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“Baked goods and sodas.”
His broad shoulders lifted in a dismissing shrug. “Then, I’ll pay you the other two-thirds for every day you’re without the right kind of truck.”
He clearly didn’t see a problem. He also seemed to think that all he had to do was open his checkbook and her little crisis would be solved.
Wondering if life was always that easy for him, and suspecting it must be, considering who he was, she forced patience upon her growing unease. “This isn’t just about money. Money isn’t going to feed my customers or get me my work back,” she explained, needing him to understand that dollars couldn’t begin to replace the structure of her carefully ordered life. “I get up at three o’clock in the morning to do my baking and make sandwiches. At eight-twenty I load my truck and leave for my first stop. I finish my breakfast-and-break run, come back for lunch restock and finish the lunch run by twelve-forty. After that, I gas up my truck, drop off leftovers at the seniors’ center, stop at the produce market and come back here so I can clean up the truck, refill the dispensers and get my dry ingredients mixed up for the next morning’s baking.
“All I’m going to be able to do now is a breakfast-and-break run,” she continued, only now allowing herself to consider what tomorrow would bring. With all she’d had to deal with that day, she had managed to avoid that prospect so far. With her sense of anxiety growing, she truly wished she could avoid it now. “That means I won’t have to bake nearly as many cookies and I won’t make sandwiches at all. And I won’t have my lunch run to make, or my truck to take care of when I get back, so that means I won’t have nearly as much to do when I get back in the afternoon.”
She shook her head, wondering how many hours that left unfilled. Not wanting to know, self-recrimination lowered her voice to a mutter. “If I hadn’t wanted the money for that stupid chafing dish, everything would be fine.”
Cord watched the pretty, sable-haired woman across the booth from him rub her forehead. Her short, neat nails were unpolished, her slender fingers ringless, her dark and shining hair pulled back and clipped casually at her nape. Her lush mouth was unadorned, free of the shiny sticky gloss worn by so many of the women he knew. There was a freshness about Madison O’Malley that wasn’t terribly familiar to him, a lack of studied polish that spoke of interests beyond the hours he knew some women—his own mother and sisters included—spent being manicured, pedicured, highlighted, waxed, masked and massaged. On the other hand, it didn’t sound as if she had time for such fussing. From what he’d just heard of her schedule, she barely had time to sleep.
That she also now seemed as upset with herself as she was with him wasn’t lost on him, either.
Overlooking the fact that anyone else would be grateful for the break, and hoping to cash in on the blame she seemed to be feeling toward herself, he focused on the chafing dish she’d just mentioned. He had no idea how it figured into what had happened, but he’d buy a gross of them for her if it would help fix this little mess.
“This chafing dish,” he said, ducking his head to see her eyes. “Is it something you need for your business?”
“It’s one of a lot of things.” Absently pulling a napkin from the holder, she lifted her head. “I’m trying to expand my catering business, but I don’t have the equipment and serving pieces I need for parties. If I’d had a couple of good double chafers I wouldn’t have had to turn down Suzie Donnatelli’s wedding last week. Not that she asked,” she admitted, sounding as if she were talking more to herself than to him as she rolled the napkin’s edges, “but I know she would have if I’d told her I could do it.
“That’s why I took the coffee and muffins to the trailer,” she hurried on, her racing thoughts leaving him in the conversational dust. “It wasn’t worth being off schedule for twenty dollars worth of coffee and food, but a fifty-dollar tip would make a serious contribution to my equipment fund. As it was, the tip you gave me would almost buy the blasted thing, but it wound up costing me my truck.”
For a moment Cord said nothing. He just sat there wanting very much to keep her away from her last thought.
“Okay,” he said, buying himself a few seconds while he weighed the new information she’d more or less given him. If he read this woman correctly, she was actually more upset about having time on her hands than she was her loss of income. She also had something more she wanted to do, but hadn’t been able to because she hadn’t had the extra income to do it with.
“If I get you equipment and catering jobs, would that help?”
Madison opened her mouth, blinked and closed it again.
“I can buy you whatever you need,” he said, thinking that anything he had to pay would be a bargain compared to what it would cost him if he couldn’t make her happy enough to stay away from insurance companies and lawyers. “And I know lots of people who entertain. You can work on that end of your business until your new truck gets here.”
His expression mirrored hers when her eyebrows pinched.
“What?” he asked, needing to stay up with her, if not one step ahead.
“It’s not just the equipment I lack. Not exactly,” she confessed, sounding as if one set of concerns had just given way to another. “It’s the experience. I’ve done a few small parties,” she explained. “I’ve just never done anything of any size that wasn’t just hors d’oeuvres.” Suddenly looking a little self-conscious, she dropped her voice another notch. “I’m sort of still in the planning stages.”
