Kiss or Kill Under the Northern Lights, Page 2

  She sighed, recalling better times when she had a nifty sports car too, granted thousands of dollars cheaper than Bodie Rourke’s, but nevertheless grand. Like her position as Chief Financial Officer for the Global Food Foundation had been grand.

  Until her disastrous trip to the Congo.

  She was lucky to have survived. If their vehicle hadn’t overheated and fallen behind the convoy, she and three others would have died in the Boko Haram attack. They’d heard the automatic gunfire and screams as they’d run for cover in the jungle. When the terrorists had arrived to loot the Range Rover and search the area, they’d come within feet of the spot where she and her companions had been hiding. It was a reoccurring nightmare, their evil faces and deadly weapons, their cruel laughter, the casualness with which they’d heartlessly murdered twenty-two people.

  Plagued by nightmares, she hadn’t felt strong enough to return to the NGO, so she’d leased her San Francisco apartment, come back home and rented a small house. Temporary work kept her afloat, her entire life uncertain. She lived minute by minute, day by day, never knowing when she might fall apart.

  God willing, she’d last two weeks with Bodie Rourke.

  3

  The next morning before she knocked on the door, it was thrown open and Bodie towered over her, wild eyed and disheveled. “You moved my goddamn notebook! I told you not to move ANYTHING!”

  “What did it look like?” She calmly stood her ground against the violence of Bodie’s glare, stance, the sheer height of him, the fact that his Armani clad chest was only inches away.

  “Red leather—this big.” A quick visual with his hands. “What the hell’s wrong with you? Don’t you listen?”

  “If you move, I’ll get it for you,” she said, catching a glimpse of the living room with overturned and broken furniture, the floor littered with smashed glass, pictures, trampled books.

  She squeezed past him when he didn’t respond and crunched over broken glass, mangled picture frames, what was left of a collection of jade sculptures. Walking directly to a small bookcase that had escaped destruction, she reached down to the bottom shelf, picked up a red leather eight-by-eleven notebook and held it out.

  He glowered at her from the doorway. “You moved it.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t lie.” Nice and slow. Cool and calm. She had to last two weeks. Walking over to him, she held out the notebook. This time he took it; she rewarded him with a smile. “Would you like breakfast?” She swung a backpack off her shoulder. “I brought over a waffle iron. You don’t have one.”

  He stood very still, the notebook in one large hand, his other hand a tight fist.

  She watched his fingers slowly uncurl, saw the anger drain from his eyes, was charmed despite herself by the small tentative smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

  “You don’t scare.”

  “I’ve seen worse than you pissed off.”

  “Jesse mentioned that.”

  She put up a hand. “I don’t talk about it. Now do you want waffles or am I eating alone?”

  He grinned. “Do I have a choice?”

  How a grin could make you weak in the knees was seriously disturbing, but she’d had plenty of time during a largely sleepless night to lecture herself on the financial merits of keeping this job. “Sure,” she said. “Bacon or sausage with your waffles?”

  She’d also brought a dozen juice oranges and Bodie sat at the kitchen table while she squeezed orange juice, and mixed up waffle batter, cooked sausage she’d taken out of the freezer.

  “Thanks, Eva,” he said when she placed his breakfast before him. “Sorry for freaking out.” Briefly shutting his eyes, he drew in a deep breath, his words velvet soft when he added, “Life’s been shitty so long I’ve forgotten how to be normal.”

  His voice was deep and low, his gaze warm; she wasn’t stupid enough to see real tenderness in his eyes, but—damn, that was something close.

  “Hey,” she said, quickly, telling herself not to be ridiculous, “normal takes a while to resurface. I’m working on it too.” Freshly shaven, wearing posh jeans and a pricey t-shirt, he was trying.

  A flicker of his brows. “Up from the ashes, right? Do we get brilliant new plumage somewhere down the line?”

  “I’d be happy with a good night’s sleep.”

  “Same,” he said with a small nod. “Although real food is a damn fine start.”

