Page 7 of Megan's Mate
Sloan shook his head. “That man can eat, let me tell you. What did you think?”
“Not much,” she muttered. “He seemed a little rough-edged to me.”
“You get used to him. He’s one of the family now.”
Megan made a noncommittal sound. Maybe he was, but that didn’t mean he was part of hers.
Chapter 2
As far as Coco was concerned, Niels Van Horne was a thoroughly unpleasant man. He did not take constructive criticism, or the subtlest of suggestions for improvement, well at all. She tried to be courteous, God knew, as he was a member of the staff of The Towers and an old, dear friend of Nathaniel’s.
But the man was a thorn in her side, an abrasive grain of sand in the cozy slipper of her contentment.
In the first place, he was simply too big. The hotel kitchen was gloriously streamlined and organized. She and Sloan had worked in tandem on the design so that the finished product would suit her specifications and needs. She adored her huge stove, her convection and conventional ovens, the glint of polished stainless steel and glossy white counters, and her whisper-silent dishwasher. She loved the smells of cooking, the hum of her exhaust fans, the sparkling cleanliness of her tile floor.
And there was Van Horne—or Dutch, as he was called—a bull in her china shop, with his redwood-size shoulders and cinder-block arms rippling with tattoos. He refused to wear the neat white bib aprons she’d ordered, with their elegant blue lettering, preferring his rolled-up shirts and tatty jeans held up by a hank of rope.
His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a stubby ponytail, and his face, usually scowling, was as big as the rest of him, scored with lines around his light green eyes. His nose, broken several times in the brawls he seemed so proud of, was mashed and crooked. His skin was brown, and leathery as an old saddle.
And his language... Well, Coco didn’t consider herself a prude, but she was, after all, a lady.
But the man could cook. It was his only redeeming quality.
As Dutch worked at the stove, she supervised the two line chefs. The specials tonight were her New England fish stew and stuffed troutà la française. Everything appeared to be in order.
“Mr. Van Horne,” she began, in a tone that never failed to put his back up. “You will be in charge while I’m downstairs. I don’t foresee any problems, but should any arise, I’ll be in the family dining room.”
He cast one of his sneering looks over his shoulder. Woman was all slicked up tonight, like she was going to some opera or something, he thought. All red silk and pearls. He wanted to snort but knew her damned perfume would interfere with the pleasure he gained from the smell of his curried rice.
“I cooked for three hundred men,” he said in his raspy, sandpaper-edged voice, “I can deal with a couple dozen pasty-faced tourists.”
“Our guests,” she said between her teeth, “may be slightly more discriminating than sailors trapped on some rusty boat.”
One of the busboys swung through, carrying plates. Dutch’s eyes zeroed in on one that still held half an entrée. Onhisship, men had cleaned their plates.
“Not too damn hungry, were they?”
“Mr. Van Horne.” Coco drew air through her nose. “You will remain in the kitchen at all times. I will not have you going out into the dining room again and berating our guests over their eating habits. A bit more garnish on that salad, please,” she said to one of the line chefs, and glided out the door.
“Can’t stand fancy-faced broads,” Dutch muttered. And if it wasn’t for Nate, he thought sourly, Dutch Van Horne wouldn’t be taking orders from a dame.
Nathaniel didn’t share his former shipmate’s disdain of women. He loved them, one and all. He enjoyed their looks, their smells, their voices, and was more than satisfied to settle in the family parlor with six of the best-looking women it had been his pleasure to meet.
The Calhoun women were a constant delight to him. Suzanna with her soft eyes, Lilah’s lazy sexuality, Amanda’s brisk practicality, C.C.’s cocky grin, not to mention Coco’s feminine elegance.
They made The Towers Nathaniel’s little slice of heaven.
And the sixth woman... He sipped his whiskey and water as he watched Megan O’Riley. Now there was a package he thought might be full of surprises. In the looks department, she didn’t take second place to the fabulous Calhouns. And her voice, with its slow Oklahoma drawl, added its own appeal. What she lacked, he mused, was the easy warmth that flowed from the other women.
He hadn’t decided as yet whether it was the result of a cold nature or simple shyness. Whatever it was, it ran deep. It was hard to be cold or shy in a room filled with laughing people, cooing babies and wrestling children.
He was holding one of his favorite females at the moment. Jenny was bouncing on his lap and barraging him with questions.
“Are you going to marry Aunt Coco?”
“She won’t have me.”
“I will.” Jenny beamed up at him, an apprentice heartbreaker with a missing front tooth. “We can get married in the garden, like Mom and Daddy did. Then you can come live with us.”
