by Linda Howard
Too bad that same part made him wonder if he’d really be able to share a house with Carlin for months without trying to get her into bed with him, or going crazy because he knew damn well he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Except why shouldn’t he? As to whether or not he could … that was yet to be determined.
All he knew for sure was that he wanted to get his hands on her worse than he’d ever wanted any other woman, and that she was beyond a doubt going to be a lot of trouble either way, in bed with him or not.
He took a long sip of the cooling coffee. Damn it, even her coffee was better than his.
Chapter Ten
THE MEN, ALL seven of them, dug into the huge roast and devoured it. There were potatoes and green beans, too, and like the roast those were all gone. Tonight’s bread had been simple—frozen rolls. Maybe it was cheating, and maybe they weren’t as good as Kat’s homemade rolls, but they were obviously okay with the men because not one of them whined about the rolls while they were grabbing them from the basket.
And using the time she’d saved by using the Crock-pot and frozen bread, Carlin had rummaged through the pantry and come up with the ingredients for a dessert recipe she’d found in one of the cookbooks. The page itself was clean, uncreased, so this was probably not one of Libby’s recipes: Never Fail White Cake. The recipe seemed to be tailor-made for her.
She didn’t eat at the table with the guys. Instead she made herself a small plate and ate in the kitchen. A couple of the men—Zeke included—had asked her to join them, but she’d declined. She was more comfortable in the kitchen, by herself, and besides, while the table was long enough to seat a dozen there were only nine chairs there. She would’ve had a choice of sitting next to Zeke or Darby, and she really wasn’t in the mood to be too close to either. Zeke made her jumpy. Darby had wandering eyes.
Sitting alone in the kitchen was just more peaceful.
But when it came time to serve dessert, she proudly carried the white cake into the dining room. It was a layer cake, homemade top to bottom. And it was pretty. The white frosting was fluffy and sweet; she hadn’t been able to taste the cake, but she’d sneaked a bit of the frosting onto the tip of her finger and tested it. Yum. She’d never thought herself much of a cook, but the training at Kat’s had been superb, and the men she’d been feeding seemed to like her cooking. She could do this, and do it well.
The men oohed and ahhed when she placed the cake on the table. While they admired her work, she hurried back into the kitchen for dessert plates, coffee cups, and clean forks. A pot of coffee—decaf, since she didn’t want to be accused of robbing any of the men of their sleep—was ready.
Walt took a clean knife and began to cut the cake while Carlin poured coffee for everyone who wanted it. Plates were filled with big slices of cake and passed around, until everyone, including her, had one. It was Walt who insisted that she sit with them for dessert, and because it would be rude to refuse—and because she wanted to watch them enjoy the cake—she agreed. She took the chair next to Zeke because he seemed to be the lesser of two evils. Maybe he was annoying, but he didn’t stare at her unimpressive cleavage, and not once had he winked at her. She probably would have fallen out of her chair if he had.
Almost simultaneously, all the men cut into their wedges of cake. Carlin watched them before doing the same.
One by one, expressions of delight turned to confusion and then dismay. The men all chewed, and chewed, and chewed. And chewed.
Carlin put a piece of cake into her own mouth. The taste on her tongue was great. What was their problem? And then she chewed. Once.
The cake had the consistency of a sponge. Not just any sponge, but an old, tough sponge. “Never Fail,” my ass! She glanced around the table in horror. To a man, the guys who’d wolfed down the meal and began eating their dessert with relish wore expressions of surprise and dismay. Six of them continued to chew. Only Darby grabbed a paper napkin and spit the cake into it. He opened his mouth to say something—she could only imagine what—but Zeke interrupted him.
“You know, I’m just stuffed. I can’t possibly finish this cake.”
“Yeah,” Walt said. “It’s … good, really, but I just can’t …”
Eli and Bo both swallowed long swigs of decaf behind an inedible chunk of cake before they nodded their heads in agreement.
