Rescued by a Millionaire. Marion Lennox

for Maggie.’

      ‘As you say.’ He smiled at that. ‘Yep. Hooray for Maggie.’ He lifted a can of beans. ‘Let’s get these heated. I need to go to bed.’

      ‘Let me cook,’ she told him, rising with her hands full of the smaller cans. ‘Give me ten minutes and I’ll throw together something that’s edible.’

      ‘Beans are edible.’ He sounded hurt.

      ‘Not in my book,’ she retorted. Then at the look on his face—for heaven’s sake, he looked like a pup who’d just been kicked!—she relented. ‘Tell you what. You try what I cook, and if you don’t like it you can heat your beans. How’s that for a deal?’

      ‘Very generous—seeing it’s my food.’

      Jenna grinned. ‘Noble’s my middle name. Why don’t you go away and I’ll call you when it’s ready?’

      ‘What, sit in the parlour and watch television on my chaise longue?’ Riley settled his long body onto a chair and placed his bare feet on the table. He leaned back, tilting his chair at a precarious angle and crossing his arms with the air of a man settling down to watch a show. ‘No way, Miss Svenson. For one thing, televisions and chaises longues are thin on the ground around here. For another, if you’re cooking my food then it’s my job to supervise. I can see that it’s my duty and I’m not a man to shirk my duty—especially if I can do it with a can of cold beer in my hand.’

      ‘Fine, then.’ Jenna swallowed the qualms she was feeling about being supervised by such a disconcerting male and she even managed a smile. She plonked two onions on the table, turned to the sink to collect a knife, and then faced him square on. ‘There is just one decision to be made.’

      ‘Which is?’ Riley was watching her with sudden caution. Which might have something to do with the very large knife she was now holding.

      ‘You have a choice,’ she told him. ‘The menu at the moment is stir-fried vegetables and rice, Chinese style. But unless those feet are removed, Riley Jackson, I’m adding fresh meat. Stir-fried toes, to be precise.’

      She raised her knife.

      There was a moment’s startled silence. He stared at the knife. He stared at his toes.

      He stared at her.

      His face changed.

      It was as if he thought she meant her threat, she thought incredulously. Or maybe…maybe she was threatening something else. Something he didn’t want threatened.

      The silence went on and on. Finally, still staring straight at her, he removed the offending toes.

      ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he drawled and it was as if his drawl was to hide some deeper emotion. He sat back and steadied his chair. ‘My toes aren’t on anyone’s menu.’

      ‘Just as well,’ she managed, lowering her knife and looking at the man before her with a slight frown. It was as if there were an electric charge underlying this light-hearted banter and she didn’t understand it one bit. ‘It’s my bet any toes of yours would be as tough as old boots.’