Page 20

That just might have been the worst mess she could ever remember having to clean up. Not that she could remember any instances of cleaning in her past.

Syrie smiled ruefully at her reflection in the mirror and continued to try to drag the brush through her wet hair. She paused to secure the towel she wore as it began to slip and then tried again.

At least the globs of sticky goo were out of her curls at last, even if her tangles were worse than ever thanks to all her scrubbing.

A little rattle followed by a quiet gasp were her only warning that she’d forgotten to lock the door leading to Patrick’s room.

“I beg yer pardon. I assumed you were finished, since the door was unlocked.”

Her first instinct was to complain about his not knocking, but that annoyingly arrogant raised eyebrow told her without a doubt he hadn’t forgotten her tirade at his not having locked the door. Clearly she had no solid ground on which to make a stand.

“Sorry,” she said instead, dropping her brush to clutch her towel around her.

He might have given her quite an eyeful the night she’d walked in on him, but she had no intention of returning the favor. Besides, still covered in the evidence of their horrific kitchen adventure, he managed to look rather pathetic in spite of the eyebrow.

“I’m done in here, anyway. I can finish up in my room.”

“If yer sure.” He grinned. “Ellen and Robert have returned. I barely made it to the stairs before the door opened. Didn’t want to have to explain all this.”

He swept a hand from his head to his waist, and she had to force her eyes away. He might still be wearing globs of dried batter, but even those had no hope of disguising a bare chest that looked as inviting as his. Or as intriguing. When they had more time, she’d have to remember to ask about the unusual tattoo over his heart.

Have to remember? She almost laughed out loud. Like she could ever forget that bare chest of his.

“All yours,” she managed, her voice little more than a squeak.

Syrie started to bend down to pick up her clothing, but, considering the towel was all she wore, she decided better of it. Instead, she shoved at the pile with her foot, flashing him an apologetic smile as she guided her bundle out the door and quickly followed behind it.

Safely on her side, she turned the little key and let out a long breath. How any man could manage to look as good as he did in an equally disheveled state, she simply couldn’t imagine.

“Good looking or not, he’s still an ass,” she reminded herself, feeling a little flutter of guilt even as she voiced the familiar sentiment.

Would an ass have helped her clean up that gigantic mess she’d made? Even though he did help make it worse…

With a sigh, she shook her head, hoping to clear Patrick and any thought of him out of it. Almost an impossible task when she heard the water of the shower switch on.

She remembered all too well what he was doing at this very moment. And how he looked doing it.

Quickly, she slipped into clean clothing, realizing only then that she’d left her brush in the other room. No retrieving that now. Grabbing a rubber band from the top of her dresser, she gathered the unruly curls together and fastened them into a bundle. She could worry about her hair later. Right now she needed to be downstairs, trying to give some sort of explanation for her complete and total failure to do the one thing her friend had asked of her. Not to mention explaining away any of the mess Patrick might have missed after she’d left.

At the foot of the stairs she stopped, deciding that complete honesty was the only defense she had. Ellen’s voice drifted to her from the kitchen, followed by the low rumble of Robert’s reply. Syrie wished she didn’t have to admit her failures in front of him, but it was unavoidable.

Squaring her shoulders, she walked to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as Ellen met her with a hug.

“The cake looks wonderful, Syrie,” she said. “I have to admit, you’ve always been so uncomfortable in the kitchen, I had my doubts. But you really came through for me.”

“Smells great, too,” Robert added as he helped himself to a soft drink from the refrigerator.

There, sitting in the middle of the table, was a beautiful cake, exactly like Syrie would have given her left arm to have baked. But of course, she hadn’t. Having no possible understanding of what was going on, she simply smiled and offered to help in preparing dinner, tucking away all thought of the complete honesty policy she’d adopted only minutes earlier.

“No need for help,” Ellen said with a smile. “Robert and I decided to stop at that little restaurant we like so much and bring home dinner. It was a long day, if you get my meaning, and cooking didn’t sound at all like something I wanted to do.”

Syrie bit back the temptation to agree with the “long day” comment.

“Come on, El,” Robert said, the warning in his tone clear. “Even you have to admit, my mother was on her best behavior today. For her, at least.”

“For her,” Ellen echoed, rolling her eyes as she turned toward Syrie. “You can help me set the table in the dining room, though. And then, if you don’t mind, you can go let Patrick know we’re home and we’re ready for dinner.”

“No, I don’t mind.”

Much easier to agree than to say that he was in the shower. If she did that, she might be forced to admit why he was in the shower this time of day. Or how she knew where he was.

By the time the table was set, Patrick had come downstairs. He’d obviously hurried through his shower, since he looked as though he could use a shave. But, other than that, he appeared fresh and clean and much too innocent for Syrie to believe anyone in the room wouldn’t be suspicious that something had happened in their absence.

But, apparently, they weren’t.

“A lovely dinner,” Patrick said, rising from his seat after the meal to collect empty plates.

“Leave that where it is,” Ellen ordered, standing up to take his plate from him. “I’ll clean up. It’s the least I can do after Syrie baked this wonderful cake and left the kitchen absolutely spotless to boot.”

“Patrick helped,” Syrie blurted out, unable to stay silent any longer. “I couldn’t have done it without him.”

“Really?” Ellen said, her piercing gaze traveling from one to the other of them as though she could see right into their thoughts.

“Kept her a bit of company is all I did,” Patrick said with a shrug. “It’s no’ as though I’ve any skill at baking. I doona even ken where to light ovens such as yers.”

Ellen chuckled, picking up the last plate. “Well, since we don’t have to light our ovens, it’s apparent that you’re telling the truth about your lack of skill in the kitchen. Syrie, on the other hand, has kept her talents hidden all this time. I think that cake was even better than mine. You’ll have to share your secrets. What did you do differently to get that lovely flavor and texture?”

Syrie blinked, her mouth firmly shut. How could she share the secret of how she’d made a better cake when she didn’t even know the secret of where the cake had come from?

“She’s a sly one, our Syrie,” Patrick said with a grin. “If I were a betting man, I’d put my money on the extra butter she used. That and a touch of Mrs. Whitman’s honey.”

“Very clever,” Ellen said, nodding as she carried dishes to the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have thought to do that. Of course, I rarely alter a recipe once I’ve found a good one. Perhaps I need to take a page from Syrie’s book and be more adventurous.”

“Adventure is highly overrated,” Syrie murmured.

“On that, I agree,” Robert said, pushing back his chair and heading toward the sofa. “Join me for some television, Patrick?”

“I’ll pass on yer kind offer. It’s been a long day, so I think I’ll retire to my chamber.” Patrick rubbed a hand over his cheek and grinned. “Perhaps even clean up a bit before I retire. Thank you again for a lovely meal, Ellen.”

With a little bow, he left the room and disappeared up the stairs.

Syrie found it almost impossible to drag her eyes from the direction he’d just gone.

“He does cut quite a striking figure, doesn’t he?” Ellen asked as Syrie joined her in the kitchen. “With that long hair and those big shoulders. Not to mention that dark five o’clock shadow on his face.”

“Quit your matchmaking, El,” Robert yelled in from the other room. “And don’t you even try to deny it. I know what you’re up to when you start that whisper-buzzing of yours.”

“Men,” Ellen said, but a guilty grin played around her lips. “Still, you could do a lot worse than Patrick. He’s handsome and quite obviously helpful. I even suspect he rather likes you.”

“Robert’s right, you know,” Syrie said as she scraped the plates to get them ready to wash. “You should quit your matchmaking.”

The last thing she needed right now was to be fixed up with anyone, let alone the most confusing, aggravating man she’d ever met.