Patrick and Spencer each scraped off a forkful of icing and downed it with relish.
Darby looked at the men around him and shook his head. “If it was anybody else but a pretty girl who made this cake you all would be raising the roof.”
“Darby,” Zeke said simply, and in a low, almost threatening voice.
“It’s okay,” Carlin said. All eyes turned to her. “I’m so sorry. This cake sucks.”
“It’s not that bad,” Spencer said. “It’s just a little …”
“Rubbery,” one cowboy supplied when Spencer faltered.
“Chewy,” another chimed in.
“Tough as old saddle leather.” Everyone laughed at that one.
Carlin was embarrassed, and angry that she’d wasted so much time on the blasted cake, but at the same time … With one notable exception, the men had all been concerned about hurting her feelings. Six out of seven had swallowed a piece of that awful cake, and if she hadn’t acknowledged its suckiness, they wouldn’t have said anything.
It was very possible that she found herself surrounded by gentlemen, of a sort. Rough and tumble, yes, but still … gentlemen.
If she’d learned nothing else in the past few months, she’d learned how to roll with the punches. This was a culinary setback, but it wasn’t a disaster.
“For your information,” she said as she lifted some icing onto the tines of her fork, “the name of this luscious dessert is Never Fail White Cake.”
They laughed at that, as she’d known they would. “Feel free to pick off the icing, if it suits you. It’s actually pretty good. And believe me, the next time I make this cake it will be better.”
The laughter died. A couple of them stared at her. It was Spencer who said, kindly, “There doesn’t have to be a next time, Miss Carly. I think Libby used those cake mixes. She just added eggs and water and viola, she ended up with a cake that was pretty darn good.”
Carlin bit her lip to keep from laughing. Viola? Surely he meant to say voilà, but she wouldn’t embarrass Spencer by correcting him at the table. After all, he’d gone out of his way not to embarrass her. Maybe sometime when they were alone she’d use the word correctly and maybe, just maybe, he’d take the hint. “We’ll see,” she said. “I’d hate to let some flour and shortening and eggs get the best of me. I just need to figure out what I did wrong.”
“The brownies you made last night were good,” Walt said.
“And you know,” Eli added, “you can always buy some pies from Kat.” He looked at Zeke. “Before you came to work here, those pies were the only decent food we’d had for …”
“Hey!” Spencer interrupted. “I did the best I could. I didn’t see your sorry ass in the kitchen trying to help out.” The words might’ve been harsh, but there was no real animosity there. Then he looked at Carlin and his face turned red. Sheepishly he said, “Pardon my French.”
It struck her that these men had formed a family, of sorts. From what Zeke had said earlier, Libby had been a big part of that family. Carlin didn’t think she’d ever be accepted that way, not into the heart and soul of this place. Maybe if she stayed for years instead of months, but … she was temporary; welcomed and needed, at the moment, but temporary.
She stood and started gathering dirty dishes. “Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I called Kat this afternoon and ordered a couple of pies for tomorrow night.”
The announcement was followed by several wide grins and at least two hoots.
As Carlin walked into the kitchen she added, “But I will make that Never Fail White Cake again, and it will turn out the way it’s supposed to.” By golly, by the time she left this ranch she and he
r Never Fail White Cake would be as famous as the perfect Libby. After months of doing her best to be invisible, she was determined to make her mark.
ZEKE LOCKED UP after Walt, who’d been the last to leave since they’d spent some time in the office discussing the next day’s chores. He shook his head at the two new locks Carlin had had installed that afternoon. One replaced his apparently unacceptable doorknob and lock, and the other was a heavy-duty deadbolt, set up high—he supposed so no one would be able to reach it from a broken window. The front door had gotten the same treatment.
He started to grumble as he headed for the kitchen, but stopped when he noted that the piles of laundry were significantly smaller, and that his boots and shoes had been lined up neatly and, he was pretty sure, cleaned.
