Cooking Up Trouble Page 9

  “Ah, I see.” He eyed her strangely. “You mean, you’re beginning to value my connivance in keeping the man in the dark.”

  “You don’t have to put it that way.” She knew she had no reason to feel so indignant. Blast it.

  “No? But you do want to continue this deceit.”

  Heather’s mouth fell open. Put that way, it sounded quite dastardly. Which, she guessed, it was. She sighed deeply and turned away to stare at the kitchen. It was a very nice kitchen. She wished she knew what to do in it.

  D.A. rose from the chair. “Which, of course, I’m more than willing to do.” He gave her another of his evil winks. “For a price.”

  She swallowed and glanced at him again. “I thought we’d already struck a bargain.” Wonderful. Her voice was shaking. Mercy, mercy, how could she have sunk so low so fast?

  “Indeed we did. For a month. And I’ll be glad to help you, Miss Heather.” He snapped his fingers and a paper appeared between two of them.

  Heather blinked at him. “Did—did you have that up your sleeve?” She’d heard one of her older brothers grouse about cardsharps coming to town and hiding cards up their sleeves. Maybe this man was an itinerant gambler.

  Magician, gambler, outlaw, cook. Witch. Heather felt a headache coming on and wished she could go back to bed and sleep for a hundred years. Like Rip Van Winkle or one of those other old-time storybook fellows.

  “I never use such cheap tricks as hiding things up my sleeve, Miss Heather. What do you take me for, anyway?”

  She didn’t think she’d better say. Besides, she didn’t know yet. “Um, well, may I please see the menus? I guess I ought to know what I’m supposed to be cooking for him, since he doesn’t know I’m not.” Did that make any sense? Well, no matter. She took the list out of D.A.’s hand and scanned it.

  What in the name of all that’s holy was this stuff? She looked from the list to D.A. Bologh and back again. “Um, do you have a duck tucked away somewhere?”

  “Of course, I have a duck, Miss Heather.” He grinned. “If I didn’t have a duck, would I have offered to cook one?”

  “I don’t know,” she muttered.

  Roasted duckling with Flemish olive sauce, truffles, and shallots sounded all right to her, although she did have a qualm or two. “What’s a shallot? For that matter, what’s a truffle?”

  “A shallot is akin to an onion. Sort of.”

  She glanced at him again. “Um, you don’t think we can just use an onion, do you? I mean, I know where there are onions. I’ve never even heard of a shallot.”

  “My dear young child,” D.A. said in a condescending tone, “if you expect my help, you’re going to have to rid yourself of your provincial leanings. People who consume my cooking don’t merely eat. They dine.”

  “Oh.” She thought about asking what the difference was, but opted not to. Obviously, the difference was that if you ate, you used onions. If you dined, you used shallots, whatever they were. “Um, where are we supposed to get shallots?”

  “Not a problem, dearie. I have everything right at hand.”

  “I see. And the truffles? What are they?”

  “Truffles are a type of mushroom.”

  Mushrooms again. Fiddlesticks. Heather scratched off the truffles. “We won’t be using the truffles, Mr. Bologh.”

  “And why not?” He sounded offended.

  Why not? “Because Mr. St. Pierre questioned the use of mushrooms before as being too exotic for this neck of the woods. If a plain old mushroom’s too exotic for us, I can just imagine what he’d say to a truffle.”

  “Provincial swine,” D.A. muttered under his breath.

  “We might have to scratch the shallots, too.”

  “Never.” He turned and marched to the window and looked out.

  Heather pretended not to hear him, but she had her own idea about the shallots. “Um, I guess there’s celery in the garden, so that part is all right, but what’s a celery root rémoulade?”

  “A rémoulade is a sauce, sweetie pie, and I’m going to finely slice the celery root, cook it, and serve it with the sauce. You’ll learn.”

  Heather doubted it. “And what’s this thing? A mer-ring-guh?”

  “Meringue. It’s made with egg whites and sugar. Great Caesar’s ghost, child, didn’t your mother teach you anything?”

