Stranded With The Secret Billionaire

‘You put lambs in the oven?’

‘It’s the best place for a lamb that’s been caught in the frost,’ he told her. ‘I can fit a lamb and boots in there all at once. Lamb and boots come out warm and ready to go. It’s a win-win for everyone. Who needs an oven for baking?’

‘But you can still bake in it?’

‘I could try,’ he told her. ‘But anything I put in there might come out smelling of wet wool and boot leather.’

‘Yum,’ she said and then looked down at his frying eggs. ‘Don’t let them get hard.’

‘What?’ He stared down at the five eggs he’d cracked. He picked up the egg slice to flip them but Penny put her hand out and held his. Stopping him mid-flip.

‘You want runny yolks?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Runny’s nicer.’

‘Yeah, but...’

‘Just spoon a little hot fat over them. It’s much less likely to burst the yolks.’

‘I don’t have time for nice.’

‘Then let me,’ she told him and jumped down, grabbed a spoon and edged him out of the way.

Her body hit his and all of a sudden they were close. Too close.

He felt... He didn’t know what he felt. How long since he’d stood beside a woman in a kitchen?

This was not a sensation he needed to be feeling tonight.

He edged away fast, and stood and watched while she carefully spooned hot fat over the yolks.

‘Done,’ she said.

She flicked bacon and tomatoes he’d fried earlier onto the toast and then carefully slid the eggs on top.

How had she done that? It was weird but somehow she’d made it look...sort of gourmet? When he piled eggs and bacon onto a plate they looked like eggs and bacon. She’d sort of set the tomatoes at one side and then made a round of bacon. The eggs slid on top and it looked...great.

He’d been hungry. Now he was even hungrier.

And so, it seemed, was she. She sat down and tackled her eggs and bacon as if she hadn’t seen food in a week. She was enjoying every mouthful of this very plain meal.

He thought of the few women he knew and the way they ate. Not like this. This was almost sensual.

‘Wow,’ she breathed as she finished her first egg and tackled her bacon. ‘Yum!’

‘It’s all in the cooking,’ he said and she grinned. It was a great grin, he decided. Kind of endearing.

‘Yeah, great fat scooping.’ She shook her head. ‘Nope. These eggs... This bacon...’

‘Home grown,’ he told her. ‘They’re Donald’s projects.’

‘Donald?’

‘I told you about him. He used to own this property. He got too old to run it; he sold it but the thought of leaving broke his heart. I offered him one of the shearers’ cottages in return for keeping up the garden. He’s been with me for ten years now, running a few of his precious pigs, caring for his hens and keeping my garden magnificent. Win-win for everyone.’

‘Are the eggs free range too?’ she asked.

‘We lock ’em up at night. Which reminds me...’ He headed for the sink, dumping his dishes. ‘I need to go. Sleep well. Anything you need in the morning, help yourself. I’ll be gone before dawn.’

‘You start shearing before dawn?’

‘The pens are already full for the dawn start but I’ll run the south mob into the home paddock to refill the pens as the men work. But I’ll be back here by about nine to make sandwiches.’

‘You’re making sandwiches?’

‘Yeah.’ He grimaced. ‘That’s all they’re getting. But it doesn’t affect you. Just stay away from the sheds, that’s all I ask. I don’t like distractions.’

‘I’m a distraction?’

He turned and looked at her. Cute, he thought again. Definitely cute.

Her poodle was at her feet. Most of the shearers had dogs.

Penny and Samson in the shearers’ shed? No and no and no.

‘Definitely a distraction. Stay away,’ he growled, possibly more gruffly than he intended.

But she looked distracted now. She was frowning. ‘You’re making sandwiches?’ she said again.

‘Yes.’

‘And you just said all you can do is sausages and boiling stuff.’

‘I’ll boil a couple of slabs of beef for lunch.’

The thought of it was almost overwhelming but who else would do it? Ron and Harv could be depended on to keep the sheep coming in and clear the pens but their cooking skills were zero. Donald was eighty-seven. That was his pool of workers.

