a disgruntled wife and she girded herself for his expected comeback that she’d put him in this situation.

An unexpected conciliatory look crossed his face. “How about we make an omelet together and I’ll do as much as I can? As for cleaning up, we can pretty much throw everything into the dishwasher.”

“An omelet?” She knew she sounded like an echo but it came out before she could stop it. She had no clue how to cook an omelet.

“Yeah, I saw eggs in the fridge.”

She sighed and decided to confess. “I know how to boil an egg,” she said with a slightly embarrassed shrug as they walked back inside, “but I’ve never made an omelet.”

“I lived on them when I was working on the mines in Western Australia. I’m happy to tell you what to do and I’m sure a state-of-the-art kitchen like yours will have an omelet pan which will make it even easier.”

“You need a special pan?”

He laughed at her incredulousness. “I gather you’re not a foodie.”

She’d never been able to understand the fascination people had for food, television cooking shows or collecting cookbooks. Food was fuel. She needed it to ease hunger pangs and sometimes she was known to eat it when she wasn’t hungry to ease other pangs, but that tended to be foods filled with salt or sugar or fat, none of which was ever gourmet.

“I can make coffee, fry eggs and bacon, and everything else I can buy,” she said. “Chinese, pizza, burgers, burritos, whatever. My loft apartment in Chicago doesn’t have an oven.”

A horrified expression crossed his face as they entered the kitchen and she couldn’t stifle her laugh. “You’re a biker. Surely you don’t cook?”

“Of course I cook,” he said as if she’d just insulted him. “Do you think I’d be in this shape if I’d eaten takeaway crap for the last two hundred and eighty days?”

She assumed
takeaway
was Australian for
takeout
and she’d seen the evidence that his body was indeed in good shape. Gloriously beautiful shape. God, he even had a six-pack while all she could offer up was a muffin top.

Two hundred and eighty days?
The fact-loving part of her brain cut through her momentary lust fest and she did a quick calculation. She came up with a figure she didn’t trust. “You can’t have been traveling for nine months?”

He pushed up from the open cupboard clutching a gleaming silver pan, which was thinner and smaller than the average frying pan. “I can and I have,” he said, putting the pan down on the stove and getting out the eggs. “Do you have anything green like a capsicum?”

He must have seen her confused look. “Sorry, I think you call them bell peppers. Or maybe you have shallots? Scallions? Green onions? Lettuce even?”