скачать книгу бесплатно
Cameron Foley could hardly believe his eyes. Maddie Daniels was kneeling in the dirt. The woman had fallen, just as his daughter had claimed when she’d come tearing down one of the rows of tart cherries he’d been walking along with a worker. Cam almost smiled at the picture the woman presented. Dust covered her navy slacks and a wave of dark hair dangled in front of her eyes. He never would have taken the cool, competent Miss Daniels for such a klutz.
“She fell, Daddy. I told you,” Caroline chirped, clearly perplexed by her father’s short memory.
“I see that, honey. Now, why don’t you run back to the house and tell Mrs. Haversham to put on a fresh pot of coffee. We’ll be along shortly.”
When his daughter was out of hearing range, he said, “I hope you’re not going to sue me. I’d hate to have to turn my farm into a condo development to pay out a personal injury settlement to some clumsy female.”
“Your concern is truly enough to make me weep,” Maddie replied, her tone as dry as the dusty patch of earth beneath her knees. Cam gave her points for dignity. Her stiff upper lip appeared unaffected, which probably was more than could be said for her dust-covered derriere.
“Yeah, well, why don’t we head back to the house? Less chance for you to get hurt sitting in my kitchen. I hope.”
It was a cheap shot, but he wasn’t feeling particularly cordial at the moment. He didn’t have time for this today. He didn’t have time for her any day. How he wished he’d never let pride push him into this foolish bargain.
He glanced around the orchard and suppressed the urge to sigh. It was not quite July, but a warm spring had caused the cherries to ripen early. The sweets were almost two weeks ahead of schedule, and the tarts were right behind them. If some of the trees weren’t shaken soon the fruit would spoil. He’d lost some of his help to better-paying jobs, three of his best workers in the past month alone. The good economy made it hard to keep employees, especially when the same economy didn’t do much for the price that cherries brought at market.
“We’ll have to make this quick. Daylight is dollars to a farmer, Miss Daniels.” He snatched up the briefcase and started off for the house.
“Mr. Foley.”
She brought him up short when she called his name in that formal, Southern-sounding way of hers.
What now? He blew out an exasperated breath before turning around, but the pithy comment he planned died on his lips when he realized she had not moved. She was still on the ground, one leg pulled beneath her as if she had tried to stand. The other one, however, was bent at a rather awkward angle out to the side.
“I’m afraid I can’t get up on my own.” The words were issued in a stilted whisper and her gaze slid away as she said them. A blush the color of ripe tart cherries darkened her fair cheeks.
Still not looking directly at him, she extended the scarred hand and Cam’s memory stirred. That day in her office her movements had seemed stiff and hesitant, painful even. Clearly, whatever accident had left her hand so marred had done far more serious damage to her leg. And he’d left her sitting in the dirt. He closed his eyes briefly, ashamed that his rude behavior had forced her to all but beg for his help.
Cam clasped the hand Maddie held out and, as gently as possible, helped her to her feet, apologizing profusely as he did so.
“You know, I’m not usually such a jerk.”
She was gracious enough to let him off the hook easily. “It’s all right, really.” She reached for the briefcase he still held.
“I’ll carry it for you. Is your leg...how did...?” He let the questions trail away on a hastily expelled breath. “Sorry. It’s really none of my business.”
She answered him, anyway, unintentionally creating more questions with her vague explanation. “I was in an accident. Sometimes it’s hard to get up.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Relax, Mr. Foley. I won’t be suing you, if that’s what’s got you worried.”
Cam winced. “I was only joking when I said that.”
“Really? And here I was already picking out colors for my condominium.” She brushed the dust from her clothes, and, inclining her head in the direction of the house, she said, “Shall we?”
Cam walked slowly this time, moderating his usually brisk stride to match her more halting one. It seemed to take forever to reach the house on their silent, slow walk back, giving him plenty of time to feel like a proper heel. They entered through a screened-in back porch, and the homey scents of apples and cinnamon greeted them.
“Mmm. It smells wonderful in here,” Maddie said.
“Mrs. Haversham promised Caroline apple pie for dessert. In the three years she’s worked for me, she’s never broken a promise to my daughter. I make sure her paycheck reflects my appreciation.” He motioned toward the table. “Why don’t we have a seat in here?”
Gratefully, he noticed his housekeeper and daughter were nowhere to be found, and hopefully they would stay that way for the duration of his interview with Maddie. As it was, Mrs. H. was already too eager for him to start dating again, and who knew what embarrassing things Caroline would blurt out. She was six, after all. That made her old enough to express her thoughts clearly and too young to censor the more inappropriate ones.