He could imagine the reaction of the shearers if he went over there now and said: Hey, do any of you cook? Care to swap jobs?

But he was eyeing the woman at the table with caution. She’d known how to cook an egg. That was about twenty per cent of his cooking skill. Maybe...

But she drove a pink car. She had a poodle. She came from one of the richest families in Australia.

Ask.

‘I employ a shearers’ cook,’ he told her. ‘The best. Pete sent me lists. I have everything I need—except Pete. He’s stuck on the far side of the floodwater.’ He hesitated. ‘So I’m stuck with cooking. But any help you could give me...’

‘I’ll cook.’

Silence.

I’ll cook.

Two magic words.

‘You can cook?’

‘Don’t sound so shocked. Why do you think I was heading for Malley’s Corner?’

‘You were going to Malley’s to cook?’ He couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

‘What’s wrong with that?’ She glared. ‘Just because my family’s...’

‘The richest family in Australia?’

‘We’re not. There are mining magnates richer than us.’

‘Of course there are.’

‘Don’t be sarcastic. Besides, this has nothing to do with money. Though...’ she considered ‘...I’m stuck here so I might as well make myself useful. Consider it payment for board.’

‘Do you have any idea how hard it is to cook for a shearers’ team?’

‘You were going to do it.’

‘Now you sound sarcastic.’

And she grinned. ‘I do,’ she conceded. ‘But I can do better than sandwiches.’

‘We have a team of twenty shearers, classers and roustabouts. Do you have any idea how much they eat?’

‘I’ve cooked for hundreds.’

‘You...’

‘You say that like I’m some sort of amoebic slug,’ she said carefully. ‘Why shouldn’t I cook? Why do you think Malley hired me?’

‘Malley would employ anyone with a pulse. Come to think of it, rumour was that his last cook didn’t have one.’

‘Then he’s about to be surprised. I even have qualifications.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Only a basic apprenticeship,’ she admitted. ‘But I’ve done lots of cooking classes in amazing places. Mum and Dad approved of those.’

‘I just read an article online,’ he told her. A man had to be careful but he might as well say it. Not that he had a recruitment pool of hundreds but he needed to know what he was getting into. ‘It described you as a PR assistant in your family corporation. It also said you were nursing a bruised ego and a broken heart.’

She froze. ‘You checked up on me.’

‘I did. About the broken heart bit. Your sister... I’m sorry...’

And all of a sudden the apologetic, polite blonde was transformed by temper.

‘Don’t you dare go there,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want sorry. Every one of my so-called friends are sorry, but not sorry enough to refuse an invitation to the massive wedding my parents are organizing right now. My father says a big function’s important to show there’s no family rift. So there’s no family rift. Business as usual.’

He winced. ‘That must hurt. Every major tabloid...’

‘Is enjoying it very much.’ She cut him off bitterly. ‘But that’s important how? Right now I’m offering to cook for you. Isn’t there a Discrimination Act somewhere that says asking employees about their past appalling taste in men is illegal?’

‘Are you applying for a job?’

‘I might be,’ she snapped. ‘As long as you don’t rake up my family. I’ve left them in Sydney and that’s where they’re staying. I like the fact that half of Australia is flooding between here and there. Do you like the fact that I can cook?’

There was no arguing with that. ‘Yes.’

‘So let’s move on. Your shearers like sandwiches? Are you any better at making them than frying eggs?’

‘Mine would be pretty basic sandwiches,’ he admitted.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed eight. He should be gone, he thought. There was so much to do before dark.

But he had the offer of a cook.

She intrigued him. She was half perky, half defensive.

It sounded as if her family had cut her a raw deal and he’d seen enough of the tabloids to realize how widely her humiliation must have spread. She must be hurting a lot under her pink bravado.

