The Millionaire and the Maid

Puffing out a breath, she moved back to the table and pulled a plastic cone towards her. She had another eight of these cones in the cupboard. This one she was going to ice. Easy-peasy. Which was precisely what it wanted to be after the number of cones she’d already practised on.

She pushed her hair back from her face. What on earth possessed people to spend hours—or in this case days—slaving over a dish that would be demolished in a matter of minutes? Where was the satisfaction in that?

If Mac ever rang her she’d ask him.

Her throat ached, her temples throbbed and her chest cramped—as always happened whenever she thought about Mac. And as she thought about him a lot you’d think she’d be used to it by now.

She gripped her hands together. It had been eight weeks since she’d left his coastal hideaway, but she still hadn’t grown used to the gaping sense of loss that yawned through her. Some days it was all she could do to get from minute to minute. Some days it was all she could do not to lie in some dark corner and shut the rest of the world out.

But what good would that do anyone?

Please! Some histrionic part of herself that tore at her hair and sobbed uncontrollably pleaded with her. Please, can’t we just...?

Jo swallowed hard and shook her head, blinking furiously. No, they couldn’t.

She wished she’d been able to hold onto her anger for longer. That anger had helped initially, but it had slipped away almost as soon as she’d arrived home. Instead, the hope that Mac would come to his senses had grown—the hope that he’d call her and tell her he loved her and was prepared to create a life that included her.

Which made her a certifiable idiot.

‘But a beautiful idiot,’ she whispered, reminding herself that her time with Mac hadn’t been entirely wasted.

Of course it hadn’t been wasted. By the time she’d left he’d been healthier, stronger, and sexier than sin. Whether he knew it or not, she’d been good for him.

Oh, he knew it all right. It just wasn’t enough.

She collected icing sugar—the good, pure stuff—butter, milk and food colouring. The fact of the matter was she had heard from Mac. Twice. A curt email on the evening she’d left, asking if she’d reached her destination safely. She’d answered with an equally short Yes, thank you. And a week later he’d sent her a recipe for a macaron tower.

She’d thanked him again. Very briefly. And that had been the sorry extent of their communication. She expected to hear from him soon, though. Bandit must have had her puppies by now, and those puppies must be getting old enough to be weaned.

Why hadn’t he let her know when Bandit had had them and how many there were? Why...?

Because he’d been too caught up in whatever his latest scheme was for making money for Ethan, that was why.

She seized the plastic cone and snapped it in half. She dug her fingernails into it and gouged and shredded until some of the frustration eased out of her. Then she calmly retrieved another one and set it on the table. She pulled in a breath.

Okay, now she was ready to start.

The doorbell rang, but Jo ignored it. It would simply be more flowers for her grandmother. Her grandmother could answer it.

Jo set about measuring icing sugar.

Grandma popped her head into the kitchen a moment later. ‘Jo, dear, would you mind coming out for a moment? We have a visitor.’

‘Is it Great-Aunt Edith?’ Had she dropped in early for some reason?

‘No, dear, and I don’t believe it’s an emissary sent by her to sabotage the making of your macaron tower either.’

Your macaron tower. But Jo remained silent. Her great-aunt mightn’t like losing, but she’d never stoop to foul play. Her grandmother, however, had taken to imagining dastardly plots at every turn.

Wiping her hands down the front of her shirt, Jo walked out into the lounge room—and her hands froze at rib level when she saw who stood there.

Mac!

She stared, mouth agape. It took all her strength to snap it closed again, and the blood pounded in her ears and she had to plant her feet to counter the sudden giddiness that swirled through her.

She glanced at her grandmother, who smiled serenely.

She glanced at Mac, who smiled serenely.

Serene? Her heart tried to pound a path out of her chest. She wanted to scream. Whether in joy or despair, though, she wasn’t sure.

‘Hello, Jo.’

She swallowed and released the lip she’d been biting. ‘What are you doing here, Mac?’

‘Didn’t I say, dear?’ Grandma patted her arm. ‘I’ve hired Mac to cater my dinner.’

She’d what? ‘But...how?’

‘I rang to tell you about the puppies, but you weren’t in.’