Fiona And The Sexy Stranger Read online

  Bridgette played the last card in her depleted hand. “Just say you’ll come to dinner and I’ll stop talking, I promise.”

  Glancing up, Fiona saw that Bridgette had one hand raised as if she were taking a solemn oath before a judge. She laughed softly. “Tempting as that is, I can’t. I’ve got work to do.”

  The phone rang, but Bridgette ignored it as she struggled not to shout at her sister. “You’ve got work to hide behind.”

  Fiona wiped her hands on the towel she had slung over one shoulder. “Saved by the bell,” she said brightly, terminating, she hoped, the discussion. Reaching for the wall phone, she fervently prayed it wasn’t Mrs. Kellerman with a last-minute change.

  “Painless Parties,” Fiona announced into the receiver. “Catering to suit your every whim and requirement. This is Fiona Reilly, how may I help you?”

  For a moment there was only silence on the other end.

  Fiona frowned, unwilling to hang up and make herself the target for more of Bridgette’s nagging and cajoling. “Hello?”

  Bridgette looked up, mildly interested. “If it’s an obscene caller, don’t hang up,” she instructed. “You need the practice.”

  Fiona waved an annoyed hand at her sister. “Hello?” she repeated. “Is anyone there?”

  “Are you the woman who called me about my misdirected résumé?” the voice on the other end asked.

  He didn’t have to say who he was. Even if he hadn’t mentioned the résumé, Fiona would have recognized the drawl instantly. Though she’d made the call over three weeks ago, the voice, and the fantasy she’d built around it, had remained with her for a while and now vividly sprang forth at the sound of his voice.

  “Henry?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Bridgette had stopped packing the last of the cream puffs. Instantly alert, her face was alive with questions. Fiona deliberately turned her back on her sister. There was going to be the devil to pay as soon as she hung up.

  Her guess as to his identity was rewarded with a deep chuckle that undulated along her body, unsettling her in all sorts of delicious ways she meant to mentally record and savor when she wasn’t under Bridgette’s intense scrutiny.

  “How did you know?” His voice curled around each syllable.

  “I recognized your voice from your answering machine. Besides, it’s not every day I get a résumé lodged in between my order for a hundred guinea hens and a request for lobster bisque.”

  This time the pause on the other end was shorter. “Excuse me?”

  “I run a catering business,” she explained. She vaguely wondered if the drawl meant that he was also slow on the uptake. She’d mentioned the name of her catering company before she’d even said her name.

  A short laugh warmed her ear. “Oh, that’s the kind of parties you meant.”

  Fiona struggled not to sink into the sound. “Yes, why? What did you think I meant?”

  He laughed again, this time more heartily. She realized he’d totally misunderstood her meaning about catering to whims and needs.

  “Never mind, doesn’t matter. Listen, the reason I’m calling is to tell you that they hired me a couple of weeks ago.”

  It didn’t occur to her to ask why he felt that he had to call her with this information. She was genuinely happy that she’d managed, in a small way, to help. “Congratulations.”

  She sounded as if she meant it, Hank Cutler thought, gripping the receiver. Which made what he was about to say even easier and more important to him. He was a man who always paid his debts, no matter how large or small. This, he reasoned, was a large one.

  “I figure if it hadn’t been for you taking pity on a stranger whose fingers are too thick to hit the right numbers, I’d still be sitting here in my living room, wondering if Collins Walker was ever going to call me in for an interview.”

  His gratitude pleased her no end, but Fiona played down her role in his success. “I didn’t do anything except call you.”

  “Oh, but that was a very important call and I’d just like to express my gratitude.”

  “All right.” Fiona paused, waiting for him to say something else, perhaps launch into a lengthier thank-you. Fiona couldn’t think of anything else to say but she silently hoped Henry would carry the conversational ball. She would have been willing to sit and listen to him read the phone book just to hear the sound of his voice a little longer.

