Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3) Read online

  “You had a dream? About me?”

  “When you were talking to me, I think. Saying my name.” He looked rattled for once, like he didn’t have dreams, or like he didn’t talk about dreams. That must be it, because everybody had dreams. She’d bet he also didn’t talk about fears, or grief, or loneliness, or anything else that was hidden down there. Any harsh, jagged feelings had been wrapped long ago in layer after layer of smoothness, like the pearl that an oyster created to cover an irritating grain of sand. She knew something about loneliness, but she couldn’t imagine never talking to anybody about the things that mattered. Who held him when he couldn’t go on anymore? Who told him it would be all right, that she had him in her arms and she always would?

  He’s guarded as hell, and he’s about two hundred years old, soul-wise, Rafe had said. On the other hand, you could accumulate a lot of wisdom in two hundred years. He was rumpled again, too, which she liked, his thick, dark hair a bit mussed. She’d bet that never happened, either, and tried not to feel lucky. The poor bloke was in a bad way. It wasn’t his fault that the vulnerability made her want to kiss him more than ever.

  By the time they got out to the verandah in front and were looking at the view, though, at trees and hillsides soft green in the mellow glow of the late-afternoon sun, he was lagging. She said, “I just realized that you don’t care. You’re hurting, and anyway—this isn’t special to you. It’s your life. I’m feeling like the country mouse. Let’s go in so you can sit down and rest.”

  He headed indoors after her, moving well on the crutches despite his fatigue. That would be because his arms and shoulders were so strong. She shouldn’t be noticing that, but she was noticing anyway. He said, “It’s good to walk. I’m supposed to do as much as I can. Good to see things through other people’s eyes, too, see what they respond to.”

  “Oh. It’s work.” Just like that, she was off-balance again.

  He sighed. Faintly, but she felt awkward all the same. What did that mean? “No,” he said. “And that chair. Yeah. That’s my spot. I can get into it, I can hopefully get out of it, and I can put my feet up without feeling like an invalid.”

  He was exhausted. He also wasn’t actually her dream man, however this felt to her susceptible heart. At the moment, he was her client. Why was that so hard to remember?

  “You can watch telly, too,” she said, and he made a face. “What? You don’t do that? Who watched those movies with me?”

  “That was with you,” he said. “It’s a team sport.”

  Well, that could give you a nice little glow. “Right.” She had to laugh at herself. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be going home to Azra and saying, “And then I said, and then he said . . . What do you think he meant by that? He looked at me really seriously, too. Like, meaningfully.” They’d be sitting up late, drinking cocoa in their nightdresses and analyzing every exchange.

  No. She was here to cook, it was time to cook, and it was definitely time to stop being so gormless. “What do you need me to do now,” she asked him, “other than putting all this away? I’ll shift your washing to the dryer. What else? How are we feeling about the veggie soup idea? Chickpeas and lemon, cumin, heaps of fresh herbs. Think Middle Eastern flavors, very comforting.”

  “I’m starved,” he said, and eyed the massive number of grocery bags lined up along the marble countertop like soldiers, plus the two pasteboard boxes of kitchen equipment. “Let’s live dangerously and go for the hearty version.”

  “If you want to talk while I do it,” she said, attempting to get back to “brisk” again, like one of his nurses, “I could move your chair over. Or not. Your choice. I won’t be offended if not. Or I could bring you your laptop, if you like”

  “That’d be good. Talking, I mean, not my laptop. You could have a glass of wine, too, if we have any.”

  “You don’t. I could bring you some tomorrow, though, and beer as well.”

  He smiled, sweet and heart-melting as sin, and said, “Bring what you enjoy, and I’ll enjoy watching you drink it.”

  She dumped a container of chicken broth and the dried chickpeas she’d soaked last night into a soup pot and turned on the fire. “Who moved you in?” she asked. “Your toothbrush is in the bathroom, your laptop’s in the study, and I’m guessing your clothes are in the closet. When I take a fabulous holiday house, I have to unpack my own bags. Oh, wait. I never do take a fabulous holiday house. And here.” She started dragging the un-recliner recliner over to the dining room, could tell it bothered him to have her do it, and tried not to think that it was another thing she liked too much about him. “There you are. I’ll grab the ottoman as well. Do you need help getting in?”

