Prodigal Prince Charming. Christine FlynnЧитать онлайн книгу.
was twenty-eight years old, more talk than action, and she still clung to the idea that when she made love with a man, she would be hopelessly in love with him. The fact that a man with the reputation of an alley cat made her nerves flutter was simply a quirk of fate she would overlook. He had hired her to do a job. Considering that his guests were due to arrive in a little over an hour, she needed to focus on doing it.
Feeling a nervous need to move, anyway, she turned to the lovely cherry wood cupboards and cabinets. She had never in her life cooked in a kitchen as beautiful as the one she moved through now. Yet, as she started searching for a cutting board, her focus wasn’t on the overtly expensive and upscale surroundings, or on how intimidated she actually felt in them. Her attention was on what Cord had said about this house.
He had bought a house most people could only dream about simply to have somewhere to park his boat.
She assumed that the boat he’d referred to was the sailboat she could see moored at the dock beyond his multitiered deck when she hurriedly slipped out the glass dining room door five minutes later to check the deck’s layout. From her vantage point above the water, she could see scuba gear on one of the benches inside the long, high-masted sloop. A bright yellow canoe rested upside down on the wooden dock next to it.
It appeared that Cord was drawn to the water and what lay beneath its surface. She’d heard that he flew his own plane, too, and that he liked fast cars. He won and lost small fortunes gambling. He gambled his own life climbing mountains with names like McKinley and Everest.
Judging by his toys and his rumored pursuits, he was a man who thrived on thrills and adventure. He obviously possessed the considerable skills those pursuits required to have survived them for so long. But she figured he also had to have nerves of steel and lack any sense of fear to actually enjoy the reckless pursuits and behavior that earned him his headlines.
Or maybe what he lacked, she thought as she mentally worked through the placement of the dinner buffet, was common sense. She was a creature of habit. She thrived on routine and needed stability the way she craved air. She couldn’t begin to comprehend the need for such excitement, much less the need to deliberately seek it.
“Did she forget anything?”
Madison turned from the long blue-tiled serving area beside the built-in barbecue. Cord stood in the doorway, one shoulder against the doorjamb, his hands in the pockets of his casual beige slacks. His collarless blue pullover turned his eyes the color of a crystalline sea.
“She?” she asked, grateful to see him covered with more than a towel.
“My housekeeper.”
“No. No,” Madison repeated, unable to think of a thing the woman had overlooked. Silverware had been rolled in crisp burgundy napkins and secured with brass rings. Blue pottery dinner plates sat stacked beside their smaller version for dessert. “I’ll set the hors d’oeuvres down by the bar before your guests arrive.” She glanced at her watch, winced at the time. “While you’re having drinks down there, I’ll set out the buffet. I didn’t ask before,” she continued, slipping past him to turn on the oven so it would be ready for her first tray of shrimp-stuffed mushrooms. “Do you want me to stay after to clean up out here, too?”
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