Fiona and the Sexy Stranger
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Marie Ferrarella
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18.9K
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10
1
Fiona Reilly stared at the piece of paper in her hand. Unlike the others, this one had nothing to do with confirmation of a hundred guinea hens, or an order for four dozen long-stemmed wineglasses. It wasn’t even yet another change in plans for the Kellerman wedding that was scheduled for three weeks from Saturday and was destined to drive her out of her mind if Mr. and Mrs. Kellerman didn’t finally make up theirs. So far, there had been no less than fifteen such communications between the Kellermans and the fax line designated for her business.
No, this piece of paper, found nestled in the center of the half dozen other sheets that had been spewed out by her fax machine, was extolling the qualifications, experience and educational background of one Henry Cutler.
It was a résumé. A rather impressive résumé, Fiona thought as she scanned it quickly, belonging to a man who had amassed a number of awards in the advertising field. A résumé that had somehow lost its way and wound up in the wrong place.
“Montana?” she murmured under her breath as she noted where he had gone to school and most recently worked. “I didn’t know they needed to advertise anything in Montana, did you, Velcro?”
In response to her question, the calico-colored Persian cat she’d chosen to name Velcro—for reasons that became obvious to even the most casual of observers after a few minutes in the cat’s presence—leaped up on her lap and immediately made herself comfortable. Fiona knew better than to try to push her off.
As she ran her fingers over Velcro’s fur, Fiona’s first instinct was just to shrug off the error and toss the résumé away. The last thing she needed was more paper cluttering up the already-cluttered area of her kitchen that she had set aside as her office. But as she began to crumple up the résumé, Velcro raised her head and looked at her accusingly. Fiona knew it was just because she’d stopped petting the cat, but the look in Velcro’s eyes had repercussions.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right.” She stopped crumpling.
On the heels of her impulse came the inevitable twinge of conscience. The same conscience that kept her from stepping on bugs or squashing spiders, no matter how hairy, that skittered across her path.
Sighing, she placed the sheet on top of the others and smoothed it out. Velcro voiced her complaint at sharing the space with an indignant little “meow” and dug her claws in just far enough to get a firm hold on Fiona’s jeans. Accustomed to Velcro’s tenacious habits, Fiona hardly noticed.
What she did notice was that there was no line in the résumé that testified to Henry’s being currently employed. He wasn’t looking to change jobs, he needed one. Her vivid imagination conjured up a mental picture of the man sitting by the phone, waiting for a reply that would never come because she had gotten his résumé by mistake.
That settled it. She put thoughts of her work on hold as she twisted in her chair to reach for the telephone. Velcro voiced another rather strong protest over the sudden shift.
“If you don’t like it, you can always get off,” Fiona told the cat. Velcro seemed to raise a disdainful eye in her direction, but remained firmly entrenched exactly where she was. Though she tried to act aloof, beneath the disdain was a cat who craved companionship. “No, I didn’t think so.”
Her eyes on the second line of the résumé, Fiona tapped out the numbers to Henry’s telephone. It rang three times. On the fourth ring, the receiver was picked up.
“Hi,” the voice on the other end drawled. It was deep and resonant, filling the phone with a rush of pure male sexuality with just a single word.
Collecting herself, Fiona said quickly, “Hello, you don’t know me, but—”
“This is Henry Cutler,” the voice informed her in the same laid-back tone that Fiona found arousing at the same time that it was soothing.
She didn’t realize she was petting Velcro so hard until the cat meowed a loud protest. “Yes, I know, I was just calling to—”
“—I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll be sure to get back to you.”
An answering machine. Fiona stared at the receiver in mute disbelief. The voice on the other end had sounded to laid-back, so gut-level melodic and sexual, she hadn’t realized that she was talking to a recording. Feeling foolish now, she recovered just as the beep sounded. Her mind scrambled, trying to form a coherent message.
“This is Fiona Reilly. You don’t know me, but you sent a copy of your résumé to my fax machine. It’s a very nice résumé, and while I’d love to hire you, I don’t think working for a tiny company just getting its feet solidly planted on the ground is what you had in mind when you sent the résumé. I’d suggest that you resend your résumé and this time be a little bit more careful where your fingers do the walking.”
