Bachelor's Special (3 page)

Chapter Three

Jill stopped her car in front of the open wrought-iron gate, keeping one foot on the brake and the other on the gas pedal so her car wouldn’t sputter and die. She twisted the wrapper off a peppermint and popped it into her mouth. A slight flutter filled her stomach as she peered out her window to follow the smooth lines of the gate skyward until she confirmed the house numbers running along the upper edge matched the address listed on the card in her hand.

She swirled the candy around her tongue, stalling for time. Was she really going to do this? But his contacts would help start her business. Eight weeks, fifty-six days, time would fly. Then again, living with a man who fired her pulse and sent an aching awareness to the most sensitive spot in her body was a risk she wasn’t sure she should take. Close proximity, heady surroundings, all under one roof. It sounded like a recipe for disaster.

But on the other hand, he was helping her out of a jam by offering her a place to live while she got things in order. And those contacts could mean the difference between success and failure.
Ugh,
too late to back out now.

She pulled her jalopy into the circular stone drive and gazed out her side window at the imposing two-story brick Tudor.

For a second time, she glanced at the business card between her fingers. She brushed over the embossed lettering, then matched the address to the numbers on the address plate to the left of the double doors.

Even with the candy to act as a lubricant, her throat dried.
Yep, this is the place.

She’d never been this close to a mansion before, and she pressed her palm into her stomach. Certifiable insanity, that must be what made her agree to this. For the millionth time, she questioned her choice in accepting Chet’s proposition. How could she back out of this gracefully?

Two massive stone chimneys rested on either end of the house, towering into the sky like bookends protecting the spectacular stories of adventure and wealth printed on the walls between them. Steeply pitched, multi-gabled rooflines and decorative half-timber framing drew the eye downward to drink in the beauty of diamond-patterned, multi-paned windows.

Chet appeared through the large wooden doors beneath an extended arch that slanted off the roof, then dipped to the well-manicured lawns. He was dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that smoothed across his chest to show off every sinew of muscle. Her stomach flipped.

Down, girl, he’s off limits.

No way could she date someone she worked with, no matter how enticing. And she didn’t just work with him, she worked
for
him. She stepped from the car. Though she turned the key off, the engine knocked and sputtered before it groaned, then settled with a soft thump.

“Is it okay to park here?” A new car would be the first thing on her list after she purchased a cargo van for her business.

“Sure, or if you want a stall, pull around the side and down the drive.” He gestured toward the north side of the house, where a small paved slope revealed the long rooftop of what she assumed was a detached garage.

“Does my car embarrass you?” As soon as the words left her mouth and his jaw tightened, she knew how ridiculous she sounded. He recovered quickly, flashing her with a tight smile.

“Hardly. You should’ve seen some of the cars I drove while I put myself through school.”

Yeah, like you’d have car issues. I’m sure driving a year-old BMW compared to a brand-new shiny Porsche was torture.

“Let’s not start off on the wrong foot.” His jaw relaxed and his smile turned dangerous, one that could liquefy bones. “I get the impression you’re trying to pick a fight in hopes we’ll part ways.”

“Am I that easy to read?” Jill tried to chuckle, but the sound that escaped was more like a strangled frog. She cleared her throat. “You’re right. I’m nervous. This all seems so…surreal.”

“Relax.”

Easy for you to say. We’re on your turf.

Later she’d move her metal heap out of view, but she wouldn’t take a stall. She’d hate for her car to leak oil on his, probably immaculate, garage floor.

Chet grabbed the suitcase she gripped. “Come on, I’ll show you around before you check out your room.”

“No butler?”

His chuckle eased the tense muscles bunched along her shoulders.

“Nope, it’s only me. No servants or help besides Gretchen, who comes out to clean once a week, and now you.” He winked at her over his shoulder.

