The Millionaire and the Maid

‘But you’re not going to do that, are you?’

How could he make her understand the extent of Ethan’s misery? What was the point anyway? She’d simply tell him to do something to ease that misery. That was beyond Mac’s powers. What he could do was make money to hire people who’d bring about a positive difference in Ethan’s life.

‘You’re just going to give in.’

There wasn’t an ounce of inflection in her voice and that was worse than her anger. Ten times worse.

She dotted her mouth with her napkin, tossed it down beside her plate, and left.

It felt as if his heart had stopped beating.

CHAPTER TEN

MAC BARELY SLEPT, but he forced himself out of bed as the first rays of sun filtered over the horizon. He made himself dress and go straight into the master bedroom. He opened the curtains to let in the light. Shutting himself up in the dark, not caring about what he ate and not getting any exercise had been stupid things to do.

He had to stay healthy.

With that thought he cracked open the glass sliding door. Air filtered in—cold but fresh.

Only then did he turn to his computer and switch it on. A hard brick settled in his stomach, but he ignored it to examine the lists of recipes he’d selected for the cookbook. At least a dozen of them were either not started or unfinished.

That meant a dozen recipes he’d have to make while barking instructions for Jo to jot down. He pulled in a breath. That was twelve days’ work, if he made a recipe a day and wrote it up in the evening. Less if he did two recipes a day. On top of that there was the glossary of terms and techniques to write up, and serving suggestions to add to each recipe.

He created a table and a timeline. He printed off a shopping list for Jo. He would get to work on the first recipe this afternoon. After that he’d talk Jo through the icing she’d need to make for her macaron tower. She could tackle that under his supervision tomorrow morning.

He rose, collecting the shopping list from the printer on his way to the door.

‘C’mon, Bandit.’

A morning and afternoon walk down to the beach each day, perhaps along it for a bit, would keep both man and dog healthy. He set the shopping list on the kitchen table before letting himself out of the house. Quietly. It was still early.

The sun rose in spectacular munificence over the Pacific Ocean, creating a path of orange and gold. At the edges of the path the water darkened to mercury and lavender. The air stood still, and with the tide on the turn the waves broke on pristine sand in a hushed rhythmic lilt.

Mac halted on a sand dune to stare at it all. It should fill his soul with glory. It should fill him with the majesty of nature. It should...

He’d give it all up for a single night in Jo’s arms.

He dragged a hand down his face and tried to banish the thought. A single night wouldn’t be enough for her. It wouldn’t be enough for him either, but it would at least be something he could hold onto in the bleak, monotonous months to come.

He rested his hands on his knees and pulled in a breath. Except he couldn’t do that to her. He laughed, although the sound held little mirth. More to the point, she wouldn’t let him do it to her.

Good.

The weight across his shoulders bowed him until he knelt in the sand with Bandit’s warm body pressed against him.

I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

He lifted his head. He had to do this.

Forcing his shoulders back, he lumbered to his feet and stumbled along the beach for ten minutes before turning and making his way back to the house.

The scent of frying bacon hit him the moment he opened the front door. He hesitated before heading for the kitchen. Leaning a shoulder against the doorframe, he drank her in—the unconscious grace of her movements, the dark glossiness of her hair and the strength that radiated from her.

‘That smells good,’ he managed.

She didn’t turn from the stove. ‘Bacon always smells good.’

He could tell nothing of her mood or state of mind from either her posture or her tone of voice.

He rubbed his nape. ‘I didn’t think you were much of a breakfast person.’ Mind you, she’d barely eaten any dinner last night.

‘I’m not usually, but I make an exception when I’m setting off on a car journey.’

She moved to butter the toast that had popped up in the toaster and that was when Mac saw the suitcases sitting by the doorway leading out to the laundry and the back door.

A chill crept across the flesh of his arms and his face, down his back. ‘You’re leaving?’

‘I am.’

His heart pounded. ‘Today?’