THE COMEBACK OF CON MACNEILL Read online

  "Sean. He works construction, mostly. He's good with his hands."

  It all sounded very macho. Val tried to reconcile the blue-collar brothers with Harvard and her father's bank. She couldn't.

  "Your parents must have been proud of you, the first one to go to college and all."

  A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Yes."

  She sighed. Deal or no deal, they were obviously not going to have a cozy conversation about family expectations. "What brings you down to the Carolinas?"

  "Your father offered me a job."

  "There are jobs in Boston."

  He shrugged. "I wanted to get out of town for a while."

  "Why?"

  The hard, cool eyes touched her briefly. "Personal reasons."

  "That's enlightening. Are all the MacNeills as talkative as you?"

  Absurd pleasure warmed her when a corner of his mouth quirked up in a smile. "That's us," he agreed. "Chatty as hell. Can I see your books now?"

  She glanced around the emptying dining room. Unfortunately, nothing was going on that would claim her attention. Ann was making nice to some ladies in coordinated short sets and diamond tennis bracelets who were lingering over lunch, Doralee was bussing tables, Jenny was in the kitchen.

  Con leaned forward again. "Look, I can't approve withdrawals against your loan until I have some overall picture of expenses. The sooner I get a crack at the budget, the sooner you get your money."

  Shoot. As much as she resented admitting it, he was right. Reluctantly, Val stood. "We'll have to go to my office."

  Con pushed open the door for her before she could get it herself. She snatched up his water glass and marched through ahead of him. Nodding to Steven on her way through the kitchen, she deposited the used glass with the pile waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher.

  "This way," she said, skirting a stack of cartons piled in the hall. "Through here."

  Space was at a premium in a restaurant. Every square foot used by the back of the house took away profitable seating from the dining room. Val's office was small and cramped and flooded with bills, receipts, menus, recipes, newspaper clippings and order forms. Her desk was swamped. Her files overflowed. Her bulletin board was buried under schedules, and the pile on her chair had spilled over to the floor.

  She glared at MacNeill, daring him to say something.

  He turned around slowly in the middle of the room. "Interesting decor."

  She didn't think for one minute that he was referring to the MOMA poster over her desk or the whimsical ceramic pig that held her pencils.

  She tossed her head. "I don't have a lot of time to spend back here. My first priority's always been the kitchen."

  "And your customers." He nodded as if he understood.

  "Exactly." She relaxed slightly, coming forward to perch on an exposed corner of her desk. "I guess when I opened I figured that if I served good food in an attractive location, the books would see to themselves."

  "Well, now you've got me to see to them. Where do you want me to set up?"

  His dismissive tone stirred her resentment. She didn't want him sitting at her desk. Maybe she didn't spend much time there herself, but she felt that holding on to the desk would remind them all, MacNeill and her father and herself, that Wild Thymes was still hers—an outlet for her creativity, an expression of her independence, a haven for every friend in need she had.

  Jammed into the corner of the office, an old typing table teetered under its load of papers.

  "There," she said impulsively.

  One dark eyebrow flicked up.

  "It will look better after I clear it," she said.

  "That would certainly help," Con agreed impassively.

  Val escaped to fetch an empty carton from the hall, fighting an unwelcome spurt of guilt at the thought of his long legs crammed under that puny table. His comfort was not her responsibility. She'd certainly never asked for Mr. Business Solutions to invade her office and her life.

  But she hesitated in the doorway, holding the box protectively in front of her, troubled by an unexpected pang. "Or you could work in the dining room."

  Con turned, a sliding stack of folders in his arms. "Maybe I will, some mornings. But your records are in here. Which reminds me … I'd like anything you've got that documents the way you do business. Accounting records, purchase orders, tax records, that sort of thing. Normally I'd also ask for some kind of statement of purpose or market strategy, but—"

  She cocked her head to one side. "You mean, like a business plan?"

  He didn't apologize, but he smiled, exposing big, white, even teeth. The better to eat you with, my dear.

  "You have one?"