  “No.” It was clipped. “Thank you.”

  She laughed. “You don’t have to be so careful with me, you know. Go on and be narky. It has to have been an effort not to be all this time, though you did amazingly. I’ll bet at least one of those nurses shed a tear to see you go.”

  He smiled, though she could tell it was reluctant. “I’ll be careful anyway, and, no, I’m fairly certain that none of my nurses fell in love with me. You overestimate my appeal, especially helpless and dirty. And the answer to your question is Zelda Fitzpatrick. Very efficient.”

  “You cheating on me, Hunter?” She’d brought him the ottoman and a plate of crackers and sliced cheese, and was in the kitchen again, unpacking groceries into the pantry. Back to work. Much safer.

  “Never,” he said. “Go on and turn up your music, if you like.”

  “It’s The Little Mermaid. What do you prefer? Let me guess. Acid rock. No. Hip-hop. No, wait. Elektro dance music. Or punk. Old school. You had a pink spiked Mohawk and a pierced eyebrow. Pierced with a . . . a . . . safety pin.”

  He eyed her. “Enjoying yourself?”

  She was laughing so hard, she had to set down her sacks of flour and sugar. She wasn’t built for introspection and weepiness, apparently. “OK. OK. I’ll stop. Just joking. Classical.”

  “Country. And classical some. And, yes, to forestall you, I like opera, if it’s the right kind. Kathleen Battle singing Handel. Maria Callas singing anything.”

  “Can’t be, on the country. I believe the opera.”

  “And yet it is.” She’d have worried about offending him, except that he had that gleam of humor in his gray eyes again, the one that made her feel a little melty around the edges. “Maybe you’ll feel better if I tell you that you’re right about the old school. More of the quiet heartache, and not so much of the bros singing about drinking and picking up girls. And, yeah, joke goes here.”

  “So what’s the story with that?” She had the groceries put away, and now, she moved on to chopping, dispatching onions, carrots, and celery in a flurry of knife movements, and as always, felt calmer and more sure for it.

  She’d been positive, a few minutes ago, that he didn’t share, that everything important was buried deep. He was talking, though, and she shut up, kept chopping, and paid attention. “Hometown of Lewiston, Idaho. Family heavy on the loggers and pulp mill employees. Hard workers, low earners. Hard times and good times. There you go.”

  She didn’t look up. She remembered, instead, what her aunt had said about how much easier it was to talk to somebody whose hands were occupied. As usual, Aunt Fiona had been right. “But you got rich and famous anyway. A bit like Rafe and Jace. A lot like Rafe and Jace, except that I didn’t think anybody was like those two. That took heaps of everything. Effort, talent, determination, and all the rest of it.”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said, and she thought, Yeah, mate. You do. “I know I worked in the mill in between stints of college and listened to a lot of country music, and then I moved on and didn’t listen to much of anything, because I was usually concentrating. But in a weak moment? That’s it.”

  That was why she responded to his shoulders, she realized. They weren’t gym-built, they were mill-built, from a time when he’d worked his body not in service of his physique, but because he wa
s doing his job. “You live in Montana. That’s the country. Cowboys and ranches, right?” She pulled a chicken out of the fridge and slapped it into a baking pan, sliced lemons, stuffed the cavity with fresh herbs, put the sliced lemons under the skin at the breast, brushed the entire thing with olive oil, and tied the legs together with twine. She’d carve it for him before she left tonight, because that wasn’t a job you did on crutches, and he could make himself a sandwich along with leftover soup for lunch. A really good sandwich and bowl of soup would be welcome after being in hospital, surely.

  Tomorrow night, she’d fix him warm chicken salad with the rest of the meat. Fresh dill, asparagus, and parmesan. Maybe some tiny fresh pea shoots, too, to add a bit more bite and surprise. Homemade pasta in a light coating of pesto sauce as well. Vitamins, protein, and calories, which she was guessing he needed now. Mending bones took protein. He wouldn’t have complained, but he also wouldn’t have enjoyed what he’d been eating the past four or five days.

