Moorehouse Legacy: Beauty and the Black Sheep Part 3

He didn't answer but she knew he understood her by the way his jaw was locked.

"Then I'll show you to your room." She walked around, flipping off lights, then headed for the back stairs.

When the Moorehouses had been rich, before generations of dandies enjoying the good life had drained the bank accounts and caused the stocks, jewelry and the best of the art to be sold off, the family had stayed in the big bedrooms in the front of the house that faced the lake. Now that they were the servants, they stayed where a fleet of maids and butlers had once slept. The staff wing, which stretched behind the mansion, had low ceilings, pine floors and no ornamentation. It was hot in the summer, drafty in the winter and the plumbing groaned.

Well, that last one was actually happening in the rest of the house by now, too.

At the head of the stairs, the corridor went off in both directions and there was no question where the new cook was going to sleep. Frankie didn't relish the idea of him being close to her, but at least if he was she could keep an eye on him. She headed left, taking them away from Joy's room.

As Frankie pushed open a door, she figured he'd be untroubled by the spa.r.s.e accommodations. He looked as if he might have slept in cars and on park benches on occasion, so a bed was no doubt luxury enough.

"I'll go get your sheets," she said. "You and I are sharing a bathroom. It's right next door."

She went to the linen closet, which was down near Joy's end of the house. On the way back, she heard the man speaking.

"Actually, ma'am, I'm the new cook."

Oh, G.o.d, 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 st.u.r.dy 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 h.e.l.l.

"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 s.e.xy 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 sh.e.l.l 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l a lot better than having those hazel eyes devouring her sister.

Chapter Three.

N ate 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 gla.s.ses.

Frankie.

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

Man, that was one frustrating woman but d.a.m.n, he liked her. That lockjaw tenacity and take-no-prisoners, my-way-or-the-highway att.i.tude piqued his interest something crazy. All that strength and defiance made him want to get under her hard-driving exterior. Go behind those gla.s.ses. 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 s.e.x. 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 didn't wear any of it. Flowers? Having faced off her level stare, tender blooms seemed frivolous.

Maybe she wouldn't mind a good, hard kiss or two.

Nate let out his breath in a whistle as he imagined the possibilities and swung his legs over the side. Putting his feet on the cool floor, he scratched the side of his neck and the delirious relief instantly made him suspicious. He stood up, felt his ankle check in with a shot of pain, and limped over to the mirror. As he leaned in, he cursed. Running from his left ear down to above his collarbone, there were three rows of tiny blisters, a little plow field of misery.

Poison ivy.

Those leafy greens cus.h.i.+oning his fall had seemed innocent enough, but he should have known better. In the Adirondacks, the stuff grew like a carpet at the sides of roads and trails. He was lucky that most of him had been covered by the jacket and none of the leaves had connected with his face, but it was still going to be a pain in the a.s.s to deal with.

He grabbed a towel and hit the bathroom. Frankie had mentioned there were two parties staying overnight, so he figured he better hustle downstairs to make breakfast. Ten minutes later, wearing the same clothes he'd had on the day before and with his hair damp, he headed for the kitchen.

The first thing he did was crack open the walk-in refrigerator and take inventory. There wasn't much. Eggs and milk, generic cheeses like cheddar and Monterey Jack. Some fresh veggies of the diner variety like iceberg lettuce, cuc.u.mbers, and carrots. As he was heading out, he saw a lone box of fresh blueberries.

At least breakfast would be covered, he thought, grabbing the carton.

As for the rest of the meals, he was in trouble. If he were cooking for a bunch of five-year-olds, he was good to go because he could whip up a fleet of grilled cheese sandwiches. But those guests snoozing away in the front bedrooms were not going to be satisfied with kiddy chow. He was going to have to order some supplies, nothing flashy, but enough to make some real food. He needed feta and goat cheese, some cilantro and scallions, heads of cauliflower and cabbage. Artichokes.

He went next door to the meat locker, figuring he'd find a graveyard. Instead, there was a good-looking side of beef, a hefty leg of lamb, and a turkey. That all gave him hope.

Nate resisted scratching the side of his neck and took the cardboard box over to the stove. It was close to 6:00 a.m. so there was plenty of time to make some killer blueberry m.u.f.fins. A half hour later, he'd just taken the first batch out of the oven when he heard footsteps. Frankie's sister appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

He smiled. "Well, good morning there, Angel."

"Those look wonderful," she said, coming over to the m.u.f.fins. She leaned down and breathed deeply.

"You should try one."

Joy shook her head. "They're for the guests."

"This is only the first batch. And you look like you could use breakfast." His eyes flickered over the bathrobe that hung off her like a tent.

She brought the lapels closer together and crossed her arms over her chest, as if trying to conjure bulk out of the terry cloth.

"Is there some way I can help you?" she asked, as if to distract him.

"You can make the coffee. Were the tables set last night?"

"No. But I can do that, too."

"Great." Nate frowned, moving his head around and wincing. That itching was going to drive him nuts.

"Are you okay?"

"For a guy whose neck is on fire, I'm fine." He pointed to the left side. "Poison ivy."

"Oh, that's terrible." Joy came in for a closer look.

"Can't say I'm crazy for it myself."

Frankie stretched, feeling unusually well-rested, and glanced at the clock."Aw, d.a.m.n it!"

She'd forgotten to set the alarm the night before and it was now nearly a quarter of seven. Moving fast, she leaped out of bed and changed into a fresh white s.h.i.+rt and a clean pair of her standard black pants. She needed to get prepped for breakfast, the tables hadn't been set and there was a vegetable delivery due soon that would have to be accepted and inventoried.

She was pulling back her hair and twisting it into a ball when she froze. There was a delicious smell in the air, something that seemed to suggest m.u.f.fins or scones.

Nate must be up already.

Frankie moved even faster.

She flew down the stairs and was running into the kitchen when she stopped dead in her tracks.

In the shallow s.p.a.ce between the stove and the island, the cook and her sister were standing close enough to be kissing, his head bent down low, Joy balancing up on her tiptoes as if she were whispering something in his ear. Was her sister touching him? On the neck? Wearing nothing but a bathrobe?

"Sorry to interrupt," Frankie said loudly. "But maybe we should be thinking about breakfast?"

Joy stepped away from the man with a blush, while Nate looked over calmly.

"Breakfast is ready," he said, pointing to a tray of beautiful m.u.f.fins. "The guests aren't up yet."

"Joy? Would you mind giving me and Mr.-" she paused, not even knowing his last name "-ah-him a minute alone?"

Her sister left the room as Frankie glared at Nate. "What part of stay away don't you understand?"

He turned and opened the oven, inspecting what was inside. "You always this cheerful in the morning?"

"Answer me."

"How'd you like some coffee?"

"d.a.m.n it, you want to tell me what you were doing with my sister?"

"Not particularly."

The more forceful she came at him, the calmer he seemed to get and irritation fanned the brushfire in her chest. "I thought we had an agreement. You stay away from her or you get out."

He laughed and shook his head while reaching for some side towels. He began folding them up into thick squares. "Just what do you think I was going to do? Take her down on this floor, rip open that robe of hers and-"

Frankie squeezed her eyes shut and cut him off. "There's no reason to be crude."

"No reason for you to be worried, either."