Cooking Up Trouble Page 8

  Philippe knew he had to do some fast thinking. Unfortunately, all of his resources were occupied below his belt at the moment. Making a supreme effort, he said, in a questioning sort of voice, “Miss Mahaffey? Is that you?”

  A pause. A gasp. Then a small voice asking, “Mr. St. Pierre? Is that you?”

  This was it. He had to do something to redeem his position as regarded Miss Mahaffey or be considered by her as a low-down skunk forever. Which he might be, although he’d never been one before.

  Squaring his shoulders like the responsible adult male human being he was supposed to be, Philippe stepped around to the door of the bathhouse. He deliberately pasted a frown on his face, and hoped to heaven that Heather would be so intimidated by his frown that she wouldn’t notice the gigantic bulge in his britches.

  She still had her hair up, and was clutching the neck of her ugly wrapper in one hand and her hairbrush in the other. She held the brush like a club, as if she aimed to light into the peeper with it. Fat lot of good a hairbrush would do her. Philippe scowled at the brush, thinking he ought to arm his employees better.

  When she saw him, she took a startled step back. “Mr. St. Pierre!”

  “Miss Mahaffey.” He made his voice stern.

  She blinked in astonishment. “Were—were you the one peeking in the window?”

  It didn’t sound to him as if she could credit the idea of Philippe as a Peeping Tom. Thank God for small favors. “I saw a light in the bathhouse and noticed that the curtain didn’t meet in the middle. I didn’t know who was in there.”

  “Oh.” She tilted her head, looking as if she didn’t know whether to get mad or apologize. “Am I supposed to tell you when I go to the bathhouse? Is that one of the rules?”

  “Of course not.” Since he was in a state, it was no problem for him to sound exasperated and slightly huffy. “But we’ve had some trouble on the ranch lately, and I wanted to make sure no objectionable visitors were poking around.”

  Her expression cleared. “Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

  He shook his head. “You needn’t be concerned. We’ve lost some cattle.”

  “Lost some? You mean they were stolen?”

  “It looks like it.”

  “Oh my, I’m sorry to hear it.”

  “So was I.”

  “I—” she swallowed. The fact that cattle had gone missing was no reason for him to be peeking at her as she bathed. Philippe hoped she wouldn’t point that out to him. She didn’t. “I see. And you were just curious about who was walking around outside?”

  What a wonderful woman she was, to offer him such a delightful lie to hold on to. “Indeed. I’m sorry I startled you. I didn’t expect to find you in the bathhouse.” A brilliant thought occurred to him. “In fact, I really think you ought to draw the curtains together more tightly when you bathe, Miss Mahaffey. A woman must protect her modesty.” Lord, had he really said that?

  “I tried.”

  “Oh?” In an effort to appear the honorable employer, he said, “You mean they don’t meet?”

  “No, they don’t. I should have brought some pins to pin them, but I didn’t.”

  “I see. You shouldn’t have to pin them. I’ll see that new ones are put up as soon as possible.” Then he’d never be tempted again, dammit. He made himself smile. “Please forgive me, Miss Mahaffey. We’re not accustomed to having women on the ranch, I fear, and it never occurred to me that my investigation might precipitate an embarrassing situation.” Liar. God, he could hardly believe this of himself. “Er, none of the men ever had occasion to worry about the curtains.”

  “I’m sure that’s so. But it’s all right. I’m sure you didn’t see much, and it’s all right now.”

  If she only knew. But Philippe said, “Of course.”

  They stood there, looking at each other, for a couple of silent moments. Philippe didn’t know what else to say. Heather didn’t either, apparently.

  It was an odd thing, though, that now that he knew how easy it was to spy on the gorgeous, succulent Miss Heather Mahaffey as she bathed, Philippe began entertaining the odd notion that all the men on his ranch already knew about that damned curtain. He had visions of the men gathering outside the bathhouse and ogling Heather, and his blood ran cold. “Please finish your bath, Miss Mahaffey.”

