Moorehouse Legacy: Beauty and the Black Sheep Part 2

Nate zipped his pack closed and regarded the woman staring up at him evenly.Behind her vague hostility, he could see exhaustion lurking. She looked worn down and had the drooping mouth of someone who had barked too many orders to too many people in an enterprise that was going under.

He'd met a lot of managers just like her over the years.

Failure was everywhere around the White Caps Bed Breakfast. From what he'd seen outside, in the kitchen and through one quick look into the dining room, the place was a ball gown with sweat stains, a once beautiful mansion on the long fade into a junk pile.

And the business was taking this woman down with it.

How old was she? Early thirties? She probably looked older than she was and he tried to imagine what was under the long bangs and sensible gla.s.ses, the loose white waitstaff s.h.i.+rt and standard issue black pants.

She'd probably been full of hope when she'd bought the old ark and he imagined that optimism had lasted only until it became clear that servicing rich weekenders was a thankless job, a low-praise zone in the extreme. And then the first fix-it bill had probably come for a boiler or a roof or major piece of equipment, giving her a sense of how much old charm cost.

As if on cue, a wheeze came out of the walk-in. The noise was followed by something close to a cough, like there was a little old man dying in the compressor.

He watched while she closed her eyes as if deliberately ignoring the sounds.

If Nate was a betting man, he'd guess in one year White Caps would either be under new management or condemned by the state.

Her eyes flipped open. "So. The phone?"

She was definitely a fighter, though. Tough as nails, maybe even prepared to go down with the s.h.i.+p, although where that trip would take her he couldn't imagine. More debt? Less sleep?

Or maybe she was just tending the pile of wood for her husband. Nate eyed her ring finger and didn't see anything on it.

"h.e.l.lo? Nate? Or whatever you call yourself. Use the phone or move out. It's closing time."

"Okay. Thanks," he said, turning around and heading in the direction she'd pointed to earlier that evening. He walked into a darkened office and frowned when his feet made a sloppy noise, as if there were water on the floor.

He hit the light switch.

Good Lord, the place was soaked. He looked up at the ceiling, seeing a gaping hole that exposed pipes old enough to have been laid by G.o.d Himself.

Shaking his head, he reached for the phone, thinking he'd be lucky to get a dial tone. When he did, he punched in his buddy Spike's cell phone number. He and Spike had been friends since they'd gone through the Culinary Inst.i.tute of America as cla.s.smates and they'd decided to buy a restaurant together. Their business interest was behind Nate's trip. After four months of searching, they couldn't seem to find what they wanted in their price range in Manhattan so they were looking at other cities. Spike had found a place for them to consider in Montreal, but Nate wasn't getting his hopes up. He didn't think the situation was going to be any better over the border in Canada.

He absolutely believed they could make it as owners. Between his skills at the stove and Spike's masterful work with pastries and breads, they had the fundamentals covered. But money was growing tight. Because Nate was living off the savings he was going to put toward their down payment, he was thinking it might be time to get a job for the summer and suspend the search at least until the fall. By then, new prospects would surely be on the market.

When he hung up with Spike, he looked toward the woman waiting in the doorway.

"What happened to your cook?" he asked.

"He quit tonight."

Nate nodded, thinking that was the way of the kitchen world. You never got tenure as a chef but the trade-off was you didn't have to give notice.

She began to tap her foot impatiently, but he wasn't in a hurry. Taking a look around he saw a desk, a computer, a couple of chairs, some closet doors. There was nothing particularly interesting about the room until he got to the bookcases. To her left, he saw an old photograph of a young family smiling into the camera. Two parents, three children, clothes from the seventies.

He went over for a closer look but when he picked it up off the shelf, she s.n.a.t.c.hed the frame out of his hand.

"Do you mind?"

They were standing close and he became curiously aware of her. In spite of the bangs and the Poindexter gla.s.ses, the baggy clothes and the bags under her eyes, his body started to heat up. Her eyes widened and he wondered if she felt it, too-the odd current that seemed to run between them.

"You looking for someone in your kitchen?" he asked abruptly.

"I don't know," she said, clipping the words short.

"You sure needed someone tonight. You'd have been up the creek if I hadn't walked through your door."

"How about this, I don't know if I need you." She put the photograph back, laying it face down on the shelf.

"You think I'm not qualified?" He smiled when she remained silent, figuring she probably hated the fact that he'd saved her. "Tell me, just how did I fail to impress you tonight?"

"You did fine but that doesn't mean I'm going to hire you."

He shook his head. "Fine? Man, you have a hard time with compliments, don't you?"

"I don't waste energy playing spit and polish with egos. Especially healthy ones."

"So you prefer being around the depressed?" he retorted mildly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Nate shrugged. "Your staff's so beaten down it's a wonder they can put one foot in front of the other. That poor girl was ready to work herself to death tonight just for a kind word and George soaked up a little praise like he hadn't heard any in a month."

"Who made you an expert on those two?" Her hands were on her hips now as she looked up at him.

"It's just obvious, lady. If you took your blinders off once in a while you might see what you're doing to them."

"What I'm doing to them? I'll tell you what I'm doing to them." She jabbed a finger at him. "I'm keeping a roof over Joy's head and George out of a group home. So you can back off with the judgments."

As she glared at him, he wondered why he was arguing with her. The last thing the woman needed was another battle. Besides, why did he care?

"Look, ah-why don't we start over," he said. "Can we call a truce here?"

