Her Convenient Millionaire (4 page)

He set the steaming roaster pan on top of the stove, and his glance fell on Sherry where she'd followed him into the kitchen. She was smiling, as if she knew something he didn't. “What?”

“I wonder how many times your mom has said ‘he never listens to me.'”

All his frustration slid away, just looking at her smile.
She was beautiful anytime, but when she smiled, he couldn't find air—and he needed all he could get.

“She probably said it a million times,” Mike admitted, trying to keep his mind where it belonged. “I'm pretty hardheaded.”

Sherry laughed, and he went dizzy. “That's putting it mildly. You define
stubborn.
”

“You're right in there with me, little girl.”

“I'm not a little girl. Remember?”

He knew it. Which was the whole problem.

Her stomach growled audibly and he frowned. “Have you had anything to eat today?”

Probably not. Not since noon, he knew for sure. He got a plate out of the cabinet and piled it with meat, potatoes and carrots from the dinner his mom wasn't supposed to cook.

“Here.” Mike set the plate in front of her, along with a knife and fork. “Mom makes the best pot roast in the world, and if nobody eats it, her feelings will be hurt. Want a soda to go with that?”

“Thanks. Why aren't you having any, if it's so good?”

Mike set a can of something on the table, got another for himself and sat across from her, thinking he wouldn't be so tempted with the table between them. Now he couldn't avoid looking at her, which was a problem because he liked looking at her way too much.

“I already ate,” he said. “Like I told Mom I would.”

“Oh.” She took a bite, testing the waters, then dove in. “I guess this makes you the favorite son, then.”

He watched, spellbound, as her tongue licked gravy off the fork. “I'm the only son.”

Talk.
If he kept the conversation going, maybe she wouldn't notice his preoccupation. “I've got two older sisters. The ones with all the boys. They don't have time to look after Mom.”

He had always thought those scenes in movies where people ate while making eyes at each other were totally stupid. Eating was eating and sex was sex. But watching Sherry Nyland eat was fast changing his mind.

The way her lips closed around the fork as she pulled it from her mouth made him wonder things he had no business wondering. Like if those lips would close and cling the same way to other objects. And when her pink tongue licked out of her mouth across her lip, he wanted to capture it, wanted it licking across his lips. And other places.

“Mike.” Sherry said his name as if she'd said it a few times already.

“Yeah. What?” He forced his gaze away from her mouth to her eyes and ordered himself to keep it there.

“Where were you?”

His face went hot, even though it couldn't be. He never blushed. “Nowhere. Right here.”

“Could have fooled me.” She took another bite of roast, but this time he didn't watch. “I was about ready to try radio signals to outer space.”

“Just tired, I guess.” Mike tried to look casual, disinterested, tired. Something besides dumb, which was how he probably looked. “It's been a long day.”

“Sorry.” Her eyelashes made little shadows on her cheeks when she looked down at her plate.

“For what?”

“For making you chase around after me after you got off work.”

“Oh, that.” He relaxed. He'd been worried for a minute that she was going to try to leave again, or do something else crazy. “Don't worry about it. I didn't mind.”

“It was nice. Actually, I do appreciate it,” she said. “You didn't have to be so nice to me.”

“What was nice? I acted worse than one of my nephews. I grabbed your purse.”

Sherry put her fork down and glared at him. “You stop that, this instant. If I say you were nice, then you were nice. Does that ruin your big, bad bartender image? Well, too bad. Because you are a nice man, Michael Scott. And if I want to thank you for being nice to me, you are going to sit there and take it. Okay?” She waved a hand.

“Okay.” He had to work to keep a straight face. She was cute when she got all riled up. Like a kitten in a hissing fit. “And it's Micah.”

“What?”

“My name. It's not Michael. It's Micah. Like in the Bible. Old family name. Remember? I told you.”

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed he didn't want to argue. “I guess I didn't hear you.”

“You're welcome, by the way.” He wanted to take her hand, but he'd promised her nothing but a place to sleep. And he'd promised himself he'd stay away from Palm Beach beauties. Hand-holding wasn't allowed. Nor was holding any of the other things floating through his mind—like her body against his.

“I guess I have a hard time thinking of myself that way. You know. Nice.” He drank down the last of his soda. “I just do what needs doing. You about done with that plate?”

Sherry blinked, as if he'd surprised her. “Yes, thank you. It was delicious.”

“I'll tell Mom you said so.” Mike carried her plate to the dishwasher. “Come on. I'll show you where you can sleep.”

“I can take the couch,” she said as he led her through the living room to the back of the apartment. “I'll probably fit better than you.”

