Cooking Up Trouble Read online

  She stared at his hand, which looked very dark resting on her pale one, as if she expected it to slap her. Not much chance of that. He might think of many things to do with his hands in relation to Heather Mahaffey, but none of them were of a violent nature. Far from it.

  Damn, he wished he hadn’t thought about Heather with respect to the things he’d like to do to her involving his hands.

  “I—I’m not scared,” she lied. Her eyes, big and as blue as cornflowers, plainly showed how terrified she was.

  Philippe sighed yet again. Although he enjoyed her company and her looks and would like to become better acquainted with her, he began to think he might as well end this torture. She unquestionably wasn’t going to calm down any time soon. “I’m sorry, Miss Mahaffey, that you should find me such an ogre—”

  “No! No, not at all. Not an ogre. No, sir.”

  Since she’d all but shrieked her disclaimer, Philippe didn’t believe it. “At any rate, I hope that in time you’ll come to understand I mean you no harm. And I truly appreciate your efforts on my behalf. I haven’t eaten such a tasty meal since I moved to the territory.”

  “Really? I mean, good. That’s good. I’m, ah, glad you enjoyed it.”

  “Yes.” He withdrew his hand from hers and noticed that she breathed a sigh of relief. This wasn’t very flattering behavior on her part. Philippe, while far from vain, knew he was a good-looking man, and a very rich one. For the latter reason alone, women generally found him attractive.

  But that was nothing to the purpose. “I’d like my breakfast served at eight o’clock, please, Miss Mahaffey. I’m up long before then, of course, but I don’t need more than coffee earlier. I’ll be out doing my morning chores, and when I get back to the house at eight, I’m usually quite hungry. Will that be satisfactory?”

  “Satisfactory? Oh, of course. You’re the boss.” She licked her lips. She had very pretty lips.

  Damn. Philippe wished he hadn’t noticed her lips. “And dinner can be at one o’clock in the afternoon on a regular basis, if that’s also satisfactory.”

  “Dinner. One o’clock. All right.” She looked like she might faint if she had to remain in the room with him for very much longer.

  His decision to end the interview wavered. He was curious as to why she feared him so much, and discovered within himself a desire to know her better. If he held her here a little longer, trying all the while to lull her into relaxing, maybe she’d crack and tell him what was wrong. “Mind you, these hours are relatively uncivilized.” He gave her one of his more continental smiles. She only blinked at him, as if she were in too anxious a state to distinguish between various smiles and their relative seductiveness. He shook his head. “However, since we live in the Wild West, I suppose it’s as well to conform to custom.”

  She didn’t even nod, and he wondered if she was simple-minded or merely so scared she couldn’t respond. But why in the name of God was she scared? Settling back in his chair, he surveyed her through slitted eyes. “And the custom of taking one’s largest meal around noontime prevails for a reason. After all, when one works hard at physical outdoor labor all day long, one needs the energy provided by a large mid-day meal.”

  Looking at him as if she suspected he was a lunatic, Heather said, “Ah, yes. I guess so. Right. Of course.”

  Maybe he was a lunatic. He couldn’t seem to let this poor frightened young woman go. She was too pretty, and her worry was too palpable, and there seemed so little reason for it. After all, if this meal was a foretaste of meals to come, she could cook for him forever.

  He cleared his throat. “So, Miss Mahaffey, would you care to go over menus for the upcoming day or two with me?”

  “M-m-menus?”

  “Certainly. I believe it is customary for the cook to consult with the mistress of the house in order to determine what she’s expected to prepare by way of meals. In this case, of course, there is no mistress.” He gave her another wolfish smile and was interested to note that her demeanor didn’t visibly alter. She was evidently already too unnerved to allow so small a thing as a wolfish smile to further unsettle her. “So you’ll have to consult with me.”

  “Oh.”

  Lord, if she got any more pale, she might just faint. Philippe shook his head and said gently, “I’m not a harsh taskmaster, Miss Mahaffey. I’m not fussy. I’m sure you know all about preparing meals. Perhaps we can just talk about them a little.”

