the deal.’ He sat back and folded his hands behind his head, the very picture of the dominant male. ‘I’ll consider some of your suggestions, but you’ll have to be present.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Baking cookies and cakes. What do I know about that? My housekeeper looks after that side of things, or else I ensure food of the highest standard is delivered.’
‘You just have to follow a recipe,’ Tess pointed out. Did he even possess a recipe book? She hadn’t seen any in the kitchen. Maybe he had a stash of them in his library—although she doubted that.
Matt stood up abruptly and walked towards the window, looking down at the matchstick figures scurrying along the pavements and the small yellow taxis like a toddler’s play-cars.
‘Have you shown this list to my daughter?’ he asked, turning around to look at her.
In return she frowned at him. ‘Not yet. I did it in the car on the way over. I mean, I would have had it typed out, but I…I didn’t have time.’
‘Then how do you know that she’s going to go along with any of these schemes?’
‘They’re not schemes’
‘Okay. Ideas. Suggestions. Brainwaves. Call them what you want. How do you know that she’s going to be keen to…let’s say…play a board game for two hours?’
‘Oh. Right. I see what you mean.’
‘I very much doubt that,’ Matt said irritably. ‘Kids these days prefer to sit in front of their computers. It’s how they connect with their friends. Samantha has a very advanced computer. It was one of the first things I bought for her when she came here to live with me.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Tess decided. ‘If you need me around, then I’ll do it.’
Need was a word that didn’t feature heavily in his vocabulary—not insofar as it applied to him, at any rate. He opened his mouth to point that out, and then realised that, like it or not, the prospect of trying to coax a positive reaction from his daughter whilst trying to appear relaxed in front of a game of Scrabble was the equivalent of looking up at an insurmountable precipice and trying to work out how to scale it in a pair of flip-flops.
‘It’s hardly a question of need,’ he stated, frowning.
‘Some men find it difficult to take time out for quality family time.’
‘Spare me the psychobabble, Tess.’
He met her eyes and for a split second she felt almost dizzy. She wondered whether it was because she was just so unused to any of this. Standing up for something and refusing to back down. Telling a man like Matt Strickland—who was her sister’s boss, for goodness’ sake—that he should be doing stuff, when it was obvious that no one ever told him what he should be doing. Getting involved enough to go beyond the call of duty for a job she had been reluctant to accept in the first place.
Her mouth went dry and she found that she was sitting on her hands, leaning forward in her chair. Crazy! ‘It’s not psychobabble,’ she said faintly. ‘It’s the truth! What activity would you…would you like to start with?’
‘Ah. A choice?’ Matt looked at the list. ‘You do realise that choosing to participate in these activities will curtail your free time in the evenings?’
‘That’s okay.’
‘I’ll make sure that you’re paid overtime, of course.’
‘I don’t care about the money,’ Tess muttered, looking in fascination at his downbent head as he continued to frown over the list, as though trying to work out which was the most acceptable of the options on the table.
‘But you might,’ he murmured, not looking at her, ‘regret committing to something that’s going to involve time you might otherwise spend seeing New York…going out and having fun. Isn’t that going to be a problem?’
Quite suddenly he raised his eyes to hers, and there it was again—that giddy feeling as though she was free-falling through space.
‘Why should it be a problem?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘Because,’ Matt murmured, ‘you’re young, and I’ve gathered that you came here to have fun. Since when has your definition of fun been spending time with your employer and his daughter, playing a game of Scrabble?’
Never, Tess thought, confused.
‘Right.’ He stood up, and she hastily followed suit. Her allotted time was over. ‘First of all, you will be reimbursed—whether you like it or not. And as for which activity takes my fancy…having done none of them for longer than I can remember…’
He grinned. A smile of genuine amusement. And for a few heart-stopping seconds he ceased to be Matt Strickland, the man who was employing her, the man who represented just the sort of staid workaholic that she privately abhorred, and was just a man. A suffocatingly sexy man who made her head spin.
‘Your choice. I’ll be home tomorrow by six.’
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