“No need.” He opened the door to his office/guest room. “No guarantee on the quality of the mattress. My oldest sister handed it down to me when they got a new bed for her oldest. But it
is
guaranteed to be better than the beach.”

“Thanks.” She surveyed the room and smiled up at him. “I really do appreciate this.”

With her smiling at him like that, Mike had trouble finding his words. “You're welcome.”

He beat a hasty retreat. He had to keep his distance, make sure she understood he didn't play her kind of games. He heard her door close a fraction of a second before he closed his. Good.

 

Sherry woke up from a dream of Mike's thundercloud-gray eyes staring at her, swallowing her up, stripping her bare, right past her skin clear down to her soul. She was so disoriented that, for a minute, she didn't realize the sharp rapping was someone knocking on a door, rather than the pounding of her heart.

Where was Mike? Why wasn't he answering the door?

Sherry scooted out of bed and opened the bedroom door. Immediately she heard distant shower noises. That explained it. She pulled shorts on under her Tweety-bird sleep shirt, ran her hands through her hair so it didn't look quite so wild, and stepped out into the hallway at the exact same moment that a dripping-wet Mike, clad only in a towel, stepped out of the opposite bedroom.

She stood nose to nose with his wet, naked chest. Which, she decided, meant that it was more nose to sternum. Nose to collarbone.

Water had plastered down the faint drift of hair across the center of his chest and followed the trail leading down from his navel to vanish beneath the towel he held clutched at one hip. The towel that gaped open to expose a tanned, muscular thigh and an inch or so of untanned hip. She couldn't help herself. She had to look. He was the most magnificent specimen of human male she'd ever seen.

Just then Mike's front door opened, the door directly across the spacious living room from the hallway where
they stood, and a tiny, thin, silver-haired woman danced slowly into the room. She saw Mike and Sherry standing toe-to-toe in the hallway. Her eyes got big and round, and she grinned. Ear to ear.

“Oops.” She covered her mouth with a hand, for all the world like a naughty child. “Don't mind me. I'm not here. Forget I ever came in.” She turned and headed for the door again.

Mike swore. He started across the living room toward his mother—she could be no one else—then looked down at his state of undress, looked up at Sherry and back at his mother. He swore again, under his breath this time.

“Don't let her leave.” He ground the words through his teeth at Sherry as he vanished back into his bedroom.

“Mrs. Scott, wait.” Sherry darted across the room to take the woman's arm. It was like handling a songbird, the older woman felt so fragile.

“No, no, I'll go. Don't let me interrupt.”

“You weren't interrupting a thing, Mrs. Scott.” Sherry steered her back into the room and lowered her into one of the fat, leather club chairs. “Except maybe Mike's shower.”

“I wasn't?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Well,
darn.
” Mike's mother looked so disappointed that Sherry had to laugh. “I was hoping he'd brought some sweet young thing home for a little fun and frolic.”

“I gave up frolicking years ago,” Mike said, coming back out of the bedroom, pulling on a baby-blue polo shirt as he did. Sherry held her breath until he got it down over that distracting chest and abdomen.

“You shouldn't have.” Mrs. Scott shook her finger at her son. “All work and no frolic makes Micah a dull boy.”

“Besides, I'm no sweet young thing,” Sherry said. “I'm a homeless vagrant he found in a bar.”

The look Mike shot her as he bent to kiss his mother on the cheek sent flames rushing through Sherry, center out, until she burned head to toe.

“You're not supposed to come over here without your oxygen,” Mike scolded gently.

“Oh, fiddle. I can walk five feet without sucking on that thing.”

“Mom, we made a deal, remember?”

“Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend, the vagrant?” She smiled determinedly at Sherry, ignoring Mike.

He sighed, long and slow. The way he'd sighed at Sherry so often last night. “Mom, this is Sherry Nyland. Sherry, this is my mom.”

“It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Scott.” Sherry put her hand out to shake, feeling a little peculiar to be making someone's acquaintance while she was dressed for sleeping. This wasn't usually how it was done in Palm Beach. But it was interesting. Part of her adventure.

“Please, call me Clara.” Mike's mother took Sherry's hand in a surprisingly strong grip and squeezed once, then used her grip to pull Sherry down into the chair beside hers. “So, what do you think of my handsome son?”

Sherry glanced at Mike, expecting some protest, but he just rolled his eyes and padded away on bare feet, sighing as he went.

“He is handsome,” she agreed. “He's nice, too. By the way, you make a terrific pot roast. He gave me some last night.”

