So would his brothers, but for an entirely different reason.
Clearing his throat to catch her attention, Hank handed her the balloons when she looked up.
Fiona could tell she amused him, and why not? Despite the soft pattern of speech and manners, he was undoubtedly accustomed to the company of sophisticated women. A club she didn’t belong to.
Fiona forced her mind back on business. “I’ve got another wedding to cater next week,” she began, feeling her way into the subject.
“You must be doing well.” Effortlessly, he reached for another cluster of decorations and took the streamers down.
“Better than I used to,” she allowed. Fiona nibbled on her lower lip. “Would you be interested in doing this again?”
Hank got down, then moved the step stool to a new location. “If you’re in a bind.”
It wasn’t a bind exactly. She craned her neck, looking up. “With Alex out of commission, I’d have to hire another temporary waiter. Since you worked out so well…” Maybe that wasn’t worded correctly. “I mean, you seem to have a flair for this,” she continued quickly, “and if it doesn’t cut into your job with the florist—”
Hank’s eyebrows drew together as he tried to follow. “My job with the florist?”
“Yes, delivering flowers.”
Hank came down the step stool slowly, his eyes on hers. Where had she come up with that notion? “I don’t deliver flowers.”
Fiona was completely lost. Why was he looking at her as if she was spouting gibberish? “But you delivered mine—”
“Yes, because I wanted to bring them in person.” Instinctively, Hank took her hand in his to keep her in place. She had the look of a deer about to bolt out of the clearing and into the forest.
“I don’t under—”
And then it hit him. Fiona didn’t know who he was. “I’m Hank Cutler. The wayward fax,” he added, hoping to jar her memory when she continued staring at him mutely.
Embarrassment washed over Fiona, a tidal wave this time, threatening to drown her. He had to think she was a certifiable cretin. “Oh, no, I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Hank grinned in response. It was the kind of grin that was pure boyish and all man at the same time. She felt her stomach muscles tightening even as she stood there wishing that the ground would open up and put an end to her misery.
“Not so terrible,” he assured her, his voice soft, almost lazy, as it left his mouth. “I’ve been mistaken for worse things than a deliveryman. Oh, by the way, I believe this is yours.”
Hank began emptying his pocket of all the bills that had been pressed on him during the reception. It turned out to be rather a large wad.
She hadn’t realized he’d collected that much. “Those are tips,” she told him. “Traditionally, they belong to the waiter.”
Honesty was a very sexy quality in the right woman, Hank thought. She was beginning to intrigue him on a completely different level.
“But I’m not a waiter,” he reminded her. “Since you’re the one who was doing the catering, I figure any resulting gratuities belong to you.” When she still didn’t reach for the money, Hank took her hand and pressed the bills into her palm. His eyes on hers, he closed her fingers around the wad.
The exchange of money had never felt quite so sexy to her before.
Fiona blinked. Her brain kept throbbing “idiot” over and over again like a flashing neon sign. She hadn’t even asked his full name, just pressed him into service. Anyone with half a brain would have asked for that information. If she had, then she would have known who he was and she wouldn’t have made such a fool of herself.
Fiona had to know. “Why did you come over?”
He cocked his head, as if trying to divine what she was getting at. “You drove me, remember?”
Fiona shook her head. “No, I mean to my house. Why did you come?” Why would someone who was so handsome take the time to come looking for a woman?
Hank shrugged. He was unaccustomed to explaining his actions. “You wouldn’t let me take you out to dinner and I wanted to find some way to say thanks. My sister likes carnations, so I thought maybe I should send some. But that seemed pretty impersonal, so I brought them instead.” He grinned again. “You did the rest.”
Yes, Fiona certainly did. Self-conscious, she shifted beneath Hank’s gaze. “You could have told me who you were.”
“I said my name was Hank,” he noted.
“It says Henry on the résumé,” she protested.
“Henry’s more formal.” He smiled into her eyes. “We weren’t being formal.”
There was something in her eyes—distress, Hank thought—that reached out to him. Slowly, he slid the tips of his fingers along her cheek, then watched, fascinated, as her pupils seemed to grow larger.
“And you say ‘please’ with more heart and conviction than anyone I’ve ever met.” With a half shrug, he slid his hands into his back pockets. “Besides, this was rather fun.”
Bridgette always griped that it was nothing but hard work. And Alex frequently complained that there was too much to do. Fiona had thought that there was something wrong with her for feeling that all this was an enjoyable madness. That Hank voiced a similar sentiment caught her off guard.
“It was?”
“Yeah. I don’t do this for a living,” he reminded her. “It’s always fun when it doesn’t count.”
Was that his philosophy when it came to relationships and women, as well?
Of course it was, Fiona thought, annoyed with herself for even wondering. He wasn’t married, was he? Women flocked to him like the last glass of water at an oasis in the Sahara, didn’t they? Fun was probably all that counted with someone like Hank Cutler and she couldn’t fault him in the least.
Needing something to do with her hands, Fiona began popping the balloons so they could be disposed of. “Still, you probably think I’m an idiot.”