The click on the other end told her that she’d used up her allotted space and ended her message just in time. Satisfied she’d done her good deed, Fiona hung up. And then a lazy smile drifted over her lips as she replayed his outgoing message in her mind. God, but that man did have one hell of a sexy voice.
Stroking the cat, she closed her eyes, letting the memory of the voice drift over her. Deep, resonant and incredibly sensual, it had wound its way through her system, curling her toes. She sank deeper into the soft leather chair and sighed.
What did a man with a voice like that look like?
The question no sooner occurred to her than Fiona began answering it. With very little effort at all, she gave Henry Cutler broad shoulders, slender, tapering hips, a killer smile and deep, chestnut brown hair that insisted on being the slightest bit unruly. It curled wantonly, just enough to make a woman’s fingers itch.
She rubbed her palm along Velcro’s back. The cat purred contentedly. The purr vibrated through the animal’s body, joining with her hand. The sensation slowly traveled up her arm until it managed to mushroom throughout her entire body.
Fiona savored the feeling and the image for a long moment, then roused herself.
It was a nice daydream. Reality was that Henry Cutler was probably five foot three, barrel-chested with a fifty-three-inch waist and spindly legs. Day-dreams were always infinitely better than reality, she mused. They were also a lot safer.
Enough of a break, she told herself, it was time to get back to work. Her business wasn’t about to run itself.
She scooped Velcro up and deposited the protesting cat on the floor, then moved in closer to her desk. There was a mountain of papers to sort through. Fiona placed the résumé to one side, for the moment letting it sit in its own singular pile. As soon as she did, she saw the page that was behind it A quick read had her stifling an involuntary groan. It was another missive from Mrs. Kellerman about the upcoming wedding. Chicken Kiev was out, lobster bisque was now in.
Mrs. Kellerman had changed the menu. Again. Fiona could feel several of her hairs turning gray at the roots. Wouldn’t it be nice, she mused, if that sexy stranger was actually Prince Charming and could whisk her away from wicked witches like Mrs. Kellerman? Only thing was, she’d have to have a sexier name to call him than Henry. Fiona grinned to herself. It was always something, wasn’t it?
The small kitchen was alive with a combination of aromas guaranteed to make both boys and men drool and beg for a taste. Unlike the rest of the house, which existed in haphazard clutter and whose only pattern was early, comfortable chaos, the kitchen, though compact in size, was state of the art. As soon as the business had begun earning a little money, Fiona had funneled it all back in and built her kitchen according to utilitarian requirements. She wanted and got only the best. The kitchen was where she spent a great deal of her time and it was the hub for the foundation of her ever-growing reputation.
Ever since she’d catered her first party as a favor for a friend who had a penchant for burning even water, Fiona’s company had been climbing steadily up the hill of success. She wouldn’t be satisfied until she claimed the flag at the top.
Bridgette Turner frowned at her younger sister over the row of cream puffs she was packing. No one made cream puffs like Fiona. They all but floated into the box, backing up Fiona’s claim that they were almost lighter than air.
Lighter than air. Just like Fiona’s brain, Bridgette thought in exasperated annoyance. For such a sweettempered little thing, her sister could be maddeningly stubborn at times. Like now.
She slid the lid over the cream puffs. “But why won’t you at least come and meet Brian’s friend? An innocent little dinner, what harm is there in that?”
An innocent little dinner, Bridgette added silently, that she had gone through great lengths to arrange. Fiona spent so much time mothering this fledgling catering company of hers, she spent absolutely no time on, and certainly seemed to have no interest in, her social life. Someone had to look out for her before she wound up old and alone, still making cream puffs.
Fiona spared her sister a look as she quickly scanned her checklist for the Kellerman wedding a fourth time. She couldn’t wait for this day to be over with.
“The harm, Bridgette, will be to me and my intestinal tract after I spend half the night in your bathroom, retching.”
Bridgette knew it wasn’t an egotistical slur aimed at her cooking, even though she didn’t hold a candle to Fiona when it came to preparing anything remotely fancy. Fiona’s objection was far more fundamental than that and all the more frustrating for it.