  He frowned, not liking the idea of returning to the house and leaving her out here. Alone. Except for all the men, lurking in the bunkhouse and waiting for him to depart, who might delight in spying on her feminine beauty. “I’ll just wait outside the door here and walk you back to the house when you’re through.”

  “I’m sure there’s no need for that, Mr. St. Pierre.”

  Although it was dark as the tomb outside, the faint light from the lantern burning inside the bathhouse was enough for Philippe to see Heather’s blush. He managed a wry smile. “I shan’t peek. I promise.” And, however much he rued the fact, he wasn’t going to break that promise.

  Her blush deepened. “Of course not. I never thought you would.”

  Which went to show how little she knew him. Philippe sighed, wishing he hadn’t discovered this aspect of his personality.

  “But really,” she went on, “you don’t need to wait for me. I’ve walked outside at night many times.”

  His hands curled into fists at the thought of other men watching her do so. He said stiffly, “That was before you came to work here. Before the trouble started.”

  That got to her. She appeared startled for a moment and then said, “Oh. Of course. Very well. I’ll try not to take very much time.”

  He waved her demur away. “Don’t be silly. Take all the time you need. I’ll wait here and smoke a cigar.”

  “All right. Thank you.” Before she turned and reentered the bathhouse, Heather shot him a smile that almost leveled him.

  He’d endured too much excitement for one evening, Philippe decided. Any time the smile of a little country lass could knock him around, it was time for rest.

  He jumped when the door burst open again, and Heather’s head poked out. “And I’ll be sure to draw the curtains tight. I suppose I can use hairpins.”

  Philippe was too startled to reply. By the time he got his wits together, she’d shut the door again.

  Good God. This was ridiculous. Heather Mahaffey was nothing to him but a pretty good cook. And an exceptionally pretty woman.

  Yet when he leaned against the bathhouse, took a cigar out of his pocket, struck a sulfur match against his boot heel, and lit up, he couldn’t stop thinking about what he’d seen. And when he made a tour of the bathhouse, searching in the shadows for possible lurking voyeurs, he remembered how her breasts had looked in the faint light of the lantern. And when he checked to make sure the curtains were tightly drawn—they were, damn it—the recollection of her creamy skin and the shadows playing over her back and buttocks made his palms itch.

  He was on the other side of the bathhouse when he heard the door open. He walked around the corner and saw her standing there, looking tentative in her huge, shapeless wrapper, holding the kerosene lantern, and peering around, presumably looking for him, and his heart skipped and skidded. This was absurd. He’d had females by the score. For God’s sake, he’d grown up in a whorehouse. This quaint, independent frontier girl shouldn’t be stirring him this much.

  However, there was no use fooling himself. She did stir him, for whatever reason. And Philippe was sure the reason was an illogical one, because a man’s libido—and his heart—never waited for reason, but dashed on ahead, forever keeping him upset. Damn.

  She must have hurried with her ablutions, because Philippe hadn’t calmed down much by the time Heather peeked about, looking as if she wasn’t sure she should be doing this. Philippe wasn’t, either. He wanted her so badly, his whole body ached.

  She turned, saw him, and smiled. “Oh, there you are.”

  Philippe had to clear his throat. “Yes. All through in there?”

  “I am. Thank you for waiting. I h
ave to admit I got a little skittish, thinking about people peering through the curtains. And stealing cattle.” She frowned. “I’m very sorry to hear about that, Mr. St. Pierre. We haven’t had much trouble with rustlers in recent years.”

  He barely heard her when she started talking about his cattle. He was too busy thinking about people peering through the windows. And there was no lock on the door, either. He threw his cigar down and squashed it with his boot heel. “I’ll do that tomorrow,” he muttered distractedly.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  When he glanced down and saw Heather looking up at him, her eyes dark in the night, he almost lost control of himself. Sweet Jesus, this had never happened to him before.

  “I’ll get a lock for the bathhouse door,” he said, ruthlessly suppressing his impulses. “I don’t like to think of you—or Mrs. Van der Linden—” Thank God he’d thought about injecting Mrs. Van der Linden into the conversation. She could dampen any man’s ardor. —”being bothered by people bursting in on you.”