Cord drew a slow, deep breath. When he’d walked in, he had thought that he could write out a couple of checks, make sure she got an even better truck than the one she’d had so she would have no cause for complaint, and hope that would be the end of it. There was also the little matter of getting her to sign a release of claim for Callaway Construction, but there were details to iron out first.
“You can practice on me,” he concluded, tightening his grasp on the only negotiating tool he’d been able to find. “I’m having a few people in this weekend. Saturday night. Nothing formal,” he assured her, since that seemed to be a concern. “I’m not a formal kind of guy.” That was his family’s forte. He could hold his own with a wine list, and he enjoyed the finer things as much as the next man. He just didn’t like having to put on a tux to do it. “I thought I’d call a restaurant and have them deliver, but the job is yours if you want it.”
When Madison felt excited, nervous or uncertain, she needed to move. Needing to move now, she slid from the booth, took a step away, then turned back.
“You want to hire me?” she asked, looking incredulous, sounding doubtful.
“It works for me, if it works for you.”
Madison promptly started to pace. Three steps one way, three steps back. Cord Kendrick had connections in circles it would take a miracle for her to enter on her own. And there he was, his impossibly blue eyes following her every move while he waited for her to accept or decline the offer of her lifetime.
His mother had been royalty.
His older brother was the governor of the state.
His father was related to the Carnegies or the Mellons. Or maybe it was the Vanderbilts. All she knew was that he’d come from old money that had made tons more.
Granted, from what she’d read, the Kendrick family had little to do with Cord himself, but the circle he reputedly ran in wasn’t that shabby, either: Grand Prix racers, supermodels, platinum recording artists. Owners of large, multimillion-dollar construction companies.
“I don’t know,” she murmured, pacing away from him. “I’d planned to practice more on my friends first.” It was one thing to help them out with their parties. She knew what it took to please them. But catering was all about referrals. “What if your dinner is a disaster? If I’m really not ready, I could end my career before I even get started.”
Because she kept turning away, and because her voice was still low, Cord was having trouble catching what she said. Wishing she would stand still, he levered his long frame out of the booth and caught up with her two empty booths down.
“You’ll be fine,” he assured her.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve tasted your cooking.”
Her tone went flat. “You had a muffin,” she reminded him over the scream of race cars on a motor oil commercial. “That’s not exactly chicken Florentine.
“Can you make chicken Florentine?” he asked as she paced the other way.
“I can make lots of things.” She tried out new recipes and new twists on old ones on her family all the time. “There are just some things I’ve never made for more than four people.”
“This will only be for seven or eight. And Florentine would be great. Throw in some pasta, a salad and something for dessert and you’re home free.”
Her uncertainty remained as she turned back. “What kind of pasta?”
He shrugged, took a step closer. One dinner party disaster would hardly be the end of the world for him. But if it wasn’t a disaster and he could help her get more business, he would have made up for the loss of work she was so upset about now. “Something northern Italian. White sauce, not red.”
She started pacing the other way. Grabbing her arm, he turned her right back. “Will you stand still?”
Her faint frown met his. “I think better when I’m moving.”
“Well, you’re making me dizzy.”
“Hey, Madison. Everything okay over there?”
Apparently grabbing her hadn’t been the wisest thing to do. Dropping his hand, Cord turned to see the burly bartender scowling at him from the other side of the bar. The two men bellied up to it weren’t looking too friendly toward him, either.
“Everything is fine,” Madison assured the man. “We’re just talking.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
The ledge of Mike’s brow lowered with the glance he gave Cord before looking back to her. “You just let me know if you need anything.”
“Honest, Mike. Everything’s okay.” A smile smoothed some of the strain from her delicate features as she glanced toward the other men. “Thanks, guys.”
Cord watched the customers turn back to the mirror, where they could keep an eye on his and Madison’s reflections. As if to be sure she truly wasn’t being harassed, the guy she’d called Mike kept a more direct focus on them. At least, he did until the ring of the phone demanded his attention.
The quick concern of the men for her had seemed almost brotherly. As if they regarded her as…family. He’d had that same impression from some of the men around her truck at the construction site, too.
Cord hadn’t had a lot of experience with the sort of protectiveness he sensed here. And certainly not within his own family. Not that he could identify, anyway. But he had friends. More than he could count. There just weren’t many he truly trusted, and of those not a single one was female.
He had discovered long ago that women only wanted two things from him: a good time and his money. He’d never been opposed to a good time himself, and as long a woman was willing to play by his rules and keep her mouth shut around the press, he’d take her along for the ride. But this woman was nothing like anyone he’d ever met. She had workaholic written all over her, and she didn’t seem interested in his money at all. At least not beyond what it would take to replace her truck.
The thought of the press had him heading back to their booth and picking up his pen. After writing out a check, he used her curled-up napkin to write his address on.
