Beauty and the Black Sheep (The Moorehouse Legacy 1)

Nate leaned forward, looking out of a window. In the distance, through a hedge, he could see a lake.

And everything came back as he pictured a woman with brunette hair and heavy framed glasses.

Frankie.

He laughed softly and tried to push off whatever was still on his neck.

Man, that was one frustrating woman but damn, he liked her. That lockjaw tenacity and take-no-prisoners, my-way-or-the-highway attitude piqued his interest something crazy. All that strength and defiance made him want to get under her hard-driving exterior. Go behind those glasses. Take off those baggy clothes of hers and let her unleash her aggression all over his body.

He shook his head, remembering the vehemence with which she’d warned him off Angel. There was no need to worry there. If he’d seemed taken by the girl when he’d first walked in the kitchen, it was because her fragile beauty was unusual, not because he was attracted to it. In fact, the strawberry blonde made him think about food, not sex. He wanted to sit her down and feed her pasta until she put on a few pounds.

No, Angel wasn’t for him. He liked women, not girlie girls, and Frankie’s kind of strength, even if it could get annoying, was a virtue he couldn’t get enough of.

He wondered what it would take to loosen her up so he had a chance with her. She didn’t strike him as the drinking kind, somehow. Much too self-controlled. And she probably wasn’t into jewelry because she didn’t wear any of it. Flowers? Having faced off her level stare, tender blooms seemed frivolous.

Maybe she wouldn’t mind a good, hard kiss or two.

Nate let out his breath in a whistle as he imagined the possibilities and swung his legs over the side. Putting his feet on the cool floor, he scratched the side of his neck and the delirious relief instantly made him suspicious. He stood up, felt his ankle check in with a shot of pain, and limped over to the mirror. As he leaned in, he cursed. Running from his left ear down to above his collarbone, there were three rows of tiny blisters, a little plow field of misery.

Poison ivy.

Those leafy greens cushioning his fall had seemed innocent enough, but he should have known better. In the Adirondacks, the stuff grew like a carpet at the sides of roads and trails. He was lucky that most of him had been covered by the jacket and none of the leaves had connected with his face, but it was still going to be a pain in the ass to deal with.

He grabbed a towel and hit the bathroom. Frankie had mentioned there were two parties staying overnight, so he figured he better hustle downstairs to make breakfast. Ten minutes later, wearing the same clothes he’d had on the day before and with his hair damp, he headed for the kitchen.

The first thing he did was crack open the walk-in refrigerator and take inventory. There wasn’t much. Eggs and milk, generic cheeses like cheddar and Monterey Jack. Some fresh veggies of the diner variety like iceberg lettuce, cucumbers, and carrots. As he was heading out, he saw a lone box of fresh blueberries.

At least breakfast would be covered, he thought, grabbing the carton.

As for the rest of the meals, he was in trouble. If he were cooking for a bunch of five-year-olds, he was good to go because he could whip up a fleet of grilled cheese sandwiches. But those guests snoozing away in the front bedrooms were not going to be satisfied with kiddy chow. He was going to have to order some supplies, nothing flashy, but enough to make some real food. He needed feta and goat cheese, some cilantro and scallions, heads of cauliflower and cabbage. Artichokes.

He went next door to the meat locker, figuring he’d find a graveyard. Instead, there was a good-looking side of beef, a hefty leg of lamb, and a turkey. That all gave him hope.

Nate resisted scratching the side of his neck and took the cardboard box over to the stove. It was close to 6:00 a.m. so there was plenty of time to make some killer blueberry muffins. A half hour later, he’d just taken the first batch out of the oven when he heard footsteps. Frankie’s sister appeared at the bottom of the stairs.

He smiled. “Well, good morning there, Angel.”

“Those look wonderful,” she said, coming over to the muffins. She leaned down and breathed deeply.

“You should try one.”

Joy shook her head. “They’re for the guests.”

“This is only the first batch. And you look like you could use breakfast.” His eyes flickered over the bathrobe that hung off her like a tent.

She brought the lapels closer together and crossed her arms over her chest, as if trying to conjure bulk out of the terry cloth.

“Is there some way I can help you?” she asked, as if to distract him.

“You can make the coffee. Were the tables set last night?”

“No. But I can do that, too.”

“Great.” Nate frowned, moving his head around and wincing. That itching was going to drive him nuts.

“Are you okay?”

“For a guy whose neck is on fire, I’m fine.” He pointed to the left side. “Poison ivy.”

“Oh, that’s terrible.” Joy came in for a closer look.

“Can’t say I’m crazy for it myself.”

Frankie stretched, feeling unusually well-rested, and glanced at the clock.“Aw, damn it!”

She’d forgotten to set the alarm the night before and it was now nearly a quarter of seven. Moving fast, she leaped out of bed and changed into a fresh white shirt and a clean pair of her standard black pants. She needed to get prepped for breakfast, the tables hadn’t been set and there was a vegetable delivery due soon that would have to be accepted and inventoried.

She was pulling back her hair and twisting it into a ball when she froze. There was a delicious smell in the air, something that seemed to suggest muffins or scones.