Carlin had her back to him as she unloaded the dishwasher. Another load would need to be run before she called it a day, and he was happy to leave that job to her capable—if paranoid—hands.
“This isn’t exactly New York City, you know,” he said, sounding more than a little grumpy.
“My bad. And here I was all set on going to a Broadway show on my half-day off,” she responded calmly, without turning to look at him. “I guess I’ll just have to use my opera glasses to spy on cows.”
Zeke started to grin, caught himself, and growled, just a little. He didn’t want or need to be entertained by her, but damn, it was hard to resist. The thing was, unless he was wrong about her, she wanted him to get grumpy at her verbal jabs. “They don’t dance much, and they never sing. I hope you didn’t have your heart set on a musical.”
Instead of giving as good as she got, as usual, she laughed. It was a nice laugh.
He needed to change the subject. Standing in the kitchen and sparring with Carlin was just too damn much fun. “The locks are a little much, in my opinion, but I suppose if it makes you feel better …”
“It does. I put a set of keys on your bedroom dresser,” she added, “and a spare set is hanging on a hook in your office. I have keys of my own, of course, but when I leave I’ll hand them over.”
She finally turned to face him. A few strands of hair were falling from her once-neat ponytail, and her face was flushed. There were a number of stains on her oversized apron. And damn, she was beautiful—not because of the food, not even because of her face, but because of the fire he could see in her spirit.
“You know,” she continued, a definite hint of reprimand in her voice, “you really should tell Spencer that the proper word is ‘voilà,’ not ‘viola.’ He’s going to embarrass himself one day.”
Zeke grinned. “I tried to tell him once. He said in his family they pronounce it ‘viola.’ As far as he’s concerned, that’s the final answer.”
He leaned against the cabinets and watched her move back and forth, putting the dishes away, trying to think what he should do now. He had time to catch a little television, if anything worthwhile was on, but he’d had so little down time since Libby left that he didn’t know what came on, or when. Or, hell, he could just go to bed early. Either way, he really needed to get out of the way and leave Carlin to finish up in the kitchen. But, damn, he liked watching her. She didn’t seem so thorny tonight. Maybe, even though she’d just been here a day and a half, she was already settling in, feeling at home.
She straightened, gave him what he could only classify as a modified death stare. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning, then.” It was a dismissal. A nice one, he’d give her that—she hadn’t asked him what the hell he was doing in her kitchen or ordered him to get out—but it was a dismissal nonetheless.
“We’ll head to town after breakfast,” he said. If she could be all business, so could he—for now. The bank opened at nine and so did the library, but she’d already know that.
She stuck with the all-business theme. “I wasn’t sure how long the trip would take, so I planned sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch. If I’m back in time to put things together, fine. If not, I figure the guys can fend for themselves.”
“They can.” He needed to say good night and leave, but instead he settled in, still watching. He liked watching her, so why should he leave? He wasn’t in the way. He wasn’t harassing her. He wasn’t coming on to her. He was just watching—and she knew he was watching. He could tell by the tension that was slowly building in her body. She ignored him and continued to work, but some of the ease he’d noted earlier was gone, and he both hated that he’d been the cause of it and was gratified that she wasn’t oblivious to him. But maybe now was the time for some strategy.
“Do you mind if I grab a cup of decaf?” There was enough left in the pot for a cup, or two. “I don’t want to get in your way, but you do make good coffee, and I hate for it to go to waste.”
It wasn’t his imagination that she relaxed a bit, thinking he was hanging around for decaf, not her.
“Of course.” She grabbed a mug, filled it. Zeke moved up behind her and reached around to take the mug from her hand. For the moment they were close, so close that he could dip his head a little and smell her hair, which he did, and lean in and touch the length of her body with his, which he didn’t do.
The last thing she needed was to think she had another stalker, though she might classify him more as a predatory employer.
“You’re doing good,” he said, keeping his voice low because they were so close. “With the exception of the cake, that is.” He grinned, and Carlin gave in to a smile herself.