  "Of course I have one. I needed it to get the original loan. I'm not completely ignorant of standard business practices."

  Of course. Con cursed his quick assumption. Where the hell was his usual detachment?

  He eyed the woman framed in the doorway, her exuberant hair and mismatched earrings a contrast to her capable hands and cameo face. She was like an asymmetric equation, he thought, the two sides of her personality existing in uneasy equilibrium.

  He'd always liked his sums to come out even. But just because Val Cutler upset his sense of balance and whetted his appetite was no excuse for his drawing sloppy conclusions about her business.

  "I'll take a look at it," he said.

  "I can hardly wait."

  He had to turn away to hide his grin.

  But half an hour later, all impulse to smile had faded completely. The restaurant's records were a mess. In an attempt to keep track of her finances, Val had labeled numerous folders and envelopes to save things in. Peering inside yet another stuffed and dated file, Con felt the muscle in his jaw start to twitch. Apparently, she saved everything. How could he begin to advise her when he couldn't figure out how much she spent or what she owed?

  But Edward Cutler wasn't paying him to write his daughter off as hopeless. Grimly, Con loosened his tie, rolled up his sleeves and got to work.

  * * *

  Val stopped in her office door, appalled. "What on earth do you think you're doing?"

  She'd had to give out two free lunches today because the Misses Minniton were disappointed that the vegetable lasagna they'd ordered didn't include ground beef. Her produce purveyor had threatened not to come back unless she paid up her account immediately. She'd bussed tables, baked and seasoned potatoes for tomorrow's quesadillas, dusted the moldings in the dining room and scrubbed pots. She was dirty and tired. Her back hurt.

  And now her office looked like it had been hit by a bomb. Or an efficiency expert.

  Con looked up briefly from the stack on his lap and then pitched something—a cooking magazine, she saw as the cover flashed by—at a carton at her feet. Similar cartons, apparently dragged in from the hall, lined the walls and dotted the floor. "Cleaning."

  She pounced on the magazine and hugged it to her chest along with the zippered bag that held the day's take. "You can't just throw that away. There are recipes in here."

  He paused. "Have you used any of them?"

  "No, but—"

  "Have you changed your menu at all since you opened?"

  "I change at least a few items every week to take advantage of seasonal produce," she retorted.

  "Using recipes from this magazine?"

  "No. But I was planning to go through them when I had the time."

  "Trust me. You don't have time." And he tossed another magazine on the pile.

  Val restrained herself from flinching. Or screaming. She wasn't going to make a fool of herself wrestling for every issue. She stepped forward cautiously into her office, noting scraps and stacks of paper half-filling other boxes. "What else are you throwing away?"

  "Anything over three months old that hasn't received or doesn't require follow-up. All duplicates of reports, regulations or information. Any interesting articles you've collected in the mistaken belief that you'll read them later." He reached behind him to put a sl
im sheaf of papers on the tiny typing table. "That's all."

  "All?" Val repeated, her voice strident. She took a deep breath, hoping to relax her vocal cords. Hoping to relax.

  "All so far," he amended.

  Well, shoot. She should have suspected that any-old-corner-will-do-for-me routine of his was an act. She'd never known a man who didn't mark the boundaries of his territory.

  "All right," she said carefully. "I admit my office needs organizing—"

  "Your office needs gasoline and a match."

  Unexpectedly, she laughed, surprising them both. He looked so frustrated, sitting there, his long legs drawn up to avoid the piles around him, his tie askew. He looked hot. And almost human. And very, very attractive.

  Never mind attractive. He was invading her space.

  "You know, your attitude could use a little adjustment," she offered.

  He narrowed those stunning blue eyes at her. "What?"

  Val perched on the edge of her desk, dropping the bag behind her, swinging her sneakers back and forth. He didn't intimidate her. She wouldn't let him.

  "You're a consultant, right? So, aren't we supposed to, like, consult? Shouldn't you ask me before you waltz into my office and start tossing things out?"