Nate must be up already.

Frankie moved even faster.

She flew down the stairs and was running into the kitchen when she stopped dead in her tracks.

In the shallow space between the stove and the island, the cook and her sister were standing close enough to be kissing, his head bent down low, Joy balancing up on her tiptoes as if she were whispering something in his ear. Was her sister touching him? On the neck? Wearing nothing but a bathrobe?

“Sorry to interrupt,” Frankie said loudly. “But maybe we should be thinking about breakfast?”

Joy stepped away from the man with a blush, while Nate looked over calmly.

“Breakfast is ready,” he said, pointing to a tray of beautiful muffins. “The guests aren’t up yet.”

“Joy? Would you mind giving me and Mr.—” she paused, not even knowing his last name “—ah—him a minute alone?”

Her sister left the room as Frankie glared at Nate. “What part of stay away don’t you understand?”

He turned and opened the oven, inspecting what was inside. “You always this cheerful in the morning?”

“Answer me.”

“How’d you like some coffee?”

“Damn it, you want to tell me what you were doing with my sister?”

“Not particularly.”

The more forceful she came at him, the calmer he seemed to get and irritation fanned the brushfire in her chest. “I thought we had an agreement. You stay away from her or you get out.”

He laughed and shook his head while reaching for some side towels. He began folding them up into thick squares. “Just what do you think I was going to do? Take her down on this floor, rip open that robe of hers and—”

Frankie squeezed her eyes shut and cut him off. “There’s no reason to be crude.”

“No reason for you to be worried, either.”

She looked at him, thinking she wasn’t about to fall for the denial. When it came to women, a man who looked like him was probably about as trustworthy as a thief facing an open door. And, if he was capable of melting even her with those hazel eyes, Joy wouldn’t stand a chance.

God, what had she brought into their house? And she hadn’t checked his references…What if he was a convicted felon? A serial rapist?

Frankie began to imagine all sorts of terrible, America’s Most Wanted scenarios with her sister as the victim. If anything ever happened to Joy, Frankie would never forgive herself—

“Poison ivy,” he said dryly.

She forced herself to halt the spiral of paranoia. “What?”

“She was looking at my poison ivy. See?” He pointed to the side of his neck and she squinted at him. “You can come closer, I don’t bite. Unless I’m asked to.”

In spite of his half smile, Frankie sidled up to him and leaned in. Sure enough, there were the telltale streaks of blisters running up his skin to just under his hairline.

“That must itch terribly,” she said, by way of offering an apology.

“Yeah, it’s no fun.” He turned back to the stove and took out another tin of the most gorgeous, golden-topped muffins she’d ever seen. The smell was something north of heaven.

“You want one?” he asked. “I tried to get your sister to have a go at them but she shut me down.”

He took a muffin out and pulled it apart even though it steamed with heat. Spreading butter on the inside, which quickly melted and glistened, he offered her half.

She paused and then took the piping hot piece. Unlike him, she had to shuffle it around in her hands, and when she put some in her mouth, she had to cool it off by breathing over it.

She chewed a little and then closed her eyes so she could savor the taste.

He laughed with satisfaction. “Not bad, huh?”

He was one hell of cook, she thought. But she was still going to check his references.

“They’re—ah, wonderful.” She paused. “Listen, I’ll need the name and number of your most recent employer. And your last name. I forgot to ask last night.”

“Walker. Last name is Walker.”

Frankie frowned, thinking she’d heard of the name somewhere. And no, not on Court TV.

Before she could ask about it, he said, “And the last joint I worked at was down in New York. La Nuit. Ask for Henri. He’ll give it to you straight.”

Frankie widened her eyes. Now, La Nuit she’d definitely heard of. It was one of those four-star restaurants that got featured in the glossy magazines the guests left behind in their rooms. How had someone like him come to work in a place like that?

“Now, about supplies,” he said. “When do deliveries come?”

“Saturday and Wednesday noontime for veggies and meats. Dairy comes Mondays. Fridays also, if we need them to.”

They hadn’t for the past year.

“Great. What’s the number? Maybe I can catch the produce guy.”

“You want to talk with Stu?”

Nate frowned. “Yeah. Unless he’s a mind reader.”

“I do the ordering. Tell me what you want.”

“I won’t know that until I have a sense of what I can get.”

She gestured sharply over to the walk-ins. “You can get what’s already in there.”

There was a pause and then he crossed his arms over his sizable chest. “I thought you wanted me to be the cook.”

Facing off at him, Frankie found there was plenty of steel behind his laid-back facade—which made it seem a little more plausible that he could have worked in a place like La Nuit. “I do.”

“So let me take care of business.”

She was tempted to ask just whose kitchen he thought he was standing in, but took a deep breath instead.

“As you’ve so graciously pointed out, White Caps isn’t exactly thriving. I have to make sure we stick to the budget and that means I don’t want some guy in the kitchen throwing money out the door indiscriminately.”

Nate pointed to the dining room. “You want to put asses in those chairs? You want those guests to come back? Then you need to set good food on those tables, not serve stuff fit for a nursery school. You’ve got to spend money to make money, sweetheart.”