Great, apparently Gretchen hadn’t needed to strike a bargain with her employer requiring her to move in. When Jill accepted this gig, she just assumed all rich people employed maids, butlers, pool boys, and assorted staff that saw to their every need. But no, leave it to her to agree to live with a rich guy who didn’t believe in hired help 24-7. Maybe he was a tyrant? That could be why his last cook left and he hadn’t managed to find a replacement. She swiped her palms down the side of her pants, sending up a silent prayer that she’d survive her time at the mansion on the hill.

Had she gone mad? Accepting an offer to shack up temporarily with a man who scrambled her mind with his kisses until she didn’t know—or care—what she was doing.

You’re doing this for your business. Forget the kiss.

A little more than thirty minutes later, Jill stood in the center of the room Chet assured her was hers. The size was double that of her apartment. Soft, muted shades of lavender reflected bright sunlight off the walls, and pale yellow and purple striped curtains matched the comforter spread across the huge brass bed centered in the room. All very girlish, it fed her not-so-secret addiction to pretty, frilly things.

French doors beside a white brick fireplace opened to a small balcony off the back, with wide stone steps leading poolside. She breathed in the light aroma of lilac from the bushes outside her room. Plush, perfect lawns filled her view.

Chet told her to make herself at home and enjoy the pool as well as the sauna, indoor theater, and billiard room. She pinched the soft skin under her wrist until she flinched, just to make sure this wasn’t a dream.

Several hours later, after unpacking and finishing a solitary dinner, Jill snuggled beneath her comforter. She doubted her ability to sleep, her surroundings too new. Plus, she couldn’t get past the thought that Chet-alicious probably lay in his own bed right above her—his suite of rooms was one floor up, exactly over hers.

Doubt plagued her as she punched her pillow for the umpteenth time, rolling from her side to her back. Bad luck had chased her for the last twelve months, starting with that kiss. How odd that everything was changing for the better—and again it started with Chet. His offer seemed too good to be true. Hopefully he didn’t have an ulterior motive in giving her this opportunity, like a couple of her past bosses had over the last year.

The next morning, Jill slid her fingers along the stainless-steel workspace in the kitchen. The mix of wooden cabinets and professional-grade appliances—including the double-door fridge and eight-burner gas stove with a pot-filler faucet—would be any chef’s dream. If she died in the next five minutes, she’d go happy.

She walked through the archway leading into the foyer. Chet’s voice coming from his office led her down the spacious, artwork-lined hall.

She’d planned to have his breakfast prepared before he’d come down. Not familiar with his schedule yet, she wasn’t sure when he’d wake. Now she knew he was an early riser.

Before her fist connected with the heavy wooden door, his words from the other side stopped her.

“You know I only have two uses for women, and both of them require a bed.”

Her body tightened and she dropped her clenched fist to her side.

His chuckle drew her in and she leaned closer. “A romp between the sheets for sure.” Faint footsteps paced the floor. “Now that I have a woman chef, I have three uses.”

Silence followed, and Jill assumed whoever was on the other end of the line spoke.

“Damn straight, bro. At least she’s decent looking and I can expect something more for dinner than a drive-thru meal or my famous peanut butter and jelly bachelor’s special.” His laughter closed around her chest.

She forgot to breathe. She knew she shouldn’t be listening but couldn’t pull herself away.

“A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

How dare he talk about women like that, and how dare he throw her into the mix. Her mother always said eavesdroppers never heard anything good.

She was tempted to walk out the door and never look back. Or burn his toast and dump coffee grounds in his morning cup of joe. But she’d be an idiot to jeopardize this opportunity.

Heat flared across her cheeks, and she banged her fist against the door with more force than intended.

The door swung open, and he met her gaze, full of spunk and humor. He raised one finger in the universal gesture to give him a second. He looked amazing with the morning light shining through the window behind him—all tan, tall, and Greek-godlike. She shoved her attraction down. Now wasn’t the time to go soft in the head or the heart.

“Hey, got a few things to settle up here before I leave. I’ll call you from the office.” He ended the call with a press of a button and took her by the elbow to steer her toward the kitchen.

Jill held herself in check, refusing to tug her elbow from his grip, even though escaping his touch was her first thought.

“Sleep well?”