  His lean, clever face shuttered up. "I need to organize before I start work on your books."

  "All right. I'm not a dummy. I understand that. But if we talked about it ahead of time, maybe I could help you find what you need. Or maybe I have personal stuff I don't want you getting into. Just ask me, okay?"

  Con's shoulders squared defensively. The Lady of the Lake was not his client. Edward Cutler was, and Cutler had specifically instructed him to take charge, to take over. Con was comfortable with that. He was used to going his own way. At Millennium, his ability to make tough calls had earned him big bucks and an office with a view of Federal Street.

  Of course, one of those calls had also gotten him fired. Which was one reason why he was in self-imposed exile in Hicksville, North Carolina, getting lectured by the goddess of sprouts and tofu.

  She watched him expectantly, gray eyes glowing in her porcelain-perfect face. He could have resisted cajoling. He would have brushed off anger. But he wasn't proof against her reasonable appeal.

  "You could be right," he admitted stiffly. "I haven't been a consultant very long."

  Her smile broke over her face like sunshine. He felt amply rewarded for his concession … and that made him question his judgment. Was he responding to her argument? Or to her?

  She hopped from her desk. "Well, that's settled, then. I'm off to the bank."

  "Why?"

  She held up a gray zippered bag. "Daily deposit," she explained. "My purveyors are begging—demanding, really—to be paid."

  Con frowned. "Shouldn't you enter your numbers before you leave?"

  "I'll do it when I get back."

  Her airy reply set off his internal alarm system. "I can do it for you. What's your take?"

  She gave a short, embarrassed laugh. "I, um, have the bank add up the deposit. To avoid errors."

  "Banks make errors, too," he informed her. "Give me your receipts. I'll total them for you."

  In Val's experience, offers of help came with strings attached.

  "No, thank you," she said politely. "The teller does it."

  He held out his strong, broad palm. "Not anymore."

  In spite of that calm tone, she recognized his resolve.

  She dangled the bag between them. "What makes you think I'm just going to hand this over to you?"

  He raised one eyebrow. "Maybe the fact that you need me to countersign those checks to your vendors? Unless you have enough money in that bag to pay them all yourself."

  Fury flushed her cheeks. So, Con MacNeill's earlier concession, like his apparent agreeableness regarding his desk, had just been a ploy to put her off her guard. Plainly, this Yankee carpetbagger was determined to do everything he could to show her up, to interfere in her business and prove her unequal to the task of running her own restaurant.

  Shoot, darn, dang and triple blast him.

  Silently, she handed over the bag.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  «^»

  Something didn't add up.

  Con hunched over the laptop balanced on his thighs, stabbing at the closely spaced keys. Maybe it was Val Cutler's arithmetic. Maybe, in his massive overhaul of her office, he'd missed something, or misplaced something. Val's presence was a compelling distraction, and her scattershot approach to bookkeeping made piecing together a clear financial picture of her business a challenge. But after three days of shoveling out her office, it seemed to Con that Wild Thymes was doing a brisk-enough turnover for its owner to be making some money.

  So where the hell did it go?

  Con frowned, glancing toward the doorway. Val had excused herself several hours ago to deal with the lunchtime crowd, but traces of her crammed the tiny room. A canvas tote printed with dancing tomatoes swung from the back of her chair. A mug shaped like a pig smirked at him from the top of a towering stack of papers. All his efforts over the last few days still hadn't cleared that desk. He might as well be back sharing a room with his kid brother Sean. There was even a naked lady posed on the museum poster above the desk's cluttered surface, reclining with perfect confidence in the jungle while lions peered from the brilliant foliage surrounding her.

  Damn, it was hot in here. If Con closed his eyes, he could almost smell Val's scent lingering in the humid air, a floating combination of spices and vanilla, tempting as cookies and milk to a hungry teenage boy.

  His cell phone twittered. Con felt behind him with one hand, silently cursing the interruption and the lack of space.

  "MacNeill."

  "Heavens, Mack, you sound like a bear."