  “Talk about them?” Her voice had gone high and thin, and she licked her lips once more. “All right. Um, what do you like to eat?”

  He tilted his head and considered her for a moment. She had absolutely no idea how to be a household servant; that much was obvious. Perhaps that’s why she was so daunted by this interview. Yet she’d seemed perfectly at ease at the dance. He hadn’t expected her to be shy just because she was in the presence of her new employer. Her reputation indicated she wasn’t at all shy, in fact. He’d have expected her to take over the house, not hide away in a corner.

  Ah, well, who knew what inanities swirled around in the heads of pretty females? Or even ugly ones. Philippe, who’d thus far in life not found many reasons to respect women, asked kindly, “Would you care to take notes, Miss Mahaffey? I’m sure your memory is excellent, but—”

  “Notes?” she squeaked. “Notes? Oh, shoot, I don’t have—” She rooted frantically in her apron pocket, and produced nothing more useful than a piece of lint, which she stared at with enormous, worried eyes.

  Philippe cleared his throat, and she jumped in her chair. “Allow me,” he said, and stood. He could feel her gaze following him as he walked to the sideboard, pulled out a drawer, and withdrew a pencil and a small sheet of paper. When he returned to her, she was staring at him as if she expected him to sprout horns and a forked tail and begin spitting fire. Interesting. He couldn’t recall ever having had this effect on a personable young woman before. Perhaps he was getting old and losing his skill.

  “Here, perhaps you can jot down a couple of suggestions on this.”

  Her hands shook when she took the paper and pencil. “All right. Thank you.”

  This situation was nonsensical. Philippe had to hide a smile behind his hand. He lifted his small cigar to his lips, took another puff, and decided to give the girl a break. He rose and went back to the sideboard, where he fiddled with a pair of silver candlesticks he’d ordered from New York City. “So, Miss Mahaffey, what delights do you have in store for me tomorrow? I’m sure that these first few meals will have to be planned around supplies already on hand.”

  He heard her suck in a huge breath and expel it in a long sigh.

  Chapter Four

  If this interview lasted much longer, Heather feared her nerves would split right smack in half and she’d run screaming from the room. In an effort to calm herself—she knew she was being enormously foolish to show Mr. St. Pierre how nervous she was—she took another deep breath and blurted out, “Delights?” in a voice that was much too loud.

  Thunder and lightning. Heather shut her eyes, took a third breath, and mentally slapped herself silly. She had to get a grip on her nerves. Her first meal had gone well. And if she hadn’t prepared it, Mr. St. Pierre didn’t know that. Yet.

  Of course, he’d know tomorrow morning first thing, unless D.A. Bologh kept his end of their bargain.

  Which reminded Heather that she didn’t yet know what her own end of said bargain entailed.

  She told herself to stop thinking immediately and concentrate on food. “Um—well—”

  He turned around. He had the most magnificent eyes Heather had ever seen. They were dark as pitch and his lashes framed them and made them appear sultry and dreamy. And they looked hot, as if they might sear her if she got too close. Actually, his whole large body seemed to radiate heat. Unless that was her present state of hysteria making her flush. Then he smiled again, and Heather went light-headed.

  This was stupid. She had to get hold of herself.

  “Yes, Miss M
ahaffey, what foodstuffs do we have in the kitchen for your further culinary experimentations?”

  Experimentations? Oh, Lord in heaven, he didn’t already know about her, did he?

  But no. Of course, he didn’t. Heather mentally screamed at herself to calm down. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged. This was terrible.

  He sighed. “That is to say, do you have sufficient supplies for tomorrow’s meals? Do I need to send someone to town for supplies? Please let me know, because I intend to keep the larder well-stocked with whatever provisions you require. Obviously, you’re a wizard in the kitchen. I don’t want to stifle your creativity.”

  Stifle her creativity. Fat chance of that ever happening. She said, “Oh, I see. Well, I—I’m not sure. I’ll have to check on everything and let you know.”

  Not that she’d know what a kitchen should be stocked with. Up until she’d accepted this position as cook in Philippe St. Pierre’s big fancy ranch house, Heather had figured an average meal consisted of corn cakes and molasses. With maybe some side meat like bacon fried up for special occasions.

