Mail-Order Millionaire (4 page)

“You’ve got some questions to answer.”

Miranda whirled around at the sound of his voice. She’d taken off her jacket and her boots, turned up the heat and taken herself on a tour of Maxwell Carter’s weather station, from the tiny kitchen hidden behind a wall of shelves to the bathroom that looked like a storage closet. She’d just taken a sip of her sherry when he suddenly appeared at the door. Setting her glass on a table, she hurried to take the top two boxes from the stack he was carrying. She followed him through the narrow doorway to the kitchen, set the boxes down and looked up inquisitively. “Questions?”

Max surveyed her from the top of her honey-blond hair to her lightweight hiking boots, his eyes lingering on the baggy oatmeal sweater that only hinted at the curves underneath, and forced himself to think about dinner. A subject that had been uppermost on his mind until he saw her get out of the tractor. Now his mind was preoccupied with questions he wanted to ask her. First, was she really wearing long underwear? If so, it must be very thin and very formfitting, and he knew exactly how she’d look in it after studying the catalog so carefully.

Inwardly shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he said, “Questions? Oh, yes. What do you like, crayfish etouffee or shrimp gumbo?” He stacked the boxes on the counter and slit open the one on top.

She leaned over to read the label. “Louisiana Seafood. You weren’t kidding. You’re really going to make one of those things.”

“Of course. You didn’t think meteorologists lived like savages, did you? We’re more dependant than most people on certain creature comforts like good food.”

“I didn’t really think about them at all until a few days ago, and now...”

“And now you wish you’d never heard of them. Which brings me to question number two. Why in God’s name did you take it into your head to drive up here in a Sno-Cat by yourself?”

She pressed her hands together and lowered her eyes. “I don’t know, except that I have a tractor at home and I thought I could do it. So I just did. I had no idea this would happen. You said the weather was clear.” She threw a glance in the direction of the window and the fog that swirled just outside the glass. “If you’re a weatherman, how come you didn’t know about this fog?”

“I did know about it. I called Fred to tell him not to come up, but he didn’t answer, then his line was busy and then no answer. When I talked to you at noon there was no fog. It was clear from here to Vermont.”

She stared at the window in disbelief. “Can you really see that far?”

“Farther. If it clears up in the morning, I’ll show you.”

Now it was her turn to look him over with narrowed eyes, and he had the feeling she was still trying to decide whether to stay or not, despite what he’d told her.

He exhaled loudly. “Look, Ms. Morrison... Miranda, you’re stuck here for the night, whether you like it or not. I didn’t ask you to come up here. Okay, maybe I wanted to see if you’d really do it, but as you recall, I told you to leave the boots at the bottom of the mountain.”

“But Fred said you were running out of food.”

He took his jacket off. “Do I look like I’m starving?”

“No, of course not.” She tucked a strand of her thick straight hair behind her ear. “I don’t know what I was thinking, except that it would be fun to drive a Sno-Cat. And now you’re stuck with me. I’m really sorry.”

She looked up at him with liquid brown eyes and he felt a twinge of guilt for coming down so hard on her. But dammit, how was he supposed to know how to act around unexpected company, especially a woman whom he’d never expected to see in person? No wonder he’d made a mess of it. Awkwardly Max put his hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad to have the company.” It was true. He felt an unexpected current in the air that wasn’t there before she arrived. “And I appreciate your bringing the boots.” He felt her stiffen and he took his hand off her shoulder as casually as he could, before he offended her further by sliding his fingers across her shoulders to see if she was really wearing that long underwear under everything. “Well,” he said brusquely, taking a package of frozen shrimp out of the bag and holding it up. “What’ll it be?”

“Whatever you say. I’ve never had either one before.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “What about blackened redfish?”

“I’ve heard of it. Isn’t that Cajun cooking? I thought you were from Georgia.”

Startled, he turned from the freezer to look at her. “How did you know that?”

A flush crept up her cheeks and turned them bright pink. “Your accent?”

He frowned. “I thought I’d lost it.”

“You have,” she admitted. “Fred told me.”

“I suppose he told you about my inheritance and how he questions my sanity for working here.”

“Well…”

“I did inherit some money from my favorite uncle last year but that doesn’t mean I’m going to live like some bon vivant in a condo in Palm Beach like he did. I like my job. I like the mountains and I like the solitude. Now that we have that out of the way…” He handed her a bag of frozen okra and a large cleaver. “We’ll have gumbo then. Can you chop these up for me?”

