Beauty and the Black Sheep (The Moorehouse Legacy 1)

So what was the problem?

Well, for one thing, nothing that felt that good, that exciting, could possibly be harmless, she thought.

Which was why doctors told people not to overdo it in hot tubs and pregnant ladies couldn’t go on roller coasters.

Besides, she wasn’t a daydreamer. Fantasies, especially the romantic kind, required something she didn’t have. They needed hope to flare, even if it was for a mere ten minutes in a fogged out bathroom. Thanks to David, most of her foolish optimism about love had been drilled out of her. A couple of bad dates had polished off the rest.

No, dreams were totally out of character for her. Out of context. Out of the question, really.

Just like any romance between her and her new chef.

Frankie pulled on her pants and tucked her shirt in. After brushing out her hair and twisting a scrunchie around it, she put her glasses back on and went down to the office. Sitting at the desk, she tried to balance the bank account, but she couldn’t seem to get her mind focused.

On anything other than Nate.

Everything reminded her of him. Her desk because he’d moved it. The inventory sheets because he’d admired them. Her pencil…because he’d borrowed one, this morning.

God, she was desperate.

Frankie pushed her calculator away and stared across the room. Twenty-four hours ago she’d never met the man and now she couldn’t get him out of her head.

But this was how it worked between the sexes, she thought. This was the biological imperative at work. David had been gone from her life for nearly ten years and she was an otherwise healthy woman. It was inevitable that someone would come along and catch her eye. Eventually.

Except the attraction was a surprise. Sure, there had been some handsome guests over the years, even some who had been single. But they hadn’t been interested and neither had she. Wealthy men were a turnoff to begin with for her, because they reminded her of David, and the rich guys usually liked a different kind of woman entirely, anyway. And as for the indigenous Saranac Lake male, well, she just couldn’t get all that excited over them. To begin with, she knew too much about each one, small towns being what they are.

At least Nate wasn’t some privileged dandy. He was a hard worker who seemed to have a clear picture of where he wanted to go. And she didn’t know a thing about him, which made him mysterious. Although why that was a virtue, she couldn’t begin to guess.

Frustrated because she couldn’t concentrate, she decided to go check the tables for dinner set-up. It was obvious she was going to get nothing done in her office.

She pushed open the door to the dining room and frowned. Mrs. Little was leaning on one of the tables, staring out of the window, completely absorbed by something.

“Is there anything wrong?” Frankie asked.

The woman whirled around, clasping her strand of pearls. “Er—no. Nothing. At all. Excuse me.”

Which meant as soon as Mrs. Little tore out of the room, Frankie went right over to the window. She put her hands on the sill and bent down, expecting to see a woodchuck or maybe a bird of some kind. City people like the Littles probably thought chipmunks were worthy of a National Geographic special.

Frankie’s breath left her in a rush.

Holy, Mother of…

Nate was pushing the mower, making even lines in the grass. With his shirt tucked into his back pocket.

No wonder he hadn’t been bothered by her weight, she thought, looking over every inch of him.

He’d just gone by the window so she had a clear shot of his back. Muscles fanned out from his spine, filling his shoulders, wrapping around his rib cage. He was built big and hard, and when he turned and started coming towards her, she saw the front of him was as cut as the back.

It made sense, she supposed, given that muscling around a kitchen was a physically demanding job. Cooks were constantly lifting things, moving, on their feet. Still, considering how he looked, she figured there were some serious genetics at work and some weight training, too. Had to be. No one got shoulders that wide from picking pans off a stove top, even if the things were full of water.

No wonder Mrs. Little had been so entranced.

Frankie stepped out of the way before he could see her. Looking blindly around the dining room, she couldn’t remember why she’d left her office.

Later that night, after the kitchen had been closed down and everyone had gone upstairs, Frankie finally got some work done. The day had been worthless. Between stewing about Nate and waiting for Mike Roy to bring his mystery guest over, she’d been distracted and jittery.Mike had finally called at six and apologized, explaining that his friend had been delayed and wouldn’t be arriving until next week. She’d been gracious because it wasn’t as if she’d had another option. She couldn’t very well tell him that an impending visit from him, with or without a hanger-on, was enough to make her want to make jam.

The urge to melt down piles of fruit and put the residue into little jars with wax seals was her response to stress. It was one of Frankie’s few inheritances from her mother and she’d have much preferred it if the woman had been a knitter. Bags of yarn were easier to deal with, and there were the seasonal problems of trying to find fresh strawberries in upstate New York if Frankie hit a rough spot in the winter.

Then again, you couldn’t put an Irish sweater on toast, so the compulsion wasn’t a complete loss.

Frankie took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. It was almost midnight. Unless she was planning to sleep at her desk, she’d better make a run for the stairs. Judging from her bobbing head, she had another ten minutes until she’d be sound asleep, wherever she was.