“Which I told you not to cook.” He called from the open kitchen where he was clattering around.

“And what would you have given Sherry to eat if I hadn't?” Clara winked at Sherry and patted her hand.

Mike put his head through the open doorway. “Bologna sandwiches.”

“See? Pot roast is much better.”

He growled and vanished. Sherry tried to hide her laughter.

Clara didn't. “How did you two meet?”

“At La Jolie. He had to throw me out at closing.”

“No, really. How did you meet?”

“I didn't throw you out,” Mike said from the kitchen. “I just told you we were closing and suggested it was time to go home.”

Sherry nodded, chuckling as Clara's eyes got big again.

“You mean, you really are a vagrant? I don't believe it. Not a sweet thing like you.”

“Only temporarily.” Sherry shrugged.

“Her father kicked her out of her house,” Mike said. Ignoring Sherry's protests, he explained her situation in a few succinct sentences.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Clara squeezed Sherry's hand tight. “Well, that settles it.”

“What settles what?” Mike appeared in the doorway. “Anybody want breakfast?”

Sherry glanced at Clara, then back at Mike. He cooked, too? “I could eat,” she said.

She helped Clara stand and Mike came over to provide support on the long journey from living room to kitchen.

“Sherry has to stay here with us,” Clara said.

“I can't do that,” Sherry protested. “One night was more than enough.”

“I don't mean here at Micah's. Unless you really want to.” Clara winked at her again. “Stay with me next door. Until you can find a place of your own.”

“Oh, no. I couldn't impose. Tell her, Micah. Mike.”

Mike gave her a long, measuring look, long enough that she started to fidget. “I think it's a good idea,” he said finally.

S
herry stared at him, surprised. She had been given the distinct impression that this was a one-night-only deal. What had changed his mind?

He eased Clara down into a kitchen chair, ignoring her hands trying to slap him away.

“Stop fussing,” Clara complained. “I'm not an invalid.”

“Yes, you are.” Mike propped his hands on his hips and looked at Sherry. “It would be a big help if I had someone to keep an eye on her while I'm at work. Someone to make sure she doesn't do things she's not supposed to do. Like sneak over to my kitchen and cook pot roast.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do with myself?” Clara demanded. “Sit around and rot?”

“I need to find a job.” Sherry didn't want to get into the middle of this family quarrel. “Find a place to live, that sort of thing.”

“I'm shorthanded just now at the club. I can give you a job there, if you're interested. Daylight hours so you can mom-sit while I'm working. She just needs company.”

“Stop talking about me like I'm not here.” Clara punched him on the arm, then looked at Sherry. “Stay with me. If you rent an apartment, you have to give them an application fee and a deposit and the first month's rent and your firstborn child and—”

“Hey, I'm not that bad,” Mike protested. “I don't want the kid. Just first and last month's rent. And an arm
or
a leg. Not both.”

“You manage this place, too?” Sherry looked around, impressed. Mike Scott was an enterprising man.

He gave her an assessing look. “Yeah. That way the owner gives me a break on the rent, so I can afford two apartments. Mom refuses to live with me.”

“A man needs his space,” Clara said, sounding as if she'd said it many times before. “And Sherry needs a place to live.”

“Okay, okay.” Sherry held up her hands, laughing. “Now I see where your son got all his stubborn.”

“I need it, handling her,” Mike said.

“Who's the mother here, and who is the son?” Clara retorted.

Mike set a bowl of hot cereal in front of her. “Eat your breakfast.”

“I already ate.” But she picked up the spoon and stirred.

Mike set two plates of scrambled eggs and toast on the table for himself and Sherry, then poured coffee.

“You see how he treats me?” Clara pointed her spoon at the eggs. “Starving me to death. Won't even let me have one measly little egg—”

“They're bad for you, and you know it.” Mike gestured for Sherry to sit down. “Quit complaining.”

“What? And deprive myself of the last bit of entertainment left in my life?”

Sherry ate the food Mike had prepared, wallowing in the atmosphere as she listened to the affectionate bickering between Mike and his mother. Meals in the Nyland household had usually occurred either in grand isolation, everyone eating at different times, or in the middle of a screaming fight between Tug and Bebe that usually ended in someone throwing breakables. Their primary entertainment seemed to be quarreling. Sometimes Sherry and Juliana managed to eat together without the parents, but not often, given Juliana's busy social schedule.

“So,” Sherry said as she helped clear away the dishes after Clara had been helped back into the living room. “When do I start work?”

