CHAPTER 9: DINNER WITH THE BILLIONAIRE
957 Words
Normally, Stark would have used his car and driver for the trip to Johnson Ranch in Ohio so he could utilize the time to work. On this occasion, he refrained.
Somehow, he didn't think showing up in a limousine would go over well, so he drove himself, arriving at the ranch precisely on time.
He was greeted at the door by an early woman who wore a sour expression he'd laid odds she'd spent most of her life cultivating.
She gave him the once-over before reluctantly admitting, "You must be Stark Juvenile."
He offered his hand. "You right. I'm Stark."
She gave him a firm handshake in return.
"Isabella was in the kitchen putting the final touches on your meal. She should have been working on bookkeeping. But since she invited you, she felt obligated to do the cooking.
"I'm Maire, by the way, the Johnson's housekeeper." She gestured.
He gave her the wine he'd brought. "My contribution to dinner"
She eyed it with suspicion. "This is the kind that needs to breathe?"
"After nearly twenty years of being corked, I'm sure it will be grateful for the opportunity," he answered gravely.
She snorted with laughter. "Come on, then. I will show you the way."
He looked around with interest as she escorted him to the back of the house. It was a beautiful place, with polished wooden floors, a beamed ceiling, and generously sized rooms in an open floor plan.
The kitchen proved equally impressive, with a brick hearth and cast iron stove from a different era mingling with modern-day appliances.
Isabella stood at a butcher block, chopping vegetables with practiced ease.
"I'll finish up. Here," Marie said in a tone that clearly stated that this was her domain and she wanted all invaders out of it. "Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes."
Isabella shot Stark a look of amusement before crossing to the sink and washing her hands. "Thanks, Marie. I appreciate your help."
"I gather she doesn't like feeding the enemy." Stark inquired as soon as they were out of earshot.
"Mostly she just doesn't like people, particularly me, getting in the kitchen, but she was left with no other option than to allow me to prepare something for you." Isabella provided the best answer she could think of at that moment.
She opened the door to a snug parlor, complete with a love seat in front of a hockey-scented fire and decanters of liquor arranged on a silver tray. "But I also felt this meeting was a mistake."
"She could be right. Marie could be. But I wanted to witness the outcome: "Whatever he had planned, he can never lay his land on my farmland." Isabella murmured.
"That is certain," she added soliloquizily.
In more ways than one, when she had first approached him, they'd been in an office setting, both wearing work attire, even if she had been a battered Stetson, faded jeans, scarred boots, and flannel s**t. But here, in a more intimate setting, the barriers between them had slipped, blurring the line between business and pleasure.
This go-round. She wore her hair loose. The rich waterfall swept past her shoulders. In a cape of auburn silk. She'd traded in her gear for tawny slacks and a simple ivory blouse, while a plain gold necklace drew attention to the pale length of her throat and the hint of cleavage that peeked from the shadows of her neckline.
A touch of makeup emphasized the startling shape of her violet-blue eyes and made her lips appear fuller and softer. Kissable.
She lifted an eyebrow. "If you think this is a mistake, then why did you suggest dinner in the first place?"
He fought his way back to reality, struggling to regain his focus. He was here on business. The fact that he had to remind himself of that fact didn't bode well for the rest of the evening. "I hoped we could agree in a more relaxed setting."
"Speaking of which..." Isabella gestured toward the sideboard. "Would you like a drink?"
"Yoghurt, if you have it."
Something in her tone snagged his attention. "You don't care for whiskey?"
"On the contrary." She poured them both a drink and joined him by the fire, handing him one of the glasses. "She indulges on rare occasions."
They sat next to each other on the loveseat.
To his amusement, she buried her hip against one end of the narrow couch in an attempt to keep as much distance between them as possible.
"What occasions do you feel warrant a drink?" he asked, genuinely interested.
"Anniversaries."
She flinched from some memory, and the firelight flickered across the elegant planes of her face, revealing a heartbreaking vulnerability.
"And when I'm working on the farm accounts," she added before he could say anything to that.
"What anniversaries? Judging by her drawn expression, they weren't celebrating.
He'd have to recheck their dossier and dig into her past a bit more to discover what had caused such deep hurt. He deliberately kept his response light. "I assume bookkeeping isn't your favorite task. As far as I'm concerned, it requires serious fortification."
His comment had distracted her, and some of the pain and tension ebbed. She also relaxed into the cushion, so they almost touched. "She sounds like her kind."
"It's my sister. And she is your kind."
"Jennifer?"
He shook his head. "Jennifer is my half-sister. Same father, different mother. She drives me to drink, but for different reasons. And I sure as hell wouldn't waste a single yogurt on her. No, I'm talking about my full sister, Hannah, as well as her husband." He sipped his whiskey.
Isabella buried her nose in the glass. "Not my kind, after all."
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