What he wanted was to probe deeper into what was behind her blind run to Malley’s. But then...this was personal and hadn’t he learned a long time ago not to get personal with women? The last thing he needed was a wealthy blonde socialite sobbing on his chest while she spilt all.

And she was right. Her past had no bearing on her ability to cook.

She could probably only do fancy, he thought. Soufflés and caviar and truffles. But she had cooked a mean egg, which was more than he could do. And how could her cooking be worse than his efforts?

‘If you really could...’

‘I could try,’ she told him, her glare fading. She looked as if she was sensing his train of thought. ‘You can sack me if it doesn’t work.’ She smiled suddenly, and he thought she had a great smile. It lit her face.

It lit the room.

‘Tell me what you need,’ she said and he had to force himself to focus on something that wasn’t that smile.

‘Morning smoko, dinner and arvo tea. The shearers make their own breakfast and evening meal, but our dinner’s midday, when we need a full, hot meal to keep going. You have no idea how many calories a gun shearer burns. Are you really serious about helping?’

‘I’m serious.’

‘Okay.’ He took a deep breath, seeing clear air where from the time he’d had the call from Pete he’d only seen fog. ‘At ten you’d provide smoko—morning tea. You’d bring the food over to the shed. I’ll come and help you carry it. Then at twelve-thirty they all come here for a buffet dinner and take it onto the veranda to eat. At three it’s time for arvo tea and you take that to the shed as well. It saves time. You’d be expected to cook a couple of extra roasts and leave them in the shearer’s quarters so they can use that as a base for their evening meal.’

‘Wow,’ she said and looked at the big stove. ‘No wonder you have three ovens. Is there an instruction manual?’

‘On the Internet.’

‘You have Internet?’

‘Yep. Satellite. I’ll give you the password.’

She stood up and her smile widened until the defensiveness of moments ago disappeared entirely.

‘You have no idea how good that makes me feel,’ she told him. ‘Half an hour ago I was trapped in the middle of nowhere feeling useless. Now I have a job and Internet and there’s nothing more I need in the world. Right. You’d better put those chooks to bed and gather those sheep or whatever you have to do. Leave me be, Matt. I’m about to get busy.’

He’d been dismissed.

* * *

She was needed! She stood in the great kitchen and, for the first time since that appalling night when Brett and Felicity had appeared at the family dinner table hand in hand and smugly announced the new order of things, she felt as if she was standing on firm ground again.

A shearing team of twenty. Two weeks’ hard work, she thought with satisfaction. Two weeks when she could put her head down and forget that every tabloid in the country was running articles pitying her.

She’d be working for Matt.

Matt...

And suddenly her thoughts went off at a tangent. Matt. The way he’d said he was sorry. He’d said it...as if he understood. How was that possible? It had been a throwaway line, a platitude, something that had been said to her over and over before her family and her friends had moved on to the new normal.

But his eyes were kind.

And the rest of him...

Wow.

And that was enough to make her give herself a fast mental slap to the side of the head. What was she thinking? He was her new boss. He was the owner of this place, a guy who lived and breathed the land, a guy who’d practically lifted her car and heaved it out of the water.

She’d been brought up with suits. She’d never met anyone even vaguely like Matt.

He made her feel...breathless.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. It had been less than a month since she’d been unceremoniously dumped by Brett. She’d thought she was in love, and look how that had turned out.

‘I have no sense at all,’ she told Samson. ‘Okay, he might be good-looking enough to make my toes curl but my toes are not a good indicator. My father thinks I’m an idiot, and where men are concerned I’ve just proved him spectacularly right. I need to ignore Matt Fraser and get on with my job.’

She opened the pantry again and gazed at the contents in delight.

This place was like a miniature supermarket. Filled with hope, she headed out the back. A vegetable garden! Herbs!

Her head was spinning in all directions. What first?