  “Do you eat chocolate chip cookies?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “There you go. I’ll make some this afternoon after I’ve picked up the living room in the aftermath of your temper tantrum.”

  “I’ll help. How’s that for an apology?”

  “Thanks. I wasn’t sure I could right that long sofa on my own.”

  He smiled. “Have you always been this cool and calm?”

  “I used to be better.”

  “Tell me about it. Even a few tranquil moments are more than I’ve had for ages.” He turned away for a moment, his jaw working restlessly. “I’m going to eat now.” He glanced at her empty chair.

  She knew how to pick up on a cue; he’d done all the talking he was going to do. She sat.

  After breakfast, they worked on the vandalized living room. He did all the heavy lifting and carried away the unsalvageable furniture. She swept up what was shattered or broken. As the cleanup operation began to wind down, Bodie dropped into a sprawl on the mole grey suede sofa and watched Eva set the last few delicate jade objects in a wall cabinet.

  It was slightly intimidating, his steady gaze completely expressionless. She stifled the urge to say, “You’re making me nervous.”

  “I like your sweater,” he finally said.

  She relaxed at the bland observation and after shutting the cabinet door, turned. “I made it. I knit. It’s one of my therapies. Want a sweater? I have a closet full at home.” She’d been knitting like a fiend to keep her mind busy, working on complicated patterns that required close attention to a pattern book.

  “Are those bumble bees?”

  He’d spoken while rising from the sofa, his t-shirt dragging up with the movement, revealing an exquisite display of rippling abs. Her brain slowed to a crawl and a small silence fell before she managed to pull herself together. “Ah…yeah, seventy-seven to be exact.”

  He smiled.

  “What?” she said, fretfully, disturbed by her sudden agitation, more annoyed by the flush heating her face.

  “You knitting seventy-seven bumble bees. That’s not something I ever thought I’d hear.” He flicked a finger in her direction. “Or see. Damn wholesome, Miss Strozzi.”

  “Something wrong with wholesome?”

  He lifted his brows. “Did I say there was?”

  “We can’t all be celebrities with rock god status,” she snapped. “Oh God, sorry,” she said at his sudden baffled look. “I’m really touchy lately. Someone looks at me the wrong way and I shut down or attack. I didn’t mention that to your brother by the way. I needed the job. Don’t look so surprised. Of course, I needed the job, or I wouldn’t have taken on the local ogre.”

  “Thought so.”

  She shook her head. “It was your brother’s phrase, not mine. He was probably thinking of all the caregivers you’d driven away.”

  He looked at her as if he were calculating how hard to push. “And you’re tougher?”

  “No, more needy. Think of me as your current charity.”

  “Hmmm, so I’m supposed to be compassionate?”

  Suppressing an eye roll, she said, “That’s probably an overly ambitious goal for you. I’ll settle for tactful coexistence.”

  “Talk about ambitious goals. I wasn’t tactful even when I was sane.”

  “I’ll make you chocolate chip cookies.”

  He laughed. “In that case, I’ll look up the word tactful and see what I can do.”

  He was remarkably charming later as he sat at the kitchen t
able making innocuous conversation while she retrieved the cookie ingredients from her backpack, mixed up the dough and baked three pans of cookies.

  And when she joined him eating cookies with milk, he leaned forward just a little. “I could get used to these peaceful, problem-free moments. How old are you?”

  “None of your business.”

  A surprised blink. “You’re young. How can it matter?”

  “Women get asked that question. Men never do. It’s a double standard.”

  “I’m thirty-three and damaged. Full disclosure.”

  “I know how old you are. Your Wikipedia posting is six pages long. Plus all the celebrity internet sites are in the hundreds.”

  “Really? You looked?”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Nah, I know who I am.” He shrugged. “Sorta—barring the racket in my brain that’s at the max right now.”

  “Have you tried meditation?”

  “Don’t,” he growled.

  “Sorry, none of my business.”

  “Damn right it isn’t.” Pushing his chair back, he stood and glared at her. “I don’t need a therapist.” And he walked from the room.

  She heard the door to his suite slam shut.