  Even through the hissing connection, Con identified the light superiority he'd once mistaken for class, the casual unkindness he'd once confused with humor. He hadn't forgiven himself yet for that outstanding failure in judgment.

  "Hello, Lynn," he said coldly. "I thought I told you not to call me at this number."

  "Well, and I wouldn't, if I had any other way to reach you. Are you even checking your voice mail?"

  "Regularly," he assured her. "What do you want?"

  Her well-bred voice crept up a breathless half octave, Katharine Hepburn imitating Marilyn Monroe. "I heard from Josh Wainbridge you'd applied for financial vice president at Northern Ventucom."

  Con tightened his grip on the flimsy handset, squelching his instinctive anger at her prying. What was the saying? Money talked. And in Boston, rumor ran wild wherever the elite gathered: in boardrooms and bedrooms, over tee holes and teacups. Apparently even leaving town hadn't discouraged the gossips. Outsider Con had shrugged off the jealous speculation that accompanied his rise. He would endure the malicious whispers that followed his fall.

  "Word travels fast."

  "Josh says you're sure to be called for an interview."

  Satisfaction, fierce and sweet, almost robbed Con of his breath. "So?"

  "Well, I was wondering…" The coyness in his ex-fiancée's voice made him profoundly uneasy. "If you're going to be back in town, anyway… Are you coming to our little celebration next week?"

  It took Con a second to make the leap from job prospects to matrimonial plans. Even then, he couldn't quite grasp what Lynn was asking. Or rather, why.

  "The bachelor party?"

  She sighed, as if forced to explain to a small and backward child. "Not a bachelor party, Mack. Some men don't feel the need to indulge in puerile experimentation with alcohol and lap dancers just because they're contemplating marriage."

  He turned away from the open doorway, bending his legs to keep his computer from sliding off his lap. "Depends who you're contemplating marriage with, I guess."

  When he was engaged to Lynn, his own brothers had wanted to throw him a wake.

  She must not have remembered. "Are you coming? Next Friday
?"

  "No."

  "But it will look so odd if you don't. You and Todd used to be such friends."

  "It will look pretty odd if I do," Con said levelly. "Seeing as you and I used to be engaged."

  "But that's the whole idea. I want everyone to see there are no hard feelings."

  She wanted everyone to see, all right. Appearances meant everything to Lynn. Nothing would give her more pleasure than to show off her ex-lover and her future husband at a party of two hundred or so of their closest mutual friends. Con didn't love her anymore—hell, maybe his brother Sean was right, maybe he'd never loved her—but he'd rather stand naked at noon on Boston Common than expose his supposed feelings for his former colleagues' amusement Not to mention their speculation about his job prospects.

  I heard from Josh Wainbridge… Pride squared his shoulders.

  "Sorry. I'm on a job down here, Lynn. Even if I fly up for the day, I can't take time to socialize."

  "Oh, Mack." Her voice softened. "I forgot how painful all this must be for you. I'm so sorry, darling."

  If it made her feel better to imagine he was hiding his wounded heart, fine. As long as he didn't have to endure another evening of casual digs and not-so-casual inquiries into what had happened to his meteor-like career at Millennium.

  "Yeah, well, I'll stagger on somehow," he said dryly. "Give old Todd my best."

  He sat like stone through Lynn's protracted and patronizing farewell—he bet it never once occurred to her that he paid for calls made to his cell phone—before ending the connection. He flipped the phone shut. Twisting around on his straight-backed, short-legged seat, he saw Val Cutler standing in the doorway with a plate in her hands and her gray eyes wide with sympathetic interest

  Hell.

  "I was just, um…"

  "Eavesdropping?" he suggested, since for once she seemed at a loss for words.

  Her lips pressed together. "Bringing you a sandwich."

  His irritation at being caught with his professional pants down faded. How much could she have heard, after all? And she'd brought him lunch. "Thanks. What is it?"

  She tilted her perfect chin at him. "I'll tell you after you've tried it."

  And that, he thought, would teach him not to growl at her.