by Ginna Gray
Daphne was a beauty, Wyatt would give her that. She was also spoiled, shallow, vain and vapid. When she’d begun to pursue him he had told her in the bluntest terms that he had no interest in marriage, but that he might consider a brief affair. She had reacted with outrage and immediately turned her sights on Eric.
“Hmm. Sounds to me as though you’re not pleased about the match.”
“Not at all. I’m merely grateful I’m not the prospective groom.”
Actually, Wyatt had reservations about the union. It would provide the “in” he needed with Asa. However, he never would have asked that kind of sacrifice of his brother, not even for a chunk of BargainMart.
Fortunately, his brother seemed besotted with Daphne, though for the life of him, Wyatt didn’t know why. She was blond and pretty and socially adept, but so were thousands of other women. Personally, she would have him climbing the walls within a month—if she didn’t bore him to death first. Most women did.
“Have you got something against Daphne Hightower?”
“No. Just against marriage.” Wyatt had never met a woman he could imagine spending a month with, much less the rest of his life. The very thought made him shudder.
“Ahh, like that, is it?”
Wyatt responded with a grunt and she chuckled.
“Your mechanic friend called you Maggie. I assume that’s short for something else,” he prodded after another lengthy silence.
Her dimples winked again. “Aye. My name is Margaret Mary, but that’s too much of a mouthful. Besides, Maggie suits me, I’m told, and I like it.”
He studied her cheerful profile. The women in his social circle would shudder at the thought of being stuck with a common name like Maggie. The females in the country club set had names like Buffy, Blair, Whitney and Sabrina.
“I detect a slight accent to your speech. You weren’t born in this country, were you?”
“Ah, ’tis a keen ear you have, Mr. Sommersby. After all these years with you Yanks I thought I’d lost all trace of my native tongue. And ’tisn’t an accent, ’tis a brogue. Some even call it a lilt. I was born in Ireland. In a wee, lovely place called Innishmore.”
“How old were you when you came here?”
“Fourteen.”
“Did your parents immigrate?”
“No. Ah, here we are.” She turned between two pillars that supported a swinging sign bearing the Rocking H brand. Immediately the truck bumped over a cattle guard, effectively ending the conversation.
The stab of disappointment surprised Wyatt. He wanted to know more, though he had no idea why.
The rattle-trap truck barreled up the gravel lane, trailing a plume of dust like a rooster’s tail. Wyatt gazed out the window at the prime Angus cattle grazing in the pastures on both sides of the drive. By Texas standards, the Rocking H was a small ranch, a mere two thousand or so acres. Unlike Blue Hills—Wyatt’s thoroughbred farm near Brenham and his passion and most prized possession—for Asa this spread was mainly a tax write-off that just happened to have the convenient plus of being a handy weekend getaway. Nevertheless, the small ranch was kept in pristine condition and the animals were top-notch.
The lane forked just before reaching the main house, the left branch forming a circular driveway before the entrance, the right looping around the house and grounds toward the barns and corrals out back.
“You want me to drop you off behind yonder tree and let you walk the rest of the way? It’ll save you the humiliation of arriving in a lowly pickup.”
Wyatt shot her a quelling look, but it merely increased her amusement. Her eyes danced and sparkled like two sapphires in the sun.
“The front will do nicely, thank you.”
“Just thought I’d ask. I wouldn’t want to ruin your image.” She wheeled the old truck into the circle and brought it to a halt in front of the veranda steps. Leaving the engine running, she flashed him that saucy grin. “Have a nice weekend, Mr. Sommersby.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the lift.”
“‘Twas nothing.”
Wyatt climbed from the truck and hefted his bag from the back. She shifted gears and was about to drive away when, driven by an urge he didn’t understand, he put his hand on the open window. “Wait. You never told me your last name.”
She laughed as though he’d said something funny, her blue eyes twinkling. “‘Tisn’t important. But if you must know, ’tis Muldoon. Margaret Mary Muldoon at you service, Your Nibs.”
And with that, she drove away.
