“What now?” Connor muttered under his breath. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
He donned a coat and left. When he returned, he bore a big splotch of mud on one cheek and one knee looked soaked but the howling had stopped.
“He got tied up in a rope.”
“Which is why I asked you to keep him penned up. He could get hurt.”
“Don’t worry. He’s back in the pen. I pushed a big stone urn against the place where he’d dug it out.” Connor stood in the kitchen under the overhead fixture, his face solemn. The light cast a glow on his hair, illuminating tiny silver droplets that glinted like diamonds.
“As long as he’s out of the way. I like dogs. I don’t like seeing them hurt.” She gave him her severest glare.
“I’m sorry I questioned your professionalism,” Connor said softly. At least he sounded genuine. “I’m nervous about running this place for the uncles and not running into any hitches. I guess I took it out on you. I apologize. To all of you.”
“I think it’s the weather. It’s getting to all of us.” Kent swallowed the last of his coffee. The dryer buzzer broke the awkward silence. He rose. “Our clothes are dry and we’ve still got work to do. Might as well get back at it. Come on, Quint.”
“Do a quick assessment of the worst of them but don’t start any more cutting until I’m out there. Got it?” she emphasized when they didn’t respond.
“Got it.” Kent shared a look with his son, jerked his head toward Rowena. “She’s worse than your mother ever was.”
Quint burst into laughter, winking at Rowena. “I’ll make sure he bundles up and has a clean handkerchief, too. Okay?”
“Very funny. Get back to work,” Rowena ordered, hiding her smile. She watched them unload the dryer and return to the basement to change. Then she faced Connor, intent on getting this settled once and for all.
“You look mad. You’re going to bawl me out, aren’t you?” The corners of his eyes crinkled with his self-mocking smile.
“Yes, I am,” she assured him.
“Don’t bother. I know I shouldn’t have questioned your authority. I won’t do it again.”
“Uh-huh. Until tomorrow, anyway.” How could she stay angry with someone like him? “I’m not kidding about this, Connor. These men work for me. If I went to your staff without talking to you, you wouldn’t like it.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’ve already apologized, Rowena.”
He’d called her by her first name. Wonder of wonders.
“Yes, you have.” That zap of awareness fluttered in her stomach. She ignored it.
“You want me to repeat it?”
“No.” She almost smiled at the thought of Connor Wingate apologizing twice for the same misstep—unthinkable!
“Then…”
Rowena settled back in her chair. “What is it about me that’s so hard for you to trust? Do I look like a crook or something?”
“Hardly. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you you’re a beautiful woman.” He leaned his elbows on the counter, watching her.
Beautiful? With mud oozing from every pore of her grimy body? Yeah, right. Gorgeous.
“Now you’re being mean.”
“Mean?” Confusion darkened his eyes to bronze.
She was so not going to argue about her unbeautiful self.
“Forget it.” Rowena rose, stared down at her odd attire. “I think my clothes should be dry by now. I need to get back to work.”
He checked her out, a little grin twisting his lips. “That shirt looks better on you than it ever did on my Uncle Henry.”
She found his appraisal uncomfortable, and stayed silent.
He chuckled. “As compliments go, I guess that one missed the mark. Let me rephrase.”
She shook her head. “Don’t bother.”
Who wanted to be told she looked better than a sixty-five-year-old balding man with a potbelly? Even if that old gent was a sweetheart? Rowena stepped around Connor, walked to the dryer and lifted out her clothes.
“Mind if I use the bathroom again?”
“Help yourself.” Connor remained silent until she was almost out of the kitchen. “Rowena?”
“Yes?” Surprised by his stern tone, she turned, frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“Stay away from the terraces. I’m calling someone in to repair them. Until the work is done, they’re off-limits—to all of you.”
That rendered her speechless for about ten seconds, long enough for him to leave the room. By then it was too late to say thank you. Connor had disappeared.
“I’m willing to pay whatever it takes.” Connor switched the phone to his other ear. “I just want it done as soon as possible. You’ll stop by to give an estimate tomorrow? Good. Thanks.”
He hung up, paused to study the threesome working outside. Actually, his interest rested primarily on the small woman manhandling brush into some kind of chopper.
How did she do it? She could have died out there this afternoon, yet she picked herself up, cleaned herself up and got on with the job.
Connor knew it would be a long time before the picture of Rowena sucking in that first breath of life was erased from his brain. No way he was going to let anything like that happen again, regardless of the cost. He’d gladly pay to be free of the image of one or both of his uncles one day buried in just such a mess with no one around to help.
“Mr. Wingate?”
Esther Padderson had been his uncles’ trusty office assistant for as long as Connor could remember. He couldn’t get used to her calling him “Mister.”
She stood in the doorway, shorthand tablet in one hand.
“I don’t know why you can’t call me the same name you’ve used for years,” he complained. “I’m still Connor.”
She ignored him. “Yes, Mr. Wingate. Chef Pierre is on the line. He says he’s not coming back this year.”
Connor jerked upright. “According to his contract, he is. Or else he’s going to owe Wingate Manor a lot of money.” He translated the look on Esther’s face to mean she wasn’t going to be the one to tell the temperamental chef what he’d said. “Okay, I’m coming. But while I’m talking to him I’d like you to prepare some advertising copy.”
“To replace Pierre, you mean?” She looked scandalized. “But he does this every year.”
“Really? And my uncles put up with not knowing whether he’ll show or not?” Connor shook his head. “I don’t operate like that. Either he’s going to be here or we make other plans.”
“He won’t like it.” Esther worried as she followed him to the office.
“Tough. He gets top dollar for his work here, free accommodation, the winters off to spend with his family in France. He’s not hurting.” Connor accepted the phone, waited till she’d clicked a button on the console. “Hello, Pierre. I understand you’re resigning.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Esther leave the room, gray head shaking. Connor sat down, tilted back in his chair. He listened for about ten seconds, then cut in.
“You’re not sure? Well, I’ve got an ad waiting to run. I can’t wait for you to dither back and forth. I want