  “Where would you like to go?” he asked.

  Had she missed a step? Fiona turned again because a very curious Bridgette had stopped packing altogether and was now almost in her face, her lips forming the word “who” over and over again like a determined owl. Fiona waved her sister back to the counter and the cream puffs. Much as she wanted to continue to listen to Henry’s voice, she had to get going soon.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’d like to say thanks over dinner,” he clarified. “As you probably can guess if you looked at my résumé, I’m new around these parts. Where’s the best place to eat?”

  “My kitchen.” The reply came automatically. Fiona was confident about very little when it came to herself, but she had no doubts about her ability to produce minor miracles in the kitchen.

  The laugh came again, seducing her. “Is that anything like a busman’s holiday?”

  It took her a moment to rouse herself and to make sense of his question. “No, wait, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” Fiona prayed he hadn’t thought she was inviting him over. The fantasy vanished in a large puff of smoke.

  “How did you mean it?” Hank drawled gamely, wondering what had produced the change in her voice. She sounded almost nervous now.

  “I mean, I never go out to eat. I’m too busy.”

  “Couldn’t you make a little time?” he coaxed. She had him curious now. “I chew faster than I talk.”

  Fiona could feel her palms growing damp around the receiver. Damn it, he wasn’t even in the room. Why was she having this absolutely ridiculous reaction? Was she always going to be doomed to feel this way every time a conversation threatened to become personal?

  Fiona heard Bridgette clear her throat She stiffened her back. She could almost feel the darts Bridgette’s eyes were throwing her way. Ignoring them, she dealt with the immediate threat at her door—or her phone—as best she could. At this rate, she was going to be emotionally drained before she ever got to the Kellerman house.

  “I’m sure you can, Henry, but that still doesn’t change the fact that I am very, very busy. This is June and I’ve got six weddings to do in the next three weeks. I really don’t have any time to spare.” Her voice was picking up speed like an untended car parked uphill in San Francisco whose brakes had just given way.

  “I really would like to express my gratitude. somehow,” he insisted.

  Even insisting took on new ramifications when spoken in a voice that was richer than molasses pouring out of a container in a warm climate. She struggled not to allow herself to drown in the sound.

  “You already did. You said thank you,” she noted.

  Bridgette was now circling her like a shark looking for a way into the diver’s steel protective cage. Each time Fiona turned, Bridgette moved with her, gesturing madly. Fiona felt as if she was being laid siege to from without and within.

  “Now I really have to go. Good luck with your job, Henry.” She hung up quickly before he could say anything further and weaken her shaky ramparts even more than they already were.

  Fiona looked up to see Bridgette glaring at her. If looks could kill, this would have been the last wedding she was destined to cater.

  Bridgette could barely contain her annoyance. “Did you just hang up on a man?”

  Passing her on her way back to the counter and the unpacked guinea hens, Fiona shrugged. “Sure looks that way.”

  Bridgette felt like hitting her head against the wall. Better yet, she felt like hitting Fiona’s head against the wall. “A man who wanted to take you out?”

  Fiona sig
hed. Why couldn’t Bridgette just drop it and get back to work? “It’s all very platonic. He didn’t want to take me out, Bridgette. He just wanted to say thank-you.”

  Bridgette crossed her arms, waiting for an explanation. None was forthcoming. “For?”

  Fiona blew out a breath. Bridgette was going to make a big deal of this, she just knew it. Bridgette could make a big deal out of the box boy offering to help Fiona out of the supermarket with an overloaded cart. Never mind that she always tipped him well for his services.

  “For calling him because he’d accidentally sent his résumé here instead of to some advertising firm.”

  Bridgette looked at the wall phone with renewed awe and interest. “That was Mr. Sexiest-Voice-In-The-Whole-World?”

  Fiona bitterly regretted ever saying that to Bridgette. It had been in a moment of weakness and she should have had her mouth taped because of it. But who had expected the man to suddenly surface in her life?