He stared after her and shook his head. Cheeky brat. Asa Hightower was a crusty, no-nonsense old tyrant. Wyatt was surprised that a free spirit like Maggie Muldoon had managed to get a job on his domestic staff, even a temporary one. With her sassy mouth and irrepressible spirit he doubted she’d last the weekend.
He found the household in an uproar. A harried housekeeper greeted him at the door with the news that Asa had had to fly back to Houston in his helicopter to deal with an urgent matter that had cropped up, but that he would be back in time for the party.
Wyatt barely bit back a curse. That damned wily old fox. He’d give odds there was no emergency; it was simply another of Asa’s evasive tactics. Wyatt had been trying to pin him down about cutting a deal for months, but he was as slippery as an eel.
Neither Daphne nor Eric, nor Corinne, Daphne’s mother, had arrived yet. Tyson, Daphne’s artist brother, was there, but he was in his studio painting. There was nothing left to do but allow the housekeeper to show him to his room.
The view from the wing in which his room was located gave an unobstructed view of the rear of the main section of the house, the back gardens and the barn and the corrals and the rolling pastures beyond. Wyatt barely noticed. Angry and out of sorts, he slung his suitcase on the bed and began to pace the room and curse. On his second pass by the windows he spotted Maggie’s truck parked beside the corrals.
He halted and stared at the dilapidated vehicle. An instant later Maggie came out of the barn and headed for the kitchen door. Her red hair seemed to take fire in the sunlight. Wyatt watched her, fascinated.
Even at that distance, there was an effervescence about the woman that was tangible. She seemed to exude a bubbly joy at merely being alive. Everything about her was upbeat and bouncy, her twinkling eyes, that constantly smiling mouth, her untamed mane of bright curls. Even her walk was sassy and carefree.
Watching her, it occurred to him that a man would never be bored with a pint-sized pixie like that in his life. Of course, he’d probably never have a calm day, either.
Spotting an elderly gardener working in the rose garden that separated the backyard and pool area from the corrals, she yelled something and broke into a run.
The old man straightened, and his weathered face lit up. He dropped his hoe and held out his arms, and when she catapulted herself against his chest he patted her back fondly. Within seconds what appeared to be the entire kitchen staff came pouring out the back door to surround her. Maggie immediately bestowed hugs and kisses on them all.
Wyatt frowned, inexplicably irked by her open-handed show of affection. Hell, didn’t the woman even know the meaning of the word restraint?
Making an aggravated sound, he spun away from the window and resumed his pacing. He made several restless circuits of the room but he felt more out of sorts by the second. Finally, he spat out a curse and headed for the door.
On the first floor he found the household staff scurrying around like ants, preparing for the party that was to take place in a few hours. The few people he encountered were so distracted they barely noticed him.
Outside the swinging double doors that led into the kitchen, he paused and listened. Over the hum of voices and clatter of pans he heard Maggie’s smoky laugh. Firming his mouth, he pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The five women and two men in the kitchen looked around at his entrance, stricken expressions on their faces—all, that was, except Maggie.
She sat perched o
n one of the kitchen counters, hands braced on either side of her hips, idly swinging her legs, much as she had been doing when he’d first seen her.
She shot him a cheeky grin. “Hi, Mr. Sommersby. What’re you doing here? You lost or something?”
“No, I am not lost. My tuxedo needs pressing. Everyone I’ve run into seems to be busy.”
A plump woman in a cook’s apron stepped forward, wringing her hands. “Oh, ’tis sorry I am, Mr. Sommersby. I’ll find someone and send them up right away.”
“Miss Muldoon doesn’t appear to be overworked.” Wyatt’s gaze swung to Maggie. “Why don’t you come get the tux and press it? While you’re there, you can also unpack my things.”
The cook’s jaw dropped. “Oh, but Mr. Sommersby—”
“That’s all right, Mrs. O’Leary.”
“But—”
Maggie hopped down from the counter and put her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Really. I don’t mind.” She looked at Wyatt and grinned. “I’ll be right there.”
“Fine.”