  Before she left at four thirty, she placed a note on the kitchen table. The only rooms she hadn’t cleaned, she wrote, were his. So if it was okay with him, she’d clean them tomorrow.

  4

  The house was silent when she arrived at eight. Her note had the single word, NO, scrawled across the message.

  No one said it was going to be easy, she reminded herself and went about her business. She called the local grocery store for a delivery; Jesse had given her the Rourke account number. While she waited for the groceries, she cleaned the refrigerator that was essentially a beer cooler. Of all the personal therapies she’d developed to keep her demons at bay, cleaning was definitely the most effective. Each task had a beginning, middle and end and once finished, offered a tangible reward, however small.

  An hour later a teenage boy set three boxes on the kitchen table and left with a substantial tip, a wide smile and a cheerful, “Have a good day.”

  “What’s all that stuff?”

  Bracing herself at the surly tone, she turned.

  Bodie, jaw rigid, filled the doorway, his arms stretched high on the jambs, his legs slightly spread, his bare feet solidly planted. His black jeans and black long-sleeved t-shirt only served to burnish the sense of threat his presence evoked. And for a brief moment, Eva was glad the kitchen had two exits. But her voice was measured when she replied, “Groceries.”

  “You were going to run.”

  “Was not. You surprised me, that’s all.”

  A chin tip. “Do I frighten you?”

  “No more than any other ogre. And I’m not interested in an argument. I’m making beef vegetable soup and apple pie because it’s cold out today.”

  He dropped his hands, gave her a stare. “Maybe I don’t like beef vegetable soup and apple pie.”

  “You do, I checked with Jesse. So if you’re done harassing me, I’ll get to work.”

  He scowled. “No breakfast?”

  She smiled. “Are you asking?”

  “Maybe.”

  She put her hand to her ear and cocked her head.

  “Seriously?” His voice was measured.

  She grinned.

  He took a breath, softly exhaled. “Okay, please?”

  “I’d love to,” she said. “Any requests?”

  “How about a cook with less attitude?”

  “Says Mr. Grumpy.”

  His jaw clenched. “I’m paying you to do what you’re told.”

  She went still. “Excuse me?”

  It took him a millisecond to recognize that tone in a woman and another millisecond to realize he cared enough to back off. A data point he noted with mild discomfort. “Forgive me, that was rude.” He sighed. “Could we start over again? Good morning, Miss Strozzi. Thank you for”— he gestured at the groceries—“ordering all this. I look forward to whatever you choose to make for breakfast.” He could have added that was the longest apology of his life, but he wasn’t stupid.

  “See, you can be tactful after all.”

  He gritted his teeth. “I’m hungry.”

  This wasn’t the time to point out to him that being hungry was a milestone of sorts, an improvement over beer for breakfast. “I hope you eat breakfast burritos. Can I trust you with a knife? I like the peppers minced and it takes forever.”

  “Rather than wait forever, why not tell me what minced entails and I promise not to attack you.”

  The last two words were delivered with a mercurial grin, the hottest she’d ever seen and the intoxicating rush spiking through her senses shocked her. The only tangible emotions she’d experienced the last year had been fear or anger. “Here, I’ll show you,” she said briskly, dampening her skittish nerves, and proceeded to give a lesson on cutting up a red pepper.

  He was a quick learner and before long they were sitting down for breakfast. “We make a great team,” he said, smiling.

  Really, that smile of his, she thought, warmed by its beauty. “You’re an excellent sous chef. Someday you’ll thank me for saving you from a fast food heart attack,” she quipped.

  Her playful teasing touched his cynical soul. It surprised him; he hadn’t realized he was capable of feeling delight. “You should have shown up sooner. You’re like a breath of fresh air.”

  “Maybe I just look better because you sacked all the others and you’re hungry.”

  He leaned back in his chair, held up his hands, formed a frame with his fingers, and looked at her with a faint frown. “Nope, fresh as a daisy, Strozzi,” he said after a lengthy perusal that brought a flush to her cheeks. “You’re blushing,” he added, dropping his hands. “You don’t see that much anymore. Top of my list of priorities”—a lift of his brows—“along with wholesomeness.”