“I see the coffee is ready. Would you care for a cup?”
“Please. I take it black. Before we get started, is there someplace I could freshen up?”
“Just down that hallway on the left.” Despite her composed demeanor, Cam could almost feel her discomfort.
While he waited for her to return, he poured them both a steaming mug of coffee, lacing his own with a spoonful of sugar. When she reentered the kitchen, the last physical traces of her ordeal in the orchard had been wiped away.
“I’ll try to take up as little of your time as possible,” she said, slowly lowering herself onto the chair across from him. “I’ll need a photograph, just for my records, really. I brought my Polaroid.”
She pulled it from the interior of her briefcase, and before he had a chance to protest, she snapped his picture. While she waited for the image to develop, she surprised him by slipping a pair of glasses onto the slim bridge of her nose. They should have made her look even more professional, but Cam had long considered glasses scholarly and...sexy. He chased the thought away with a gulp of coffee, scalding his tongue in the process. Maddie glanced up in question when he hissed out a breath.
“Ready when you are,” he managed to say.
“Why don’t we start with the basics? Age?”
“Thirty-six. I’ll be thirty-seven in March.”
She wrote his response on a yellow legal pad. Other notes had already been jotted down in her no-nonsense script. He couldn’t quite make out the words, which were upside-down from his vantage point, but he thought he caught something about “well built and attractive.” He felt his face heat.
“Height?”
“Just a hair over six feet.” For some reason, he straightened in his chair as he said it.
“Weight?”
Cam sipped his coffee, blowing on it beforehand this time, and thought about what the scale had said just that morning. “Um, one-eighty.”
She glanced up. One eyebrow lifted over the top rim of her glasses, leaving that little mole hidden.
“Give or take a few,” he amended. “Caroline has been on a pizza kick lately and it’s easier to cave in than to argue with her.” When Maddie just kept staring at him, he added, “She’s six, but she’s good.”
One-eighty, give or take a few pounds, Maddie mused, and probably all muscle. As interesting as she found it that a man would hedge about his weight, she was more intrigued by the way this man looked. A faded Cherry Republic T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, and she recalled that softly molded denim had hugged a pair of well-formed thighs when he’d walked.
She cleared her throat, perplexed by the inappropriate direction her thoughts kept taking. Her voice was an embarrassing squeak when she asked her next pitifully obvious question.
“Occupation?”
“I’m a cherry farmer, Miss Daniels.” He grinned, a flash of white teeth in an otherwise bronze face, and nodded toward the window and the start of the orchard visible through it. “Foleys have farmed this land for three generations. My dad met my mother here. She was a migrant worker, one of the thousands of Mexicans who came to Michigan each summer to harvest the cherries before modern technology made hand-picking obsolete.”
Maddie studied his features. His hair was a light, sun-kissed brown, but the warm hue of his skin and the coffee-colored eyes that peered at her from below a slash of dark brows hinted at his heritage.
She broke off her gaze and pretended to jot down more notes.
“Do you smoke?”
“No, filthy habit.”
She stifled a relieved sigh. She couldn’t agree more. Of course, she told herself that the relief she felt was merely because finding Cameron Foley a match would be that much easier if he didn’t have a pack-a-day habit. The vast majority of her clients were nonsmokers.
“Do you drink?”
“I like a cold beer after a hard day.”
That fit, she thought, working up the mental image. She could picture him hoisting a long-necked brown bottle in the evenings, sitting on the steps of that inviting front porch, maybe listening to Ernie Harwell call a Tigers game on the radio.
Then he threw her a curve.
“And I like wine. I sometimes have a glass with dinner. I’m not particularly a connoisseur,” he admitted with a shrug. “But I’m partial to anything French and expensive.”
“French and expensive,” she repeated. This new data did not compute.
“Sure. No one knows grapes like the French. But, I have to say, the local vineyards are coming along. In fact, a few of the Leelanau wines are passably good. Have you tried any?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t get out much,” she said as she wrote down social drinker.
Cam frowned. “You don’t get out much? That seems kind of odd for the president of a dating service.”
“My business is relatively young, so I spend most of my days, including weekends, at the office. It doesn’t leave a lot of time for anything else.”
The explanation seemed perfectly logical. Cam knew all about the demands of being the boss, meeting a payroll while trying to turn a profit, but for some reason he didn’t buy it. A woman with her looks would attract plenty of male attention. So why would she choose to spend Saturday nights alone?