Wyatt knew that he was being insufferable and overbearing, but he wasn’t sure why. Never in his life had he spoken to anyone on his own or anyone else’s household staff in that way.
But what the hell. After the lousy day he’d had, who could blame him? Anyway, she ought be happy it was him and not Asa who had caught her loafing, otherwise she’d be out on her ear.
With a nod to the other members of the domestic staff, he turned on his heel and stalked out.
Mrs. O’Leary stared after him, her eyes round as saucers. The others were struck equally dumb.
When the doors finally stilled the plump cook snapped her gaping mouth shut, planted her fists on her ample hips and turned a disapproving look on Maggie. “Och, shame on you, Maggie Muldoon, you naughty girl, you. Imagine how that poor man is going to feel when he finds out that you’re Mr. Asa’s granddaughter.”
Chapter Two
Shrugging, Maggie plucked a banana from the bowl in the middle of the table and began to peel it. “Embarrassed, probably. But that’s what happens when you jump to conclusions.”
“Margaret Mary Muldoon, ’tis a naughty girl you are. The man is a guest in your grandfather’s home. You should have explained that he’d made a mistake.”
“Before he made a fool of himself, you mean?” Maggie’s grin flashed and her dimples dug deep. “Mrs. O’Leary, darlin’, if Mr. Sommersby is such a snob as to judge someone by externals, that’s his problem, not mine.”
She was not about to admit that at least part of the reason she was bent on embarrassing Wyatt Sommersby was that she didn’t care for her reaction to him. From the instant he had climbed into her truck her skin had felt all prickly and her breathing had been constricted, as though she had a weight on her chest.
“Externals? What does that mea— Oh, dear. Don’t be tellin’ me he saw that old wreck of a truck you drive? Saints preserve us! No wonder the poor man thought you were a maid.”
“He not only saw it, I gave him a ride in it. He had a bit of mechanical trouble and had to leave his car with Lester.”
Pegeen O’Leary put her hand over her heart and moaned. Chuckling, Maggie hugged her. “Now, darlin’, it’ll all straighten itself out. There’s no need to get in a dither.”
“Humph. All the same, I’ve a mind to tell your grandfather about this little shenanigan. He’ll be none too happy about it, I’m thinkin’.”
Maggie wasn’t in the least worried. For one thing, Asa didn’t scare her. She had long ago discovered that beneath his bark and bluster, her grandfather was an old softy. So was Pegeen O’Leary. The motherly woman would sooner cut out her tongue than cause Maggie a moment’s discomfort.
Twelve years ago, when Asa had brought her into this household, Maggie had been terrified. She had felt as though she’d been dropped, all alone, into an alien world. The people, the way they spoke, their ways, the clothes they wore, the magnificent mansion in Houston, this grand country house, had all been strange to her.
She had viewed this new family she’d been thrust into with the healthy wariness and suspicion of a young wild animal. Her instinct had been to avoid them, to seek the solitude and freedom of the outdoors, as she had done most of her life in Ireland.
The morning after her arrival, while trying to sneak out through the kitchen, she’d heard Mrs. O’Leary talking to her helpers. The cook had left her native land over forty years ago, but her faint Irish brogue had been music to Maggie’s ears, one blessedly familiar thing in an unfamiliar world, and she had gravitated naturally toward the plump woman.
Mrs. O’Leary had immediately taken Maggie under her wing. Growing up, she had spent most of her spare time in the kitchen chattering away with the help.
Asa was a fair man. He’d seen to it that Maggie had the same advantages as Daphne; the best schools, the best clothes, dancing lessons, art lessons, piano and voice lessons and whatever else young ladies of good families required. As a result, Maggie could hold her own in any social setting.
Yet, she had always been more comfortable with the staff. She still was, much to Daphne and Corinne’s dismay.
Maggie popped the last bite of banana into her mouth and lobbed the peel across the room toward the garbage can. “Go ahead, if that’s what you want to do. Personally, I don’t see why you’re so upset. Wyatt Sommersby will find out who I am soon enough.”