“I need to ask Kat what I might’ve done wrong,” she said, moving around him and resuming her chores. She grabbed a broom and started vigorously sweeping. He didn’t think it was an accident that she now held a makeshift weapon, or that there was a broom between them.
She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told him the C on her uniform stood for Cautious.
He lifted the coffee cup in a small salute, and headed for the door. “See you in the morning.”
“Yeah,” she said, sweeping hard. “Good night.”
Zeke didn’t look back, but he thought, as he headed for the den and the television he might stare at for a while, that he could get accustomed to having Carlin Hunt in the house.
CARLIN FINISHED UP in the kitchen and headed for her rooms. A shower and bed were the next items on her agenda. If she turned on the television and sat down in front of it, she’d be out like a light in no time.
Behind closed doors she stripped off her clothes, threw them into her dirty clothes hamper, and headed for the bathroom. She was exhausted; curiously content, but exhausted. Feeding Zeke and the hands and catching up on what appeared to be months of neglected housework and laundry had her hopping, but she liked being busy, liked feeling that she’d accomplished something. She could see the light at the end of the tunnel, though; once she was caught up on the housework, she’d be able to take some time for herself in the afternoons—not a lot, but she could catch a nap, or watch TV, or read. Zeke would question her trips to the library if she didn’t read something.
The spray of hot water felt good, really good. For a while she just stood there and let the spray pound her tired muscles. She didn’t think she’d have any trouble getting to sleep tonight.
This job was almost perfect. She was definitely off the grid, there were now decent locks on the outer doors, and most of the men she’d been feeding were perfectly nice. Darby was a jerk, but wasn’t there always one in every group? Patrick was very quiet, and you never really knew what a quiet man was thinking. Spencer was a sweetheart, though, and Walt was almost like a father-figure to them all.
But damned if she could figure out Zeke Decker! One minute he was annoying as hell, and the next he was being nice to her. How dare he? He should pick one and stay with it, because she hated trying to predict what he would do and how she should react. Being physically attracted to the man was enough of a problem, even when he was being a shithead; if he made a habit of being pleasant, how would she push the attraction away?
Scrubbed clean, Carlin stepped out of the showe
r and briskly dried herself. She’d deal with him somehow. One thing was for sure: the first time he came home and she instinctively greeted him with a sweet “How was your day?” she’d know it was time to move on.
Chapter Eleven
CARLIN ENTERED WHARTON’S grocery store with Zeke on her heels. She didn’t like that he was there, didn’t like the way he was right behind her, didn’t like the way he made her feel as if she were under guard. She wanted to take her time shopping, not feel as if he had a stopwatch in one hand and a whip in the other, in case he thought she was taking too long. Slave driver? Oh, yeah. The only thing that kept her from braining him with something was that he pushed himself as hard—or harder—as he did everyone else.
She had a list; if she went strictly by it, she could gather the items and be out of the store within half an hour, maybe even twenty minutes. But she’d been reading a lot of cookbooks and she had a gajillion recipes dancing in her head—two or three, anyway. She wanted to look at stuff, think about what she could do that both sounded interesting and that a bunch of unadventurous men would eat. She might see ingredients that weren’t on the list, and be inspired. She might—
Who was she kidding? And what in God’s name had she been thinking? Cooking had never been her thing, yet here she was, devoting most of each and every day to thinking about cooking, getting ready to cook, cooking, then cleaning up after cooking. Something was wrong with this picture.
Working on an isolated ranch, getting paid in cash, going under an assumed name—it had all seemed like such a perfect situation, a perfect plan for staying under the radar, making some money and saving it, catching a breather from the stress of constantly running and being on guard. Working her butt off was okay, but she was being taken over by cooking. She was fairly certain there was some DNA-altering going on, because otherwise wouldn’t she be able to just say “Oh, well” about that damn lying-ass no-fail white cake and move on, instead of obsessing about tackling it again until she got it right?