  “Yes, she did! And I don’t want to hear you say anything like that again!” Heather could take a lot from this man, because he was doing her an immense service, but she’d be diced and fried before she’d let him abuse her family.

  D.A. held up a hand. “I’m sorry. Of course, your mother is a saint. It’s the circumstances that are hellish.”

  Whatever. Heather didn’t respond, but continued to glare at him.

  “And you’ll notice that for supper, I’ll be preparing a thin sorrel soup made with broth from boiling up the duckling bones since I know you who live in this vile frontier have to use everything or people will talk.”

  “People are going to talk, anyway,” she grumbled under her breath. “They probably already are.” She could almost hear them, actually, and they weren’t saying anything nice. Not that she blamed them.

  D.A. paused, evidently having been struck by an idea. “Or perhaps I’ll fix a French onion soup. Sorrel’s a little out of the way for this place. And that way we can use some of those onions you’re so fond of and still have an edible meal.”

  “It’s not so much that I’m fond of them, it’s just that—that—” It’s just that she knew what they were. As opposed to shallots. Or truffles. Or Flemish olives. Or celery root rémoulade. And she’d always thought a sorrel was a horse. She decided she’d only look stupid if she said so. Not that she didn’t already.

  She was holding the list, worrying, when the kitchen door opened. She turned abruptly to find Philippe St. Pierre standing there, smiling his wonderful smile at her. At once, her mind returned to the night before, and the list fluttered from her suddenly nerveless fingers. It had drifted to the floor before Heather could get her wits together. A panic-stricken glance around the kitchen revealed that D.A. Bologh seemed to have vanished.

  How in the name of heaven did he do these things? She was beginning to think she probably didn’t want to know.

  “Please pardon me for bursting into your kingdom unannounced like this, Miss Mahaffey.” Philippe stooped and picked up the menu. “I understand great chefs are often temperamental about things like that.”

  Great chefs? That let her out. She murmured, “Oh, no, it’s quite all right.” She wanted to jump on his body, rip off his clothes, and beg him to teach her the pleasures of the flesh. He knew them. She’d bet anything that he knew every, single, solitary one of them. She’d also bet he’d be a superior teacher.

  She was losing her mind. Heather pressed a hand to her forehead to check for fever. No fever. Drat. That meant she was merely experiencing lust. As she’d never experienced lust before, she wasn’t sure what to do to get over it.

  He glanced at the paper in his hand and then back at Heather. “Roasted duckling?”

  “I’m leaving out the truffles,” she said quickly, hoping to forestall him before he could ask.

  “No truffles.” He glanced again at the menu and shook his head. “Good Lord, girl, you’re feeding me like a king.”

  She shrugged because she didn’t know what else to do. “It’s—it’s no bother, really.” And that, at least, was the truth, even if nothing else about her life lately was.

  “I don’t think it’s nothing. I think it’s a miracle.” He handed the list back to Heather. It vibrated because her hand shook, and she slapped it onto the kitchen table, praying he hadn’t noticed.

  Philippe walked past her and sat in one of the other chairs, stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossed them at the ankles, and grinned up at her. “Do you mind if I stay a moment so that we can chat for a little bit, Miss Mahaffey? I have to admit I’m very curious about you.”

  Oh, no! Exactly as s
he’d feared.

  Unless he had peeked last night and was now going to ask her to do something unsavory. That sounded fine to her, unfortunately. But no. It must be something else. Something bad. Something to do with her job.

  She sank into a chair and stared straight at Philippe St. Pierre, ready to face her doom. He’d found her out. And it hadn’t taken long, either.

  “Please try to relax, Miss Mahaffey. I know I make you nervous, but I’m not a bad man. Truly.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it,” said Heather, who was sure of no such thing.

  “Didn’t I prove my good intentions last night?”

  Last night. Suddenly Heather’s throat sprouted a lump the size of Gibraltar.

  “I plan to fetch new curtains today in town.”

  She forced herself to swallow the lump. “Oh. Good. Thank you.”

  “So, you see, I’m trying to be a good employer. I’m not sure what rumors have been going around town about me, but I’m not bad.”

