by Nancy Bush
“Is there—any way—I can talk you out of this?” she asked.
“Uh-uh.”
He was enjoying this. Way more than he should. Drawing herself up, she declared through her teeth, “Then be prepared to eat the best meal of your life.”
“I’m absolutely counting on it,” he told her.
DEAR DIARY — NANCY BUSH
Chapter Seven
I am never going to trust Nick Shard again. I could cry. Swear to God. Why couldn’t he bring some woman to dinner? Why does it have to be someone whose opinion about me matters? I’m going to kill Nick before the night is over. Chop him up with my chef’s knife and turn him into a meal prepared by one of Shard Limited’s most celebrated gourmet cooks. Yessirree. It’s a plan. A meal plan. Oh, God…
She wasn’t really that terrible of a cook. She knew enough basic information to find her way around the kitchen. Good grief, she’d been feeding herself for years. But to prepare a meal for Nick and John Marsden… She couldn’t fail. She just couldn’t. She would never hear the end of it from Nick. And even though John Marsden was his friend and undoubtedly already knew the details of how she’d gotten herself into this predicament, she couldn’t bear to think of the serious har-har the two men would have if she didn’t pull this off.
Okay, so what was the answer?
Rory looked around at the circle of cookbooks sprawled across her tiny counters. She’d won the concession: Nick and John were coming here, not to Nick’s condo. Of course the only reason he’d given in was because he still wasn’t fully unpacked, and God knew what kind of kitchen utensils and bowls and things he must possess anyway.
So here she was, with only a few hours left to salvage her pride, still unsure what to prepare. She glanced out the window, tense and irritable. Hazy clouds scattered rapidly across the sky. The weather had been just plain weird. Sunny one moment, cold and overcast the next, hailing the next.
She supposed she could fall back on bouillabaisse, but she’d be damned if she could think of anything to serve with it. And was fish stew really exotic enough to be worth one thousand dollars?
The doorbell rang. Muttering an expletive, Rory tore off her apron and stalked across the living room. Flinging open the door she was faced with her sister, Michelle, wearing jeans and a pullover. Since Michelle never just dropped by, much less wore anything as casual as her current attire, Rory was totally shocked.
“What are you doing here?” Rory demanded in surprise. “Where are the kids?”
“They’re with James. Oh, Rory.” She flung herself on the couch and burst into tears.
“Michelle.” Rory’s heart was in her throat.
Covering her face with her hands, Michelle said brokenly, “I’m so tired I can’t see straight. The twins haven’t been sleeping very well, and if I’m not up with one, it’s the other. James came home from work early and I just left. I just left!”
“Are you getting along any better with James?”
She shook her head, dropping her hands. Her blue eyes were pools of misery. “I’m so unhappy.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing. Just let me be with you for a while. I just need some space.”
Rory hated seeing her sister so unbearably miserable. She felt helpless. But time was tick, tick, ticking by.
Problem peaked warily around the hall corner and meowed at Rory. Then he leaped to the couch, climbing into Michelle’s lap. Rory reached to remove him, but Michelle pulled him into her arms, hugging him in an absurdly childlike way. “Don’t take him away,” she pleaded.
“If you want him, he’s yours.”
As if surfacing from a deep sleep, Michelle focused on Rory for the first time. “You look frazzled yourself,” she said. “Did I interrupt something?”
“I have to create a feast in less than four hours.”
“Oh, God. The dinner you’re making for Nick, that’s tonight?”
“Afraid so.”
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t mean to foul you up.”
“I don’t care about the dinner,” Rory lied. “Not when you’re this unhappy. I wish I could do something. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
Michelle shook her head, fighting back fresh tears. “Let me help you.”
“Are you kidding? And be accused of bringing in replacement help? No way.”
“So what are you serving?” Michelle asked, sniffing.
Since talking about Rory’s meal seem to help Michelle get her mind off her misery, Rory went to the kitchen, collected one of the cookbooks and brought it back to her. “How about saumon truite au caviar noir, beurre blanc? Which, if my French serves me correctly, is some kind of salmon with black caviar and white butter.”
