Stand-In Father (Intimate Moments) (7 page)

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Authors: Pat Warren

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Megan felt her back stiffen. “Thanks for the offer, but there’s no need. I’ll get to the garden by week’s end.”
He looked up at her, at the rigid way she held herself, her eyes averted. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I don’t have all that much to do and—”
“No.” She never should have allowed him to dry her pans, to invade her kitchen, to critique her yard. “My guests don’t weed my garden. I’ll get to it when I have the time. Until then, they’ll be fine.”
“Are you always so stubborn, so independent?”
“Yes, when I think I’m doing the right thing.”
Straightening, Alex dusted off his hands. Apparently, he was going about this all wrong. Time to rethink his approach. Tomorrow. Tonight, he was a little tired from trying too hard. “All right. Good night, then.” Retracing his steps, Alex went back inside.
Megan watched him go, her eyes narrowing. Who was this man, this stranger, coming here and overstepping his boundaries as a paying guest? The trouble with a guy like him was that if you gave him an inch, he wanted a mile. He had the air of confidence that always having had money gives a man. Some might even call it arrogance.
Well, he’d soon find out that his unsolicited offers didn’t cut it with Megan Delaney. She was never going to be beholden to a man ever again. Not any man. She and Ryan would manage just fine without any outside help.
There was something different about him, however, something that shadowed those dark green eyes. She’d give him a wide berth, she decided. Of course, everyone had their secrets, Megan thought, rising and walking slowly toward the house.
She had a few herself.
Chapter 3
A
lex drove the short distance from town to Delaney’s Bed & Breakfast automatically, his mind still on the meeting he’d just had. The two Parsons daughters had seemed reasonable enough and anxious to sell the land he was interested in. And he was interested in it after having spent the best part of an hour walking the parcel. It was ideally located, near town but yet not downtown. The land was six blocks from a grade school, ten from the town’s only high school and within walking distance of two churches.
But there was a snag, and his name was Jimmy Parsons.
The elderly owner’s only son wanted to hold out for big bucks, which could squelch the whole deal. However, Alex wasn’t one to judge too early. He’d indicated interest, but not eagerness. They’d talk again, he’d told the three of them, then strolled away, leaving them wondering, he supposed.
Time was on his side, since one of the sisters had blurted out that they hadn’t had any offers as yet, nor had any other builder asked to speak to them. Of course, the ad had only recently appeared and would undoubtedly spark more interest. Fortunately, acquiring the parcel wasn’t a do-or-die kind of thing with Alex, an attitude that usually put him one up on anyone else who badly wanted to purchase.
Chances are, he thought as he turned the Porsche onto the winding road leading to the inn, that Jimmy Parsons was just testing the waters, showing off in front of his sisters, trying to prove he was a mover and shaker. He wasn’t. Alex had seen the young man’s nervous swallowing, the slight trembling of his hands. Although Alex was willing to pay fair market value, there was no way he would overbid so the kid would look good.
Parking under the large California live oak shading the far end of Delaney’s lot, he decided he’d go in and make a few phone calls, see if he could round up a few comps, make appointments with some local lenders for comparison and look into ordering a feasibility study. Although Megan had told him she thought the area could handle some middle-income housing, he felt she was too far out of the loop to make a solid judgment.
Megan. Getting out of the car, Alex stared up at the sky, clearing after the morning rain, and thought about the woman who’d sat in her garden last night, wearing her stubborn streak like a badge of honor. Her resistance to any proffered help seemed more than independence. More like a strong determination to make it on her own. Why? he wondered. What could it have hurt if she’d have let him pull up a few weeds? Did all that track back to Neal and their relationship?
He supposed the prudent thing would be for him to quit offering. Even his wiping a few pans had upset her. At breakfast this morning, she’d been polite and smiling, but in an impersonal way. She hadn’t once let her eyes linger on him or spoken to him directly unless he’d asked her a question. Apparently, he unnerved her and again he wondered why.
Alex stepped into the lobby and saw the reddish-haired woman who’d been arranging flowers yesterday behind the desk today.
“Ah, Mr. Shephard,” Grace Romero said, catching his eye. “Just the man I want to see.” Her gaze roamed over him appreciatively.
Alex knew a flirt when he saw one, no matter her age. He read her name on her badge. “Well, here I am, Grace. What can I do for you?”
“It’s more what we can do for you.” Grace ran a hand over her smooth hair, wishing she’d have worn it down today. Men, all men, liked long hair, she’d discovered long ago.