  “Of course not. And I’ve never heard any rumors.” Except that he was a handsome man, and that was the truth, so it couldn’t be a rumor. Could it? Heather would have to consult with Geraldine, who served as her moral guide in matters too ticklish for Heather to take up with her mother.

  “I’m glad of that.”

  His dark eyes seemed somehow warm to Heather. Actually, they seemed hot. Unless that was her own internal temperature playing hob with her perception. “It’s only that I—that I—” She ran out of steam. It was only what? That she wasn’t accustomed to being a faker and a cheat, not to mention wildly in lust? True, but she thought she’d better let him bring up those particular subjects on his own.

  “That this is your first job. I understand.”

  Heather wished she did. She did, however, nod, as if Philippe had hit the nail on the head.

  “And you’re nervous about it, I’m sure.”

  She nodded again.

  “But you’re a superb cook, Miss Mahaffey. In fact, I’m astonished to find anyone with your skills living out here on the high plains.”

  “Um, yes. I’m kind of astonished, too.” And that was putting it mildly.

  “A person would think you’d been to cooking school in Paris.”

  Cooking school? In Paris? There were actually schools where they taught a person how to prepare these fancy dishes? Good heavens, maybe that’s where Mr. Bologh had learned his craft. Heather felt a little better about life. Not a whole lot better; only a little. She said, “Oh.” Then she said, “Thank you,” because it seemed polite to do so.

  “Not at all. I thank you. I never supposed I’d be eating fine food out here. I thought I’d left that sort of thing behind when I departed from New Orleans.”

  “Oh.”

  “The two meals I’ve eaten that you’ve prepared have taken me back to my boyhood, in fact. We used to eat well, whatever else we did.”

  Heather didn’t understand why he’d put it that way, but she was too nervous to ask. Besides, it wasn’t her place to ask about her employer. Which wasn’t quite fair, since employers could and did pry into the private lives of their employees. She told herself not to get sidetracked by notions of western frontier independence and liberty and so forth.

  “Did your mother teach you to cook?” Philippe asked, confirming Heather’s opinion that the world wasn’t fair.

  She mentally kicked herself and said, “Er, yes. She tried.” Over and over and over, she’d tried, poor dear. Heather loved her mother very much, and had always felt both sorry and dreadfully guilty that she wasn’t a better daughter to such a paragon of housewifely virtues.

  “She more than tried, if she’s the one who introduced you to the art of cooking.”

  Heather said, “Mmph” again, and added another, “Thank you.”

  “You’re entirely welcome. Is your mother of French extraction, by any chance?”

  “Er, no. Both my mother and father came from Ireland. I—I don’t think any of her family is French.”

  “I see. I only wondered.” Philippe glanced at the menu again and noticed the neatly printed list lying next to it on the table. He picked it up. “Ah, I see you had a chance to think about supplies, too.”

  “Yes.” Blast. She wished she’d had more time to peruse the list. She couldn’t remember what was on it.

  “Corn meal. Potatoes. Onions. Shallots.” He glanced up from the list. “Shallots?”

  “If I can find any,” Heather broke in quickly. “Otherwise, I’ll use onions. In the soup. With the duckling bones.” Oh, dear Lord, please help me. She wanted to put her head in her arms and scream for an hour or two.

  “I see.” Philippe peered at her, his dark, hot eyes seeming to pierce her darkest, most secret places. It was all she could do to hold his gaze.

  She was about to give up the effort and run shrieking from the room when he spoke again. “Miss Mahaffey, perhaps I should go to town today. And you should accompany me. That way we can pick up all the supplies we need, and I can have a better idea how you intend to work in the kitchen.”

  “But—but—there’s dinner to prepare.” Not that she’d be doing the preparing, but she had a feeling D.A. Bologh, as quickly as he worked, couldn’t roast a duck in time for dinner. Or, if he did, Mr. St. Pierre would know for sure that something funny was going on. Although, truth to tell, it didn’t seem very funny to Heather at the moment.

  He thought for a second or two. “Er, perhaps you can postpone cooking the duckling until tomorrow, and we can have a more simple repast today.”