Mrs. O’Leary rolled her eyes heavenward and crossed herself. “Saints preserve us, that’s what I’m worried about.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Maggie knocked on Wyatt’s door. He snatched it open at once. “You certainly took your time.”
She shrugged and sauntered past him with her hands in her pockets. Her expression remained blasé, but her fingers curled into fists and prickles rippled over her skin when she caught his scent. “Patience is a virtue, you know. You ought to try cultivatin’ it sometime, Your Nibs. ‘Tis good for the character they say.”
Wyatt ground his teeth. “So is a little humbleness. And would you stop calling me that ridiculous name?”
“What? Your Nibs? ‘Tisn’t so ridiculous. It’s what we called all the high muckity-mucks back in Ireland.”
“You’re not in Ireland, now.”
“Aye, an’ that’s the truth, more’s the pity,” she said over her shoulder, making for the suitcase on the bed.
“It won’t take me but a minute to put your things away, Mr. Sommersby. Then I’ll take your tux and be gettin’ out of your way.” She unsnapped the locks on the monogrammed case and spread it wide. Scooping up shirts, handkerchiefs and socks, she headed for the dresser and dumped the items into a drawer. “You see, that wasn’t so difficult, was it? I’m sure if you tried you could do it yourself.”
“No doubt, I could,” he replied tightly. “But since that’s what you’re getting paid for, I don’t see why I should.”
She shrugged and strolled back to the open case. Picking up a pair of underwear, she held it between two fingers, turning it this way and that. They were black silk bikini briefs. “Mmm. Nice. I’ll bet the ladies love these.”
To Wyatt’s consternation, he felt himself blushing. He was an experienced man of the world, a man of considerable clout and sophistication. Yet he couldn’t remember anyone discomfiting him they way this scrap of a woman did.
He scowled. “I sincerely hope that you don’t plan to make domestic work your life’s career.”
“Oh? And why is that?” She pawed curiously through the rest of his things and lifted his maroon silk robe from the case. Holding it up by the shoulders, she gave it a thorough inspection, then her gaze went from the garment to him, and back. A slow, wicked grin punched her dimples deep.
“Because,” Wyatt snapped, snatching the robe from her hands. “Your manner leaves a lot to be desired.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. What should I do? Keep my mouth shut and my head down? Scurry about the room like a ghost so you can pretend I’m not here?�
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“No, of course n—”
“Oh! I know. How about this?” Holding out an imaginary skirt, she bowed her head and bobbed a curtsy.
Wyatt’s jaws clenched. “A simple attitude adjustment would be sufficient,” he growled. “I merely meant that you need to control that ebullient nature of yours a bit. Be less impulsive. Less...conspicuous. And perhaps make more of an effort.”
“Ah, now, the less conspicuous part would be difficult. With my red hair an’ all, I stick out like a neon sign in church.”
“I mean your manner should be more circumspect. And, by the way, you can count yourself lucky that I was the one who walked into the kitchen and found you loafing. Asa probably would have bellowed the house down.”
“Mmm. You’re right about that. Ah, well. I’m new at this job. I guess I’ll just have to work on my deportment.”
Her mouth twitched with what looked suspiciously like laughter. Wyatt frowned, and she ducked her head and scurried back to the dresser with an armload of clothes.
He ground his teeth. The little minx wasn’t in the least repentant. She was merely stringing him along. And laughing.
“Do you find something amusing?”
“Oh, aye,” she said cheerfully, shooting him a full-fledged grin over her shoulder.
He waited several seconds. “Would you care to share it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
The pleasant but implacable statement brought Wyatt up short. For several moments he stared at her, speechless. He had not expected her to refuse. As a rule, whenever he asked a question, people gave an answer.
He snapped his mouth shut and went to stand by the window. He pretended an interest in what was going on below, but every few seconds his gaze strayed over his shoulder to Maggie. She darted back and forth between the bed and dresser with his things, humming off key and still smiling to herself as though she had a delicious secret. The wild mane of red curls that hung past her shoulders bounced with every step.