There was that
we
plural stuff again. “And what might that be?”
“Megan’s decided to put on a barbecue dinner tonight. The couple in our upstairs green room is celebrating forty years of marriage, so all the guests are invited. Chicken, ribs, potato salad, beans, fresh corn and, of course, something lovin’ from the oven. About six on the back lawn, if you’d care to join us.” Her dark eyes watched him think the invitation over.
“Sounds good. I believe my evening’s free. Tell me, are you and Megan doing the cooking or are you having it catered?”
Grace’s laugh was full-bodied and rich. “Catered? Oh, my saints, no. We’re doing it all. Finger-lickin’ good, I promise you. And no charge.”
Alex raised an eyebrow. “No charge?” Not a very good business practice, but perhaps Megan had a reason.
“Walter and Jean have spent every wedding anniversary with us since the year we opened,” Grace went on to explain, “and sent many of their friends to us, as well. Megan wanted to do something nice for them. There’ll be music, too. Do you dance, Mr. Shephard?”
Hands in his pockets, he smiled at her. “The woman who dances with me has to wear steel-toed shoes, Grace. And please call me Alex.”
“Thank you, Alex. Too bad. About the dancing, I mean.”
She was wearing a gauzy, full-skirted dress in bright turquoise. He could picture her swirling in it. “I’m certainly looking forward to watching you.” He decided to give it one more shot, this time with a woman who seemed more amenable. “If you and Megan need any help setting up tables out back or whatever, I’m available.”
“Oh, thanks, but we can handle things just fine. We never let guests help.”
“So Megan told me last night.” He glanced through the dining room at the double doors leading to the kitchen, surmising that Megan was probably in there right now, slaving away on the dinner. “I don’t know why not. Guests are people, and people don’t offer unless they really want to help.”
Grace shook her auburn head, causing her large gold hoop earrings to all but brush her shoulders. “No, guests are to be waited on, not do the waiting on others. House rule.” She flashed him a wide smile.
But Alex wasn’t one to give up easily. “Can I bring something, then? To add to the menu. I passed a store in town just now. Out-of-season watermelons. They’re almost a requisite at an outdoor barbecue, don’t you think?”
Grace considered his suggestion. The man was persistent; she’d give him that. Megan might not like it, but really, what could it hurt? “All right, but remember, I didn’t ask you.”
He gave her his most charming smile. “No, you didn’t.”
“See you later.” She saw him walk out toward his car as she hurried off, her list in hand. She’d invited all the guests and everyone had accepted except for one couple who’d made other plans for the day. In the kitchen, she found Megan putting the finishing touches to a huge pot of baked beans. “Okay, I got to all of them. It’ll be ten for dinner, plus the three of us. Manageable.”
“Yes, and thank you.” Megan brushed the back of her hand across her damp forehead. Her next purchase would have to be a large ceiling fan for this kitchen the moment she had extra cash. The washer would have to wait. She was about to melt in this heat. “Lord, but it’s hot today. Does the weatherman know the first of May hasn’t even arrived yet?”
“It’s not hot outside, only in here with two ovens on, several pots bubbling away and a big dishwasher running.” Grace noticed that Megan’s face was flushed with heat. “Honey, why don’t you go out and cool off?”
“Oh, Grace, there’s too much to do.” She sighed, mentally running through the list. The barbecue was a good idea, and certainly Walter and Jean deserved the extra treat. But it made for a very long day, what with getting breakfast to cleaning all the occupied rooms, then shopping for groceries and now cooking and baking all afternoon. She hoped she didn’t nod off during dinner.
Grace walked over to Megan and yanked off the towel she’d fastened around her waist in lieu of an apron, something Megan refused to wear. “Enough. I don’t want you pooping out on me. You’ve been running around all morning like a crazy woman. Go and grab some fresh air while I frost the cake. Half an hour won’t put us behind. Scoot! Go!”
“Oh, all right.” Megan went to the door, paused with her hand on the knob. “The decorative tips are in the—”
“Third drawer. Don’t you think I know this kitchen by now? Get outta here, woman!”
Smiling, Megan stepped out and drew in a deep breath of air heavy with the fragrance of flowers. It was cooler out here, the ground still damp from the morning shower. She intended to cut some irises for tonight’s centerpiece, but not until later. This would be an ideal time to do a little weeding. And to check on a sickly rosebush, a hybrid that had been a gift from Emily. No matter what Megan did, the poor thing always seemed to be struggling just to survive.