  “Good idea. Thank you. I’ll feel much better then.”

  “Good.”

  Philippe wouldn’t. Damn it all to hell and back again.

  Chapter Six

  The next day’s breakfast menu included shirred eggs, breakfast sausages that looked like somebody had spent the better part of a lifetime making them and which D.A. called saucisse Bavarienne, potatoes galette, and some rolls D.A. called brioches. Heather had never heard of any of them before, but she guessed it didn’t matter much.

  The whole meal looked and smelled good, especially when D.A. conjured—she’d begun to think of him as some sort of magician—a jar of green-tomato jam to serve with the brioches. She knew it was green-tomato jam because D.A. told her so, although he’d called it something else she couldn’t pronounce.

  She tried very hard to concentrate on watching him work. When her mind wandered, it invariably wandered back to what had happened last night. Had Mr. St. Pierre seen her naked? The notion made her go hot, inside and out.

  She hoped he had.

  No, no, no. What kind of thinking was that? Of course, she hoped he hadn’t.

  Bother, she did not. She hoped he’d seen her buck-naked and had been stirred to lust by the sight of her.

  Merciful heavens, she’d better get her notions under control, or she’d be a fallen woman in no time at all.

  But the thought of being kissed—and more—by Philippe St. Pierre was certainly an exciting one.

  “There. That should make him happy.”

  Heather jumped when D.A.’s voice interrupted her lurid thoughts.

  D.A. had a satisfied expression on his face as he surveyed the breakfast tray Heather was about to carry in to the dining room. She peered at the tray and said truthfully, “It would make me happy.”

  The most exciting breakfast she’d ever eaten was fried scrapple. Which was tasty, but it sure couldn’t hold a candle to any of this stuff. “Don’t forget to stick around so you can tell me what we’re—I mean you’re—going to cook for the rest of today’s meals. And I’ve got to give him a list of supplies to get in town, too.”

  D.A. chuckled his all-too-knowing chuckle, the one that gave Heather shivers down her spine. She wished he wouldn’t do that.

  “I’ll be right here, cleaning up, after you deliver the big man his breakfast.”

  “Thank you.”

  Feeling extremely humble and not at all happy, Heather carried the tray to the dining room. She had to brace herself to face Philippe this morning. Salacious images of him and her, together, in intimate detail, kept intruding themselves into her consciousness.

  “Stop it this minute, Heather Mahaffey.”

  Her stern command had its effect. She squared her shoulders and pushed open the door. Philippe was there, looking as if he’d already done a full day’s work. She knew he got up very early. He had to; he was a rancher.

  “Allow me, Miss Mahaffey,” he murmured, coming over and relieving Heather of the tray and carrying it to the table, where he set it down with care.

  In spite of herself, she knew she was blushing. She said, “Thank you,” and with no little relief was about to turn tail and flee the room, when he spoke once more, stopping her. Blast.

  “My goodness, you’ve outdone yourself again, I see.”

  “Have I?” She turned, found him smiling at her, and experienced a brief moment of panic. Her nipples puckered, which told her something she already knew and embarrassed her, and she wanted to retreat back to the kitchen. But he’d stopped her. Tucking her hands under her apron since that was the only way she could wring them without him seeing her, she nodded to Philippe.

  “This looks wonderful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Looks good enough to eat, even.” He grinned at her.

  Heather’s heart stumbled and started racing. She wished he wouldn’t smile at her; she always got light-headed when he smiled. His smile, combined with the outrageous things she’d been thinking ever since last night, was enough to turn her into a babbling idiot.

  He had removed the covers from the plates and now gazed down at his breakfast. He looked mighty happy, which made Heather sort of happy, but not very. She’d be ecstatic, of course, if he were pleased by something she’d done. But he was pleased by a lie, and she felt not merely guilty but ashamed of herself. Not to mention the fact that she was, to put it in vulgar parlance, in heat. Like a stray dog or something. Mercy, this was terrible.

  “My, my. Sausages. And they look and smell delicious. I’m surprised you had time to make sausages since you haven’t been here very long.”