Michelle grimaced. “Yuck. I hate caviar.”
“Me, too. I only thought of it because Nick hates it, too.”
She managed a smile. “You’re falling for him, Rory.”
“Because I want to feed him something he won’t eat?”
“I know you, and you wouldn’t be so worked up if this dinner didn’t matter.”
“He’s bringing John Marsden with him. The John Marsden. The one with the millions and millions.”
“How much did Nick pay for this meal?”
Rory wished she didn’t have to answer. “A thousand dollars.”
“He wants you, Rory,” Michelle said in the tone of one who knows.
“Michelle,” Rory began in a long-suffering voice.
“I know what to do about tonight. Just take my advice. And thanks, Rory, for being here when I need you.” Michelle stood up and hugged her fiercely. “Now, I’ll let you in on a little secret…”
Nick checked his watch for about the twentieth time. He and John had spent the greater part of the last five hours dawdling over lunch, then heading out to the marina to look at his boat, the Aqua Knot. They’d gone over every square inch of the magnificent craft, but now Nick was anxious to leave. Really anxious. The sun felt hot and itchy on his crown even though the day was cool, cold even, and he was restless and uncomfortable.
“So what do you think?”
Nick pulled his gaze away from the sparkling horizon. His eyes hurt. “Sorry, John. I wasn’t listening.”
“Well, what do you think of the Aqua Knot? I’ve been pointing out her virtues for the past hour and a half and you haven’t said a word.”
John Marsden was in his fifties, had been a friend of Nick’s father, and was something of a mentor for Nick. He’d encouraged Nick’s interest in investments right from the start. When Nick had expressed an interest in moving back to Seattle, John had heartily endorsed the idea. They both agreed it was one of the best decisions Nick had made in a long, long time.
Except right now he felt god-awful. What the hell was the matter with him?
“The Aqua Knot’s fabulous. Beautiful,” he assured John.
Marsden gently tapped his cigar on the boat’s rail. “You’ve got to come fishing with me soon. No more putting me off.”
“When have I ever put you off?”
“I invited you to take a cruise this evening, didn’t I?”
Nick inwardly smiled. “I told you, I’m busy tonight.” Nick had lied about bringing Marsden with him to Rory’s place for dinner. He just liked seeing her get all worked up; he couldn’t help himself. But he’d planned on being alone with her from the first. He wanted her company to himself. In fact, he couldn’t wait to be with her.
Except he felt like he might fall over.
“Have you got any aspirin?” he asked when it looked as if Marsden was about to launch into another round of persuasive arguments about the evening cruise.
“You don’t feel well?” Marsden squinted against the smoke curling from his cigar.
“I’ve been better.”
“Come on below.”
Nick followed Marsden down the narrow steps to his captain’s cabin. He was given two tablets and swallowed them without wa
ter. Outside, hail suddenly pelted the boat’s deck and hull.
“Strange weather.” Marsden shook his head, then eyed Nick thoughtfully. “You do look kind of pale, son. Maybe you should give up this hot date, huh?”
“Not a chance.”
Thirty minutes later Nick was fighting Friday night traffic back to Rory’s apartment. His head throbbed. Hail rained down in intense, sporadic bursts. Traffic crawled. His wipers slapped rhythmically back and forth.
Through a wet blur, he saw the car in front of him suddenly slide sideways, narrowly miss a collision, then feel the full brunt of about five, blasting, angry horns. Nick glanced over. The front right tire was flopping around the wheel well. The driver, a young woman with a pale, frightened face, sat frozen in the car.
Through his review mirror he saw her open her door. Black heels stepped cautiously into shallow rivers of water running down the road.
“Damn,” Nick muttered, pulling his own car over. He glanced down at his cell phone and saw that it was dead. Swearing succinctly, he reminded himself that he needed to buy a new car charger. He braced himself, then threw open his driver’s door and sloshed through standing water to where the woman stood shivering in a sleeveless dress.