Moving along the grassy path, she bent to her task.
Some twenty minutes later, she’d just finished cleaning out under and around the rosebushes and bagging the weeds when she heard the front gate into the garden open. Straightening, she saw Alex Shephard walk in carrying a huge watermelon. His strides along the brick walk were long and confident until he spotted her. Pausing, looking oddly uncomfortable for a man who exuded self-assurance, he gave her a sheepish smile.
“For the barbecue,” he said, indicating the melon. Though he’d known her but a short time, he recognized that stubborn tilt to her chin. Aware of the frown forming on her face as she strolled toward him, he went on, “Grace told me you had plenty of food, but I spotted this in town at the Green Grocer and couldn’t resist.” He pointed to a small plug at one end. “The owner cut out a wedge so I could taste it. Heavenly. Want to try some?”
Megan watched him try to talk his way out of a situation he had to know she wouldn’t like and almost laughed at how nonplussed he was. Almost. She stopped several feet from him and met his eyes. “Tell me, were you always this good at following directions as a child or is this something new?”
He grinned, shifting the melon in his arms, relieved she didn’t appear truly angry. He wondered if she knew how appealing she looked with her dark hair tied back with a blue ribbon, her face smudged not with flour this time but rather dirt from her weeding, and the knees of her well-worn jeans grass-stained. Appealing and very young. “Oh, I was worse, much worse. My father’s hair was totally white by the time I started high school.”
“I believe it.” She gazed at the huge melon. “Well, I suppose since you went to all that trouble, we should chill that.” Dusting off her hands, she led the way into the kitchen, holding the screen door for him.
Just finished with the cake, Grace was at the sink drying her hands. “That’s what I call a giant melon.” She smiled at Alex and caught his wink as Megan bent to the sink to wash up, then went to the refrigerator to make room.
“Wow, what is this, thirty cubic feet?” Alex asked, standing behind her as she poked inside the huge refrigerator.
“More like forty, industrial-size,” Megan answered as she pulled out several bagged chickens, then straightened. But she hadn’t realized Alex was so close behind her, so she bumped squarely into him, her backside bumping his hip—and lost her train of thought.
Quickly, Alex shifted the melon, tucking it into one arm like a football, and slipped his other arm around Megan to steady her. She was so soft and more fragile than he’d have guessed. The swell of her breast just grazed his arm. Up close, he inhaled her womanly scent and felt her tense.
At first contact, Megan’s eyes leaped to his face. Why did she get the feeling he’d planned that maneuver even though his expression was painfully innocent? She couldn’t help noticing that he had the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. His hand on her bare arm was large and very warm, strong and protective. His touch aroused a flare of heat within her, one she didn’t welcome. Enough of this. She sidestepped him. “On the bottom shelf, please,” she instructed, her voice just a shade unsteady.
Carrying the fryers to the sink, she dropped them in before checking his progress over her shoulder.
Alex closed the door and turned to find both women watching him. “There. What else can I help with?” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them as Megan’s frown returned.
“Nothing, thanks,” she said firmly. Even her glance at Grace was somewhat irritated. Why couldn’t this man busy himself elsewhere?
“I’m shucking corn,” Grace announced, dumping the contents of a large bag onto the butcher-block table. Her movements efficient, she went to work, watching Megan and Alex through lowered lashes. There seemed to be an odd tension between the two, strange for people who scarcely knew each other.
Annoyed but loath to rudely order Alex to go away, Megan reached into her knife drawer, searching for the one she wanted to use to cut up the chickens. She looked up as he stepped over to the counter, wondering why he was moving closer again, then cried out as she nicked her finger on a sharp blade because she wasn’t paying attention. “Dam!” She sucked at the small cut.
“At the risk of having you impale me with one of those knives, may I
please
give you a hand cutting up those chickens? I learned how years ago.” His father’s housekeeper had felt it her duty to teach both Alex and Patrick a few basics about cooking so they could survive on their own. Man chores, she’d called them, like grilling outdoors, making a mean omelette and cutting up chickens.
Megan slammed the knife drawer closed and opened the second one, searching for a bandage, her temper rising. Apparently, she’d have to hit this guy over the head before he’d get the message. “I’m sure you can truss, debone and probably teach a chicken to whistle ‘Dixie,’ Mr. Shephard, but this is
my
kitchen and you’re a guest in
my
inn and I’d prefer it if you’d leave the cooking to Grace and me. Thank you for the offer and the watermelon. We’ll see you at dinner tonight at six.”

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