She didn’t answer. She just stood there for a long moment in her stockinged feet, weighing the cleaver in her hand and looking at him before she started chopping.  He opened a can of tomatoes and heated olive oil in a pot. The kitchen was so small he kept brushing against her when he went to the sink or the stove. It was strange working around someone. Maybe strange wasn’t the right word. It was more... distracting. He could tell her to take a break and he’d take over. He really didn’t need her help. He didn’t need anyone’s help. He was completely self-sufficient. He had money, a job and the lifestyle he wanted. He’d been cooking by himself, living by himself and working by himself for the past year and he liked it that way.

Then he looked at her out of the corner of his eye and decided that if she were in the other room he wouldn’t be able to study her profile or her long lithe legs in her stretch pants. He was trying to reconcile the picture in the catalog with the reality. It was only natural. But it wasn’t necessary.

This woman was making him behave irrationally, but only because he’d been alone so long. It was the name of the game in these remote weather stations. One week on and one week off. People who lived normal lives didn’t let their imaginations run wild because an unexpected guest dropped in. They didn’t think about their underwear or salivate every time they got close.

He went to the cabinet for the sherry and refilled her glass. The smell of spices wafted from the pot. Feeling uncomfortable because of the silence he figured it wouldn’t kill him to tell her he appreciated her effort in coming up there. He’d blathered on needlessly about his financial situation, so why stop now?

“Have I thanked you for coming all this way to bring the boots and the food?”

Steam filled the little kitchen. She tilted her face up to his. “I didn’t have any choice. I promised I’d bring them and I did. Besides, I was afraid you’d complain to the management and I’d lose my job.”

He nodded understandingly, but he was unaccountably disappointed. She’d thought he was some kind of crank at the same time he was thinking she was as cold as rime ice. Maybe they were both wrong. “Why don’t you set the table?” He handed her some silverware and then he spooned gumbo and rice into two bowls. Before he set them on the table, he shoved an armchair to one side of the table and pulled his swivel chair to the other. She sat across from him and filled her spoon, then held it up in front of her to cool. Their eyes met and some mysterious force caused him to lift his wineglass and say, “To new boots and new friends.”

She looked surprised at his toast, but she set her spoon down and silently raised her glass to his.

“And to new underwear,” he added. “Is it in the box?”

She nodded and told him how much she liked the gumbo. It was true. There was a sharp kick that awakened your taste buds, then a wonderful mellow blend of shrimp and spices. “I’ll bet your wife misses your cooking when you’re gone,” she remarked.

“I’ll bet she doesn’t. I don’t have a wife at the moment, and I’m sure she doesn’t miss anything about me.” He didn’t mean to sound bitter, but that was the way it came out.

“I see,” she said, and he was afraid she did see, with those huge dark eyes that regarded him so solemnly. There was nothing like rehashing the past to put a damper on the present. Why did they have to talk about his ex-wife? It was time to change the subject.

He leaned back in his swivel chair and swirled the wine in his glass. “How do you like your job at Green Mountain?”

“It’s all right. I like solving problems, and other people’s problems are always easier to solve than your own.”

“You don’t look like you have any problems,” he said. It was true. Her gaze was steady, her face unmarred by worry lines.

“Really? I’ve got a whole farm full of them, maple trees that won’t produce, a sugar house that’s falling apart and equipment that dates from my grandparents’ time. Not that it matters. If the sap doesn’t run, I won’t need it.”

“So you have a farm.” He stirred the rice into his gumbo. “That’s how you learned to drive a tractor.”

She nodded. “It belonged to my grandparents, and now it’s mine.”

“Have you lived there all your life?” Strange how everything she said was fascinating to him, as if she’d arrived in a space ship from another planet instead of a Sno-Cat from the next state, and he wanted her to keep talking. If she did, then he wouldn’t have to. He could just sit and listen and watch her lips move.

“Except for the four years I spent in New York. I used to think Northwood was the most boring place in the world. I could hardly wait to leave. So I went to seek my fortune and came home empty-handed.” She smiled, but there was a sadness lurking at the back of her eyes. “I found out there are worse things than being bored.”

He nodded understandingly, but he didn’t understand, not really. And there was something guarded about her expression that warned him not to ask. He stood and cleared the plates from the table. “Maybe you’re better at chess than seeking your fortune.” He was certainly better at chess than at making casual conversation with strangers.