The Millionaire and the Maid

Not to mention all those guest appearances and endorsements. Still, if he’d gone around buying expensive cars willy-nilly she supposed he might have burned through it pretty quickly. Not that it was any of her business. And it wasn’t any of Russ’s business either.

‘I... Sorry, I just thought you were rolling in it.’

‘I was.’

So what on earth had he done with it all?

She had no intention of asking, but possibilities circled through her mind—bad investments, gambling, living the high life with no thought for the future.

‘It’s all gone on medical bills.’

That had her swinging back. ‘Yours was a workplace accident.’ It had occurred during the filming of one of his TV episodes. ‘Insurance should’ve taken care of the medical expenses.’

‘Not my medical bills, Jo. The money hasn’t gone on my medical bills.’

A world of weariness stretched through his voice. And then it hit her. That young apprentice who’d also been involved in the fire. ‘Ethan?’ she whispered.

He didn’t respond with either a yea or a nay.

She rubbed a hand across her forehead, readjusted her cap. ‘But the insurance should’ve covered his medical expenses too. I—’

He swung to her, his eyes blazing. ‘He’s still in hospital! He still has to wear a bodysuit. His family wanted to move him to a private facility, where he’d get the best of care, but they couldn’t afford the fees.’

Living the high life with no thought for tomorrow? Oh, how wrong she’d been!

She reached out to clasp his arm. ‘Oh, Mac...’ He’d taken on so much.

He shook her off and leapt to his feet. She pulled her hands into her lap, stung. A man like Mac would resent the sympathy of a woman like her.

Striking, huh? Yeah, right.

He spun to her, lips twisting. ‘Who should pay but me? I’m the reason he’s lying in a hospital bed with second-and third-degree burns to sixty per cent of his body. I’ve ruined that young man’s life. I’m the guilty party. So the least I can do is—’

‘What a load of codswallop!’ She shot to her feet too. ‘If we want to take this right down to brass tacks it’s the producers and directors of your television show who should be paying in blood.’

Kitchen Encounters, as Mac’s television show had been called, had followed the day-to-day dramas of Mac’s catering team as they’d gone from event to event—a charity dinner with minor royalty one week, a wedding the next, then perhaps a gala awards night for some prestigious sporting event. Throughout it all Mac had been portrayed as loud, sweary and exacting—an over-the-top, demanding perfectionist. So over the top that even if Jo hadn’t had the inside line from Russ she’d have known it was all for show—for the ratings, for the spectacle it created.

That wasn’t how the press had portrayed it after the accident, though. They’d condemned Mac’s behaviour and claimed the Kitchen Encounters set had been an accident waiting to happen. All nonsense. But such nonsense sold newspapers in the same way that conflict and drama sold TV shows.

Mac remained silent. He fell back to the sand, his shoulders slumping in a way that made her heart twist. Standing above him like this made her conscious of her height. She sat again, but a little further away this time, in the hope she wouldn’t do something stupid like reach out and touch him again.

She moistened her lips. ‘Russ told me that the persona you adopted for the show was fake—that it was what the producers demanded. He also said everyone on the show was schooled in their reactions too.’

Conflicts carefully orchestrated, as in any fictional show or movie, to create drama, to create good guys and bad guys. Some weeks Mac had played the darling and others the villain. It had led to compulsive viewing.

‘The accident wasn’t your fault. You were playing the role you were assigned. You weren’t the person who dropped a tray of oysters and ice into a pot of hot oil.’ That had been Ethan. ‘It was an accident.’ A terrible, tragic accident.

‘For God’s sake, Jo, I was yelling at him—bellowing at him to hurry up. He was nineteen years old, it was only his second time on the show, and he was petrified.’

He didn’t yell or bellow now. He spoke quietly, but there was a savage edge to his words that she suspected veiled a wealth of pain.

‘He was acting. Just like you were.’

‘No.’

He turned and those eyes lasered through her. Blond hair the colour of sand, blue eyes the colour of the sea, and olive skin that was still too pale. His beauty hit her squarely in the chest, making it hard to breathe.