The Millionaire and the Maid

‘She’s a cheery soul, isn’t she?’

‘Jo, she’s spent the last few months in fear for her son’s life and now she fears for his future. There isn’t much in her life to feel cheerful about.’

‘Garbage.’ She dried a plate. ‘Her son’s alive, isn’t he? That’s something to be grateful for. His recovery is coming along nicely, isn’t it? Another thing to be grateful for.’

‘He’ll bear the scars from this accident for the rest of his life.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake—we’re not going to have this argument again. Ethan’s mother will love him no matter what he looks like.’

She bent down to place the plate in a cupboard and Mac got an eyeful of the curve of her hips. His heart started to pound. Jo had the kind of hips that could make a man salivate. He dragged his gaze to the glass he twirled between his fingers. He lifted it to his lips and managed to find another drop or two, but they did nothing to ease the thirst coursing through him.

Jo turned around. He kept his gaze on the glass.

‘All I can say,’ she said, ‘is that I wouldn’t want her in my sick room.’

Slowly he lifted his head to stare at her. She squeezed out the dishcloth and wiped down the table, not meeting his eyes. As far as he could tell the table was perfectly clean as it was, but he lifted both the glass and his arms out of her way and did his best not to draw the scent of her into his lungs.

‘She’s his mum. She’ll be his best source of support...’ He trailed off. He hadn’t thought about it before. Not in that context. Ethan was doing okay, wasn’t he?

For the first time he wished he hadn’t so comprehensively cut himself off from his colleagues on the show.

He rose. ‘I’ll...um...’ For heaven’s sake—he didn’t have to justify his every movement to her.

Turning on his heel, he strode out of the kitchen and headed upstairs. Seizing his mobile from the desk he punched in Mrs Devlin’s number. As he waited for her to answer he glanced at the curtains. He moved to close them, to shut out the day, and then stopped. He didn’t have the heart for it. What difference would a bit of sunlight make? Even if Mrs Devlin cared, she’d never have to know.

‘Malcolm,’ she said, obviously having checked her caller ID before answering. She never called him Mac. She never said hello. She just said Malcolm.

‘How are you, Mrs Devlin?’

She didn’t answer him. She usually made some sarcastic comment—How did he think she was, sitting at her son’s sick bed day in day out?

While he welcomed the silence he forced himself to push on. ‘I understand you rang earlier?’

He waited for her to demand to know who Jo was and what she was doing in his house. He could imagine her sarcasm when he told her Jo was his temporary housekeeper. It would be something along the lines of It’s nice for some.

‘I wanted to tell you that this quarter’s bills have come in.’

He closed his eyes. This lot would just about clean him out. To receive a much-needed portion of his advance he had to get something substantial to his publisher. Soon. That would cover the next quarter’s costs. After that... He swallowed. If necessary he’d sell the car, his Sydney apartment. And then this house.

And if Ethan’s treatment needed to continue after that... He rested his forehead against the glass sliding door, welcoming its coolness against his skin. They’d better hope this cookbook did well. Really well.

‘Malcolm?’

It hit him that her voice lacked its usual stridence, though it could by no means be considered friendly.

‘Please send the bills to my lawyer. I’ll take care of them.’ His heart pounded. ‘How’s Ethan?’

‘He’s doing as well as can be expected.’

It was her standard line whenever he asked. And he always asked. He didn’t ask her to send his best to the younger man. She’d made it clear that Ethan wanted nothing to do with him.

‘How...?’ She cleared her throat. ‘How are you?’

He nearly dropped the phone. He coughed and swallowed back his automatic reply—fine. That would seem a mockery, considering Ethan’s condition. ‘I...I’m working hard at wrestling this cookbook into shape.’ She knew he meant all its profits to go to Ethan.

‘Right. Goodbye, Malcolm.’

‘Uh...goodbye.’

He stared at the phone. Normally she hung up without so much as a by-your-leave. What on earth was going on?

He threw the phone back to the desk and dragged a hand through his hair. Was everything really okay with Ethan? Had he suffered some setback? He paced across the room. Could Diana have said something to Jo? Who knew? Maybe they’d had a moment of woman-to-woman bonding. Maybe—