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CHAPTER ONE
MAC PRESSED THE heels of his hands to his eyes and counted to five before pulling them away and focussing on the computer screen again. He reread what he’d written of the recipe so far and fisted his hands. What came next?
This steamed mussels dish was complicated, but he must have made it a hundred times. He ground his teeth together. The words blurred and danced across the screen. Why couldn’t he remember what came next?
Was it coconut milk?
He shook his head. That came later.
With a curse, he leapt up, paced across the room and tried to imagine making the dish. He visualised himself in a kitchen, with all the ingredients arrayed around him. He imagined speaking directly to a rolling camera to explain what he was doing—the necessity of each ingredient and the importance of the sequence. His chest swelled and then cramped. He dragged a hand back through his hair. To be cooking...to be back at work... A black well of longing rose through him, drowning him with a need so great he thought the darkness would swallow him whole.
It’d be a blessing if it did.
Except he had work to do.
He kicked out at a pile of dirty washing bunched in the corner of the room before striding back to his desk and reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the floor beside it. It helped to blunt the pain. For a little while. He lifted it to his mouth and then halted. The heavy curtains drawn at the full-length windows blocked the sunlight from the room, and while his body had no idea—it was in a seemingly permanent state of jet lag—his brain told him it was morning.
Grinding his teeth, he screwed the cap back on the bottle.
Finish the damn recipe. Then you can drink yourself into oblivion and sleep.
Finish the recipe? That was what he had to do, but he couldn’t seem to turn from where he stood, staring at the closed curtains, picturing the day just beyond them, the sun and the light and the cool of the fresh air...the smell of the sea.
He kept himself shut away from all that temptation.
But it didn’t stop him from being able to imagine it.
A ping from his computer broke the spell. Dragging a hand down his face, he turned back to the desk and forced himself into the chair.
A message. From Russ. Of course. It was always Russ. Just for a moment he rested his head in his hands.
Hey Bro, don’t forget Jo arrives today.
He swore. He didn’t need a housekeeper. He needed peace and quiet so he could finish this damn cookbook.
If the rotten woman hadn’t saved his brother’s life he’d send her off with a flea in her ear.
Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he shook that thought off. He understood the need to retreat from the world. He wouldn’t begrudge that to someone else. He and this housekeeper—they wouldn’t have to spend any time in each other’s company. In fact they wouldn’t even need to come face to face. He’d left her a set of written instructions on the kitchen table. As for the rest she could please herself.
He planted himself more solidly in his chair, switched off his internet connection, and shut the siren call of sunshine, fresh air and living from his mind. He stared at the screen.
Add the chilli purée and clam broth and reduce by a half. Then add...
What the hell came next?
* * *
Jo pushed out of her car and tried to decide what to look at first—the view or the house. She’d had to negotiate for two rather hairy minutes over a deeply rutted driveway. It had made her grateful that her car was a four-wheel drive, equipped to deal with rough terrain, rather than the sports car her soul secretly hungered for. After five hours on the road she was glad to have reached her destination. Still, five hours in a sports car would have been more fun.
She shook out her arms and legs. ‘You can’t put her in that! She’s too big-boned.’ Her great-aunt’s voice sounded through her mind. She half laughed. True, she’d probably look ridiculous in a sport car. Besides, what were the odds that she wouldn’t even fit into one? As ever, though, her grandmother’s voice piped up. ‘I think she looks pretty and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.’
With a shake of her head, Jo shut out the duelling voices. She’d work out a plan of attack for Grandma and Great-Aunt Edith later. Instead, she moved out further onto the bluff to stare at the view. In front of her the land descended sharply to a grassy field that levelled out before coming to a halt at low, flower-covered sand dunes. Beyond that stretched a long crescent of deserted beach, glittering white-gold in the mild winter sunlight.
A sigh eased out of her. There must be at least six or seven kilometres of it—two to the left and four or five to the right—and not a soul to be seen. All the way along it perfect blue-green breakers rolled up to the shore in a froth of white.