“You’re a grown woman, Fiona,” Bridgette reminded her, even though she was trying to bully Fiona into letting her arrange her life.
Knowing she had no intentions of letting Bridgette win this argument no matter what was said, Fiona began packing the guinea hens that had been Mrs. Kellerman’s final choice as of three-thirty yesterday.
“Yes, and as a grown woman, I should be able to make up my mind as to whom I choose to socialize with.”
“Socialize?” Bridgette hooted. She opened another box and continued to pack cream puffs. “Ghosts have a more social life than you do.”
Fiona arched an eyebrow. Why did Bridgette always pick the worst times to play matchmaker? Then she shrugged inwardly. She supposed that wasn’t strictly true. There was never a good time to have her sister play matchmaker.
“I see a lot of people,” she informed Bridgette coolly, her fingers flying as she made the transfer from baking pan to padded box.
“In the line of duty,” Bridgette observed pointedly. No one could match Fiona when it came to people skills. On a work-related level. One-to-one on a personal basis was something else again. Something she repeatedly shied away from. “Oh, you’re a charming bit of a thing, you are.” Bridgette mimicked their grandmother’s thick brogue to a tee, succeeding in coaxing a smile out of Fiona. “Flitting from one person to the other, one man to the other.”. Bridgette’s brogue vanished as she leveled an accusing look at her sister. “As long as it’s just business you’re talking about.”
Fiona picked up the brogue. “In case you haven’t noticed, Bridgette, me darlin’, it’s a business I’m supposed to be runnin’.” She dropped it again, because this was important to her and too serious to joke about. “My business, which I’m trying very hard to get to take off. That kind of thing won’t happen if I spend my time going out with every Tom, Dick or Harry.”
She closed the lid with finality. Moving the box aside, she opened another. Everything had to be perfect. There were three more daughters in the wings, separated by two years apiece. If she impressed Mr. and Mrs. Kellerman today, Fiona felt confident she would secure at least three more catering affairs in the future. Perhaps even more from the guests.
If she survived this one.
Bridgette gave a very unladylike snort. “I’d settle for you going out with a single Tom or Dick or Harry. Or an Alfred,” she added, referring to the man she had persuaded her husband, after much wheedling, to invite over for dinner tonight. Brian had the same maddening philosophy as Fiona—he wanted things to happen “naturally.” As if the big jerk actually believed that their own meeting had happened “naturally,” when it was only after a great deal of effort on her part, thank-you-very-much.
Bridgette looked at Fiona pointedly. “Fiona, you’re not getting any younger.”
Fiona stopped packing. Of the two of them, Bridgette had always been the family pride and joy. The one the boys had all flocked to when both of them were growing up. The one in whose shadow she had always stood, proud to be her sister and relieved to have a shadow to take refuge in. Not for her was the awkwardness of trying to make small talk while her whole mind had gone completely blank and her tongue had turned to shoe leather.
“You make it sound as if I’ve got one foot in the grave. I’m only twenty-six, Bridgette.” She went back to work. Time was at a premium and growing short. “Although I must admit that talking to you is aging me rapidly.”
Bridgette played the last card in her depleted hand. “Just say you’ll come to dinner and I’ll stop talking, I promise.”
Glancing up, Fiona saw that Bridgette had one hand raised as if she were taking a solemn oath before a judge. She laughed softly. “Tempting as that is, I can’t. I’ve got work to do.”
The phone rang, but Bridgette ignored it as she struggled not to shout at her sister. “You’ve got work to hide behind.”
Fiona wiped her hands on the towel she had slung over one shoulder. “Saved by the bell,” she said brightly, terminating, she hoped, the discussion. Reaching for the wall phone, she fervently prayed it wasn’t Mrs. Kellerman with a last-minute change.
“Painless Parties,” Fiona announced into the receiver. “Catering to suit your every whim and requirement. This is Fiona Reilly, how may I help you?”
For a moment there was only silence on the other end.
Fiona frowned, unwilling to hang up and make herself the target for more of Bridgette’s nagging and cajoling. “Hello?”
Bridgette looked up, mildly interested. “If it’s an obscene caller, don’t hang up,” she instructed. “You need the practice.”
