The Millionaire and the Maid

The Millionaire and the Maid
Michelle Douglas

The woman who made him smile again…Housekeeper Jo Anderson gets the shock of her life when she meets her new boss! Six months ago, millionaire Mac MacCullum was a charismatic celebrity chef – now he’s scarred and reclusive…The last thing Mac wants is a woman determined to make him confront his demons – especially when Jo clearly has her own! Why else would someone so full of beauty and zest for life feel like the plainest woman in Australia? Maybe it’s time Mac helped her realise just how special she really is…

‘I’m sick to death of this ridiculous belief of yours that you’re not attractive. You’re a beautiful and very desirable woman.’

It frightened her. He frightened her because she wanted to believe him. Yet in her heart she knew it was all lies.

Mac eased away and she tossed her head. ‘I know my worth, Mac, make no mistake. I’m smart and strong and I’m a good friend. But let’s make one thing very clear. Boys like you do not kiss girls like me.’ Not unless it was for a bet or a dare. ‘It’s a fact of life.’

And then he moved in.

She raised her hands. ‘Don’t you—’

His lips claimed hers, swiftly, pushing her back against the house, but he took his time exploring every inch of her mouth. She tried to turn her head to the side but he followed her, his hands cupping her face. He crowded her completely, pressing every inch of his rock-hard self against her.

They both breathed hard, as if they’d run a race.

‘I beg to differ.’

She blinked up at him blankly.

‘Guys like me most certainly do kiss women like you. And what’s more, Jo, they enjoy every moment of it.’

The Millionaire and the Maid

Michelle Douglas

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

MICHELLE DOUGLAS has been writing for Mills & Boon since 2007 and believes she has the best job in the world. She lives in a leafy suburb of Newcastle, on Australia’s east coast, with her own romantic hero, a house full of dust and books, and an eclectic collection of sixties and seventies vinyl. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted via her website: michelle-douglas.com (http://michelle-douglas.com).

To Laurie Johnson for her enthusiasm, insight … and for introducing me to mojitos.

It was a joy to work with you.

Contents

Cover (#u8c48ddb6-e7c5-5d6f-a8ee-caf2e2499a46)

Introduction (#u99438936-a587-5358-9699-738370dd028f)

Title Page (#u70219cd0-114d-51d3-80e7-4abbf8fe9c4e)

About the Author (#uaeb61395-efce-554c-aaec-883618ebb3dc)

Dedication (#u27f25879-2321-554b-9e6a-975c53fc2e58)

CHAPTER ONE (#u7371d96c-99eb-5642-bada-03b8283c8442)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_03deb7c1-c6dc-54e3-8650-362923e7c63b)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0aec8326-5337-50e0-be73-0c9ed0d038bb)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

MAC PRESSED THE heels of his hands to his eyes and counted to five before pulling them away and focussing on the computer screen again. He reread what he’d written of the recipe so far and fisted his hands. What came next?

This steamed mussels dish was complicated, but he must have made it a hundred times. He ground his teeth together. The words blurred and danced across the screen. Why couldn’t he remember what came next?

Was it coconut milk?

He shook his head. That came later.

With a curse, he leapt up, paced across the room and tried to imagine making the dish. He visualised himself in a kitchen, with all the ingredients arrayed around him. He imagined speaking directly to a rolling camera to explain what he was doing—the necessity of each ingredient and the importance of the sequence. His chest swelled and then cramped. He dragged a hand back through his hair. To be cooking...to be back at work... A black well of longing rose through him, drowning him with a need so great he thought the darkness would swallow him whole.

It’d be a blessing if it did.

Except he had work to do.

He kicked out at a pile of dirty washing bunched in the corner of the room before striding back to his desk and reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the floor beside it. It helped to blunt the pain. For a little while. He lifted it to his mouth and then halted. The heavy curtains drawn at the full-length windows blocked the sunlight from the room, and while his body had no idea—it was in a seemingly permanent state of jet lag—his brain told him it was morning.

Grinding his teeth, he screwed the cap back on the bottle.

Finish the damn recipe. Then you can drink yourself into oblivion and sleep.

Finish the recipe? That was what he had to do, but he couldn’t seem to turn from where he stood, staring at the closed curtains, picturing the day just beyond them, the sun and the light and the cool of the fresh air...the smell of the sea.