Cooking Up Trouble Page 13

  But there shouldn’t be the delicious fragrance of roasted duckling seeping through the house, because she hadn’t been there to cook it. She hurried to the kitchen and threw the door open.

  D.A. Bologh sat in his favorite chair, stroking his mustache and grinning at her.

  “Why did you cook dinner?” she hissed as she stormed into the room. “Why, when you knew I wouldn’t be here, did you do such a thing? You’re supposed to be a secret. If Mr. St. Pierre finds out about you, I’ll be out on my ear, and you will be, too. And I won’t pay up if you don’t keep your bargain!”

  D.A. shrugged. “Everybody’s got to eat, Miss Heather. I’m sure Mr. St. Pierre will welcome his dinner the same as any other man.”

  “But I wasn’t here! How am I going to explain a full-fledged dinner to him?”

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  “What about Mrs. V?” Heather pressed a hand to her head in sheer terror. “Oh, my heavens, what about Mrs. Van der Linden?”

  “She’ll probably just think you planned ahead.” He slanted her a sly glance.

  Heather gaped at him. “Mrs. Van der Linden? You’re joking!”

  He shrugged again. “What’s she going to do? How can she refute you? There will be a delicious dinner being served up to the master of the house, and that will amply negate her words.”

  “When will it be ready?”

  D.A. flipped his hand in the air. “Any time you’re ready, my sweet.”

  “Oh, dear.” Heather sank into a chair and sagged there for a minute before she realized she’d have to do some more lying, and quick. She jumped to her feet and ran to put on an apron. “You’re not playing fair,” she groused as she flung herself out of the room. D.A.’s diabolical laughter followed her down the hall.

  She found Philippe in his library. The door wasn’t shut, but she knocked softly anyway, feeling uncomfortable in such grand surroundings.

  He turned and smiled at her, and her knees turned to water. “I smell something cooking,” he said in his deep, rich voice that always sort of made Heather want to purr and stretch languidly, like a cat. “And I must say I’m surprised.”

  “Er, yes. I, ah, put the duckling on to roast—slowly, you know—before we left for town this morning.”

  One of his eyebrows lifted. “My, my, how enterprising of you.”

  “Um, yes. Thank you. Anyway, it’s about ready, if you are.”

  “I’m more than ready for another of your succulent meals, Miss Mahaffey.”

  “I’ll get it on the table then.”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “Um, all right. I’ll just go set it out now,” said Heather, and bolted.

  Mrs. Van der Linden was in the hall, scowling at her, when she left the library. Heather gave the grouchy woman a wan smile, which wasn’t returned.

  “There’s something fishy going on around here,” Mrs. Van der Linden declared at Heather’s back.

  This was the second time today that Heather had been gifted with the something’s-fishy line. Unfortunately, she couldn’t very well deny it. There was something fishy going on around here. Heather feared it was D.A. Bologh, and the idea scared her.

  Chapter Nine

  On the sixth night of Heather Mahaffey’s employment in his establishment, Philippe asked Mrs. Van der Linden to invite Miss Mahaffey to join him in the library when she was finished washing up.

  Heather stared at Mrs. Van der Linden, aghast, when the message reached her. “He wants to see me?” Her heart began hammering out a dirge of dread.

  Mrs. Van der Linden sniffed. “So he says.”

  “What for?”

  “I have no idea.” Mrs. Van der Linden eyed the kitchen, which was, as usual, spotless. “I still say there’s something fishy going on around here, Heather Mahaffey.”

  Heather lifted her chin. “You may say what you like, Mrs. Van der Linden.”

  “I will, believe me. And when I find out what it is, you can rest assured that I shall inform Mr. St. Pierre.”

  “Fine. Do that.” Heather knew she was being foolish to antagonize the woman, who didn’t need any encouragement in that regard as she was plenty antagonistic to begin with. She couldn’t seem to help herself, though. “Mr. St. Pierre doesn’t seem to share your doubts about my performance.”

  “That’s because you’ve pulled the wool over his eyes, and you know it.”

