Adelaide could picture the domesticity of the scene—the roaring fire, the eggnog served in wineglasses, the laughter over dinner—and had to suppress a twinge of jealousy. The Donahues no longer had Chloe, which was heartbreaking. But they still had one another. “Who does the cooking?”
“I’ve hired someone to help.”
“A woman?”
He glanced at her. “Yeah, a woman. Does it matter?”
She wasn’t sure why it seemed important to clarify that. “I’ve just…had trouble finding the right person to help me with the same kind of thing,” she said, but she didn’t really need anyone to cook or clean. She wasn’t home long enough to get her house dirtier than what the maid service could manage each Saturday. The dry cleaner handled most of the laundry. And it didn’t make sense to hire a cook for one person who was gone most of the time and had a microwave available when she wasn’t. She’d just thought it would be nice to have someone waiting for her at the end of the day.
She’d once interviewed a few applicants, but it seemed far too pathetic to pay for a warm smile, a “welcome home” and a TV companion. So she usually stayed at her office until she was too tired to do anything except listen to the news before bed.
“A friend recommended her to me,” he explained.
“She doesn’t mind working on Christmas?”
“Look what I found!” He held up a first-aid kit.
“That’s great,” she said, but she didn’t see how a few bandages would make much difference to them. Either they’d be rescued before they froze to death—or they wouldn’t.
He rooted around some more while she continued to ponder the woman who cooked his Christmas dinner.
“So…does she?” she asked when the conversation lapsed.
He was on his stomach, riffling through a compartment that was so smashed he couldn’t get much out. “Does she what?”
“Mind working on Christmas Day.”
“I guess not. She doesn’t have to. It’s her choice.”
“Doesn’t she have family of her own?”
“She’s never been married.”
Adelaide’s feet were beginning to tingle and burn. They hurt—but she hoped the return of sensation was a good sign. “Does she eat with you, too?”
“Yeah. Then we exchange gifts and she goes to visit some distant relatives.”
Adelaide drew her knees to her chest. There was something about this cook woman that bothered her, but she couldn’t put her finger on why. “So you get her a gift?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t you?” He groaned as he strained to pull out a blanket.
“How old is she?”
“Maybe if I had a hatchet…”
“How old is she?” Adelaide repeated.
“At least twenty-five.”
“So she’s not matronly Alice from The Brady Bunch.”
He laughed. “Definitely not.”
Definitely not? “What’d you get her this year?”
“I’m not sure. I think my daughter picked out a nice purse.”
“Nice” meant expensive, at least in Maxim Donahue’s vocabulary. Adelaide had never seen him wear anything that wasn’t the best money could buy. She wondered what this young housekeeper would think of receiving a Gucci or Dolce bag. “Sounds like she does a fine job.”
He didn’t answer. He’d found a box of matches and was trying to light one. “Damn, they’re ruined.”
No fire. No heat. No help.
Adelaide pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and brought the conversation back to Christmas dinner. “What time do you usually eat?”
“Midafternoon. You?”
She ignored the question. “That means she stays with you most of the day.”
He straightened as much as possible in the upside-down aisle of the shattered plane. “Why are you so interested in my housekeeper?”
Adelaide pulled her coat tighter. “It just seems…like an odd situation.”
“It’s not odd. She cooks and I pay her.”
“And she spends most of her Christmas with you, even though she’s only twenty-five!”
He angled his head to look at her through the crack between two suspended seats. “Okay, now I see where you’re going. But don’t get too excited, Candidate Fairfax. You’ll have nothing to report to the press when we get back, because I’m not having an affair with the hired help.”
“I’m not digging for dirt!”
“Then why would you care if my housekeeper is young, attractive and unmarried?”
Adelaide forgot about her prickling feet. “You didn’t tell me she was attractive.”
“Well, she is.”
“How attractive?”
Victory lit his eyes. “My housekeeper, Rosa, is nearly three hundred pounds, at least fifty-five years old and stays with us because she’s supposed to. She’s live-in help. Except for the relatives I mentioned, the rest of her family remained in Chile when she immigrated—legally—thirty-five years ago.”
Adelaide rocked back. “You set me up! What a jerk!”
A wicked grin curved his lips. “You knew it was me last night and you enjoyed it, anyway, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she grumbled.
“In the cave,” he said. “I’m saying there were moments you enjoyed our lovemaking even knowing I wasn’t Mark. You—”
“Stop it.” She scowled. “You’re deluded.”
He lowered his voice. “Am I?”
“Of course.” She met his eyes because she wanted him to believe her; she wanted to believe what she was saying, too. Crediting all that passion to fantasy made everything so much…simpler. But she was having too many flashbacks. His hands cupping her face with palms too large to be Mark’s. His mouth on her breast, warming her just when she thought she’d never be warm again. The sounds he’d made, the words he’d whispered. It was all unique to him.
“Would it hurt so much to admit it?” he asked.
She didn’t answer.
“I knew it was you,” he added.
“But it could’ve been anyone, remember?”
An expression of chagrin wiped the subtly coaxing smile from his face. “Could’ve been, but wasn’t.”
“I thought we decided to forget about last night, pretend it never happened.”