“Perfect.” She pinched out her response, pushing aside the fluttering in her belly when his thumb caressed the skin above her elbow. From the corner of her eye she saw him glance at her with creased brows.

“Good.”

Jill could tell herself all day, backward and forward, up and down that she only had to hold back her comments for eight weeks. She could suffer through his egotistical, arrogant, so over-the-top male ’tude, if it meant building her catering business. But she knew she was a liar. So mad she could spit fire-coated nails, she couldn’t hold back. “Do you always have such a negative view of women?”

He stopped, pulling her to a halt beside him.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your office door was closed, but it isn’t soundproof.” She tugged her elbow from his grip, trying hard to ignore the sensation left behind from the pressure of his fingers.

“Didn’t your mother ever warn you about eavesdropping?”

“As a matter of fact, she did, but it’s too late to ignore what I heard.”

He placed his palm at the small of her back, moving her forward. “I’m late, Jill. We’ll discuss what you think you overheard tonight. If it makes you feel better.”

She sidestepped his touch, sucking in a breath of air, preparing for battle as they headed into the kitchen. Huge mistake. The scent of him filled her lungs, a heady mixture of sandalwood and something earthy, sensual—Chet. Images of them lip-locked in the Creations kitchen pierced through the shield around her heart.

“I left a charge card on the counter for you. Feel free to use it for groceries and whatever you need in the kitchen. You also have access to any of the cars in the lower garage to use while grocery shopping, or whatever.”

If she were a different kind of person—the kind he’d originally thought her to be—she’d use his charge card all right, but it wouldn’t be for kitchen accessories or groceries.

Chet strode across the room. He opened a cabinet door to reveal a touch-screen monitor on a small desk. A color-coded calendar filled the screen. “This is my monthly planner. It syncs directly to my phone so it’s up to the minute. Everything’s recorded: the nights I have dinner parties scheduled with charity coordinators, clients, or if I won’t be home at all.” He flipped to another screen with a list of names she assumed were his guests scheduled for each dinner, complete with likes, dislikes, and food allergies. “I do have a dinner coming up with a vegetarian client. Is that a problem?”

“Not at all.” She regained her composure. Working her way to his side, she glanced over his arm to scan the information filling the screen.

“Anyway, go through the calendar and work out your schedule. I don’t expect you to cook Sundays, so come and go as you please.” He reached inside a cabinet by the garage entrance and wrapped his fist around a set of keys attached to a hook inside. “See you tonight.” The door clicked closed behind him.

Jill sagged against the counter. Chet Castle was a stranger. The conversation she overheard slammed that fact home. Yet she’d taken less than sixty seconds to agree to move in with him and become his personal caterer, all so he’d co-sign a loan. Was she crazy?

This didn’t make sense. From what she’d heard, he didn’t hold much respect for women, yet he wanted to help her, a virtual stranger, realize her dream of opening her own business? What was he getting out of this deal besides some professionally cooked meals for his guests and his own personal table of good eats?
Or is he expecting more?

Jill prepared a steaming mug of peppermint tea to quell her jittery nerves, took inventory of the kitchen, and made a list of items needed. He may wobble her knees, but someone—a
woman
preferably—should teach him a lesson in respect.

Chapter Four

At eight o’clock that evening, Chet strolled from the dining area into the kitchen. “I noticed you set the table. I normally eat in the kitchen when I’m not entertaining guests.”

With a quick smile in his direction, Jill couldn’t decide if the uncontrolled fury of her heartbeat was because Chet smelled fresh and looked mouthwatering, or because she anticipated his reaction over tonight’s meal. She opted for the second. “Oh, I just assumed now that you had a chef, you’d want all the bells and whistles.”

“Let’s keep it simple.” He smiled. His full, perfect lips filled with sincerity, relaxing the lines of his face.

She almost regretted the meal she’d cooked. Her stomach knotted, but for the hundredth time that day she reminded herself of his arrogant laugh and the one-sided conversation she’d eavesdropped on that morning, where he’d joked about his three uses for women.