  “You pay well. That’s top of my list of priorities,” she added, drolly, taking a bite of her burrito.

  She was drawing a line: employer/employee. It shouldn’t have mattered that she thought he was flirting. He wasn’t, or at least not intentionally. Still, for the first time in months, he experienced an infinitesimal joy. He didn’t know why, and he didn’t care, but one thing he knew: Eva Strozzi made the world a whole lot better.

  He mentioned the weather then, always a safe subject; no point in screwing up a great breakfast.

  Eva gratefully picked up on the neutral topic. Bodie was too beautiful, too accomplished, too rich, and regardless his emotional issues, completely out of her league.

  He watched her relax as they superficially conversed and gave himself points for enough self-awareness to disengage. There was no upside to overstepping the boundary between employer, employee. Zero. Zip.

  On the other hand, whether it was Eva’s fine company or her food, he felt energized by the time he finished breakfast. “Thanks for your admirable nutritional choices. I think I’ll actually do some work today. I have a new idea for a documentary and I might as well start blocking out the scenes.”

  “What’s the topic or shouldn’t I ask?” She knew he’d been filming a documentary on terrorism when he’d been captured.

  “It’s okay. This one’s benign. I have a friend who’s been active in the Crop Trust at Svalbard.”

  “The seed bank depositary.”

  “Yeah, the collection currently covers half the world’s known crop diversity.”

  “The NGO I worked for paid for shipments of seeds out of Africa. With the climate under increasing threat, the planet’s losing one variety of seeds a day.”

  He smiled. “Tick tock. That’s why I’m doing the film.” He stood. “Starting now.”

  A moment later she heard his door shut. At least he hadn’t left in a huff. Things were looking up.

  5

  As if the gods had other plans, two hours later, when she was almost finished braising the
beef and onions for soup, the doorbell rang. Correction; some idiot was leaning on the bell. Racing for the door before the shrill clamor disturbed Bodie’s rare good mood, Eva dashed through the living room and yanked open the door.

  “It’s about time! Out of my way! I’m here to see Bodie.”

  In the second before she was shoved aside, Eva managed a glance at the golden-haired sexpot dressed in a haut couture version of country casual from the tip top of her long glossy hair, past her olive-green Chanel jacket and fawn colored slacks to the toes of her soft polished riding boots. Eva almost said, No horse? Not that the glossy bimbo would have heard; she was already halfway across the living room.

  “Bodie! Darling!” the lady called out in a voice that would have carried to the back of any auditorium. “I’m heeere!”

  The intruder seemed to know where she was going, striding sleek and long-legged down the hall toward Bodie’s suite. Uncertain of her employer’s reaction to a visitor, no matter how glamorous, Eva quickly followed the woman. “If you’d like to wait,” she said, “I’ll see if Bodie is available.”

  Without slackening her stride, the golden goddess turned her head, and gave Eva a withering look. “You must be the housekeeper. Don’t you have something to do? Go away.”

  Housekeeper. Wow. Apparently, she needed a better wardrobe but then the bitch in front of her needed a better personality. Whether it was spite or morbid curiosity, Eva ignored the woman’s insolence and stayed to watch the show.

  Would Bodie open his door?

  Would the lady’s humongous boobs trump Bodie’s avoidance issues?

  The answers weren’t immediately apparent, although the visitor doggedly rapped on the door, repeatedly called out Bodie’s name, demanded the door be opened.

  Good luck with that, Eva thought, willing to bet Bodie yielded to female demands as often as he embroidered needlepoint samplers.

  Before long, Bodie’s visitor realized she’d misjudged her approach, and nimbly altered her voice to a more conciliatory pitch. In soft, sweet, cajoling accents she began reminding Bodie of all the good times they’d shared: the week at Cannes; drinks at his favorite bar in Malibu; their vacation in Bali; the memories becoming increasingly intimate, until the word, bondage, proved a bridge too far.