As she slowly climbed the back stairs, she thought of Nate and wondered what he wore to bed. Boxers? Briefs? The preoccupation with his night-time wardrobe didn’t shame her in the slightest. Considering the depths to which she’d sunk while picturing herself kissing him, his underwear was a nonstarter. And as for his BVD preferences, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he slept in his birthday suit. Or maybe she just hoped that was the case.

One thing was clear. The man was a hell of a chef. Tonight’s coq au vin was so good Mr. Little had sent his regards to the chef. The man had actually been smiling with satisfaction as he’d pushed back his chair at the end of the meal. Even his wife seemed to relax as if the pin was back in the grenade.

Their other diners had similar reactions. Mr. and Mrs. Barclay came in from town for their anniversary dinner and commented that Chuck’s skills had dramatically improved. When Frankie told them there was a new chef who’d come from New York, they’d been suitably impressed. And given Mrs. Barclay’s penchant for talking, it was a good bet phones would be ringing all around Saranac Lake with the news. Thank God.

As she got to the head of the stairs, Frankie was wishing that someone else could floss and brush her teeth for her when Nate stepped out of the bathroom.

Not exactly the someone she was looking for, she thought.

He’d changed into a Boston Red Sox T-shirt and had a towel draped around his neck. His smile was casual. His eyes were not.

“I thought you’d never come upstairs,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for her.

She began to struggle for words, especially as his smile widened. Being tongue-tied was a new one for her, but around him, she was getting used to it. Tragically.

“You work too hard, Frances. Good night.” He turned away and went down to his room.

She felt as if she’d been left behind, somehow.

Which was crazy, she told herself. You couldn’t be left if you were in your own home. And the person in question was just across the hall. And you didn’t want to be with him, anyway.

Oh, hell, she thought, shutting herself in the bathroom. She was still muttering under her breath when she came back out, turned off the hall light, and headed for her room.

Nate’s door was open and she paused in front of it. To do otherwise would have required a disciplined purpose she seemed to have left downstairs in her office.

He was sitting up in bed, back against the wall, legs kicked out. A book was open on his lap and he looked up from it with a grin as if he’d set a trap that had worked. That spider/fly parlor saying flared in her head and she was about to mutter a quick good-night when his hand crept to the side of his neck and he scratched.

“Didn’t you put calamine on that?” She looked over at the bag that she’d put on his dresser. It was unopened.

“No. I forgot.”

Frankie went over and took out the pink bottle. “Put this on and the itching won’t keep you up all night.”

But when she held the lotion out to him, he merely tilted his neck.

“Would you mind doing the honors? I have a feeling you’ll do a better job.”

“I’m not a nurse.”

“And we’re not really talking about brain surgery here, are we?” He smiled more widely and she noticed that one of his front teeth had a very good cap on it. “Please?”

Grabbing a couple of tissues from a box, she cracked open the bottle and tipped it over. Gently, she dabbed his skin with the chalky pink lotion.

“Mmm.” The sound he made was something between a moan and a sigh. He closed his eyes and leaned towards her. “That feels great.”

She paused, thinking she wished he wouldn’t say anything. And no more noises, either, please.

“Are you finished already?” he asked. His voice was a low growl, husky and deep. She imagined what it would sound like in her ear when he kissed her on the neck.

“Ah, no.”

Frankie snapped into action, going back and forth between the bottle and the inflamed blisters until the job was done. When she pulled away, he opened his eyes.

“Thanks.”

“It doesn’t look like it’s spreading.” She tossed the tissue into the trash can across the room and put the cap on the bottle.

“Good shot.” He was looking at her, with speculation in his eyes. “You mind if I ask how old you are?”

“Yes, but I have nothing to hide. I’m thirty-one.”

“And how long have you been running this place?”

She hesitated, not wanting to get into particulars with him. His questions about her past had disturbed her earlier in the day. At night, alone with him, they felt even more intrusive.

She turned away and headed for the hall, thinking there was no way the conversation could continue with her out of the room.

“Good night, Nate.”

“Wait—”

She shut her door on his question and the searching look on his handsome face but a moment later, she heard a soft knock. Pivoting around, she grabbed the knob and opened wide, shooting him the level stare that usually got her what she wanted from people.

Which was to be left alone.

“Yes?”

He smiled, utterly impervious to her warning signals. “I don’t mean to pry.”

“Yes, you do.”

Nate smiled. “You’re very blunt. I like that in a woman.”

“It’s a handy trait to have. Especially if you’re being harassed.”

“Is that really what you think I’m doing?”

She looked down. He put her on edge and she resented it, but not enough to keep up the lie she’d started.

“I just don’t understand why,” she said softly. “I’m not…”

She pushed her hair back as if the gesture of exposing her face would explain what she didn’t want to put into words. It was hard to say she was plain, even though it was a truth she’d come to accept.

He reached out, cupping her chin gently. “Not what?”

She felt him taking off her glasses. With nothing to hide her eyes, she felt as n**ed as if she’d left all her clothes in the bathroom.

“Not what?” he repeated.

“Like Joy.” It was as close as she could come.