Mike glanced at her before opening the dishwasher. “I usually go in about six, so—”

“No, I mean work work.” Keeping company with Clara would be fun; but Sherry didn't think it would contribute much toward attaining her independence. “You did mean it when you offered me a job at La Jolie, didn't you?”

“I don't say things I don't mean.” Mike stopped work and turned to stare at her, face calm, but the storm-cloud gray of his eyes hinted at his reaction to her unintended insult. “You sure you want to go in today? You had a pretty late night.”

“I'm awake now. I'm perfectly capable of working. Why not start today? Unless—is there some kind of uniform I need to go get first?” If so, she hoped her cash would cover it.

“Hosts wear street clothes. Business clothes.” He turned his attention back to the dishes. “I start everybody there, regardless of experience. Gives people a chance to learn the layout, the menu and how I like things to operate.”

“Great. When do I start?”

He looked at his watch. “As soon as you change into something more businesslike than Tweety bird. Doors open at eleven. That should give you just enough time to take care of paperwork and learn where everything is.”

Sherry turned her best smile on her new boss. This was going to work. Even the biggest gazillionaires had to start somewhere, right?

Mike grinned back. “Smile like that at the customers, and you'll make out just fine.”

Leora had added a knit navy jacket with matching pink dress to the bag she'd packed for Sherry, which would have to do for “businesslike.” It was all she had. Mike drove her the mile or so up the island to the club and introduced her to the day manager.

Sherry watched, but didn't see any of those sidelong, smirky looks that often showed up when people thought there was—as Clara put it—fun and frolic going on. Especially between boss and employee. Not that Sherry knew anything about boss-employee relations of any kind, not from personal experience, anyway. Mike had just given her her first job ever.

After quietly arranging to pick her up out front at the end of the day, Mike left Sherry to sink or swim on her own. She filled out half a dozen forms, met all the other employees whose names she promptly forgot, learned the table assigning system, and took position by the door to wait for the first customers of the day. She sincerely hoped that Alice, the day manager, meant it when she said she'd help as much as she could. With any luck, Sherry wouldn't cause any major disasters, like burning down the restaurant. Surely anything less would be forgivable. The front door opened and a cluster of lunching ladies clattered in.

Smile,
Sherry reminded herself as she picked up her pencil. Mike's advice couldn't steer her wrong. “Four for lunch?”

 

The minute Mike turned on to the block at the end of the day, he saw Sherry waiting. She looked hot and tired, her skin shiny with sweat, her posture screaming weariness. He was impressed. Most people raised in her environment didn't have what it took to stick with a job that kept them on their feet all day. Sherry had stuck.

She got in the car, kicked her shoes off with a groan and slumped down in the seat, the way she had last night when she'd fallen asleep on the way home. What was it about bare feet? Her feet had been bare last night, and he'd seen them again this morning…when she came out of her bedroom wearing nothing but a T-shirt.

Mike rubbed his eyes, hoping to rub away the memory of the vision. Didn't work. Especially when she sat right next to him in a sleeveless pink dress that hugged every curve, easily seen now that the concealing navy jacket was rolled up in her lap. He pulled into traffic.

“How'd it go?” he said, partly to distract himself and partly because he wanted to know.

“I swear, if one more person pats me on the hand and tells me this job is ‘beneath me' and that I should quit and run home to Daddy and my trust fund, I am going to scream.” She blew a strand of hair out of her face, then pulled all her hair severely back from her face. “Maybe I should have put my hair up. What do you think? More businesslike? It's bound to be cooler.”

Mike glanced at her and shrugged. “I'm not exactly an expert on hairstyles.” Scraping her hair back that way made her look younger, more vulnerable.

“Maybe I'll just cut it all off.”

“Suit yourself.” He could feel her look at him, but resisted looking back. He had to keep his eyes on the road. And off Miss Nyland.

“That's an enlightened attitude,” she said. “Most of the
men I know would put their foot down and absolutely forbid the idea.” She made her voice go gruff and pompous on the last few words.

“It's
your
hair.”

“That's right. It is.” She sighed and leaned her head back against the headrest. “I never knew hostessing was such hard work. I guess I would have if I'd thought about it, but I never did.”

Mike dared to look at her again. She looked exhausted and disheartened. Deliberately he reached over and patted her hand. “Don't worry,” he said. “If you don't like the job, you always have your trust fund to fall back on.”

Sherry stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open in astonishment. Mike had to bite his lip to keep from laughing at her. Then devilment appeared in her eyes. She sat up straight, threw her head back and screamed.

The scream lasted a good fifteen, twenty seconds, loud and long. When she finished, Mike stuck a finger in his ear to see if he could bring his hearing back, and shook his head to clear it. “Feel better?”

