“So it’s me you object to, not the food?” He folded his arms.
She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and riffled through the files. Wait—not her desk,hisdesk. “I never object to food, only to the time it takes to consume it,” she said distractedly.
Her words, or rather the words she didn’t say, stung. “Are you so shallow that you can’t stand to share a table with an ugly man?”
Her eyes lifted from her task. “Find me one and I’ll let you know.” He barely had time to register that she’d complimented his looks, in a backhanded and roundabout way, before she was on her feet and headed for the door again. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get this signed by Mr. Wong before they can add the koi to the pond behind their house. There are several fish in a bucket who don’t look at all pleased with their current accommodations.”
She left, leaving a trail of her delicate scent behind her. Adam sniffed the air, trying to discern what exactly was in the exotic scent. Some kind of flower and perhaps pineapple. No, that wasn’t right. There wasn’t sharpness at all, only softness and deep scents. Like peonies. They had those in the garden before his mother died.
He stormed into the kitchens and found his cook, Mrs. Poole, stirring a pot over the stove. The scents of cinnamon and sugar mingled with marinated steak and boiling broccoli. Her grandson, Corbon, was at the side table, a math book in front of him and the end of the pencil tucked between his lips as he worked over a problem. The kid was bright, and as long as he kept his grades up, which Adam checked on regularly, he’d continue to pay for the expensive private school education.
“Mr. Moreau, you startled me bursting in here like that.” Mrs. Poole wiped her hands on her apron. “Would you like a cookie?” She popped the lid off the cookie jar on the counter. It was the same jar she’d had since Adam’s father had hired her thirty years ago. He’d grown up sneaking cookies out of that jar.
To eat one today, he’d have to take off his mask. He hadn’t dared expose more than Ben to the sight of his facial scars. They were red, puffy, and ugly, and he could only imagine how grotesque he looked when he chewed his food. “Not today, thank you.”
“Well, then, what can I do for you?”
“Bella Creer, the lawyer’s assistant …”
Mrs. Poole’s eyes widened slightly. “Yes?”
“Does she eat here?”
Mrs. Poole sighed. “I’ve not seen heads or tails of her in the kitchen or dining room with the servants when they take their meals.”
“The study garbage is full of granola wrappers and such, though,” added Corbon.
“How do you know this?” Adam’s tone was sharper than he’d intended to use on the child, but he didn’t amend it.
“I empty all the garbage cans on the first floor.” Corbon glanced at Mrs. Poole. “Grams says I have to do my chores.”
“She’s right.” Adam hadn’t ever had chores growing up. He had maids and footmen and butlers. “And one of your new chores is to make sure Bella eats a good meal every day.” Perhaps she’d listen to a child.
Mrs. Poole draped an arm over Corbon’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of her.” She nodded once, her eyes sparkling with understanding.
Adam didn’t like the look she gave him. Like there was something more to his request than a desire to have his legal counsel in tip-top health. “See that you do.” He left before Mrs. Poole’s knowing smirk could grate his last nerve down to a stump. He didn’t care about Bella as a woman; he cared that The Cove was in the best hands possible. Everyone knew that when blood sugar dropped, the brain’s ability to function went down considerably. Rational decision-making grew more difficult. Bella was pointlessly putting his investment at risk, and he wouldn’t stand for it. If she wouldn’t watch out for herself, then he’d simply have to watch out for her.
Chapter Eight
Bella
Bella came back from the Wongs’ with the signed paperwork in hand. She’d taken a picture with her phone and emailed it to the conservation association and the Department of Fish and Wildlife.
Her phone rang. An icon of a horse popped up on her screen. “Mr. West, hello.”
“Hi, Bella.”
She couldn’t help but smile at the Texas drawl as thick as butter. Jamon West was a cowboy who’d made his first fifty million dollars figuring out how to save a lame horse’s life. Through investments and a few more inventions, he’d become a billionaire and had bought the lot right across the street from Adam’s castle. Well, right across the street was a relative term when the lots were twenty-plus acres.
Jamon’s house was on schedule for him to move into in less than a month; however, they’d hit a snag between his schedule and the landscaper’s. The general contractor was freaking out because of the issue, and she’d offered to smooth things over with the homeowner. She hoped this phone call was the answer to their problems.
“What can I do for you today?” She didn’t have to work that hard to be polite to the guy. Jamon was pretty easygoing as far as billionaires went. Not at all like her demanding boss. Sheesh, that guy could put a lion to shame with his quick temper.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel our meeting again. I’ve had a family emergency come up.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She clicked open her calendar app. The landscaper was scheduled to start work on the Temples’ property. She couldn’t put that off; the resident had specific needs.
“I was also thinking that I’d like to reconsider the layout of the arena and round pen,” added Jamon.