  “Fine.” He came back to the dining room table, his booted feet making thunder on the polished wooden floor.

  She sucked in a breath when he sat beside her again. Mercy, mercy, she wished he’d stayed across the room.

  “But you must have some idea what you intend to serve tomorrow.”

  He smiled. This smile didn’t look as intimidating as his earlier ones had. This was a friendly, easy-going smile. Good heavens, he hadn’t been practicing his smiles, too, had he? Until this minute, Heather hadn’t considered the possibility that men practiced the art of flirtation as women did. She said, “Um . . .” and ran out of inspiration.

  Actually, if she were to answer his question, she’d have to say no. She had absolutely no idea in the world what she intended to serve tomorrow. She sensed it would be unwise to admit it. “I’m not sure yet.” There. If he didn’t accept that, she’d just have to run away from home. She couldn’t possibly remain in Fort Summers after she’d been exposed as a fraud by Philippe St. Pierre.

  “I see. Well, perhaps after you’ve surveyed your kingdom further, you’ll be able to give me an idea.”

  “Right. I mean, surely, I can do that.”

  “Fine.” He stood over her for fully long enough for Heather to begin to sweat. She knew ladies weren’t supposed to sweat, but she also knew she was about as far from being a lady as any female on earth. So far, in the course of a single day, she’d lied, made a vile deal with a stranger—and didn’t even know what she’d dealt—assumed a false position, and made a complete fool of herself in front of her employer, who was the most handsome man in the entire universe. Might as well sweat, too.

  He held out a hand, and Heather shrank back before she caught herself doing it and stopped. She wasn’t surprised when his smile vanished and he looked peeved. She was peeved at herself, too.

  “Please, Miss Mahaffey, if you would condescend to shake hands with me? I truly do appreciate the fine meal you prepared for me this evening.”

  She rose from her chair. Because she felt like an idiot, and because he didn’t deserve such brainless behavior from her as she’d demonstrated so far, she said quickly, “I’m so sorry, Mr. St. Pierre. I—I guess I’m not used to being employed.” That sounded stupid. She worked all the time when there was anybody in town willing to hire her. “In such fine surroundings, and all, I mean,” she amended. “I guess I’m a—a little nervous about my ability to do the job.” She took Philippe’s offered hand.

  “Of course.” He bowed over her hand.

  Heather had never seen a man bow over a female’s hand before. The gesture thrilled her almost as much as his kissing her hand at the dance had done.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” he said in a voice that seeped into Heather’s pores and trickled into her nerve endings and made her nipples pucker.

  On that unseemly note, she escaped. As if all the demons in hell were after her. She scooted past Mrs. Van der Linden, who scowled at her as if she knew what was on her mind. Which, of course, she couldn’t, because Mrs. Van der Linden was a proper gentlewoman if ever God had crafted one, and Heather’s thoughts were decidedly improper.

  When she’d shoved through the kitchen door and fallen, panting, onto a chair, she crossed her arms on the table, laid her head on them, and tried to catch her breath. Her chest ached from being scared.

  What have I done? What have I done? sounded relentlessly in her head. What she feared she’d done was court disaster, and that it would not only affect her, but her family and their standing in the very small, close-knit community of Fort Summers, as well. She’d never forgive herself if she brought shame to her mother and father.

  No matter how much her father deserved it.

  She groaned aloud when she caught herself mulling over that mean-spirited thought. This was her fault and no one else’s. She should have asked if Mr. St. Pierre had another position available and taken that. She knew better than to think she’d suddenly be able to cook a decent meal.

  Shoot, he was part French, and Geraldine said the French were an eccentric lot. Maybe he’d have let her work with his cattle for a while. Or tend the gardens. She could do both of those things better than most folks. But cooking? She shuddered.

  The door opened at her back. She jerked her head up and whirled around. When she beheld Mrs. Van der Linden in the doorway, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Not that Mrs. Van der Linden’s expression was friendly. Far from it. In fact, Mrs. Van der Linden took one comprehensive look at Heather and offered one of her offended—and offensive—sniffs and a good, hot scowl. “Well, you got past that one, Heather Mahaffey.”