  “And exactly how have I done that?” Heather asked hotly. She felt beleaguered and guilty, and wished this old witch would take herself off to her coven or wherever she’d come from.

  “I don’t know how you’ve done it,” declared Mrs. Van der Linden, “but I aim to find out.” And she stalked off with her nose in the air and her big rear end waddling up a disapproving storm.

  Heather shut her eyes and breathed deeply, wishing she could just die and get it over with.

  “Don’t fret about that old biddy,” came a sneering voice from behind her.

  She turned and wasn’t surprised to see D.A. Bologh sitting in the kitchen chair—the kitchen chair that had been empty three seconds earlier when Mrs. Van der Linden had been standing in the room. Heather almost forgot herself and asked how he managed to pop up here and there so effortlessly, but stopped herself in time. He’d never answered her before, and every time he didn’t answer her, she got shivery feelings that she didn’t enjoy.

  “But she knows I’m a fraud,” Heather said unhappily.

  “So what? Nothing she can do about it. The man thinks you’re a peach.” He winked. “So do I.”

  Somehow that didn’t thrill Heather. “I feel bad about deceiving everybody. It’s wrong, and I shouldn’t have started it. But now that I have, I don’t know how to stop.”

  D.A.’s grin was purely wicked. “It’s a shame how things like that happen, isn’t it?” If he could sound more insincere, Heather hoped she’d never hear him.

  “I’d better get this over with.” She took her apron from where it hung it on the hook beside the sink and put it on. She often wondered why she even bothered with the apron, since she didn’t do anything but watch D.A. as he cooked, but she kept hoping she’d learn.

  “Have fun,” D.A. said as she walked to the door.

  Before she left, she stopped and turned, having thought of something that might be important. “What was it I served for dinner tonight? I don’t remember.”

  She absolutely hated D.A.’s knowing chuckle.

  “Fresh river perch en Pipérade, sautéed vegetables, rice with saffron, and a cheesecake with a brandied apricot sauce. I won’t bother giving you the French words for the latter several dishes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  Heather squinted at him. “Did the perch come from the Pecos?” The Pecos River ran through the town of Fort Summers, and folks did a lot of fishing there.

  D.A. shrugged. “Tell him it did, if it makes you feel better.”

  Tell him it did? What did that mean? Uneasy, Heather opened her mouth to ask another question, but decided not to. There was something not right about D.A. Bologh, and the more she let him work for her, the more edgy she became. She wished she’d never let the wind drive her to this.

  “Thanks,” she said at last, and turned to go, telling herself as she did so that none of this was the wind’s fault. Which didn’t make her feel the least bit better.

  She stopped in the hall to check her appearance in the small decorative mirror hanging above some sort of French table. She tucked a couple of loose strands of hair behind her ear, practiced one of her friendly smiles, gritted her teeth, and knocked at the door.

  “Enter,” came Philippe’s deep velvety voice from behind the door.

  Every time Heather heard that voice, her insides tingled with pleasure and an anticipation she couldn’t account for, although it had something to do with all the unladylike fantasies she’d been spinning around that wretched wash-house incident. Philippe had already had Mrs. Van
der Linden make new curtains. They now hung in the bathhouse, and in order for anybody to peek in now, he’d have to blow a hole in a wall. Heather sighed, partially with regret, and she knew she was falling fast.

  It occurred to her that her life had become awfully uncomfortable lately, what with one man giving her shivers in the kitchen and another giving her tingles in the rest of the house. With another sigh, she did as Philippe had bidden her.

  He was standing by the fireplace, a book in his hand. He set it on the mantel when Heather entered. Because he made her nervous, she stopped just inside the room and folded her hands under her apron.

  The library was a lovely room, all dark wood floors and beautiful Persian rugs. The furniture was new and, rumor had it, had been purchased from a catalog and shipped from a warehouse all the way in New York City. Mrs. Van der Linden called the stuff French Provincial, but Heather only knew it was gorgeous, and ever so much finer than anything her family had ever owned. Or ever would own, for that matter.

