Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  Philippe walked to the stove and lifted the lid on the pot. “It smells like something fit for a king.”

  Heather’s mouth shut, opened, and she managed to blurt out, “Louis XIV.”

  He chuckled. Now when he chuckled, Heather wanted to curl up and purr. His chuckle didn’t give her chills like D.A. Bologh’s did. She figured both reactions on her part were bad.

  Philippe turned, leaned against a counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and watched Heather. His lips were turned up a bit, giving him a little half-smile that sent the blood galloping through Heather’s veins like stampeding beeves. “Beauty and talent in one fine package. I’m impressed.”

  And then there was his voice. It caressed her. It petted her. It made her want to do unspeakable things with him. Good God, she was crazy.

  “Thank you.” Remembering how many hours of smiles she’d practiced, Heather managed to sneak one to her lips, but it didn’t want to stay there.

  “Thank you.”

  Mercy, mercy, look at those arms. Heather swallowed when she saw the way the fabric pulled over his biceps. It was unfair of him to be so gorgeous in every detail. God shouldn’t expend all of his efforts on one human being because that wasn’t fair to the rest of His creations. He ought to spread the masculinity out some. Gil McGill, for instance, could use a little of Mr. St. Pierre’s suavity to counteract his gangliness.

  “Um,” she said. “You’re welcome.”

  He’d crossed one leg carelessly over the other. Heather saw that his boots, while obviously good ones, were well worn, and that his clothes had put in a full day’s work. He evidently didn’t let the ranch run itself, but got in there and worked with his men. Heather would have approved if she hadn’t been so rattled. His trousers pulled over massive thighs the way his shirt pulled over his biceps, and gave Heather an idea of what was underneath the clothes. She wished they didn’t. She was a red-blooded, full-grown female, and she didn’t need to see sights like that. Or like the bulge between his legs.

  She turned, suddenly embarrassed to death, and walked blindly to the sink, where she turned on the tap and pretended to wash her hands. She heard him walk up behind her, and smothered a whimper with difficulty.

  “I meant to stop in to see you this morning, Miss Mahaffey, but I had to go to town. I wanted to make sure there’s nothing you need in the way of supplies.”

  Arming herself with a prayer and a deep breath, she turned again, and found him surveying the kitchen. His smile had gone. In its place was a small frown. He looked every bit as handsome frowning as he did smiling. This wasn’t fair.

  “Um, no. No, everything’s fine, thanks.” But what if it wasn’t and she’d just lied to him? For all she knew, D.A. Bologh needed all sorts of things and had only been making do. “But—but I’ll think about it, if that’s all right, and get back with you.”

  “Fine. That’s fine. I appreciate it.”

  “Oh, no. I appreciate your giving me this job.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

  He touched her cheek, and Heather sucked in a breath to keep from fainting.

  “You’re quite a surprise to me, Miss Mahaffey,” he said in his deep, liquid voice that held faint traces of Louisiana and fire and smoke and all sorts of things Heather would give anything to learn about first hand.

  She knew not what to say to that, and he walked to the door, opened it, and prepared to exit from the room filled with succulent smells and, except for the boom of his boots against the floor, silence. He turned at the door, gave her a small salute, smiled, and left.

  Heather sank back against the sink and fanned herself with her hand, sure she’d never recover.

  * * *

  Philippe St. Pierre sighed and sat back in his chair. Truth to tell, he hadn’t, at first, held out much hope for Heather Mahaffey’s working in his kitchen. Since meeting her at the barn dance, Philippe’s ears had been assaulted by several people’s opinions of Heather’s kitchen skills. According to town repute, Heather was nowhere near to achieving her father’s claims for her.

  Mrs. Van der Linden had been particularly blunt. “The man’s a liar, Mr. St. Pierre, and the whole town knows it. He’s always bragging about his children, embarrassing them no end. The girl’s pretty enough, but she’s a disaster in the kitchen. You’ll see if you hire her, but you might have to call in Doc Grady if you ever expect to get well again.”

