He remained a couple paces behind her. “Do you, now? And what is my type?”
“The type I’m not interested in,” she said, her arms swaying on either side of her. He liked how her long thick ponytail flowed from side to side, matching the soft curves of her hip and ass as it moved to a tantalizing rhythm.
“You don’t know anything about me. How do you know if you would like my type or not?” he asked.
She stopped, the edge of the path just ahead of her, where it broke off into the well-maintained gardens surrounding the castle. He had been amazed when, upon his arrival just a few hours ago, he’d learned that a skeleton crew maintained the land and castle. There were only a few household servants, and there had to be a gardener, with as magnificent of a view the yard around the old structure provided, although he hadn’t spotted any outdoor staff yet.
Jordan snapped his attention from her ass to her face when she spun around and shoved her long ponytail over her shoulder. He decided he liked how the spaghetti strap to her halter top almost crept off her shoulder, aiding in showing off her small bone structure and slender shoulders.
She shoved a nicely manicured finger into his chest. “I know what I need to know about you,” she hissed, stepping close enough that he could see cobalt flecks bordering her irises. They helped her blue eyes darken when her emotions were running strong, as they obviously were now. “You are the one who thinks acting like a badass will impress a girl, make her take a risk, invite an adventure. You think you can play me, take what you want, and then gallivant on to the next pretty girl who strikes your fancy.”
“Ouch.” Jordan noticed she said “girl” and not “lady.” That would definitely make her not Harvard. Probably not Yale or Stanford either, although he wouldn’t swear to the latter. He also concluded she wasn’t from New Zealand, although her American accent had already given a hint to that. Kiwis were usually pretty friendly folk, and this woman came equipped with a double-edged dagger. He hated admitting his intrigue. What he did know was he couldn’t let her see it, or she might very well hand him his head on a platter. “You’ve pegged me wrong, my lady,” he drawled, using his best Montana accent. “And as well, you’ve offered me a challenge. One I’m up to, I might add. For now, though, I’ll bid you good day.” If only he wore a hat. Tipping it in parting would play the part out perfectly. Instead, Jordan stepped around her, forcing her to jump to the side to avoid brushing against him. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again very soon.” He picked up his pace, heading to the castle, and as an afterthought, opted to head to the back of the building instead of the front. Making it look like he would enter through the servant entrance, or possibly even head to the stables, would keep her guessing.
Soon enough she would know who he really was.
Amber Stone walked down the wide hallway, her tennis shoes making a dull thudding sound on the glossy stone floor. Beautiful, ornate carpets, which were narrow and probably cost more than any paycheck she’d ever earned, silenced her footsteps when she walked over them. She paused and looked into a dimly lit library. Its tall bookcases filled with hardback books appeared ominous, as if all the secrets they held weren’t for her. Amber never understood anyone who would willingly sit in a boring room all day reading a book, when everything anyone needed to learn came from experiences in living, not in fantasizing about someone else’s life.
She hurried past the room, turning and hesitating at the glass doors, which closed off a room she wasn’t sure what to call. Amber imagined royalty sitting in there, passing the time of day in accepted boredom while servants took care of their every need. It was a life she couldn’t imagine, and honestly didn’t want to try.
Walking quickly, she reached the far corner of the first floor of the castle and pushed open the thick wooden door, immediately inhaling something sweet mixed with the mouthwatering smell of coffee.
“Please tell me there is a fresh cup available,” she said, smiling at the older woman who turned curiously and stared at her.
“Coffee, ma’am?” The woman’s gray hair was thick and bundled up on her head. Her accent sounded Irish, making her the perfect cook for this kitchen, which stole Amber away to another time.
“Oh God, please. But I’m not a ma’am. Just call me Amber.” She reached out and touched the woman’s cool, soft arm when the cook hurried around the corner of the island counter, wiping her hands on her apron and then reaching for a cabinet. “I can get it. Just tell me where everything is.”
“I don’t think…”
“I insist. Whatever you’re making smells so good I don’t want to interrupt you. And I don’t need to be waited on,” she added firmly. “I can get my own coffee.”
The back door opened with a bang, causing Amber and the older woman to jump and turn to acknowledge a man, probably close to the cook’s age, hurry in so quickly he slid to a stop. “You wouldn’t believe…” he began.
“Jesse,” the older woman scolded at the same time the man spotted Amber and clamped his mouth shut. “Mind your manners,” she added, lowering her tone as if she didn’t intend for Amber to hear her. “There is company in the kitchen.”
“Lord, I’m not company.” Amber opened two cabinets before finding enough coffee cups to serve an army. Grabbing one of them, she admired the white, eggshell porcelain as she walked over to the industrial size coffeepot and put the cup under the spout. “My name is Amber Stone. I take it you’re Jesse,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the older man who stood planted where he’d stopped, staring at her with watery brown eyes. “And your name is?” she asked, nodding at the older woman.
“I’m Cook,” the older woman informed her, returning to her task of kneading out dough.
“Cook, huh.” Amber carried her cup around the island, set it down, then spotted a stool up against the far wall. She dragged it noisily to the island and propped herself on it. “You’ve got a name, don’t you?” she pressed.
Cook folded the dough in half, pressed with the balls of her hands, then repeated the process.
Amber glanced at Jesse, but he still hadn’t moved. Obviously these two didn’t get a lot of visitors. Their social skills sucked. Amber sipped the coffee and hummed her approval.
“I don’t want to call you Cook. What’s your name?”
Cook straightened, her eyes as pale a brown as the man’s behind her, although their accents were very different. “It’s a name you want, is it?” she asked crossly. “Fine, then, you’ll have my name. It is Anne Marie Francis Margaret McGillicutty.”
“Wow, that is one hell of a name,” Amber said, hoping she sounded sincere. She glanced at Jesse. “Do you have as long of a name?”
“Nope. Just Jesse,” he said, still not moving.
“What do your friends call you, Anne Marie Francis Margaret McGillicutty?” Amber asked.
“Cook,” she said, returning to her dough.
Amber stared at Cook’s thick gray hair, which was loose around her temples in spite of many hairpins attempting to keep it in place. Then, laughing easily at the comical situation, and wondering for the one hundredth time what the hell she was doing here, she wiped her eyes, still laughing.
Cook looked up at her, stopped her kneading, stared for a moment, and then broke into laughter as well. As if that were his cue to relax, Jesse hurried around the island, grabbing a cup and helping himself to coffee as well.
“How long have you two been here?” Amber asked, feeling the tension in the large, spacious kitchen