She blinked and tipped her head, as if she was thinking about it. “Actually, yes. I do.”

He grinned at the surprise in her voice, and after a minute she grinned back. “Never cut loose like that before, huh?” he said.

“Not like that. I guess the ‘code' was ingrained too deep. You can drink yourself senseless, snort yourself silly and screw the help, but don't make a scene.” Sherry put her feet up on the dashboard and curled her toes.

Mike glued his eyes to the road, but not before he got a good look at her forever legs with the pink dress sliding up them.

He'd seen those legs before, of course. She'd worn shorts last night and this morning. He'd thought at first that the Tweety T-shirt was her only covering, till it hiked up on
one side to show the white shorts. She might as well not have worn them. They were
very
short shorts above
very
long legs. He was developing something of an obsession about those legs.

“So, did you?” he asked.

She opened her eyes and looked at him. “Did I what?” Her feet were on the floorboard again. Mike didn't know whether he was grateful or disappointed. Both, he decided.

“Screw the help.”

“No, I did not!”

He had to laugh at her indignation, and she hit him. Thumped him on the arm the way his mom did.

“Oh!” Her hands flew to her mouth in horror. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—I never— Oh, I am so sorry.”

Mike's chuckle trailed off. She was truly horrified that she had hit him. “Hey, it's okay. Don't worry about it. You were provoked.”

“That's no excuse.”

“You didn't hurt me. You couldn't, no matter how hard you hit.”

She slanted a dirty look at him. Somehow that seemed dirtier than the straight-on dirty looks.

“Okay, maybe you could. A little,” he conceded. “But it's nothing to get all bent out of shape about. Mom hits me like that all the time. You saw her.”

“She's a frail old lady.”

“She's a mean old broad.” Mike grinned. “She's a bad example. Maybe you shouldn't stay with her. You're bound to pick up all kinds of bad habits. Beating people up. Breaking and entering. Surreptitious pot-roast cooking.”

“Oh, shut up.” Sherry still had her arms crossed, but Mike could see the smile flickering as he pulled into the garage.

“I moved your stuff over to Mom's place already,” he
said on the elevator. He led the way down the hall and opened the door. “Honey, we're home!”

He sniffed. Good. No cooking smells. Maybe she would behave herself tonight. Clara sat tipped back in her recliner, her eyes still closed.

“Mom?”

She didn't move. Mike didn't know whether to swear or worry. If she was playing possum again… He hurried over to her and knelt by her chair. “Mom?” He picked her hand up and patted it.

“Is she all right?” Sherry's voice shook, her concern genuine.

Mike lowered his voice for his mom's ears only. “If you're playing games here, you'd better stop right now, or I swear you'll be eating tofu all week.” Nothing. She didn't even seem to be breathing. “You're going to scare her off, Mom. Sherry thinks you're really sick.”

At that, her eyelids fluttered, and Mike's heart started beating again. Every time she pulled her little game, he thought this time it might be real. He'd throttle her, if he didn't object to giving her the satisfaction of knowing she got to him. That was why he didn't swear the way he wanted to just now.

His mom's eyes opened and she gave a little fake yawn. “Oh, me, I must have fallen asleep. You're back already? Sherry, dear, how was the job?”

“Just fine, Mrs. Scott.”

“Now what did I tell you to call me?”

Sherry beamed that glowing smile Mike wished she'd turn his way. No, he didn't. He didn't want anything from her but a little mom-sitting. She could save the smile for the customers, and Mom.

“Clara.”

“That's better.” She patted Sherry's hand. “Don't you worry about a thing. It'll all work out.”

Sherry's smile got even bigger. “Thanks, Clara. I'm sure it will.”

Mike rolled his eyes. “Well, since you two have your little mutual admiration society going here, I guess I'll go get ready for work.”

They didn't so much as blink when he left.

 

Sherry had more fun keeping Mike's mother company than she'd had in a long time. Maybe ever. At least since her own mother died. She did remember a few good times from back then. But her time with Clara was definitely the best since. They looked at old photo albums, while Clara told stories about the mischief Mike had gotten into as a child.

Finally they put the albums on the shelf beneath the coffee table. “That was fun,” Clara said. “But it's time to get serious. It's time to eat.”

“What would you like?” Sherry reached for the phone book. When she'd informed Mike earlier that she didn't cook, he had told her to call La Jolie and have something healthy delivered. Besides the regular menu selections, his chefs always had healthy specials. It was one of the things that made La Jolie popular among the older, richer Palm Beach set.