  He said, “I live many places.”

  She slid the pan into the oven, then looked at him sidelong. “Rafe said Montana.”

  “I don’t share all that much.”

  “Surprising nobody. And yet you’re sharing with me.” The tea she’d poured earlier was done steeping, and she brought him a mug. “Chai Rooibos, plus some extras. Nettles and willow bark. I put in some honey to make it go down easier. Settles your stomach and strengthens your immune system. If it tastes disgusting, drink it anyway. I left you some in the cabinet. Three times a day would be a good idea.”

  “Thank you,” he said, accepting the mug from her. “And you shared with me, too. You shared the hard stuff.”

  She stood stock-still, feeling crispy around the edges with embarrassment. “I didn’t think you remembered.”

  “It’s come back. Bits and pieces. Your parents died in a plane crash, and you had to move to Australia and live with your aunt and uncle. I don’t think that was a dream. I think you said it. I also think it may have broken your heart in all sorts of ways.”

  She had to swallow. “They did. I did.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice gentle. “That’s rough.”

  Why did this hurt so much? It was so long ago. How could he put his finger right on the tender spot, and take her straight back to that bereft, anxious, endlessly awkward period, where she’d fit in nowhere and with nobody, and she’d been all gawky arms and legs, mad ginger hair, a too-large mouth, and confusion? “Heaps of things are rough. Your dad died as well. I reckon we both know all about that.”

  His face went still, and she thought, Too far. She knew what that pain felt like when it was pressed down deep and covered over by those layers. The ache would be vague, but it would still hurt. My father drowned in a river, he’d said. I was there. Thirty years ago. He’d been about the same age she had when her own parents had died, she guessed. Eleven or twelve, maybe. And he hadn’t had a big, warm family to take him in. A grieving mother, surely, because his father would have been like him. A man didn’t turn out like this by accident. Too much pain, too much loneliness, and too much responsibility assumed too young. The kind of thing that left scar tissue and, if you were a certain type of man, a burning determination to climb out of where you were to someplace better.

  How did she know? She just did. She went back to the pot of chickpeas, added her vegetables, parsley, cilantro, and crushed tomatoes, dusted it with a liberal sprinkling of salt, and went to work on his overnight French toast while everything cooked. More protein, and more soul satisfaction, she hoped. She wouldn’t be here to caramelize the bananas, which was a pity, but she’d leave him a berry medley and a bit of mascarpone cheese to put on top.

  “Tell me more about what you’re making me,” he said. Changing the subject.

  “Harira. Moroccan chickpea and vegetable soup. They use it to break the fast during Ramadan, so you see, it has to be easy on the tummy. I’ll put in some angel-hair pasta and fresh spinach at the end along with the lemon and egg. Comfort food of the very best kind, especially when you’ve been in hospital.”

  “The taste of your childhood. Thank you. Sounds great. Where did you learn to do all this?”

  She kept her hands busy and her voice calm. “The soup? I spent heaps of time in the kitchen as a kid. Older parents, no siblings, servants, moving every couple years. The kitchen’s always the best room in the house, isn’t it? And cooks are some of my favorite people.”

  “Depends on the house, I suppose. Mine tends to be on the sterile side, probably. And you had parents who loved each other first.” Her hands stilled at last, and he said, “Good memory, I’m afraid. And then what?”

  She shrugged. “I liked cooking best, that’s all. Ask Rafe what kinds of experiments I subjected the family to.”

  “And . . .”

  “And. Because it was the way I could . . . contribute, I suppose.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.” He did see, and she knew how he’d felt earlier, because somehow, they saw each others’ hearts. He knew about always being an outsider, and then coming into a family that wasn’t quite yours, a country that felt so alien. About trying to pitch in, to help however you could, never quite sure if they wanted you or were only doing their duty.