  Philippe had built himself a sturdy house, and one with doors and windows that fitted impeccably. Very little dust dared to show itself in his house, and what little did manage to creep in was ruthlessly vanquished by Mrs. Van der Linden on a daily—or even more-than-daily—basis. This evening, the wood in Philippe’s library exuded a dull gleam that fairly shouted luxury to Heather, who had been, until her tenure in Philippe’s household, a total stranger to luxury.

  A fire burned merrily in the grate, taking the chill out of the cool spring evening air. The heavy brocaded curtains had been drawn over the Battenburg lace sheers, and a rosy glow seemed to have invaded the whole room.

  The impression of rosiness was probably augmented by the pretty rose-tinted etched glass globes on the two lanterns burning on side tables. They cast an almost magical aura on the room and on the room’s owner. Philippe’s dark complexion was imbued with a warm tint, making him seem softer and more approachable than usual.

  Which was unfortunate, in Heather’s way of thinking.

  His very pose of casual elegance set her teeth on edge. She wanted to run into his arms and beg him to make mad, passionate love to her. And then to make everything right in her life. Which was nonsensical. Not only would she thus be abdicating her own responsibilities, but he’d be far more likely to toss her out on her rump than help her.

  She was, really and truly, losing her mind. Poor Ma and Pa would be so sad when they learned of it.

  “Please, Miss Mahaffey, come in and sit down.”

  He walked over to her, and it was all she could do to keep from shrinking away from him. This was idiotic behavior on her part. She knew it, and she also knew it sprang directly from her guilty conscience. She was reaping what she’d sown, blast it, just like Mr. Harvey always said people did. She’d never doubt the good preacher again. She took the chair at which Philippe gestured, sitting on the edge and feeling like a dry twig about to snap in two.

  He took the chair opposite her and seemed to relax completely. Good for him. Heather wished she could do that. But he, unlike her, unquestionably had a clean conscience.

  “You served another delicious meal tonight, Miss Mahaffey. I must say I’m very impressed with your skill in the kitchen.”

  “Thank you. Um, it was perch en Pipérade, sautéed vegetables, rice with—” Oh, Lord, she forgot what the rice was with. Why had she started this? Hoping he wouldn’t notice that she’d stopped in the middle, she said, “Glad you enjoyed it.” She licked her lips, searching frantically for something else to say. “Um, the fish came from the Pecos.”

  He lifted his eyebrow. “Yes, I imagined it did.”

  Mercy, mercy, why hadn’t she kept her mouth shut? She did so now; too late.

  He continued, “So, I get the impression that you have adjusted to your employment in my house, Miss Mahaffey. I presume you noticed that there are new curtains in the bathhouse.” He smiled engagingly.

  “Yes. Thank you, I did notice.” Of course, as soon as he mentioned the bathhouse, she felt her face catch fire. Jehosephat.

  “Good. I wanted to take this opportunity to chat with you and see if there’s anything that needs to be attended to.”

  Heather sat bolt upright, provocative thoughts forgotten. “No. What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

  Again she wished she’d not spoken when that blasted eyebrow of his lifted. Why couldn’t she calm down? This was so stupid. She sucked in a deep breath, hoping it would help. It didn’t.

  “That’s what I’m asking you,” Philippe said gently. “You seem awfully nervous. Is there anything I can do to make your job less nerve-wracking for you?”

  Heather swallowed. “Oh.” She thought for a second. “Um, no, I don’t think so. Your kitchen is very well appointed.” At least, that’s what D.A. Bologh had told her. Heather wouldn’t know a well-appointed kitchen from a barn. The truth made her nerves skip. Since they’d been racing, the skip almost made her faint. She sucked in more air, let it out slowly, and commanded herself to stop being so jittery.

  Philippe sat back and observed her for long enough that Heather wanted to scream. “I must admit I don’t understand why you seem so jumpy. I’m afraid it has something to do with your employment, and I’d like to solve whatever problem is interfering with your peace of mind, if at all possible.”

  “It’s not,” burst from Heather’s lips, and she mentally kicked herself. “That is to say, there’s nothing wrong.”