  Philippe had laughed at the woman’s dire prophecies, but he’d stopped laughing after several others had given him hints about Heather’s lack of kitchenly virtues. Even people who liked and admired Heather weren’t optimistic about her ability to put pots and pans to good use.

  Gil McGill, who worked as his wrangler and who was clearly sweet on the girl, had even ventured to say dubiously, “If she don’t work out in the kitchen, I reckon she can clean house or rope steers or something. She’s good with cows.”

  His expression was eager, from which Philippe deduced Gil would welcome Heather’s presence at the ranch. Not that he blamed Gil. Heather Mahaffey was an eyeful, with her thick blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. However, he had begun to doubt his wisdom in hiring her as his cook.

  The problems that had started a week ago on his spread, however, had distracted him, and he hadn’t given his new cook much thought. And when he did think about her, his thoughts ran to things other than cooking. She was quit an eyeful, Heather was, and she looked like she’d be quite an armful, too. Philippe was disgusted with himself for those thoughts.

  He was, however, ecstatic to learn that everybody had been wrong about Heather and that Mr. Mahaffey hadn’t lied to him after all. Mrs. Van der Linden, looking stern and disapproving—she always looked stern and disapproving—entered the dining room to pour him some more coffee and set dessert in front of him. Philippe glanced at the dessert with interest.

  “I didn’t think I had room for anything else, Mrs. Van der Linden, but that looks too good to pass up. What is it?”

  Mrs. Van der Linden sniffed. “Miss Mahaffey calls it an apple torte, although it looks like a skinny apple pie to me.” With another disparaging sniff, she plunked a pitcher of cream down beside Philippe. “She says you’re supposed to pour some of this cream over it. She pronounced it krem. And it’s thick as the dickens. Don’t look like no cream I’ve ever seen.” She mistrusted it; that much was plain.

  Philippe chuckled and eyed his dessert with renewed interest. “Ah, yes, a French dish, I perceive. The burgundy beef was superb. That was French, too, I dare say. I suppose she’s trying to make me feel at home.” His heart twisted, and he ruthlessly ignored it.

  “Is she?” From the expression on Mrs. Van der Linden’s face and the tone of her voice, Philippe deduced that she didn’t approve of Heather’s attempt at foreign cooking. She probably didn’t trust it. Some of these territorial were ridiculously provincial and narrow-minded. “Hmm. I think she’s doing an admirable job so far, and I hope she continues to do so.”

  Mrs. Van der Linden left in something of a huff. Ignoring the old cow’s pique, Philippe poured a little cream on his torte and took a bite. It all but melted in his mouth, and he had to shut his eyes and savor it for a few moments before he allowed his natural cynicism to surface.

  He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. If little Miss Mahaffey was trying to make him feel at home, she was going about it all wrong. In order to do that, she’d have to feed him leftover tidbits from her lover’s meals.

  But that part of his life was over now. He’d made a successful new start, and had prospered. He was now reaping the rewards from all of his hard work, and he assuredly didn’t mind adding fine dining to his list of attainments. He’d have preferred a style other than French, but if that’s what Heather knew, that’s what he’d get, he reckoned. He wasn’t going to let her go for not knowing how to fix an Italian sauce. She was too precious a find.

  A glance around his new dining room gave him a slight pang, however. The blessed thing was so em
pty. This table, for instance, which could seat ten without a leaf being added, gleamed in lonely mahogany perfection. It seemed to mock Philippe and his achievements in life. What he needed was people seated at his table. Or something.

  “Hell,” he muttered. Dammit, he had achieved a lot. He’d pulled himself up by his own bootstraps, conquered poverty, misery, his own dismal origins, and fear, and made himself a fortune. If he’d done it alone, and if he had no one with whom to share it now, so much the better. He didn’t want anyone, at least on a permanent basis. Philippe knew good and well that a family only drained a fellow. His own family had all but killed him before he’d broken away from it, and there had been only one other person in it besides himself.

  His black musings were interrupted by Mrs. Van der Linden, who entered the room bearing the coffee pot. “Would you care for more coffee, Mr. St. Pierre?” She eyed his empty dessert plate bitterly, as if she resented Heather Mahaffey having created so superb a meal.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Van der Linden.” On an impulse, he added, “Would you please ask Miss Mahaffey to come to the dining room? I’d like to tell her how much I enjoyed her first meal as my cook.”