“My home and cell numbers are on that, too,” he said, handing the napkin and check to her. “The check is for whatever food you have to buy for the dinner. You can give me a bill later for whatever you want to charge for your time.
“I have to go, but there’s something I need you to do for me,” he continued, his back to the bar as he glanced from his watch to the confusion in her expression. He hated to rush, but he had already bailed on Matt to take care of Madison, and he needed to get back to their meeting. Callaway Construction’s next construction draw hinged on the reports he had to review and sign. He tended to blow off responsibilities others imposed on him, simply because they were someone else’s idea of what he should do and not his own. The responsibilities he chose himself, however, he took quite seriously. He wasn’t about leave his best friend to cover paychecks and costs for materials from his own pocket.
Three other customers walked in, men coming in for a beer after work, from the looks of their grease-streaked clothes. They didn’t seem to notice him and Madison. Not yet, anyway. They were too busy bantering about the Lamborghini outside as they headed for the bar, and speculating about who it belonged to. It wouldn’t be long before they did notice them though. And the fewer people who recognized him, the better.
His voice dropped. “I need you to keep any conversation we have just between us.” He was going to take a chance that she was exactly what she seemed. A woman who just wanted her business back. She hadn’t said or done a thing that would lead him to believe that she was looking for a quick million dollars the way others had when they thought they had something on him. And she definitely didn’t appear to be interested in acquiring his money by showing any interest in him personally.
That part actually stung a little.
“Just between you and me,” he continued, pocketing his checkbook before the newcomers could glimpse much more than his profile, “I have a real knack for drawing bad publicity. It will be a lot easier for both of us if you don’t mention my name to anyone. Especially to the press. Just tell your friends that everything is being handled by Callaway Construction and that I’m its representative. Things are only going to get complicated if we don’t keep the details just between us.” He held out his hand. “Okay?”
Madison glanced from his hand to the odd intensity in his eyes. Despite his casually confiding tone, she couldn’t help feeling that her agreement meant far more to him than anything else they’d discussed.
Living in the Ridge, she knew how crazy things could get when other people started poking their noses into someone else’s business. She had never considered it before, but she supposed that poking its figurative nose in people’s business was exactly what the press did every time something went into print. It occurred to her that he routinely faced the nosiness of the Ridge on a global scale.
“Okay,” she said. Considering all he was willing to do for her, and having no desire to sabotage any of it, she took his hand. “Just between us.”
His grip tightened. “Thank you.”
Her heart did an odd bump against her ribs at his relieved smile. Not sure what to make of the little tug of sympathy she felt toward him, she slowly withdrew her hand.
“You have my number,” he continued, once more relaxed. “Call me with the name of the dealership for your truck and to set up a time for you to come to my place Saturday. I’d like dinner around eight.”
It occurred to her as she watched him give her a nod, go to the door, then hold it so two other customers could walk in before he walked out, that she hadn’t actually agreed to do his party. They’d only been in the discussion stages, and the last she remembered, she’d been balking because she truly didn’t feel ready. Yet somehow in the course of their conversation he had managed to let her know what he wanted, for how many and when, and walked out the door as if there had never been any question about whether or not she would take the job.
“Hey, Madison,” Mike called as, insides shaky, she headed for the door at the back of the bar. “Who was that guy? He looks familiar.”
“Just someone who’s going to help me replace my truck,” she replied, too excited about the opportunity Cord offered to feel railroaded, too apprehensive about it to overlook his knack for talking her into what he wanted.
Unfastening her fanny pack from around her waist, she took out the key to her apartment. She really didn’t want to go into details with Mike now, but she couldn’t leave him with only that. “It got totaled on a construction site.”
A dozen heads turned toward her. “You all right, girl?” old Tom asked.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she assured, pushing open the door to the kitchen. “I wasn’t anywhere near it when it happened. I just have to order another one now.”
Mike set the glass he’d just dried on the shelf behind him. “What about your route?”
“I have a van for the breakfast and break runs. I’ll tell you about it when I come back to make dough.”
She would mix up dough for her cookies and dry ingredients for her muffins after she dumped the ice chests, swept out the inside of the van and came up with a way to provide her customers with coffee. It relieved her to have those things to do. Being occupied kept her from thinking about things she didn’t want to think about. And right now what she didn’t want to think about was the man who had totally wrecked what had started out to be a perfectly pleasant day.
Unfortunately, her reprieve was short-lived. Word was already out about her truck.
Chapter Three
News of Madison’s misfortune spread through the Ridge at roughly the speed of light. By the time she left for her modified route the next morning, she had heard from no less than a half-dozen people, her mother included, who felt she should sue Callaway Construction, the crane operator, the company that had made the crane and anyone else a good attorney could come up with to see that she got a decent settlement. After all, she could have been in that truck. Emotional distress was worth a fortune in court these days.