  Sighing, she nodded. “Yes.”

  Bridgette looked toward the fax machine that was perched on the battered desk Fiona had rescued from a garage sale.

  “You still have his résumé?”

  “It’s around here somewhere.” Too late, she realized she shouldn’t have said that. She had an awful feeling. Fiona knew that tone. Bridgette was going to call Cutler and beg him to reconsider taking her out. Fiona wouldn’t have put it past her. “Look, we are up to our ears in guinea hens, Bridgette. Now if you’re going to help me, help me, don’t talk nonsense about looking at some résumé. I’ve got thirty-five more of these little birds to pack. And, unless you know some magic trick to make them hop into the boxes themselves, I suggest you start herding them into their proper places.”

  Bridgette slanted her sister a disgusted look. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”

  She’d heard all this before and more than once. You’d think Bridgette would get tired of saying it. “I’m happy the way I am.”

  Bridgette looked at the guinea hens they’d spent an hour dressing this morning. “What, playing dressup with chickens?”

  “No, making something of myself. Getting a business started. A good business.” Her chin went up, defying a man who no longer existed. “Dad never thought I’d amount to anything.”

  Gregarious and outgoing to the outside world, Shawn Reilly had turned a different face toward his family. Especially when he felt displeased. And he had never been pleased with Fiona.

  “Dad was an idiot. God rest his soul,” Bridgette tacked on mechanically.

  Relenting, Bridgette decided to leave Fiona alone for the time being. She had a lot on her mind. But as soon as she could, Bridgette promised herself that she was going to hunt up both that résumé and Mr. Sexiest-Voice-In-The-Whole-World. Fiona would thank her for it. Eventually.

  2

  He’d never believed in letting debts pile up. It didn’t matter if it was monetary or a debt of the spirit, a debt had to be paid. And quickly, if possible.

  It was something that Henry Cutler—Hank, to his friends—assumed had been taught to him by one of his parents, but was so ingrained in his nature that it seemed just as likely that the philosophy had settled deep into his bones at the moment of his conception. Repaying debts, or in this case, a kindness, was just part of his makeup, as much a part of him as his dark blond hair or his deep blue eyes.

  Adhering to his philosophy set Hank on his course of action the moment he hung up the telephone after vainly trying to find a way to express his gratitude to Fiona. Though he might talk slowly, his mind was lightning fast and he usually made it up quickly. This time was no exception. He was going to meet this shy Good Samaritan in person.

  It wouldn’t hurt to pick up a bouquet of flowers while he was at it, either, Hank decided.

  Flipping through the same telephone directory he’d used to locate Painless Parties, he looked for a florist that would be on his way there.

  Hank found one approximately two blocks from his destination. He jotted the address down below the one he’d already copied, then stuffed the piece of paper into his shirt pocket as he hurried out the front door. It was Saturday and far too beautiful a day to waste inside, or by himself.

  His car, a soothing metallic green import, sat waiting for him in the driveway. Unlike the house he now occupied, the sports car was his. A gift to himself after landing the largest advertising account in the history of Fraser and Smith, the firm he had outgrown and left behind in Butte, Montana.

  As he turned the key, the car purred like a kitten being scratched in a particularly favorable place. He’d gotten it for a song from its previous owner because it had had myriad problems. A natural knack for car repair had enabled him to get it up and running quickly. That and his brothers and sister, all of whom insisted on donating some time and energy toward the sports car’s recovery program.

  He had the car, now he needed a house. He’d buy a home here soon enough, Hank promised himself, backing out. For now, he was renting, but once he got six months under his belt with his new firm, a house was going to be the first thing on his agenda. Though he was far from greedy, he felt a man needed to own certain things. The roof over his head was one of them.

  That he was on the path toward getting it was due to a melodic voice on his answering machine. A voice he was now determined to put a face to.

