big stainless steel mixing bowl. Matthew would see soon enough that he hadn’t made such a terrible mistake after all.
When she heard the knock on the back door, she slid the egg-and-sausage casserole into the oven and rushed over to let him in.
“Hi,” she called out, licking apple butter from her fingers and then patting her hair, praying it wasn’t flying everywhere. “I hope you’re hungry!”
But the face on the other side of the door didn’t belong to Matthew Quinn. It belonged to Bart Beswick, the handsome young millionaire she had spent last Saturday not getting married to.
Right now, though, that handsome face was as sour as old milk. “Obviously you were expecting someone else,” Bart articulated icily, hardly moving his lips. “Who?”
Natalie sighed. “Hi, Bart,” she said, standing away from the door so he could enter. “You know, sweetie, it’s exactly that kind of question, asked in exactly that tone of voice, that made me decide not to become Mrs. Beswick.”
Bart entered the kitchen stiffly. “I’m glad you can joke about it, Natalie. God knows I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” she said, bending down to check on the casserole. “You just won’t. At least not until that big hole I shot in the side of your ego mends.”
Bart pursed his lips. “It wasn’t my ego. It was my heart.”
“Nonsense.” Natalie spoke around her index finger, which had once again become covered in apple butter. “But if you’ll stop scowling, I’ll let you stay for breakfast.”
“I can’t. I’ve got a meeting. And besides…you are obviously expecting company.” He paused, but as she remained firmly silent he gave up and went on. “I just came by to ask you about my mother’s bracelet.”
He unfolded a couple of typewritten sheets from his breast pocket and began looking them over. “It’s not here. I’ve checked three times. I even had my accountant check. It wasn’t among the things you returned.”
Natalie wiped her hands on a damp towel and wandered across the room to look over his shoulder. “You made a list?” She shook her head. “Good grief, Bart. You actually kept an inventory of the gifts you gave me?”
“Well.” He cleared his throat. “It seemed prudent.”
For a minute she almost lost her temper. What exactly was he implying? Did he think she’d steal the nasty bracelet, which was much too vulgar for anyone to wear?
But then she calmed down. This was just Bart. They had been friends since preschool, and he’d always been the ultraorganized class nerd. At three years old, he’d cried if his stuffed toys weren’t lined up right. At twelve, he had demanded that every pencil in his pencil case be exactly the same length. Was it any wonder that, at thirty, he kept a typewritten list of his love offerings, their appraised values, dates given, and dates returned?
“Okay, whatever.” She moved away. “It’s just that I honestly thought I gave everything back.”
He tapped the empty spot on the “date returned” list. “Not this one. Not my mother’s bracelet. You remember. The diamond bracelet. Rather large diamonds, in fact.”
“Yes, of course I remember it,” she said, sliding bread into the toaster. Darn. This could be sticky. If it hadn’t been in the box she gave him when they called the wedding off, she didn’t have a clue where the blasted thing was. “I’ll look for it. Want a muffin?”
“No, thank you. Maybe you could look for it now? I’ll wait.”
“Bart.” She took a deep breath. “I’m cooking. I’ll look for it later, and I’ll call you.”
“Actually, I’d rather—”
“Listen.” She put her hands on her hips. “I know you’re just itching to put that last check mark on that lovely list, but I’m busy right now. I will find it, I promise. But you might want to be a little less gestapo about it. Technically I don’t have to return it. Look ‘gift’ up in the dictionary.”
“You wouldn’t keep my mother’s bracelet!” He looked so horrified that she was almost ashamed of herself. In spite of his methodical love of detail, Bart was a very nice man. And she had once believed that his hyperrigidity might be a good counterweight to her own impulsive nature.
Besides, his last fiancée— Terri the schoolteacher, the one woman he had really loved—had kept every gift he’d ever given her, right down to the last karat and gram. No wonder he was a little gun-shy.
“Of course I wouldn’t,” she said reassuringly. “Tell you what. Watch the casserole for me, and I’ll go see if it’s upstairs. Oh, and if Matthew comes in, give him a cup of coffee, okay?”
Bart’s eyebrows slammed together. “Matthew?”
“The new handyman,” she said, sliding a wedge of cantaloupe into her mouth and heading for the door. “He just started this morning.”
“Oh, the handyman.” Bart’s frown eased, and he finally smiled. “I thought that you—all this food—well, you know what I thought. But if it’s just the handyman, why are you putting on such a spread?”
She growled under her breath, resisting the urge to toss the cantaloupe rind onto his head. “Reason number seven hundred and twelve why it’s a good thing we didn’t get married, Bart. You’re such an unbelievable snob.”
WHEN, TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Matthew stuck his head in the kitchen door, Natalie was nowhere in sight. The only person in the room was a man who stood staring out the far window, one hand holding a coffee mug, the other drumming impatiently on the countertop.
It wasn’t the same guy who had helped Natalie inside the other day—the preppy Stuart with the unfortunate shoes. This man was more solid, with tidy sandy hair and the conservative, finicky clothes of a fifty-year-old banker. Stuart had been the sports-car-and-tennis type. This one was probably a silver Mercedes sedan and eighteen holes of bad golf.
Not that Matthew cared. But it was interesting to note that wherever Natalie Granville went, men seemed to show up like moths.
Matthew rapped politely against the door, even though it was already open. The man turned around, and Matthew was shocked to discover that he wasn’t fifty at all. He was probably in his late twenties. Not much older than Natalie herself.
“Good morning,” the man said, setting his coffee mug down carefully. “You must be the handyman. Matthew, I think it was?”
Matthew nodded. He held out his hand. “Matthew Quinn,” he said.
The other man’s eyes flickered, and one tiny beat passed before he held out his own hand.
“Bart Beswick,” he said in a formal tone, as if the name should impress.
God, did he always look as if he’d been lashed to a broomstick, or was something annoying the man? Oh, right. Of course. Matthew realized too late that he’d forgotten to don his yes-master tone. He’d automatically approached Bart Beswick man-to-man, eyeball-to-eyeball, and Beswick didn’t like it.
The