“Okay, starting tomorrow I won’t polish the silver unless you’re having guests.”

“Great. Have you eaten yet?” Hair, still damp from his swim, curled loosely at the tips. He brushed one hand through it, causing a small riot of curls to rebound from his fingers.

“Don’t worry about me. Take a seat, I’ll be right in.”

“I’m starved.”

“Good.” As she bent over the warming oven, she glanced at him, increasing her smile. She slid her hands around the dishcloth draped across her shoulder and pulled her own dinner from the heated compartment.

“It smells wonderful.” He licked his lips, backing out the door toward the dining room.

“That it does.”

He disappeared and she placed her plate—filled with a braised lamb shoulder chop, grilled baby red potatoes, and slender spears of tender asparagus—on the counter. Her stomach growled when she inhaled the spiced aroma. A crock of squash soup already on the counter steamed its lid, and she considered letting him have a small bowl. After all, it was one of her signature dishes.

Nope. Maybe another night.

She brushed damp palms down the front of her turquoise half apron, tugging at the wide white frill that lined the sides. She squared her shoulders, then grabbed his covered plate and headed toward the dining area.

Though she’d always favored the sleek lines and styles from the fifties, it didn’t mean she wanted to be treated with the narrow-minded attitude of that era. Ever since she’d been tossed from her job at Creations, Chef Arnaud seemed to have gone out of his way to make sure word traveled. Yes, Jill Adgate had been caught in the arms of—
kissing
—a guest in the kitchen. Amid a ruin of cake. He’d gone out of his way to let it be known he’d fired her on the spot—or as soon as he guided the guest from the kitchen, leaving Jill behind to handle her emotions, and the mess.

At each job she’d taken afterward, she’d had to deal with arrogant men who couldn’t look past the fact she was a woman, instantly throwing her into the sexual plaything category. No more.
This woman is strong, capable, and smart.
And she definitely had more than three uses.

Before she pushed through the swinging door, she sucked in a breath and glued on her game face. Whatever happened after this, she felt justified. She needed to set the ground rules now, or she’d be setting herself up for the same sexual innuendos that had plagued her since that kiss. If he kicked her out and she had to build her catering business without his help, so be it. This would be more than worth it. After she filled a frosted glass with the iced tea she’d brought to the buffet earlier, she placed the glass, along with the covered dish, on the table.

“What’s my pleasure?” He lifted the silverware she’d rolled in a thick linen napkin.

“I like to call it Bachelor’s Special.”

Chet glanced at her with one lifted brow while he unfolded his napkin, placing it on his lap. “Mmm, well, it smelled spectacular in the kitchen.”

He smiled and she released the air burning her throat.

“Enjoy.” With quick steps she made her way to the kitchen. Her heart pounded, and she ran her shaky palms down her apron before settling herself at the counter in front of her dinner. In less than a minute, a loud clatter echoed from the dining area, intruding on the peaceful warmth of the kitchen. She forked a tender piece of lamb into her mouth and controlled her smile while she chewed.

Footsteps grew in force as they neared. Tension filled her shoulders when the door flung open and hit the wall, but she didn’t look up. She flaked off another slice of lamb with her fork and put it in her mouth.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” Chet boomed across the room.

“No, it’s my idea of dinner.” She jammed the tines of her fork into a buttery spear of asparagus.

Chet eyed her plate as he tossed his onto the counter. The delicate china slid across the smooth surface and stopped when it clinked against hers. One of his eyebrows rose and the lines around the edge of his mouth deepened. “Whatever you’re having is what I want.”

“Sorry, only made enough for one,” she said around another bite, this time a delicate red potato, cooked to perfection.

“I’m not interested in having a chef that eats better than royalty while I’m served chunky peanut butter with grape jelly spread between two slices of day-old bread.”

“I made you chips, too.”

“Lucky me, homemade chips.” He plucked one off the plate and crumbled it between long fingers.

She smiled, then lifted the lid of her covered soup bowl and took a heaping spoonful into her mouth. As he watched, she swirled her eyes around in exaggeration and smacked her lips together.