Blinking against the now torrential rain, she said, “It’s my tire.”
“Do you have AAA?”
“AAA?” she repeated blankly.
Oh, yeah… this was great. “How about a cell phone?”
She hesitated, “No… I, um…”
Inhaling a deep breath Nick responded, “Where’s your spare? And a jack, we’re gonna need a jack.”
She nodded. “A jack.”
“In the trunk, probably,” he said grimly, coughing. Dimly he realized he must’ve picked up some bug. Tisdale’s probably.
As she tottered to the rear of the vehicle, another squall rushed over them, dumping tons of rain. He wished with all his might that he was with Rory, but instead he was helping a wide-eyed, half-drowned woman.
“When’s he going to be here?” Michelle asked as Rory arranged the asparagus vinaigrette and tropical fruit salad on the table. The dishes to be heated were lined up for the microwave.
“Soon. Any minute.”
“Oh, God. I’ve got to get out of here. I look terrible.” Michelle was in motion instantly, then stopped. She came back to Rory and smiled at her a little sadly. “You made me forget for a little while. Thanks.”
“I should be thanking you.” She waved an arm at the beautiful array of food that now occupied the counter space where the cookbooks had been.
Michelle laughed. “Don’t tell Nick the truth.”
“Never.”
“Have fun,” she said, and dashed out the door into the dark and threatening evening.
Rory glanced at the digital clock on her microwave. Nick was late. Not a lot late, just a little. Traffic, she decided, wrinkling her nose. Seattle was a mess on Friday nights.
She smiled as she imagined his look of surprise when he discovered her “cooking.” The caterer Michelle had recommended was even better than Rory could have hoped for. The salads were an aesthetic delight. Tender green asparagus spears and bright red cherry tomatoes; exotic mangoes and papaya and kiwi mixed with peaches and topped with raspberry sauce. The entrées made her mouth water: one with boned chicken and razor thin apple slices; the other composed of mussels in a savory sauce with flakes of basil and rosemary.
How in God’s name was she going to convince Nick and John Marsden she’d cooked all this? They would never believe her. And even if they did, the almond and Grand Marnier tart for dessert would be the crowning blow.
“Lie,” she told herself sternly. “Lie, lie, lie.”
She walked quickly to her bedroom, examining her cream-colored dress. It was okay, not too much. Briefly she’d toyed with the idea of renting a black maid’s dress with a frilly white apron but decided that was going too far. After all, John Marsden would be here, too.
Brushing strands of hair from her eyes, those that would not remain contained in the bun at the back of her neck no matter how hard she tried, she walked back to the part of her apartment that could be construed as the dining room. Her table was tiny. There was only room for two. But that was okay because she didn’t intend to eat with them.
She was just lighting the candles when she heard Nick’s knock. Pinning on a bright smile she hoped wasn’t too artificial, she threw open the door dramatically. “Good evening, Mr. Shard, Mr. Marsden…” Her voice trailed off. Nick was alone and he was soaked to the bone.
He coughed hard and shook his head. “Marsden couldn’t make it.”
“What happened to you?” Rory demanded. “Get in here before you freeze to death.”
A burst of wind followed Nick inside, extinguishing the candle as Nick ran his hands through his hair. They came out wet. “I’ve been helping a lady change her tire.”
“You’re soaked to the skin.”
“I should’ve called. I ran out of time.” He sighed. “I think I might’ve picked up Tisdale’s bug.”
“Wonderful. Sit down before you fall down. You shouldn’t be in those wet clothes.” She regarded him helplessly, knowing she had nothing for him to put on.
He wiped a hand across his forehead. “I’d really like a shower.”
“Have at it.”
“I should go home.” He glanced around distractedly. “The place looks nice. I’m sorry.”
