“Almost done.”
He took in the nearly empty countertop. “I can see that.”
“I’m learning the kitchen.”
“You’re an hour late.”
“What do you mean? I got here before eight.”
“You were supposed to be here at seven.”
“I’m positive you said eight. Didn’t he, Gordon?”
Gordon was too busy giving him love to back up her story.
She pulled an orange from a bowl on the counter. “Is it true your parents were members of the British royal family?”
“One step from the throne.” Byrne noted the Waterford dog dish as he made his way into the sunroom, but didn’t comment.
“Liar. You grew up poor.”
“Then why did you ask?”
“So I could irritate you by pointing out the differences in our backgrounds. Yours, humble and squalid. Mine, pampered and privileged. And if you want fresh juice every morning, I’m going to need an automatic juicer.”
“Tough it out.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one with blisters on her palms.”
He headed back toward the archway, the book he’d retrieved in his hand, the light from the tall windows sending a sluice of mahogany through his already dramatic hair. “I’ll expect breakfast in my office in twenty minutes.” He disappeared into the hall.
“Good luck,” she muttered.
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”
She shot around the end of the counter and stuck her head through the archway. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”
His chuckle drifted back to her, low and diabolical. “The Cinderella story in reverse. I only wish there were ashes in the fireplace so I could order you to sweep them out. Come along, Gordon.”
She watched in disgust as her turncoat dog slipped after him into the office.
Half an hour later, she’d assembled a semidecent breakfast of two poached eggs on toast, a bowl of old-fashioned oatmeal topped with a mountain of brown sugar, and an admittedly tiny glass of fresh juice. Unfortunately, she was already pushing open the old library door when it occurred to her that she should spit in it.
Like the rest of the house, the library bore no resemblance to the dark, walnut-paneled room she remembered. White plantation shutters, open to the lawn on the west side of the house, let in the light. The hodgepodge of antiques she’d grown up with had been replaced by sleekly styled glass and granite furniture. Gordon lay on the abstract rug not far from Byrne’s feet, along with paper wads that had missed the wastebasket. She set the tray on the end of the desk. Byrne turned away from his computer screen and studied his breakfast through a pair of Richard Gere rimless glasses. “I assumed you could read.”
She was getting more than a little tired of his inferences that she was stupid. “There weren’t any cookbooks in the kitchen, and I don’t seem to have a pancake recipe memorized.”
“Cookbooks are on the top shelf of the pantry.” He studied the oatmeal. “I detest porridge, and where are my grilled tomatoes?”
He pronounced it toe-mah-toes, which sounded pretentious as hell, even coming from a Brit.
“I know you’re technically an American citizen, but if you keep talkin’ like that, you’re goin’ to get your sorry ass kicked right out of Mississippi. And what kind of person wants to eat toe-mah-toes for breakfast? Hell, I can barely get one of those suckers down for dinner.” She pointed to the bowl. “And that, my friend, is good ol’ fashioned Quaker Oats. Nobody over the age of three says porridge.”
“Are you done?”
“I think so.” She grabbed the oatmeal bowl, along with his spoon, and carried it to the couch, where she perched on the arm and dug into the brown sugar. “It’s better with raisins, but I couldn’t find any. Or blueberries, for that matter, so those pancakes were problematic from the beginning.” She rolled the oatmeal on her tongue, savoring its warm, comforting glue. It had been forever since she’d had anything decent to eat, but she never seemed to get around to cooking for herself.
He pulled off the Richard Geres. “Go grocery shopping. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? And did I invite you to sit down?”
She dragged the spoon upside down from her mouth. “We need to discuss my paycheck.”
“We already discussed it.”
“I want a raise.” She gestured toward the poached eggs. “Eat before they get cold. The point is, you get what you pay for, and what you’re paying for right now doesn’t get you much.”
He eyed the half-filled juice glass. “I seem to be getting exactly what you’re worth.”
Just to be mean, she leaned far enough forward to shoot him a view of her well-supported cleavage. “You have no idea what I’m worth, bucko.”
He took his time looking, leaning back in his chair and not even bothering to be subtle about it. In the end, she was the one who got uncomfortable, and she used her oatmeal as an excuse to straighten back up, which he found too darned amusing for words.
“You should be careful how you showcase your wares, Sugar Beth. I might think you want to expand your job duties.”
“You couldn’t be that lucky.”
“Perhaps now is the time to tell you that I have a weakness for agreeable women.”
“Well, that sure does leave me out.”
“Exactly. With agreeable women, I’m unendingly considerate. Gallant even.”
“But with tarts like me, the gloves are off, is that it?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call you a tart. But then, I tend to be broad-minded.”
She suppressed the urge to dump her porridge in his lap.
He turned his attention to his eggs, which gave her a chance to look him over, not exactly hazardous duty. He wasn’t a pretty boy like her first two husbands. Darren had been a dazzler, and Cy had posed for Mr. January in the stuntman calendar. But there was something about Colin Byrne . . .
Lethal cheekbones, lips too carnal for that long blade of a nose. His feet were huge but not clunky, because they were so narrow. She studied his hands. They should have been slender and elegant, but they looked as though they’d been designed to dig ditches. A dangerous bolt of heat shot through her. He might be the demon personified, but he was also too sexy for her peace of mind. Apparently, she hadn’t gotten rid of all her old suicidal instincts when it came to unsuitable men.
Her gaze returned to those blunt, competent fingers. She blinked. “You’re the one who put that chain across my driveway.”
“You knew that.”
“No, I mean you did it yourself. You didn’t hire anyone. You poured the concrete and set the posts.”
“It’s hardly brain surgery.”
“I wasn’t even gone for two hours. And when I saw you afterward, you were wearing Armani.”
“I believe it was Hugo Boss.”
“You actually know how to do manual labor?”
“How do you think I supported myself after I lost my teaching job?”
“With your writing.” If she made it sound like a statement, maybe it would be true.
“I’m afraid my ability to write anything worth reading was put on hold after you had your fun.”
She lost her appetite.
“My father was a bricklayer,” he said. “Irish. And my mother was English. Rather an amusing story. She came from an upper-class family that spent the last of its dwindling fortune making certain their only daughter could make a brilliant marriage. Instead, she fell in love with my father. Tears, threats, disownment. The stuff of great romance.”
“How did it work out?”
“They hated each other within a year.”
She knew what that was like.
“I got my love of literature and the arts from my mother, but I’m more like my father in personality. Mean, unforgiving bastard. Still, he taught me a useful trade.”
“You worked as a bricklayer after you went back to England?”
“In this country, too. The novel I wrote before Last Whistle-stop wasn’t quite the best-seller I’d hoped it would be. Luckily, I enjoy working with my hands, and I had no trouble supporting myself.”