this was all over, she would donate it to a women’s shelter.
She dried off and then slipped into her slightly damp underwear. Pulling on her skirt and blouse, she stepped into her shoes. It was too hot for the jacket, and she absolutely refused to wear pantyhose on a ranch or farm or whatever this was.
Her stomach growled. She took a quick look around the bathroom to be sure she hadn’t left anything out of place. The room was small, but she had to admit she preferred the old-fashioned claw-foot tub to the Jacuzzi in her own spa-like bathroom.
She didn’t call out to Jericho, knowing instinctively that he wasn’t in the house. It felt too empty. Although she remembered where the kitchen was, she took a detour. Last night she’d been too nervous and then too relieved to notice much of anything. Now her curiosity got the better of her and she decided to look around.
She entered the living room and slid her finger across an end table, leaving a clean mark in the thin layer of dust. She picked up a framed photo, and her breath caught. It was a picture of Jericho and Jeanette. He was holding Jeanette in his lap as they sat in a tree swing. They were smiling and their eyes were lit with laughter. Suddenly feeling like a voyeur, Camille replaced the picture and hurried from the room into the kitchen. She’d ended her friendship with Jeanette, forfeiting the right to know about her life and her marriage.
If she was going to ensure Jericho allowed her to stay, she needed to prove her value to him. There probably wasn’t any use for her skills as a financial wizard, but she could cook and clean for him.
Camille opened the refrigerator and groaned. The pickings were definitely slim. There were half a dozen eggs, a hunk of cheese, a carton of milk and half a bottle of orange juice. She didn’t see how a man the size of Jericho managed on so little food. She rummaged through his pantry and found one onion. A two-egg omelet would be a start, but there was no way he would get full simply eating eggs.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she muttered under her breath. She opened cabinets and canisters to see what she had to work with, finding flour, baking powder and sugar. Homemade pancakes along with the omelet would be a somewhat more substantial breakfast.
Humming to herself, she mixed the ingredients in a large bowl. Though she had always loved cooking, she hadn’t made anything more involved than toast or a microwave meal in years. Being a rising star in the banking world required sacrifice and all of her time. Fortunately, cooking was like riding a bike, but without the sore calves. There was something soothing about pouring the batter onto a sizzling pan and watching golden pancakes materialize.
When they were done, she put the plate containing a dozen midsize pancakes in the oven to keep warm, then headed out the door. Jericho had to be somewhere. Hopefully, he would recognize her peace offering for what it was without her having to tell him.
She walked down the back stairs, surprised to see a brick patio surrounding an in-ground pool and hot tub. She skirted a table and chairs and hurried in the direction of a large building. Shadow was chasing a squirrel across the grass, having great fun. She doubted the squirrel found the game as amusing as he did. When the dog spotted her, he abandoned the squirrel and ran over, wagging his tail a mile a minute.
“Where’s your master?” she asked. The dog cocked his head, barked twice and sat on his haunches. He lifted his paw as if offering to shake. Clearly there was a failure to communicate.
She patted his head briefly. Shadow considered her for a moment, then raced around the yard as if searching for the squirrel so they could continue playing. Although she found the dog’s antics amusing and could have watched him for hours, she was on a mission.
As Camille stepped into the stable, she inhaled the sweet smell of hay mingled with leather and pine. She expected to see horses, but the stalls were empty. Perhaps they were in a pasture or corral or whatever it was called. She needed to learn how to speak country.
She walked down the center aisle that separated the stalls until she reached the back of the building. Jericho was in a small room rubbing soap on a saddle. From the intense way he was scrubbing, she wouldn’t be surprised if he rubbed a hole into the leather. The muscles on his arms bunched and flexed beneath his shirt.
She must have made a sound because he turned and looked up, one eyebrow raised. He stared at her without speaking, and she suddenly felt self-conscious. Instead of flinching the way she wanted, she raised her chin and spoke with a confidence she didn’t feel. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just wanted you to know I made breakfast.”
He grunted, nodded toward a ceramic mug and turned back to his work. “I had coffee.”
“Pancakes. And omelets.” She twisted the hem of her blouse, unsure if she’d made the right decision. Naturally she started to babble, a habit she thought she’d overcome in finishing school. “Well, the pancakes are in the oven staying warm. I haven’t made the eggs yet. But I did grate the cheese and dice the onions. It’ll only take a minute to throw them together.”
He was silent for so long she didn’t think he was going to answer. Finally he looked at her again, his eyes unreadable. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
“I don’t mind,” she rushed to assure him. “I like to cook.”
He frowned, and her heart sank. Obviously she’d said the wrong thing. “I should have said I don’t need you cooking for me.”
She swallowed her hurt. She didn’t like him, so why did it bother her that he didn’t like her either? She’d never been the sensitive type. Apparently the stress of the situation was getting to her. “Okay. But since I already have, maybe you can eat this time? I would hate for good food to go to waste.”
He stared at her so long it took monumental effort not to squirm. “Fine. This time.”
She felt his eyes on her as he followed her to the house. Part of her wished she could throw away the food, but she’d been raised to know that wasting anything was sinful.
She cooked the omelets, pleased that she hadn’t lost her ability to make them perfectly. After he washed his hands, he removed the platter of pancakes from the oven. He placed half on her plate and the other half on his own. She added the omelets, poured juice and joined him at the table.
“There’s only butter. I couldn’t find syrup.”
“Don’t have any.” He cut his pancakes with the side of his fork. “I guess you’ll have to make do, something new for a spoiled rich kid like you.”
She swallowed the snarky reply on her lips. She wasn’t going to fight with him so he would have an excuse to put her out. Besides, she’d been insulted before. She’d endured slights both subtle and blatant. Women didn’t make it to the top of her male-dominated field if they were shrinking violets. Most men resented her brains and her success. She’d shot down those she could and ignored those she couldn’t.
She tucked into her breakfast, pleased to see that he was eating his without further comment. Now that she had a closer look at him, she realized he’d lost weight. He was still muscular and no doubt strong, but he could stand to put on a few pounds. Perhaps grief had stolen his appetite. Or maybe he didn’t like to cook.
He’d told her he didn’t need her to cook for him, but maybe he’d said that only because he was annoyed that she’d disturbed him. He certainly seemed to be enjoying his breakfast. Or maybe later on he planned to accuse her of being a pampered princess. Whatever, she wasn’t going to give him an excuse to kick her out. She’d pull her weight while she was here.
They finished the meal in silence. When he’d eaten the last bit of eggs, he carried his dishes to the sink, gave her one last glance and left without saying a word.
She heaved a heavy sigh. At least he hadn’t told her to leave.
Camille washed the dishes, wiped the counters and