“Never mind,” Rory said quickly. In the face of Nick’s current condition she felt a bit mean-spirited at attempting to deceive him. “Take a shower and get warm. I’m not going to be responsible for you dying of pneumonia. I’ll take your clothes downstairs and throw them in the dryer.” Luckily, he was in casual clothes, not one of his suits.
With great reluctance Nick allowed her to guide him to the bathroom. He looked as if he was about to pass out. Rory turned on the taps for him. “Need anything else?”
His lips twisted with faint amusement. “I think I can take it from here.”
“If you change your mind, just yell.” She stepped around him and closed the door behind her.
She stood in the hall, listening. She heard the click of the shower door close behind him, and the steady rush of water. She thought of how sick Don Tisdale had been this week. If Nick had caught the same virus, he wasn’t going to be feeling well for quite a while.
She was still standing outside the bathroom door when the taps switched off. She waited, but when Nick didn’t appear, she called anxiously, “Nick?”
The door opened so abruptly that Rory stepped back, shocked. He was naked from the waist up, a towel slung over his narrow hips. A smattering of dark hair lay in damp whorls on his broad chest. She stared in mesmerized fascination at the sight of muscles sliding beneath the smooth, tight skin as he raked his hand through his wet hair. Then her gaze shifted to the towel. It looked as if one false move might send it skating to the floor.
Nick was shivering. “I should go home,” he said again on a deep cough.
“You need to be in bed,” said Rory in a voice she wouldn’t have recognized as her own. Clearing her throat, she pushed open the door to her bedroom. “Crawl in. I’ll see to your clothes.”
“What about dinner?”
“Are you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Go to bed.” Rory smiled. “I’ll eat by myself. And let me tell you, I worked my fingers to the bone, so I hope you feel bad.”
“I do.” His gray eyes looked into hers. Rory’s heart softened.
“Go to bed before you fall over,” she said gruffly.
He frowned, swaying on his feet. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“The couch. Please, Nick.” She practically pushed him into the room.
Luckily her own clothes were picked up and the bed was made. Not that she was a total slob, but she’d been running behind all day.
“You sure?” he asked, sighing heavily.
“You paid a thousand d
ollars for Rory-for-a-Night. I can be a nurse as well as a cook.”
She shut the door firmly behind him and went into the bathroom to pick up his clothes. She then took them to the downstairs laundry, marveling at how strange it felt to execute such a domestic task for him—strange and a little wonderful. But the feel of his cold, water soaked jeans and shirt made her shudder slightly. Checking his pockets before throwing them in the wash, she pulled out his cell phone. “Wouldn’t want that to get any more wet,” she muttered to herself. She hoped he hadn’t complicated the flu with exposure.
Half an hour later she peeked into the bedroom, relieved to find him asleep and sprawled across her queen bed. The sheets were tangled around him, the towel tossed heedlessly on the floor. She could see his broad shoulders and the damp hair that curled at his nape.
He wasn’t sleeping well, she realized, as he turned over and murmured something unintelligible. Tiptoeing to his side, she looked down into his now flushed face. She remembered, suddenly, Nick’s bout with the flu when he was in high school. He’d ended up being hospitalized. She also remembered calling him a wimp whenever he got sick, because he really knew how to overdo it. He, in turn, learned to hate hospitals.
Worried, she let herself out of the room, leaving the door ajar. An hour later she checked on him again. This time he was shivering, and she pulled the comforter up to his shoulders, her fingers grazing his skin. His flesh was on fire.
Rory chewed on her bottom lip. Should she be really worried? Chances were that he was going to be fine in a matter of hours. Still …
She left the bedroom and paced the confines of the living room. Pulling out her laptop she searched the Internet for a label for Nick’s particular bug. Finding nothing but worst case scenarios on mysterious illnesses, she snapped the damn thing closed in frustration and decided to call her sister for a better answer.
“Relax,” Michelle said after Rory had anxiously explained about Nick. “He’s probably fine.”
“I just don’t want anything to happen to him.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to him.” A note of indulgence crept into her voice. “You really do care about him, don’t you?”