a hand through his hair. Hay flew everywhere. He swore again.
For a moment he thought about returning to her. She had been a most pleasant distraction from his maddening thoughts. That she was a timid partner did not bother him. In fact, the new experience had been stimulating. Her uncertainty had barely masked her eagerness to explore, a naiveté he found enchanting.
She was young, barely twenty he guessed. Perhaps she had not yet been with a man. Although in his experience with American and European women, youth meant little in terms of sexual enlightenment.
He would run into Olivia Smith with the bewitching violet eyes again, he was sure of it. But for now, his thoughts were tainted with the intrusion of the reporter, and the possible repercussions of a suggestive photograph.
Sharif frowned when he realized what little regard he had given such offenses in the past. And much to the displeasure of his parents, there had been a considerable number of compromising situations that had provided fodder for the tabloids. What was different now? Was maturity finally replacing his childish antics?
As much as he wanted to believe age and wisdom were responsible, deep down Sharif knew better. Life was no longer so simple. The entitlement and privilege, the very foundation of his being he had taken for granted a mere two weeks ago were more precarious today. And Sharif wished more than anything he had been kept in ignorance. Because for the first time in his life, he understood fear.
HALF THE MORNING HAD GONE by before Livy got up the nerve to return Shay’s shirt. She seldom had reason to go to the main house and everyone would wonder what the heck she was doing there. Maybe she ought to just leave the darn thing in the barn, and Shay could let his servant fetch it.
If she were smart that’s exactly what she would do, she told herself as she marched up the slope toward the house. So far, no one had given her any funny looks that said they knew what had happened in the barn yesterday. She still cringed every time one of the other hands so much as looked her way, though, half expecting them to make some remark. But she supposed it was her own guilty conscience acting up.
And why shouldn’t it, with the racy dreams she’d had last night. She could’ve sworn she was having one of those hot flashes she’d heard about. Now, just thinking about her and Shay rolling around in their skivvies in her dream brought on a heat wave, and she stopped to mop her forehead.
The last thing she wanted to do was get all hot and sweaty by the time she got to the house. Not that it should matter. Working outside under the hot sun, she could get pretty ripe by eleven most mornings. And that was with her hat on. Today she’d left it off. Even under the best circumstances her hair looked like someone had used a mixing bowl to cut it. There was no need to let it get all stuck to her head. After all, she was going to the main house.
Who was she kidding?
Grunting in disgust, she jammed her hat on her head and hurried up the slope. By the time she arrived at the kitchen door, the silk shirt she had carefully ironed was a crumpled mess.
Through the screen she saw Ella Grover sitting at the kitchen table, her head bowed. Livy frowned at the confusing picture. The spry cook was always bustling around the stove. But it was Vi Coleman who was stirring something in a skillet. She jerked and turned at Livy’s knock, her red hair in disarray around her face.
“Livy! Am I glad to see you. Come on in.” Mrs. Coleman sighed, then sent a stern look toward Ella when the older woman started to rise. “Sit. Livy will refill your water.” Mrs. Coleman turned beseeching green eyes toward Livy. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” Livy cast the shirt aside and hurried to the table for the empty glass. “What’s wrong, Ella? You sick?”
“No,” the woman said, and scowled at her boss.
“Ouch!” Vi Coleman jerked her hand away from the skillet handle. “Gosh darn it.”
“I told you to use a pot holder with that one,” Ella said, and started to rise again.
“Ella Grover, if you don’t stay in that chair, so help me, I’ll have Randy carry you to your room.”
At the mention of Mr. Coleman, the cook snorted. “Ain’t nobody going to lift this body and live.”
Livy hid a grin as she returned the filled glass to the table. Ella and her husband Hal had been with the Colemans for so many years they were more like family than employees. That’s what Livy liked most about living and working on the Desert Rose. The Colemans never treated anyone like an outsider. Not even her.
“Can I help you with something, Mrs. Coleman?” she asked, her gaze sweeping the cluttered counters and food spills. It was weird to see the kitchen like this. Ella usually kept it so spotless.
“I’d sure appreciate it. Ella had a dizzy spell and I don’t want to call Abbie for help what with the baby due so soon.” She pulled a red gingham oven mitt out of the drawer. “But you’ve got to start calling me Vi.” Mrs. Coleman smiled. “For goodness’ sakes, you’ve worked here for over fours years now. You’re practically family.”
Family. A lump blocked Livy’s throat and she couldn’t swallow. She blinked just in case her eyes got any strange ideas about tearing up. All she had ever wanted was to find a place to belong. She never dreamed she could be so lucky. “Okay…Vi.” She cleared her throat. “I’m not much of a cook, but if you tell me what to do, I’m sure we can get lunch on the table in no time.”
Vi and Ella exchanged bland looks. “Breakfast,” Vi said.
Livy looked at the oak-carved wall clock. Everyone at the ranch should have been up and at ’em hours ago.
“Don’t ask.” Vi pushed stray hair away from her shiny damp face and opened the oven. The aroma of biscuits filled the kitchen.
“She don’t have to ask.” Ella snorted, and inclined her head toward the tray of biscuits Vi removed. “And if you think he’s gonna be content with such peasant food, you’re kidding yourself.”
Livy’s eyes widened. Shay. She should have known.
“Come on, Ella, he’s from a different culture, and he is the boys’ brother. Besides, he won’t be here long. It won’t hurt to be nice to him.” Vi’s gaze darted to Livy. “So we all smile, okay?”
“Don’t worry.” Livy shrugged, and turning to grab an apron, muttered, “I’ve already met his royal pain in the butt.”
Vi’s gasp told her she’d spoken too loudly. Ella chuckled.
Heat climbed Livy’s neck. “I’m sorry. He’s your guest and I shouldn’t have said that.”
Vi shook her head and turned to lift the biscuits off the baking sheets. But not before Livy saw her check a grin. “Get the butter out of the refrigerator, will you?”
Livy breathed with relief and did as she was asked. “How about the cream?”
“It probably isn’t thick or sweet enough for him.”
“Ella.” Vi’s voice was strained. “Please.”
The cook gave Livy a quick look then stared down at her hands. No one said anything after that. Vi finished arranging the biscuits on a red cloth napkin lining
