Hoodwinked by Diana Palmer Page A

shortcake.”
    â€œIt’s too late,” she said. “And you shouldn’t spend your paycheck on me.” She felt brave, and because she did, she nestled closely in his arms with a long breath and closed her eyes, inhaling the delicious fragrance of his very masculine cologne. “I’m glad you’re not in trouble.”
    His big hands spread over her back. Odd, to feel so protective about this woman. She wasn’t beautiful. She didn’t have money. She wasn’t sophisticated, and she didn’t come from an uptown family. She wasn’t even his kind of companion. So why did he feel so comfortable with her?
    â€œMr. Blake wouldn’t tell me anything, and Charlene couldn’t,” she said against his shirt. “But something’s going on, I can feel it. They say that Mr. MacFaber’s private detective struck pay dirt.”
    â€œSo I’ve heard.”
    â€œGood for him. Poor old Mr. MacFaber…”
    â€œWhat makes you think he’s old?” he asked dryly.
    â€œOh, Charlene says he’s forty at least,” she murmured. “And overweight and graying. I guess he’s worn out his body with South American heiresses and solitary sports.”
    He chuckled. “Maybe he has. I wouldn’t put too much stock in the South American heiress, though. I don’t think MacFaber is much of a ladies’ man. From what I hear, he isn’t at all the type.”
    â€œReally?” She lifted her head and looked up at him. “That will break hearts around the office.” She laughed softly. “All the girls are waiting with bated breath for him to make an appearance. His publicity has preceded him, you see. Everyone thinks he’s Mr. Right. Even two of the engaged girls! There’ll be a scandal when he shows up.”
    â€œI wouldn’t doubt it.” He let her go and moved away. “Hello, Bagwell.”
    The big parrot spared him a disinterested glance and went back to nibbling on the bread and ham in his claw.
    â€œHow many can you eat?” Maureen asked, unwrapping bread.
    â€œIf you mean parrots, I’m not sure,” he said. “Are you offering me Bagwell in a cheese sauce?”
    â€œNot parrots—” she laughed gaily “—sandwiches. Ham. With cheese and lettuce and mayonnaise.”
    â€œAnd mustard,” he instructed. “Two.”
    â€œOkay.”
    She made them, delighted to see him, to have him sitting so naturally at her kitchen table. While she made sandwiches, he pulled off his jacket and tie and tossed them over an empty chair out of Bagwell’s reach. He crossed his long legs and unbuttoned the throat of his white shirt. This was an expensive shirt, too, she noticed as she finished making sandwiches and opened a bag of potato chips to go with them. It looked very much like silk. She wondered where he’d been that he’d had to dress up, but she didn’t pry.
    â€œI like this,” he murmured, nodding when she offered to pour him a cup of coffee. “I can’t remember the last time a woman made me supper.”
    â€œI’ll bet your mother did.”
    His eyes narrowed suddenly and he watched her warily. “What do you know about my mother?”
    â€œWell, what could I know, since I’ve only just met you?” she asked reasonably. “But my mother used to make things for me, so I assume yours did for you.”
    â€œOf course.” He lifted the black coffee to his chiseled mouth. “My mother couldn’t cook. She was completely undomesticated.”
    â€œDo you have brothers and sisters?”
    He shook his head. “I have no one. Not anymore.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œWhy? You don’t have anyone, either.”
    â€œThat’s true.” She sat down across from him and offered Bagwell another piece of sandwich and then wolfed down her own. She was aware of the too-tight T-shirt she was