Fiona waved an annoyed hand at her sister. “Hello?” she repeated. “Is anyone there?”
“Are you the woman who called me about my misdirected résumé?” the voice on the other end asked.
He didn’t have to say who he was. Even if he hadn’t mentioned the résumé, Fiona would have recognized the drawl instantly. Though she’d made the call over three weeks ago, the voice, and the fantasy she’d built around it, had remained with her for a while and now vividly sprang forth at the sound of his voice.
“Henry?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Bridgette had stopped packing the last of the cream puffs. Instantly alert, her face was alive with questions. Fiona deliberately turned her back on her sister. There was going to be the devil to pay as soon as she hung up.
Her guess as to his identity was rewarded with a deep chuckle that undulated along her body, unsettling her in all sorts of delicious ways she meant to mentally record and savor when she wasn’t under Bridgette’s intense scrutiny.
“How did you know?” His voice curled around each syllable.
“I recognized your voice from your answering machine. Besides, it’s not every day I get a résumé lodged in between my order for a hundred guinea hens and a request for lobster bisque.”
This time the pause on the other end was shorter. “Excuse me?”
“I run a catering business,” she explained. She vaguely wondered if the drawl meant that he was also slow on the uptake. She’d mentioned the name of her catering company before she’d even said her name.
A short laugh warmed her ear. “Oh, that’s the kind of parties you meant.”
Fiona struggled not to sink into the sound. “Yes, why? What did you think I meant?”
He laughed again, this time more heartily. She realized he’d totally misunderstood her meaning about catering to whims and needs.
“Never mind, doesn’t matter. Listen, the reason I’m calling is to tell you that they hired me a couple of weeks ago.”
It didn’t occur to her to ask why he felt that he had to call her with this information. She was genuinely happy that she’d managed, in a small way, to help. “Congratulations.”
She sounded as if she meant it, Hank Cutler thought, gripping the receiver. Which made what he was about to say even easier and more important to him. He was a man who always paid his debts, no matter how large or small. This, he reasoned, was a large one.
“I figure if it hadn’t been for you taking pity on a stranger whose fingers are too thick to hit the right numbers, I’d still be sitting here in my living room, wondering if Collins Walker was ever going to call me in for an interview.”
His gratitude pleased her no end, but Fiona played down her role in his success. “I didn’t do anything except call you.”
“Oh, but that was a very important call and I’d just like to express my gratitude.”
“All right.” Fiona paused, waiting for him to say something else, perhaps launch into a lengthier thank-you. Fiona couldn’t think of anything else to say but she silently hoped Henry would carry the conversational ball. She would have been willing to sit and listen to him read the phone book just to hear the sound of his voice a little longer.
“Where would you like to go?” he asked.
Had she missed a step? Fiona turned again because a very curious Bridgette had stopped packing altogether and was now almost in her face, her lips forming the word “who” over and over again like a determined owl. Fiona waved her sister back to the counter and the cream puffs. Much as she wanted to continue to listen to Henry’s voice, she had to get going soon.
“Excuse me?”
“I’d like to say thanks over dinner,” he clarified. “As you probably can guess if you looked at my résumé, I’m new around these parts. Where’s the best place to eat?”
“My kitchen.” The reply came automatically. Fiona was confident about very little when it came to herself, but she had no doubts about her ability to produce minor miracles in the kitchen.
The laugh came again, seducing her. “Is that anything like a busman’s holiday?”
It took her a moment to rouse herself and to make sense of his question. “No, wait, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” Fiona prayed he hadn’t thought she was inviting him over. The fantasy vanished in a large puff of smoke.
“How did you mean it?” Hank drawled gamely, wondering what had produced the change in her voice. She sounded almost nervous now.
“I mean, I never go out to eat. I’m too busy.”
“Couldn’t you make a little time?” he coaxed. She had him curious now. “I chew faster than I talk.”
Fiona could feel her palms growing damp around the receiver. Damn it, he wasn’t even in the room. Why was she having this absolutely ridiculous reaction? Was she always going to be doomed to feel this way every time a conversation threatened to become personal?