  Her eyebrows rose in overt disapproval. She had bushy gray eyebrows, and they reminded Philippe of a couple of caterpillars crawling over her forehead. He stifled a grin.

  “Yes, sir,” she said coldly.

  Philippe sighed as Mrs. Van der Linden waddled out of the room. He wasn’t sure if it was a good thing that his housekeeper and his cook didn’t get along. At least the housekeeper didn’t get along with the cook. He had no idea what Miss Mahaffey’s views were on Mrs. Van der Linden.

  A few moments later, he barely heard a soft knock at the dining room door. Lifting his coffee cup, he said, “Enter,” before taking a sip. He had to shut his eyes to properly savor it. Even the coffee was delicious.

  Heather Mahaffey, looking absurdly frightened, her hands folded under her apron, tiptoed into the room, glancing around as if she expected something to jump out from behind the door and murder her. Philippe rose from his chair and smiled. She was certainly a pretty girl. Amazing that she could cook so well, too.

  “Miss Mahaffey.”

  She jumped. “Yes, sir.” Her voice cracked.

  “Please, take a seat.” He waved at one of the never-before-used dining room chairs.

  “Oh, that’s all right, sir. I don’t need to sit.” Then she swallowed convulsively. She was clearly afraid of him. How odd. Philippe wasn’t accustomed to comely females being afraid of him. They were more apt to try to get him to seduce them so he’d have to marry them. Little did they know.

  He cocked his head to one side and smiled quizzically. “There’s no need to fear me, Miss Mahaffey. I won’t bite.” Although the notion was a tempting one.

  “No, sir.” She offered a strained laugh. “Of course not.”

  He shook his head. Obviously, she wasn’t going to calm down any time soon. He might as well take the bull by the horns and get it over with. “I wanted to tell you how very satisfying I found my first meal cooked by you, Miss Mahaffey. Your father didn’t exaggerate about your skills in the kitchen at all.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m, ah, glad you enjoyed it.”

  He waved a hand toward a chair. “Please, Miss Mahaffey, I insist that you sit. I enjoyed the meal very much. I’m curious about a few things.”

  Philippe didn’t understand why a spasm of what looked to him like agony passed over Heather’s face before she stumbled over to the chair he’d indicated and sat on its edge. She took several deep breaths, as if she were trying to prepare herself to endure some ghastly ritual.

  This was extremely peculiar behavior on her part, by Philippe’s way of thinking. He wondered if she’d taken all the local gossip about her poor cooking skills so much to heart that she no longer believed in her own immense talents. That would be a pity if it were true, and Philippe aimed to see that she understood how wrong her neighbors were.

  “Please, Miss Mahaffey, try to relax.”

  “Yes, sir.” She sat up straight and looked like she might break in half from tension.

  Philippe sighed again. He took out one of the thin cigars he’d become accustomed to smoking when he lived in New Orleans, clipped the end, lit it, and sat back. He was so full of good food and contentment that he guessed he’d just have to relax for the both of them. “I’m curious, however, about a couple of things.”

  Although he’d have believed it to be impossible before it happened, her back got straighter. “What things?” The question came out in an agitated bark.

  He eyed her without much appreciation. He didn’t understand why she was in such a dither. Of course, he knew women found him attractive, and that they were sometimes nervous in his presence. He’d been fending off females most of his life.

  If that was Miss Mahaffey’s problem, however, it surprised him, because she was so lovely in her own right. He’d have expected her to be expert at manipulating men by this time in her life. Granted, there wasn’t much scope for a vamp’s talents in this out-of-the-way place. Or perhaps her family was more strict than Philippe had come to believe them to be. He’d taken her father for a happy-go-lucky sort who would sooner take a nip than discipline his children.

  He told himself to stick to the subject. “For one thing, I didn’t know we had a supply of wine in the ranch house. I’m very happy to have discovered my mistake.”

  “You didn’t know?” She sat forward on her chair and sucked in a deep breath. “Oh, dear.”