One of the Donnatelli boys, the one with the law degree, even volunteered his services. She found his message on her answering machine when she returned that afternoon.
A few hours later she ended the constant flow of advice, along with the fun everyone was having spending her imaginary money, when she told her grandmother, who told Mavis Reilly, who told everyone else, that she wasn’t going to sue anyone because she had parked where she shouldn’t. She had even seen, and ignored, a warning sign.
She didn’t mention who had told her to park there. Aside from the fact that she’d agreed to keep Cord’s name to herself, she had finally calmed down enough to remember that she’d had a feeling she shouldn’t have parked where she had. Since she’d done it, anyway, part of the blame was hers. Once everyone realized that she wasn’t merely a victim and that her truck was being replaced, the juice went out of the gossip—and she was no longer the topic du jour on the local grapevine.
That relieved her enormously. Though there were those around her who thrived on others’ problems and seemed to think it their duty to dissect, discuss and decide how best to handle them, Madison preferred to handle her life on her own. She had carved out a neat little niche for herself with her work and her family, and as long as her days were full and she took care of those who counted on her, she had nothing to complain about.
She just couldn’t stand to be idle. And with her work load cut, she would have been desperate to fill the time she now had on her hands had it not been for Cord’s dinner party. She could whip up batches of muffins and cookies practically in her sleep. She could chop, slice and dice the makings for chicken salad and tuna sandwiches while shuttling cookies from oven to cooling racks and wrapping muffins in between. On Sundays, when she cooked for her family, she breezily pinched and dashed her way through marinaras, braises, paellas and pastas. Her favorite bedtime reading was a good cookbook. Bon Appetit and Gourmet magazines formed little towers on her coffee table and nightstand.
If there was anywhere she possessed confidence, it was in the kitchen. At least, she’d once possessed it there. The need to impress Cord’s guests resulted in three long afternoons of experimenting and tweaking. Yet, by the time Saturday rolled around, she still wasn’t convinced that what she planned to serve was absolutely, totally right.
The need to impress Cord himself only magnified the anxiety she was trying to hide when she pulled into his driveway twenty minutes early.
The directions the secretary from Callaway Construction had given her had been complicated. She had even been told that the house was apparently easy to miss. Afraid of being late, Madison had given herself an extra half an hour to get there. She was glad she had. She’d passed the single-story cedar-and-shake structure twice, secluded as it was in the forest of bushes and trees edging Chesapeake Bay.
Wanting everything to be as close to perfect as she could make it, she quickly checked to make sure her seat belt hadn’t wrinkled her white blouse and black slacks too badly before she pulled a cooler with the components of her appetizers and main course from the back of the van. Leaving the cooler by the front door, she returned for a box of utensils. She made a third trip for the large bag of fresh ingredients she’d shopped for that morning and the dessert it had taken her three attempts to get just like the picture in Cuisine.
Balancing the bag in one arm and her chocolate raspberry mousse torte in the other, she rang the doorbell with her elbow and drew a deep breath.
Thirty seconds later the breath came out, and she rang the doorbell again.
When no one answered after nearly a full minute, the anxiety she felt turned to a different form of unease.
Wondering if Cord was even home, she peered through the wavering lines of stained glass that framed the large door to see if she could detect any movement inside.
She hadn’t talked to Cord directly at all in the four days since the demise of her truck. He hadn’t answered his home phone when she’d called to give him the name of the dealer she’d ordered her first truck from, so she’d left the message on his answering machine. Within two hours, he’d left a message on her answering machine indicating that he was out of town, and telling her that Matt Callaway’s secretary would take care of everything in his absence. The next morning she’d received a call from the dealer, who told her he had a letter of credit in hand that would cover the cost of any truck in his fleet and to discuss the sort of vehicle she wanted.
When she’d called Cord the second time to thank him and finalize the menu and time for his dinner, she got his voice mail again. The message he left in reply while she was on her route said only that what they had discussed was fine and that he’d see her at six o’clock.
She saw no movement inside. Wondering if something had happened and that he hadn’t returned from wherever he’d been, she pulled back.
She’d taken two steps away when the latch clicked, the door swung wide and her heart bumped her breastbone.
Cord filled the doorway. He had one hand on the knob. The other secured the end of a black towel slung low on his lean hips. Another towel was looped around his neck.
She swallowed, opened her mouth to speak and found herself taking a deep breath instead. His broad shoulders, chest and arms looked damp and as hard and as sculpted as hammered bronze. Below the dark terry cloth around his hips, his powerful calves gleamed with droplets of water he’d missed in his hurried attempt to dry off.
Suddenly aware that she was staring, her glance jerked to the carved lines of his recently shaved face. He had rubbed the towel around his neck over his wet hair. The short strands stood up in spikes several shades darker than its usual sun-bleached wheat.