She was doing that with a vengeance, Hank thought, watching her jab the pin into one balloon after another. “No, I think you’re a very driven, very energetic lady.” His eyes became positively wicked as he added, “And I still think that outfit would look better with fishnet stockings.”
Hank had the pleasure of watching a light pink hue climb up along the cheek he’d just brushed his fingers against. He hadn’t thought women blushed anymore. And he certainly hadn’t thought that seeing a woman blush would affect him in any manner.
Hank guessed he was wrong on both counts.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Fiona murmured. Finished, she went to pick up her purse from where she had left it. Fiona counted out sixty dollars and held it out to Hank.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Your salary. You earned it.” When he made no move to take it, she added, “We agreed on sixty.”
“I didn’t agree.” He wasn’t about to take her money. “Keep it. Consider it a favor.”
She considered that. And the consequences. “That would make me in your debt.”
They seemed to think the same. Hank’s laugh was low, surrounding her like a slow-moving fog coming in from the sea to hug the coast.
“I guess it would.”
Fiona raised her chin. “I don’t like being in debt.”
They really did think alike about some things. The thought pleased Hank. He inclined his head. “We’ll work something out. There is something you can do for me right now, though.”
Fiona could have sworn her heart stopped beating for a split second. “What?”
Hank had the urge to kiss her then, but the common sense to know that the timing was clearly off. “Drive me back to my car.”
The breath returned to Fiona’s lungs. “Oh. Right. Sure.” For a second she had thought he was going to kiss her. She was being stupid again, Fiona upbraided herself. “Let’s go.”
Struggling with something that felt very much like disappointment, Fiona gestured toward her van.
She was unusually quiet as she drov
e them back to her house, Hank thought. Not that he knew what her usual habit was, but he surmised from the small peek he’d had of her world before she realized who he was, that Fiona didn’t remain quiet for very long no matter what was going on. He rather liked the sound of her voice.
“How long have you been doing this?”
Fiona had been so lost in thought, the question startled her. “Doing what?”
“Catering.”
“Oh.” She did a quick calculation. “About four years.” Then, because he seemed interested, she added, “It started with a few parties for friends who hated to cook and then mushroomed to this when people kept asking my friends for their recipes.”
“Is business good?” he asked.
Because it was ingrained in her from an early age that nothing she ever did was good enough, Fiona shrugged. “Yes, for now,” she qualified. She’d been in it long enough to know that catering had its ups and downs.
“Do you advertise?”
She couldn’t really call it advertising. “In the phone book.” It was a tiny ad, but it was an ad. “Word of mouth takes care of me,” she added when she saw the dubious look on his face.
Hank was the first to agree that word of mouth was a powerful tool, but in this day and age, it was not enough. Not if she wanted to be a success, and he had a strong hunch that she did. “An ad campaign would go a long way in taking better care of you.”
“That takes money.”
Hank began to see how he could really pay her back. “Most of the time.”
The look he gave her as he said it curled her toes so tightly, Fiona could feel the tips of her hair turning into springs.
4
Fiona pulled up the hand brake as she parked the van in her driveway. Advertising was always an expensive proposition. She turned to look at him. Just what was it that Hank was suggesting?
“I don’t think I understand.”
There was a tiny furrow between her eyebrows. Hank resisted the temptation of smoothing it with his fingertip just to see if he could.
“Why don’t we go grab a cup of coffee somewhere and I’ll tell you what I had in mind?” he proposed amiably.
He had a feeling that she might appreciate being served for a change instead of doing the serving. Besides, he rather liked the idea of being alone with her. There was something about her, about the nervous energy that seemed to surround her, that intrigued him.
The moment the thought of the two of them sitting opposite each other in a one-on-one situation registered, Fiona ceased being the owner of a catering business and reverted to being the gangly daughter in the family portrait. Even though she hated the self-image, hated the fact that she labored under its influence, she couldn’t break the hold it had on her.
Fiona shrugged, looking past his head into the darkness. Though she tried to ignore it, she could feel her pulse jumping. Idiot. “I’m really rather tired tonight.”
She’d probably been up early this morning, preparing everything for the reception, Hank thought. He’d already seen how thorough she was. He didn’t blame her for being exhausted. Disappointed, Hank withdrew the invitation.
“Sure. I understand.” He shifted beneath the seat belt, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Here.” Opening the wallet, he removed a business card and held it out to her. “Why don’t you take this and give me a call when you’re ready to discuss the possibilities?”
Possibilities. The possibilities that were occurring to Fiona right now had nothing to do with dressing a guinea hen and everything to do with slowly undressing the man sitting in her passenger seat.
Surprised, Fiona caught herself. This was all Bridgette’s fault. Her sister was definitely having a very bad effect on her.
“Um, there’s your car.” She gestured toward it needlessly. “And thanks again.”
With effort, she purposely kept her voice cheerful and breezy as she got out of the van. Normally she’d unpack what was in it, no matter how tired she was. But she decided that the things could wait until after Hank had left She didn’t want him volunteering to help her. The sooner he was gone, the faster her head would clear.