He stuck his hand out, aware that he'd just decided to take a job he wasn't being offered. But h.e.l.l, he needed to spend the summer somewhere and she clearly needed the help. And White Caps was as good as any other place, even if it was sinking. At least he could have some fun and try out some new things he'd been thinking of without the food critics chomping at him.

When she just stared at him, he prompted her by looking down at his hand.

She tucked her arms into her body. "I think you better go."

"Are you always this unreasonable?"

"Good night."

He dropped his hand. "Let me get this straight. You have no cook. You're looking at one who's willing to work. But you'd rather shoot yourself in the foot just because you don't like me?" When she kept looking at him, b.u.t.toned up tight, he shook his head. "d.a.m.n, woman. You ever think this place might be going under because of you?"

The strained silence that followed was the calm before the storm. He knew it because she started to shake and he had a vague thought that he should duck.

But what came at him wasn't angry words or a slap or a right hook.

She started to cry. From behind the lenses, he saw tears well and then fall.

"Oh, G.o.d," he pushed a hand through his hair. "I didn't mean-"

"You don't know me," she said hoa.r.s.ely and, somehow, regally. Even through her tears, she faced him squarely as if she had nothing to hide, as if the crying jag was a temporary aberration, nothing that spelled the end of her inner strength. "You don't know what's going on here. You don't-don't know what we've been through. So you can just put your pack on and start walking."

He reached out for her, not sure what he would do. Not take her in his arms, certainly. But he had some vague idea he could...pat her on the shoulder. Or something.

G.o.d, how lame was that.

Nate wasn't at all surprised when she shrugged him off and left him alone in her wet mess of an office.

In the pantry, surrounded by canned vegetables, bags of George's cookies and jars full of condiments, Frankie pulled herself together. Wiping her eyes with the palms of her hands, she sniffled a couple of times and then tugged her s.h.i.+rt into place.She couldn't believe she'd cracked like that. In front of some stranger.

It was better than crying in front of Joy, sure, but not by much.

Boy, he'd nailed her vulnerable point. The idea that White Caps was failing because of her was her biggest fear and the mere thought of it was enough to make her start tearing up all over again.

G.o.d, what was she going to tell Joy if they had to leave? Where would they live? And how could she earn enough to take care of both her sister and Grand-Em?

What would she tell Alex?

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the shelves.

Alex.

She wondered where her brother was. Last she'd heard from him, he'd been training for the America's Cup off the Bahamas, but that had been back in February. As a compet.i.tive sailor, he traveled all over the world, and tracking his movements would have required a good map and a lot of patience.

Neither of which she had.

Considering the terrible events on the lake, which had left the three of them orphans when Frankie had just turned twenty-two, the fact that Alex lived on the sea was a perennial source of heartache. Like all families of sailors, however, she'd learned to live with the fear and work around it.

You can do a lot of things if you have to, she thought. She'd turned into Wonder Woman thanks to getting trapped by fate.

An overworked, cranky Wonder Woman maybe, but she was still doing it all.

Frankie took a deep breath thinking, just once, she'd like to share the load. Have someone else make a decision. Take a direction. Lead.

She felt her shoulders sinking toward the floor as she tried to imagine Joy doing anything other than float around. George knew when he needed to eat and when it was time to sleep and not much else. Grand-Em thought it was still 1953.

But then, with the vividness of a movie clip, she had a vision of Nate's hands flying around the chicken she'd burned.

He was right. She did need a cook and he was, evidently, available.

And the man was good, she thought.

There was also the reality that there wasn't a long line of people applying for the job.

Wheeling around, Frankie burst out of the pantry, prepared to run after him, but she jerked to a halt. He'd been waiting, leaning casually against the island.

"I didn't want to leave until I knew you were okay," he explained.

"Do you want the job?"

He c.o.c.ked an eyebrow, apparently unfazed by her turnaround. "Yeah. I'll stay until Labor Day."

"I can't pay you much, but then again, there won't be much you'll have to do."

He shrugged. "Money's not important to me."

At least he had one good trait, she thought, naming what sounded like a pathetically small salary.

"And I can offer you room and board." She straightened her shoulders. "But I want to be clear about something."

"Let me guess, you're the boss."

"Well, yes. More importantly, stay away from my sister."

He frowned. "Angel?"

"Her name is Joy. And she's not interested."

His laugh was short. "Don't you think that should be her choice, not yours?"

"No, I don't. Do we understand each other?"

A small smile played over his lips, but she couldn't divine what he thought was so amusing.

"Well?" she demanded.

"Yeah, I understand you perfectly." He extended his hand and raised that brow again. "You going to touch me this time?"

It was a taunt, a challenge.

And Frankie never backed down from anything.

She grabbed his hand like it was a door handle, in a tough grip meant to tell him that she was all business. But at the contact, she lost her pretensions. A s.h.i.+ver of awareness p.r.i.c.kled across every square inch of her body and all she could do was blink up at him in confusion.

His eyes narrowed, the lids falling down over that fascinating spectrum of color. She felt him squeeze her hand and had a ludicrous image of him pulling her forward so he could kiss her.

G.o.d, what he could do to her, she thought, if they were naked and in a bed together- Frankie stepped back quickly, thinking maybe she needed to get hit with some more water.

"Remember what I said," she ground out. "Don't go near my sister."

He scratched the side of his neck casually and put his hands into his pockets. She had a feeling that he didn't take orders well, but couldn't have cared less. He was working for her, which meant she called the shots. Period. End of story.

And the last thing Frankie needed to worry about was Joy getting her heart broken. Or being left pregnant and alone at the end of the summer. G.o.d knew, they couldn't afford another dependent.

"We're clear?" she prompted.