  He waved a hand in the air in a careless gesture. “It’s not anything to worry about, Miss Mahaffey. It must have been sent with some other shipment, and I’d forgotten about it. Actually, I’m happy to find that we have some wine available. You put it to excellent use.”

  “Oh. Good.” She didn’t relax a whit.

  “And the beef dish contained mushrooms. I was surprised to find them there.”

  “You were?” Her voice was a little squeaky.

  “Yes. Now where did you find the noble mushroom in this sunny territory?”

  “Um, they were growing in the garden?” She sounded not at all sure of herself.

  Philippe frowned. “In the garden? I was under the impression that mushrooms had to grow under trees in moist climates. In France, I believe people find them in deep forests. In New Orleans, folks grow them in their cellars.”

  She began kneading her hands together in her lap. “Um, yes, that’s it, all right. They grew in a cellar.”

  “Oh?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Whose cellar?”

  She closed her eyes momentarily and opened them again. “My mother’s!” It came out in a blurt, and Philippe got the impression she’d just made it up. “My mother grows things like that—mushrooms and so forth—in her cellar.”

  “And so forth? What and so forth?”

  “Um, well . . .” Heather waved her hand in the air. It appeared a rather hopeless gesture to Philippe. “Um, other kinds of mushrooms, I meant to say.”

  “My, my.” Now why, he wondered, was the girl lying to him? Or was she lying? This conversation was very odd. “I didn’t know folks had cellars out here. I thought they had dugouts or soddies.”

  She flipped a hand in the air again, this time banging the back of it on the table. She started, jerked it back to her lap, and rubbed it with the fingers of her other hand.

  Philippe experienced an almost overwhelming impulse to take her hand and kiss it better. He didn’t understand it at all.

  Heather babbled again. “Oh, well, yes. She grows them in the dugout. Behind the house. Where she keeps the roots and potatoes and onions and so forth.”

  “I see.” He nodded, not seeing at all. “I don’t want to use up your mother’s supply of foodstuffs, Miss Mahaffey. I’m happy to purchase what we need for my table. And if a recipe calls for mushrooms and they aren’t locally available, perhaps you can omit them. I can’t imagine why a mushroom or the lack thereof would ruin a dish.”<
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  “All right.” She popped up from her chair. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do that. Omit them. That sort of thing.”

  Philippe eyed her keenly. “There’s no need to rush off, Miss Mahaffey. Please, sit again. I’m very curious about you.”

  “Oh, Lord, you are?” She sank into her chair and looked like she might cry.

  Her attitude was beginning to irk Philippe. “Miss Mahaffey,” he said severely, “I don’t know what people have been saying to you about me, but I’m not an evil man. I’m ruthless in business and intend to achieve my goals no matter what that entails, but I don’t trample young women under foot or pursue illegal avenues of income. I don’t see any reason for you to be so jittery in my presence. I asked you to come in here so that I can thank you for providing me with the best and tastiest meal I’ve had in years. I shouldn’t think that’s anything to be afraid of.”

  “Oh. Oh, no, sir. That’s not it. I—ah—I was only worried that you wouldn’t like your food, sir.”

  “Then you can cease worrying immediately. I liked it very well, ma’am, and I thank you. I think you’re a wonderful addition to the household staff.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And I don’t much like the notion that members of my household staff believe they need to defer to me. Of course, I expect everyone on my staff to work for their keep, but I don’t see any reason we can’t be comfortable with each other. Even friendly.” He tried to produce a friendly smile. “After all, this is the West, where everyone is equal to everyone else.”

  “Right. You’re absolutely right. Sir.”

  Philippe sighed. He was far from satisfied. Not only did she persist in calling him “sir,” but her voice was so tense, it nearly squeaked. She looked like a spring that had been wound too tightly and was on the verge of snapping and bouncing all around the room. Her attitude made no sense to him. He also didn’t have a clue as to why he leaned over and put his hand over hers. She jerked like a frightened rabbit.

  “Please, Miss Mahaffey, relax. I don’t mean to alarm you. Truly, I don’t.”