“Must be good.”

“Damn good. I’ve outdone myself.” She sighed and took another spoonful.

His Adam’s apple bobbed overtime when he swallowed, and she hoped he’d choke on it.

“Try a bite?” She dipped her spoon into the soup again and held it out toward him. “It’ll rival a romp between the sheets any day. Not that a
gentleman
would ever kiss and tell.” The sarcastic lilt of her voice wasn’t lost on him as his eyes narrowed. Even angry, he sent fissions of heat through her body.

Chet recovered quickly and pasted on a grin. He leaned in to take the taste she offered. Just before his lips hit the spoon, she pulled back and slurped it between her parted lips. “Damn good it is.”

His face tightened when she made a show of licking the spoon clean. That might have been pushing things too far.

An inner voice reminded her that she hardly knew this man. After all, they were alone in his gi-normous home, set back off the road on a private country drive, far away from civilization. She forced herself to swallow the soup that hardened in her throat on the way down.

“So, your little eavesdropping session at my office door this morning garnered more than I imagined.”

His low tone alerted her flight response, and she stood so fast her stool fell over. She looked for the nearest point of exit, then darted around the counter. Not quick enough. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, sending sparks across her skin and pulling her flight up short. She tugged, spun around, and looked up to see Chet’s hand dangling the ceramic bowl containing her mouth-watering soup over her head.

Heart pounding, she lowered her gaze to meet his. “You wouldn’t.”

“What’s the saying about the best way to serve revenge?” He tilted the bowl, while his thumb massaged circles on her inner wrist.

A warm drop of soup plopped on her forehead, then rolled down the bridge of her nose, tickling a path across her skin. She flicked out her tongue when it reached the corner of her mouth.

“It’s best served cold.” She challenged him with the sternest voice she could manage under the circumstances.

“Oh, it’s no gazpacho. At best, this is lukewarm by now, but it’ll have to do.” Though his voice sounded as contrite as a choirboy in catechism, she knew what lay behind that innocent smile.

“N-no. That’s breaking the rules.” She snaked her free hand up his muscular arm with plans to dislodge the bowl from his grip, nearly forgetting the idea when the warmth of his skin penetrated her fingertips and filled her with a sensual flame.

“You mean the saying?” His eyes glowed with a brightness she’d never noticed before. In that moment, he was undeniably hot.

“Yes, the saying.” Confusion ruled her as sexual awareness zipped through the air around them. “Since the soup isn’t cold, you can’t serve it up as revenge.”

“Hmmm, you’re pulling at straws. Plus, I’m not big on following rules. I like to make my own.” His voice lowered to a husky timber. He tilted the bowl further and several more thick drops scattered across her forehead, nose, and the crown of her head.

“Truce. I call a truce.” Her fingers wrapped around his wrist so tightly the beat of his pulse penetrated the tips of her fingers.

He puckered his lips and relief spilled into her lungs, but it was short-lived. With a cocky tilt of his chin, he blew out a breath. “No truce.”

“Damn.” She tucked her fingers over the rim of the bowl. Tepid liquid soaked her fingertips.

He leaned in, his breath fanning her skin in featherlike caresses. Unable to control her own senses, she licked her lips…waiting, feeling something was about to happen. She blinked, transfixed on his softening features, her heart thudding against her ribs…

A woman knew when she was about to be kissed.

Not sure if it was her doing or his, the bowl tipped all the way over and a large dollop of her award-winning soup oozed across the top of her head. A gloppy, gooey mess slid over the smooth tresses of her hair. She pressed her eyes shut, lowering her hand. Where was that bar towel? Her plans to wipe away the mess ended when her free wrist was gripped in a viselike hold.

“How’s that soup taste now?” Waves of his laughter jolted through her, his fingers around her wrist acting as a conductor. Thousands of tiny goose bumps danced up her arm.

Unwilling to give him the satisfaction, she smiled blindly, licked the soup that settled around her mouth, and smacked her lips together. “Better than ever.”