  Whether the lady actually realized it or not, she was a lifesaver. If not for her, he would have missed making the best connection—so far—of his career. Collins Walker was a prestigious advertising firm that needed an experienced person to head up their newest division. He fit the bill perfectly and needed the opportunities that working for the large firm provided. They were made for each other.

  But it would have been a match destined never to materialize if Ms. Fiona Reilly hadn’t chosen to intervene at the right moment.

  That kind of thing, he thought, pulling up in front of the florist, simply could not go unnoticed. If she didn’t want to go out to dinner with him, he could accept that. But the least he could do was send her flowers.

  Or bring them to her.

  His mouth curved in response as the scent of flowers assailed him when he walked into the small shop. Sure beat walking into a stable first thing in the morning, he mused, thinking of the ranch he’d grown up on. He and his brothers and sister were raised on manners and hard work. That included pitching in and pitching hay before dawn was even a faint glimmer on the horizon.

  Carnations, he decided after a beat, seeing them on display behind the glass casing. A profusion of carnations. He’d never met a woman yet who didn’t like carnations. Not even his sister, Morgan, who, as the youngest, always tried to be as rough and tumble as the rest of them.

  Yes, carnations. Just personal enough, yet not quite intimate.

  Friendly.

  Like him.

  It was his mother who had taught him to give everything the personal touch. That meant calling instead of faxing, and in this case, bringing rather than sending.

  It was an edict that Hank firmly believed had gotten him where he was today: way ahead of some of his contemporaries at Fraser and Smith who were admittedly more talented but lacked that certain something when it came to making presentations and dealing with clients.

  Hank liked to call it heart.

  If there was anything he had, he thought as he made his selection and waited for the saleswoman to ring it up, it was heart.

  Ten minutes later, pleased with his choice and leaving a somewhat smitten woman in his wake, Hank walked out of the shop. With the greatest of care, he placed the flower arrangement on the passenger seat, then slowly folded himself up to fit in behind the wheel of his vehicle. Hank loved his sports car and knew it was great for his image, but he had to admit there were times it was hell on his legs and back. At a rangy six-four he’d become accustomed to not having things fit exactly right. This included his car.

  Turning the engine on, he eased down on the accelerator and pulled away from the c
urb. He was a man with a mission.

  No one answered.

  Hank pressed the doorbell again, listening this time to see if the thing actually worked. His father had disconnected their doorbell once to see about making it ring louder. It had never worked after that. Not that they had had all that many visitors on the ranch. The Shady Lady was too out of the way for most people. While growing up, he’d been itchy to leave himself and move to the big city. The same was true of all his siblings, except for Kent, who’d been born clutching a saddle horn.

  “Never thought I’d miss that old place,” he murmured to himself as he pressed the doorbell again.

  The doorbell worked, all right, but it was obviously being ignored since no one came to answer it. Hank glanced back at the driveway. There was a van standing there, with a huge logo comprised of caricatures partying wildly painted across its side. The van was backed up to the garage, its doors unlocked and partially open. He figured that, meant someone was home.

  After three more attempts Hank was debating his next move when he heard a faint cry of distress coming through the open window next to the front door. There was definitely someone home. Maybe they just couldn’t hear him ringing.

  Curious, wondering if someone needed help, Hank backed away from the door and began searching for another way in other than the open window. He didn’t fancy getting shot. Maybe there was a back door that was accessible. Gamely, he began to circle the house, keeping one eye peeled for a dog. His mother hadn’t raised any idiots.

  Fiona groaned again. Feeling suddenly boneless, she sank down onto a stool by the counter. She couldn’t have heard right. This had to be some kind of a bad dream.

  “No, no, you can’t do this to me, Alex, you just can’t.”

  The male voice on the other end of the line sighed deeply into her ear. “I didn’t exactly do it to you, Fiona. I did it to my ankle and believe me, spraining it wasn’t exactly something I had penciled in on my list of things to do for today.”