  Too long ago. Over and gone. Rainbows and unicorns. “So I kept on with it,” she said. “Lucky to find what I loved to do so young, really, and to have a clear direction. No Uni for me. I went straight from school to the Cordon Bleu.”

  “Where? Paris?”

  She smiled. “Nah. Brisbane. Two years. I used half of what my parents had left, because it’s pricey. Lived with my aunt and uncle while Jace was off at the wars and Rafe was in Hollywood. Told myself it would be worth it someday. So far, it hasn’t made my fortune, but you never know. I have a Diplome de Cuisine and a Diplome de Patisserie, so you’re suitably impressed, and suitably inclined to pay me a ridiculous amount of money to make your dinner. French cooking with Aussie flair, that’s the idea. You learn how to do posh things eventually, though not at first. The first three months, it feels like half the class drops out. You’ve never been as humbled as you’ll be at culinary school, but you do learn. I learned that I really do love to cook.” The smile came easier now. “Luckily for you.”

  “Definitely luckily for me. And after that?”

  “I worked in restaurants, as one does, posh ones, moved up, and learned some more. Five years of that. Changed to working for a caterer, then, and liked it better, because I got to use more of my own ideas and to talk to the clients, put together their dream menu instead of sending something out of the kitchen to an anonymous table. Besides, top jobs in restaurants are still pretty blokey in Oz. And now I’m here, and wishing I’d done some Uni after all. Taken some business classes.”

  “Business is common sense, mostly,” he said.

  “But you still went to school for it.”

  “Only for a couple years, I’m afraid. What I’m good at? I follow my nose, and I sell. Selling was my ticket off the mill floor back then, and it still is. The only education that makes you better at those things is learning the art of paying attention.”

  “To what?”

  “People.”

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  “Well, there’s some math involved,” he acknowledged. “But mostly? It’s seeing what people like, what they respond to, and not being afraid to trust your intuition and jump, because that’s where it’s coming from. It’s listening, and I’m a good listener. You should try me sometime. Right now, you could tell me whether your partner ever answered you about the books.”

  “No. She said it was over, and I’m not sure how to bring it up again. She’s a bit . . . formidable.”

  “I’ll tell you what. You tell her that you want to look things over and ask her for the login and password. No reasons, no excuses. You’re matter of fact, like it’s your right and it’s normal, because it’s both.”

  “Aren’t there . . .�
� She felt stupid. “It’s always ‘books.’ Aren’t there books?”

  He didn’t laugh, fortunately. “It’ll be electronic. A small outfit like this will almost certainly be using one of a few types of software. There’ll be invoices as well, but mostly, you want to see what’s going in and out.”

  “I do?”

  “Well, yeah. You do. If you asked the question, you do. Accounting worries, even little ones, are like problems with the IRS. They don’t get better by themselves. The first step is looking at the setup. They’re called ‘the books,’ and that’s what they’re like. You open the file, and you read the book.”

  “I’m illiterate, then,” she muttered. He laughed, and she smiled reluctantly. “Rafe’s PA did the vetting for me when I bought into the business,” she admitted. “I told you, business classes would’ve been a good idea. I won’t even know what I’m looking at.”

  “Maybe not,” he said. “But I will.”

  He loved her soup. Was there anything more seductive than a man who enjoyed your cooking and appreciated your effort? They sat in the basket chairs outside, and he played Maria Callas for her out of a tiny speaker. The rich, golden voice soared, dipped, and rose again as the birds provided their sunset chorus, the sky turned an electric blue, the clouds were gradually splashed with pink and crimson, and the moon came up behind the lighthouse like a lantern. And Brett sat, his leg stuck out in front of him, ate her comforting, spicy, lemon-scented soup and Italian bread, and looked too much like what she wanted.

  She asked, in the middle of talking about how many ranches there were in Montana—heaps, but not at his place in the mountains—“Is this how you see your new development, then? Obviously it’s more houses, but the feeling of it?”

  She got his almost-smile again, and felt that ting of understanding once more. “Yes. This is it, though this feeling isn’t just the place.”

  “Except that it’ll be filled with houses.”