She could make cupcakes for morning tea. No. She pulled herself up short. Cupcakes might seem girly and the last thing she needed was guys thinking her food was girly. Okay, lamingtons. Better. She could whip up a couple of sponges now and coat them first thing in the morning. Then maybe a couple of big frittatas for lunch, with salads from the gorgeous stuff in the garden and fresh crusty bread. She had an overnight bread recipe. She could start it now so it’d rise magnificently overnight.

She looked at the sacks of flour and realized that Matt had supplies for an army. This must be provisioning for the rest of the year.

She wasn’t complaining.

Next? What had Matt called it...arvo tea? If they’d eaten a big lunch they wouldn’t want much. Chocolate brownies?

‘Let’s go,’ she told Samson and he wiggled his tail at the joy in her voice.

There hadn’t been much joy lately but she was feeling it now.

And she had to ask herself—was it just a little bit because a guy called Matt Fraser would be sharing a house with her for the next two weeks?

Was it just a little bit because a guy called Matt Fraser had caused a tingle of something she couldn’t put a name to?

‘It has nothing to do with Matt,’ she told Samson severely. ‘It’s only the fact that I’m a world away from ghastly Brett and smug Felicity, and I’m needed.’

And the fact that Matt was sexy as...

Surely that had nothing to do with anything at all?

* * *

He’d met her only hours before. She was a society princess in a pink car and she had nothing to do with his world.

So why was he still feeling her hand on his, the way her body had seemed to melt into his as she’d edged him aside to stop him doing the unthinkable—flipping his eggs!

Why did it suddenly feel as if his world was tilting?

There was no reason at all, he told himself and headed out to make sure the hens were locked up for the night.

‘Who is she?’ It was Donald—caring for the chooks was his job. But increasingly Donald forgot. Age was beginning to fuddle him, but he didn’t seem to notice that Matt double-checked on most things he did.

Donald had run this property alone for fifty years. He was a confirmed bachelor and to say he treated women as aliens would be an understatement. Penny’s presence, it seemed, had shocked him to the core.

‘I pulled her out of the creek,’ Matt told him. ‘She was taking a dumb shortcut. She’s stuck here until the water goes down.’

‘Stuck. Here.’ Donald said the two words as if they might explode and Matt almost laughed. He thought of the ditzy little blonde in his kitchen and wondered if there was anything less scary.

Although there were scary elements. Like the way his body reacted to her.

Um...let’s not go there.

‘She can cook,’ he told Donald as he shooed the last hen into the pen and started collecting the eggs. ‘The shearers’ cook is stuck on the far side of the floodwater. If she can keep the team happy...’

‘She can cook!’ Donald’s mother had run off with a wool-buyer when Donald was seven. His opinion of women had been set in stone since.

He grinned. ‘I hear some women can.’

Donald thought about it. ‘Rufus seems to like her,’ he conceded at last. ‘I watched her scratch his ear so she can’t be all bad. What’s that bit of fluff she’s got with her?’

‘A poodle.’

‘A poodle at Jindalee! What next?’

‘I’m thinking of getting him to help drafting the mobs in the morning,’ Matt said and Donald gave a crack of laughter.

‘He might end up getting shorn himself. I wonder what the classer’d make of that fleece?’ He grinned. ‘So you’ve got a woman and a poodle in the homestead. Want to kip in my place for the duration?’

‘That’d be a bit of overkill. I’ve put her in your old bedroom and you know I sleep at the other end of the house. I think we can manage.’

‘Women reel you in.’

‘That’s eighty years of experience speaking?’

‘Eighty years of keeping out of their way. Mark my words, boy, it’s like a disease.’

‘I’ve been married, had a kid and have the scars to prove it,’ Matt said, his grin fading. ‘I’m immune.’

‘No one’s immune.’ Donald shook his head and gestured to the house with a grimy thumb. ‘Don’t you go in till she’s safely in bed and leave before she wakes up. Have your cornflakes at my place.’

‘I’ll be careful,’ Matt promised him and smiled, although suddenly for some reason he didn’t feel like smiling.

He thought of Penny—maybe Donald’s advice was wise.