Maddie settled the glasses more firmly on the bridge of her nose and said, “Let’s move on to your health. Is there anything, ah, contagious that I should know about? Anything you’re being treated for?”
The tone was polite enough to make him smile, especially since she was essentially asking him if he had a social disease. Again, he caught the slight hint of the South in her speech.
“You’re not from around here, are you? Originally, I mean?”
“No.”
“Your accent, I’m guessing South Carolina.”
“Georgia, actually. I grew up just outside Atlanta. My parents and brothers still live there.”
“Really? Kind of chilly up here for a Southern belle, especially come January. That’s one of the reasons my parents moved to Florida when they retired five years ago. What made you decide to relocate to northern Michigan?”
Before she could respond, he grinned and added, “I’m guessing it was a man, and I’m guessing it was a while ago. You’ve lost a lot of your honeyed drawl, Miss Daniels.”
Maddie didn’t like the way he’d taken over the interview or the way he had begun to probe into her personal life. He was good at it, too. She had moved north to be with a man—the man who, as of nine months ago, had become her ex-husband.
Turning her tone to one of frosted efficiency, she said, “That’s not really important. The point of this interview is for me to gather enough information to put together a basic personality sketch of you. I know your time is valuable, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll ask the questions. Health?” she repeated.
His lips thinned into a serious line, and he answered rather pointedly, “My health is excellent. I’ve been out of circulation too long to have caught anything deadly.”
She bobbled the coffee she’d been about to sip, although she managed not to spill any of it on her blouse. “What kind of woman would you say you prefer?”
It was his turn to be uncomfortable. He straightened in his seat and twirled the spoon in the sugar bowl. “I don’t know. I’m not very particular.”
Hogwash, Maddie thought. Cameron Foley would be very particular. Any man who would drive into Traverse City during the height of tourist season to protest a dating service’s mass mailing clearly had an opinion on more than mere marketing practices.
“I can’t do my job if you’re not candid. We had a deal, Mr. Foley.”
“Cameron,” he corrected her, sounding slightly irritated. “My friends call me Cam. Since you’re digging into my personal life, I’m thinking you should at least call me by my given name.”
“Very well.” She took a deep breath and settled on the more formal moniker. “Cameron.” The word seemed to linger on her tongue like peppermint candy.
“Does this mean I can call you Madison?” She thought he might be teasing her. A light danced in his dark eyes, but his lips remained unbowed.
“Maddie, please. Only my mother calls me Madison. And my father, when I’ve tried his patience.”
“I’ll bet that’s often,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Isn’t Madison an odd name for a girl?” His gaze skimmed down her torso, lingered an uncomfortable moment. “Woman,” he corrected himself.
She felt herself blush. “My father is an American history buff. He’s big on presidents. I have two brothers, Lincoln and Carter.”
“A Republican and a Democrat. At least your father is bipartisan.”
She couldn’t quite stifle the unladylike snort of laughter that would have earned her mother’s censure. “My father’s a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat. That’s why he named my mother’s cat Nixon. Cats are too brazen and calculating to be named after Democrats, he claims.”
“Clearly this was before the Clinton administration,” Cam muttered.
She cleared her throat. “While I find your political views fascinating, I think we should get back to your preferences in women. Do you prefer blondes?”
Some men did, Cam thought, but not him. He’d never found a blonde to be half as sexy as a brunette. Perhaps that was part of his heritage poking through. He glanced at Maddie’s dark cascade of loose curls. The sunlight filtering through the window exposed its burnished highlights. Angela’s hair had been like that, dark and yet full of secrets that could be teased out by the sun. He’d loved to touch her hair, to bury his fingers in it. The memory made him ache.
“Blondes,” he blurted out. Trying to sound less defensive he added, “Yeah, I prefer blondes.”
“Tall, petite, slim, um...well-proportioned?”
He noted her discomfort, and the devil made him say, “I like tall women. And I like them to have a little meat on their bones. A little more meat in some places than others, if you know what I mean.”
She scribbled something on the notepad and, without looking up, she asked, “Any other physical attributes you find appealing, Mr., um, Cameron?”
“Legs. Long legs with thin ankles. Oh, and small feet. Nothing over size seven.”
He thought she might have rolled her eyes, but she kept her head slightly bent as she continued, “Do you have an age range that you would prefer?”
He didn’t really care about age. Angie had been a year older than he. But he stroked his chin, as if considering. “Hmm, how old are you?”
Maddie appeared startled. “Me?”
“Yeah, you.”