  “Hmmm. Are you sure? You’re not worried about cattle rustlers, are you? We haven’t had any more trouble in that regard lately.”

  “Oh. Good. I’m glad to hear it.” She wished he wouldn’t direct those deep, burning eyes of his at her in such a searching manner. His scrutiny made her want to squirm. Trying with every fiber of her being to calm down, she withdrew her hands from underneath her apron, folded them again, and put them in her lap. Exactly as a proper lady would do. Her mother would have been proud of her. She’d been trying to get Heather to sit in just such a way for years now.

  “Hmmm,” Philippe said again. “I hesitate to call anyone a liar, Miss Mahaffey, but there definitely seems to be something wrong. Is anyone on the ranch bothering you? Any of the men who work here?”

  Heather felt her eyes widen. “I beg your pardon?” She didn’t know what he was talking about.

  His smile looked cynical. “You must know that you’re a very attractive young woman, Miss Mahaffey. You certainly wouldn’t be the first such to experience some measure of annoyance from rowdy young men. I know that nobody can see through the bathhouse windows any longer, but if any of my men bother you, I want you to tell me. Will you do that?”

  “Oh.” Heather guessed she understood now, although there wasn’t a man working on his ranch whom Heather didn’t know—and whom she couldn’t lick if push came to shove. “Of course I will. Thank you for being so considerate.”

  He waved her thanks away. “But you say none of the men have been bothering you?”

  “No. They’re all friends of mine, anyway.”

  “I see.”

  Heather couldn’t account for his frown. He ought to be happy that he didn’t have to ride herd on his cowboys. He’d be better off worrying about himself. If Heather’s sexual urges became more pronounced, she might attack him.

  Merciful God, she had to stop thinking things like that.

  “Then is it me? Do I make you nervous?”

  Had he really asked her that? She decided she’d be better off lying. Again. “Ah, a little bit, I guess.”

  “Why is that? I told you once that I don’t bite, and I still don’t. At least not personable young women.”

  Heather tried to laugh, but it came out thin and strained. She scrambled madly for something intelligent to say and came up with a partial truth, which was becoming a novel experience. “I—ah, I think it’s because you’re so much wealthier than anyone I’ve ever met before.” She ruined her mother’s training by flipping her hand out, which a proper lady would
never do. “I mean, you know, people always think rich people are different from the rest of us. Until you came to town, everybody pretty much scraped by. Now the rest of us still do. But you don’t.”

  She was a complete and total idiot, and if Philippe St. Pierre didn’t shoot her on the spot, she might just go outside and shoot herself. She quailed inside as she waited for him to say something.

  “I see,” is what he said.

  Heather cleared her throat, but couldn’t think of anything else to say, which was probably a blessing.

  “I guess I can understand that, but I can’t imagine why the differences in our relative wealth should make you so uncomfortable. After all, I didn’t start out life as a rich man.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Not at all. I started out with nothing. Therefore, except for my having pursued a course in life that has garnered me rich rewards, I’m still just like everybody else in the world.”

  In a pig’s eye. Heather remained silent.

  “So I still don’t understand why you should think of me as different from any of the other men in Fort Summers.”

  “Yes, I guess it is a pretty silly thing to do.” She achieved a fairly good smile.

  He looked at the fire for a moment, and Heather breathed a sigh of relief—too soon, as it turned out, because he looked at her again almost at once. “Is there anything else troubling you? Problems with your family, perhaps?”

  “My family?” Heather bounced out of her chair in a panic. “Oh, no! Don’t tell me something’s happened to one of them?” She began wringing her hands.

  “No, no, no. Sit down, please. I only offered that as a possible reason for your distress. As far as I know, your family is fine.”

  “Oh.” She sank back into the chair, feeling like a blithering blockhead, and with her heart hammering like a woodpecker. “Thank God.”

  Philippe stood suddenly, and she jumped. “Miss Mahaffey, I insist on your telling me what’s wrong. Something is. I can tell, and I’m sure it isn’t just because I’m a rich man. There are other men of substance in Fort Summers, as you well know. And I want you to know that I’ll do anything I can to assist you in any way possible.”