Fiona heard Bridgette clear her throat She stiffened her back. She could almost feel the darts Bridgette’s eyes were throwing her way. Ignoring them, she dealt with the immediate threat at her door—or her phone—as best she could. At this rate, she was going to be emotionally drained before she ever got to the Kellerman house.
“I’m sure you can, Henry, but that still doesn’t change the fact that I am very, very busy. This is June and I’ve got six weddings to do in the next three weeks. I really don’t have any time to spare.” Her voice was picking up speed like an untended car parked uphill in San Francisco whose brakes had just given way.
“I really would like to express my gratitude. somehow,” he insisted.
Even insisting took on new ramifications when spoken in a voice that was richer than molasses pouring out of a container in a warm climate. She struggled not to allow herself to drown in the sound.
“You already did. You said thank you,” she noted.
Bridgette was now circling her like a shark looking for a way into the diver’s steel protective cage. Each time Fiona turned, Bridgette moved with her, gesturing madly. Fiona felt as if she was being laid siege to from without and within.
“Now I really have to go. Good luck with your job, Henry.” She hung up quickly before he could say anything further and weaken her shaky ramparts even more than they already were.
Fiona looked up to see Bridgette glaring at her. If looks could kill, this would have been the last wedding she was destined to cater.
Bridgette could barely contain her annoyance. “Did you just hang up on a man?”
Passing her on her way back to the counter and the unpacked guinea hens, Fiona shrugged. “Sure looks that way.”
Bridgette felt like hitting her head against the wall. Better yet, she felt like hitting Fiona’s head against the wall. “A man who wanted to take you out?”
Fiona sighed. Why couldn’t Bridgette just drop it and get back to work? “It’s all very platonic. He didn’t want to take me out, Bridgette. He just wanted to say thank-you.”
Bridgette crossed her arms, waiting for an explanation. None was forthcoming. “For?”
Fiona blew out a breath. Bridgette was going to make a big deal of this, she just knew it. Bridgette could make a big deal out of the box boy offering to help Fiona out of the supermarket with an overloaded cart. Never mind that she always tipped him well for his services.
“For calling him because he’d accidentally sent his résumé here instead of to some advertising firm.”
Bridgette looked at the wall phone with renewed awe and interest. “That was Mr. Sexiest-Voice-In-The-Whole-World?”
Fiona bitterly regretted ever saying that to Bridgette. It had been in a moment of weakness and she should have had her mouth taped because of it. But who had expected the man to suddenly surface in her life?
Sighing, she nodded. “Yes.”
Bridgette looked toward the fax machine that was perched on the battered desk Fiona had rescued from a garage sale.
“You still have his résumé?”
“It’s around here somewhere.” Too late, she realized she shouldn’t have said that. She had an awful feeling. Fiona knew that tone. Bridgette was going to call Cutler and beg him to reconsider taking her out. Fiona wouldn’t have put it past her. “Look, we are up to our ears in guinea hens, Bridgette. Now if you’re going to help me, help me, don’t talk nonsense about looking at some résumé. I’ve got thirty-five more of these little birds to pack. And, unless you know some magic trick to make them hop into the boxes themselves, I suggest you start herding them into their proper places.”
Bridgette slanted her sister a disgusted look. “You’re hopeless, you know that?”
She’d heard all this before and more than once. You’d think Bridgette would get tired of saying it. “I’m happy the way I am.”
Bridgette looked at the guinea hens they’d spent an hour dressing this morning. “What, playing dressup with chickens?”
“No, making something of myself. Getting a business started. A good business.” Her chin went up, defying a man who no longer existed. “Dad never thought I’d amount to anything.”
Gregarious and outgoing to the outside world, Shawn Reilly had turned a different face toward his family. Especially when he felt displeased. And he had never been pleased with Fiona.
“Dad was an idiot. God rest his soul,” Bridgette tacked on mechanically.
Relenting, Bridgette decided to leave Fiona alone for the time being. She had a lot on her mind. But as soon as she could, Bridgette promised herself that she was going to hunt up both that résumé and Mr. Sexiest-Voice-In-The-Whole-World. Fiona would thank her for it. Eventually.