But he didn’t seem to be inclined to leave, despite her broad hint. Having gotten out on his side, Hank was standing in front of her house, obviously waiting for her. Partially bathed in shadow, Hank Cutler made an incredibly romantic figure. Fiona’s heart fluttered a little just to look at him.
Searching for the key that fit the front door, she dropped the ring on the ground. Hank folded his lanky form with amazing ease as he bent for the keys, reaching them before she could. They bumped heads as he was on the way up and she on the way down. It jarred her, but he was still fast enough to steady her.
This was the second time he’d held her tonight, she thought. She could only wish that one of those times hadn’t been by accident.
“Sorry,” he apologized, releasing her. “I believe these are yours.” He handed her the key ring.
“Thanks.” Nervous, she rubbed her forehead where they’d made contact. “Is…is anything wrong?”
His eyes narrowed as he appeared to study her. “I don’t think so.”
There was no polite way to phrase this. “Then why aren’t you leaving?”
His grin wound into her like a very sharp, very fast corkscrew. “Because you have my clothes.”
Fiona closed her eyes. Of course she did. For a second she’d thought he was trying to get himself invited in. Stupid. She couldn’t be behaving more like a village idiot than if she’d rehearsed the part for an entire week. “I forgot.”
“I had a hunch.” Hank watched her fumble with her keys, still trying to find the one that opened her front door. “This is just a shot in the dark, but am I making you nervous?”
“No, of course not.”
Fiona pressed her lips together. She’d never been able to lie very well. In a way, it was an asset. People sensed that about her and knew they were dealing with someone they could believe. Someone honest Right now, though, she wished she could lie like a con artist. Or at least feel as confident as one.
“Well,” Fiona finally relented, holding her thumb and forefinger apart and forming a tiny space, “maybe just a little.”
Fascinated, Hank leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb as she continued to look at keys and discard them on the ring. Just how many keys did this woman have?
“Why?” She’d aroused his curiosity. “I’m harmless enough.”
Finding the right key, Fiona inserted it into the lock and turned the doorknob quickly. She flipped the lights on as she entered—every light between the doorway and the hall closet. There was something far too sensual about him as it was; she didn’t need the darkness abetting him.
Fiona spoke before she thought. “Not with a smile like that you’re not.”
The answer tickled him. “Why, Fiona, I do believe you’re flirting with me.”
Horrified, her eyes widened in surprise at her own blunder.
“No, I’m not I mean—” Fiona stopped herself. She knew that the more she talked, the worse this was going to get Yanking the hanger out of the closet, she thrust it at him. “Here are your clothes.”
He glanced at them. “Yup, they’re mine, all right.” He accepted the hanger, his eyes sweeping over her so slowly she could have sworn she was being touched. “It’ll take me just a minute to change. You feel free to stay in that. I kinda like it on you.” He closed the bathroom door behind him.
Fiona silently swore at herself. She’d forgotten she was still wearing the uniform. But if she ran upstairs to change now, he might take that as an indication that she wanted him to stay. The old “slipping into something comfortable” invitation.
He might take her remaining in the uniform the same way, she realized, torn. Damned if she did, damned if she didn’t.
Story of her life, Fiona thought in mounting agitation. A sea of decisions to make and she could never be sure which one was the right one. Just which was the
safe one.
In this case, neither was the safe one.
Before she could make up her mind, the door to the bathroom opened again. She looked at him in surprise. That had been awfully fast.
He read her expression correctly. “I was ten before we had a second bathroom put in. With all those people in the house wanting to use the facilities, you either learn how to get dressed fast or develop a very tough skin about being unceremoniously embarrassed.”
“So you learned how to dress fast.”
“Both, actually,” he corrected. He handed Fiona the tuxedo, then rotated his shoulders, a panther stretching as he stepped out of sleep. “There, that’s better.” He eyed the tuxedo. “My dad used to call that a monkey suit. I’m beginning to understand what he meant.”
He was standing much too close to her, she realized. Trying hard not to trip over herself, Fiona stepped toward the closet and hung up the tuxedo. She searched for something neutral to say. “Your dad, he’s still in Montana?”
Nostalgia raised its head the way it did whenever he thought of his family and a place that would always be home to him no matter where he traveled and how old he became.
Following her into the hall, Hank laughed softly at her question. She looked at him quizzically.
“Yes, he’s still in Montana. Couldn’t get him out of there with anything short of dynamite. Maybe not even then. I told Dad I wanted the family to come down as soon as I got settled in. You know, look around, see what it was like here. Have a real reunion. But he said since there was only one of me, I could bring my tail up there instead of making everybody come down to see me.”
“Everybody?” Fiona echoed, interested despite her best efforts to keep this impersonal. His eyes seemed to shine when he spoke about his family. How did that feel? To have the good memories outweigh the bad? “How many people in an ‘everybody’?”
He hooked his thumbs on the belt loops of his jeans and answered without skipping a beat. “Seven, but they’re kind of scattered around now.” He appeared to reconsider that. “Well, not Kent and my folks, of course, they’re still living on the Shady Lady. But Quint, Will and Morgan all struck out on their own as soon as they could leave the ranch, moving so fast you could see the smoke coming from their feet for miles.”
Fiona And The Sexy Stranger Page 5