Lifting eggs from the nesting boxes, he enjoyed, as he always did, the warmth, the miracle of their production. He’d never quite got over the miracle of owning this place. Of never being told to move on.

He found himself thinking of his mother, going from one disastrous love affair to another, dragging her son with her. He’d learned early that when his mother fell in love it meant disaster.

She’d left and finally he’d figured he didn’t need her.

After that...his first farm, financial security, finally feeling he could look forward.

And then deciding he could love.

Darrilyn.

And there it was again—disaster. Because Darrilyn didn’t want him. She wanted the things his money represented. Two minutes after they were married she was pushing him to leave the farm he loved, and when he didn’t...

Yeah, well, that was old history now. He didn’t need Darrilyn. He didn’t need anyone. But Donald was right.

He needed to be careful.

CHAPTER FOUR

THEY LOOKED BEAUTIFUL.

Penny gazed at the table in satisfaction. She had two plates of lamingtons ready to go. She’d rolled her cakes in rich chocolate sauce, coated them in coconut and filled them with cream. She’d thought of the difficulties of plates and spoons over in the yard so she’d gone small, but she’d made two each to compensate.

She’d piled them in beautifully stacked pyramids. They looked exquisite.

But this wasn’t a social event, she reminded herself. Two lamingtons might not be enough, so she made a few rounds of club sandwiches, bite-sized beauties. She cut them into four-point serves and set them on a plate in the lamingtons’ midst. They looked great.

She glanced at the clock and felt a little swell of pride. She had the ovens hot for the frittatas for lunch. They were almost ready to pop in. She had fifteen minutes before smoko and she was totally in control.

Matt would walk in any minute.

And here he was. He looked filthy, his pants and open neck shirt coated in dust, his boots caked in...whatever, she didn’t want to think about it. His face was smeared with dust and his hair plastered down with sweat. ‘Hey. Nearly ready?’

She lifted her lamingtons for inspection. ‘We can take them over now if you like.’

He glanced at the table and his gaze moved on. ‘Where’s the rest?’

‘The rest?’

There was a pregnant pause. And then... ‘This is all there is?’

‘Two lamingtons, two points of sandwiches each. How much more...’

He swore and headed for the pantry, leaving a trail of filthy footsteps over her nice, clean kitchen floor.

Her kitchen. That was how she felt when she worked. This was her domain.

Um...not. Matt had flung open the pantry door and was foraging behind the flour sacks. He emerged with three boxes.

Charity sale Christmas cakes. Big ones.

‘They hate them but they’ll have to do,’ he snapped. ‘Help me chop them up. They’ll stop work in half an hour and if this is all you have...’

‘But there’s plenty,’ she stammered and he gave her a look that resembled—eerily—the one her father gave her all the time. Like: You’ve been an idiot but what else could I expect?

‘This isn’t your society morning tea,’ he snapped, ripping cartons open. ‘It’s fuel. Grab a knife and help me.’

She was having trouble moving. This was supposed to be her domain, the kitchen, her food—and he was treating her like an idiot. She felt sick.

A memory came flooding back of the dinner a month ago. She and her parents in the family home, the mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour. It had been her birthday. She’d like a family dinner, she’d told them. Just her parents, her half-sister and her fiancé.

And she’d cooked, because that was what she loved to do. She’d cooked what Brett loved to eat—stylish, with expensive ingredients, the sort of meal her father would enjoy paying a lot of money for in a society restaurant. She’d worked hard but she thought she’d got it right.

She’d even made time to get her hair done and she was wearing a new dress. Flushed with success, she’d only been a little disconcerted when Brett was late. And Felicity... Well, her sister was always late.

And then they’d walked in, hand in hand. ‘We’re so sorry, Penny, but we have something to tell you...’

Matt was already slicing the first cake but at her silence he glanced up. Maybe the colour had drained from her face. Maybe she looked how she felt—as if she was about to be sick. For whatever reason, he put the knife down.

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