  Although Heather could usually hold her own in about any battle of wits and words, she was too worried at the moment to take exception to Mrs. Van der Linden’s tone and disparaging comment. Instead, she said merely, “Yes. It’s a wonder, too, isn’t it?”

  Mrs. Van der Linden stared at her as if she’d just blasphemed God and the twelve apostles. “I’m astonished that you dare to admit it.”

  Heather shrugged. “Why should you be astonished? It’s the truth.” And she wasn’t sure what she was going to do about it, either.

  “Well,” said Mrs. Van der Linden, and said no more, probably because she’d entered the kitchen spoiling for a fight and Heather wasn’t obliging her.

  Heather glanced at the pots, pans, cooking utensils, and dishes stacked next to the sink. “I suppose it’s part of my job to wash dishes.” She was only asking. She didn’t mind. Actually, washing dishes was one of the few things she could do without making a muddle of it. It would be sort of pleasant to do something at which she was adept for a change.

  Mrs. Van der Linden sniffed again. “I think it should be your job,” she said sourly. “But that man is thinking about hiring a girl to wash up.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that” It was nice of him. That meant Heather would only have to cook.

  Good heavens! What was nice about that? She wanted to lower her head to her arms again and weep.

  “But until he does there’s nobody else to do it, so it’s up to you to get this mess cleaned up.” Mrs. Van der Linden glanced around the kitchen with a supercilious frown. “You certainly dirtied enough equipment while you were fixing your fancy dinner, young lady. I’m surprised your mother allows you to cook things like that, quite frankly.”

  “Yes. Me, too.” Actually, Heather’s mother would fall into a faint if she heard that Heather had managed to cook any kind of a meal at all without burning the house down. That anyone, least of all her mother, would believe she’d created a fabulous French meal was beyond comprehension.

  “I don’t hold with fancy cooking myself,” Mrs. Van der Linden continued. “This isn’t Paris, France, after all. Folks generally have better things to do with their hard-earned money than throw it away on fancy cooking.”

  “Mr. St. Pierre has lots of money, I guess.”
>
  “Humph.” Mrs. Van der Linden gave Heather one of her meaner sneers. “Of course, he has lots of money. And you already know it. You’re sly, Heather Mahaffey. I always said you were sly.”

  Heather let it slide. She had no energy left to disabuse Mrs. Van der Linden of her false assumptions. She shrugged. “I suppose a rich man can afford to buy interesting things to eat.”

  “I still don’t hold with it. It’s wasteful, and waste is unchristian. Waste not, want not, the Good Book says.”

  Again Heather offered no response. She felt herself to be on fairly shaky ground regarding the Good Book this evening.

  Mrs. Van der Linden turned from her survey of the dirty dishes and glowered at Heather. “That man asked me to help you clean up this jumble tonight, so I’ll do it. But it’s not my job, and I want you to know it. And I still don’t hold with dirtying all these dishes for one silly meal. A pot is all my mother needed, and a pot’s all any decent, God-fearing woman needs to fix a meal in.”

  “Oh.” For a second, Heather contemplated accepting Mrs. Van der Linden’s help with the dishes. It took no more than that for her to realize she’d sooner be drenched in oil and set afire than remain in the older woman’s company for any longer than was absolutely necessary. “Please, Mrs. Van der Linden, don’t bother. I can wash these up in a minute.”

  Liar. Well, what was one more little lie? She’d lied about everything else today. If it took her three hours to do the dishes, Heather could look upon the experience in the light of atonement. Or something.

  Mrs. Van der Linden didn’t like to be deprived of an opportunity to martyr herself, and actually argued with Heather for a minute or two. Heather prevailed at last, however, and the older woman left in a snit.

  “Nothing pleases that old coot,” Heather muttered under her breath as she surveyed the mess of dirty dishes and cooking utensils piled before her.

  Before she could tackle them, a knock came at the back door. With a heavy sigh, she went to the door and opened it. And there stood D.A. Bologh, smiling at her as if he hadn’t performed a miracle mere hours earlier.