want him. She wanted the things his money represented. Two minutes after they were married she was pushing him to leave the farm he loved, and when he didn’t...
Yeah, well, that was old history now. He didn’t need Darrilyn. He didn’t need anyone. But Donald was right.
He needed to be careful.
THEY LOOKED BEAUTIFUL.
Penny gazed at the table in satisfaction. She had two plates of lamingtons ready to go. She’d rolled her cakes in rich chocolate sauce, coated them in coconut and filled them with cream. She’d thought of the difficulties of plates and spoons over in the yard so she’d gone small, but she’d made two each to compensate.
She’d piled them in beautifully stacked pyramids. They looked exquisite.
But this wasn’t a social event, she reminded herself. Two lamingtons might not be enough, so she made a few rounds of club sandwiches, bite-sized beauties. She cut them into four-point serves and set them on a plate in the lamingtons’ midst. They looked great.
She glanced at the clock and felt a little swell of pride. She had the ovens hot for the frittatas for lunch. They were almost ready to pop in. She had fifteen minutes before smoko and she was totally in control.
Matt would walk in any minute.
And here he was. He looked filthy, his pants and open neck shirt coated in dust, his boots caked in...whatever, she didn’t want to think about it. His face was smeared with dust and his hair plastered down with sweat. ‘Hey. Nearly ready?’
She lifted her lamingtons for inspection. ‘We can take them over now if you like.’
He glanced at the table and his gaze moved on. ‘Where’s the rest?’
‘The rest?’
There was a pregnant pause. And then... ‘This is all there is?’
‘Two lamingtons, two points of sandwiches each. How much more...’
He swore and headed for the pantry, leaving a trail of filthy footsteps over her nice, clean kitchen floor.
Her kitchen. That was how she felt when she worked. This was her domain.
Um...not. Matt had flung open the pantry door and was foraging behind the flour sacks. He emerged with three boxes.
Charity sale Christmas cakes. Big ones.
‘They hate them but they’ll have to do,’ he snapped. ‘Help me chop them up. They’ll stop work in half an hour and if this is all you have...’
‘But there’s plenty,’ she stammered and he gave her a look that resembled—eerily—the one her father gave her all the time. Like: You’ve been an idiot but what else could I expect?
‘This isn’t your society morning tea,’ he snapped, ripping cartons open. ‘It’s fuel. Grab a knife and help me.’
She was having trouble moving. This was supposed to be her domain, the kitchen, her food—and he was treating her like an idiot. She felt sick.
A memory came flooding back of the dinner a month ago. She and her parents in the family home, the mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour. It had been her birthday. She’d like a family dinner, she’d told them. Just her parents, her half-sister and her fiancé.
And she’d cooked, because that was what she loved to do. She’d cooked what Brett loved to eat—stylish, with expensive ingredients, the sort of meal her father would enjoy paying a lot of money for in a society restaurant. She’d worked hard but she thought she’d got it right.
She’d even made time to get her hair done and she was wearing a new dress. Flushed with success, she’d only been a little disconcerted when Brett was late. And Felicity... Well, her sister was always late.
And then they’d walked in, hand in hand. ‘We’re so sorry, Penny, but we have something to tell you...’
Matt was already slicing the first cake but at her silence he glanced up. Maybe the colour had drained from her face. Maybe she looked how she felt—as if she was about to be sick. For whatever reason, he put the knife down.
‘What?’
‘I...’
‘It’s okay,’ he told her, obviously making an effort to sound calm. ‘They’re very nice lamingtons but this isn’t a society fund-raiser where everyone’s spent the last three hours thinking about what to wear. Some of these guys have shorn forty sheep since they last ate, and they intend to do forty more before their next meal. Calories first, niceties second. Help me, Penny.’ And then, as she still didn’t move, he added, ‘Please.’
And finally her stunned brain shifted back into gear. She shoved away the sour taste of failure that followed her everywhere.
Fuel. Hungry workers who’d been head down since dawn.
Cute little lamingtons? She must have been nuts.
What then? Hot. Filling. Fast.
She had it.
‘Ramp the ovens up,’ she snapped and headed for the freezer. ‘All of them. High as you can go. And then wash your hands. I need help and you’re not touching my food with those hands.’
‘We don’t have time...’
‘We’ll be ten minutes late. They have a choice of a late smoko or eating your disgusting cake. You choose.’
* * *
He could order her aside and chop up the fruitcake the team despised—or he could trust her.
He went for the second. He cranked up the ovens and headed for the wash house. Two minutes later he was back, clean at least to the elbows.
By the time he returned, Penny had hauled sheets of frozen pastry from the freezer and was separating them onto baking trays.
‘Three ovens, six trays,’ she muttered. ‘Surely that’ll feed them.’ She indicated jars of pasta sauce on the bench. ‘Open them and start spreading,’ she told him. ‘Not too thick. Go.’
Hang on. He was the boss. This was his house, his kitchen, his shearing team waiting to be fed. The sensible thing was to keep chopping fruitcake but Penny had suddenly transformed from a cute little blonde into a cook with power. With Matt as an underling.
Fascinated, he snagged the first jar and started spreading.
Penny was diving into the coolroom, hauling out mushrooms, salami, mozzarella. She didn’t so much as glance at him. She headed to the sink, dumped the mushrooms under the tap and then started ripping open the salami.
‘Aren’t you supposed to wipe mushrooms?’ he managed. To say he was bemused would be an understatement.
‘In