  That didn’t sound right to Heather, but she was in such emotional turmoil, she didn’t dare say so. He was probably being reasonable, and she was insane. She must be insane; otherwise how could she, a sensible, ordinary girl, have gotten embroiled in such a dreadful pickle? She cleared her throat. “Certainly, Mr. St. Pierre, if you’d like.”

  “I should like, Miss Mahaffey.”

  There went his smile again. Out of nowhere, it materialized in a flash of white teeth against a darkly tanned face. His smile made the flesh around his eyes crinkle slightly, and turned the heat in his eyes into dancing flame.

  “And I should also like it if you’d help me pick out fabric for curtains in the bath house.”

  “Of course.” Her voice sounded hoarse, and she cleared her throat and tried again. “I should be happy to.”

  She was losing her mind; that much was becoming painfully obvious. She’d heard the wind sometimes drove people mad. And, while she knew the wind had driven her to do a reckless and probably stupid thing by accepting this job, she hadn’t until now realized exactly how far it had driven her. She was sorry to have been the Mahaffey singled out to be afflicted with wind-borne insanity.

  “Are you ready now?” he asked after Heather had almost managed to get herself under control. “If you don’t have to prepare that big meal at noon, perhaps we can leave soon.”

  “Now? I—ah—I—yes. Of course.”

  He rose from his chair and glanced around the kitchen. “You’re truly a wonder, Miss Mahaffey. I can’t imagine how you could have managed to cook breakfast, serve it, and clean up the kitchen so fast.”

  “It—I—um—I had help.” There. That wasn’t even a lie. Much.

  “Really?” His eyebrows dipped over his gorgeous eyes, making Heather wish she’d kept her fat mouth shut. “And exactly who helped you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t mind.” She smiled, praying he’d forget there had been more to his question.

  No such luck. His left eyebrow went up in an ironic question mark. His right eyebrow stayed down, which made him look angry. Heather had to swallow.

  “Um, my friend Geraldine came over to help.” Shoot, she wished that were true. She could use some of Geraldine’s sensible advice right about now. “I, ah, hope you don’t mind.”

  “Geraldine.” The angry look faded from his face and was replaced by one of puzzlement. “Geraldine . . .”

  “
Geraldine Swift. My friend. The one with the spectacles. You met her at the dance?”

  “Oh, yes. I remember her now.” His expression eased. “I see. Well, I should think that would be all right. I’m not altogether sure I want strangers running free in my house without my knowledge, however, so please don’t invite too many of your friends over, if you don’t mind. Or at least ask me first, if you will. We’ve had trouble with the cattle and so forth.”

  Heather forgot to be frightened for a moment. “Good Lord, Geraldine wouldn’t know how to rustle cattle, Mr. St. Pierre!”

  He chuckled and her knees went weak again. “Of course not. I wasn’t singling out Miss Swift, but only asking that you check with me before you invite friends to the house.”

  “Of course. Right. I’m sorry.” If he objected to Geraldine Swift, how would he react to D.A. Bologh? Heather decided she’d sooner go out behind the barn and shoot herself than find out.

  “No need to apologize, Miss Mahaffey.”

  If he only knew.

  Chapter Seven

  Philippe asked Heather to fetch a bonnet and shawl and be ready to go in a half hour. She agreed, and he went out to hitch the horses to the wagon. His mood was unsettled, and he had a feeling it had more than a little bit to do with his new cook.

  It wasn’t so much that he was attracted to her. Hell, any man would be attracted to her, especially if he’d seen her naked, as Philippe had. She’d have made a spectacular courtesan.

  However, he’d never felt the urge to spill his guts to another human being before. He’d learned even before he could talk that it was unwise to trust his innermost self with other people.

  There was a quality about Heather Mahaffey, however, that made him impatient with his usual reserve. It wasn’t only that she was a remarkably pretty girl and that he’d seen her nude. Hell, Philippe had been resisting—or not resisting, depending on his mood—pretty girls for years. Granted, few of them had aroused him as Heather had done last night, but that was probably only because it had been a long time since he’d last lain with a woman. At least, that’s what he’d been telling himself since tossing and turning in his bed for hours last night.