  Heather mumbled something that sounded like, “Mmph.” She didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

  “And where did this lovely jam come from? Don’t tell me you’ve had time to make jam already, too?”

  “Er, no. I, ah, brought that from home.”

  He frowned slightly. “Really, Miss Mahaffey, there’s no need for that. I’m sure I can survive quite nicely on the fare provided by my own larder until we can restock it with the items you need. I don’t like to think I’m putting your family to any inconvenience.”

  “Good Lord, no!” Heather caught her breath and felt her cheeks heat up again. “That is, it’s not an inconvenience, Mr. St. Pierre. My family needs the money I’m earning here. That’s surely worth a jar of jam. And, well, it’s only made from green tomatoes, and there are a million of those growing in the garden. You have to use them for something or they’ll rot.” That’s what her mother always said, at any rate.

  And it was true, too, even if it was one more elaboration of the already painfully large hoax she was perpetrating.

  “Nevertheless, I should appreciate it if you wouldn’t trouble your mother and father for provisions for my table.” He sounded severe.

  Heather swallowed. “Certainly, sir. I mean, no, sir, I won’t.”

  Then he smiled again, wiping out the severe expression so suddenly that Heather felt her heart hitch, and had to take a quick step backwards to keep from falling into a faint.

  “Have you made a list for me yet? I plan to send a man to town today to get supplies.”

  “I’ll have it as soon as you’re through eating breakfast,” she promised.

  “Fine.” He took another look at the really quite lovely repast spread before him. “This looks magnificent. Thank you, Miss Mahaffey. You’re a jewel.”

  Heather took that as her dismissal, and scrammed out of the dining room. A jewel, was she? If she was a jewel, she was a badly flawed one.

  When she got to the kitchen, D.A. Bologh had cleaned it so thoroughly it sparkled. Heather stopped dead in the doorway and stared. “How did you do that?”

  D.A., seated at the table in the middle of the room, idly buffing his nails on his shirt, glanced up at her. He was wearing his ingenuous expression that she didn’t believe. “Do what?”

  “Clean up so fast.” She knew she shouldn’t have asked as soon as his smile a
ppeared. She was beginning to loathe that smile. While Philippe St. Pierre’s smile made Heather want him to take her into his arms and ravish her, Mr. Bologh’s smile made her want to turn tail and run away.

  Or fall on her knees and pray for deliverance. She considered that a very bad thing.

  “Oh, it was nothing.” He waved a hand in the air in a nonchalant gesture.

  “Right.” She disliked this man. She didn’t trust him. She stomped over to a cupboard to make sure he hadn’t put any dishes away dirty. He hadn’t. She sighed and turned around.

  On the other hand, she’d better not let on how much she didn’t like him, because she needed him. With a sinking feeling that she was embroiling herself more and more deeply into some kind of deadly—or at least very unhealthy—quicksand, Heather took a chair across the table from him and withdrew a paper and pencil from her pocket. “If you wouldn’t mind, I have to make a list now of the things we need to get in town today.”

  “Glad to help.” D.A. took the paper from her hand, snatched the pencil and, with a swirl of both, handed her back a neatly printed list.

  Heather stared at the list for a second or two before she swallowed. She didn’t take the paper. “How’d you do that? And don’t say it’s nothing, because it’s not nothing. It’s something.”

  He laughed, and she felt a chilling in her bones. “You must have gathered by this time that I’m a very talented fellow, Miss Heather.

  “I think you’re a witch.” Could men be witches? Heather didn’t know, but she also couldn’t think of another explanation for D.A. Bologh’s powers. Even if she didn’t believe in witches.

  This time his laugh raised the short hairs on the back of her neck. “Nonsense. I just like my little amusements, is all. They’re very effective on the right audience.” He winked at her. Of course.

  “Right.” Heather heaved a huge sigh. “Well, will you please tell me what the rest of today’s menus will consist of? Mr. St. Pierre wants to know that, as well.”

  “He does, does he?”

  “Yes. Please don’t say you won’t do it, Mr. Bologh. I mean, if you’re going to help me, you have to really help me.”