Millionaires' Destinies(25)

“Heaven,” she said as she poured herself a cup of coffee. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby,” he lied.

She gave him a doubtful look but didn’t question his claim. “I noticed that the road in front of the house has been plowed. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to have me out from underfoot and have this place back to yourself,” she said. “I’ll take off as soon as I’ve had something to eat.”

Instead of cheering him up, her announcement made him want to dawdle. Because that was so completely ridiculous, he immediately poured batter onto the steaming waffle iron and snapped the lid closed. He took the plateful of bacon he’d microwaved earlier out of the oven where he’d been keeping it warm, then slammed it down on the table with more force than necessary. Melanie gave him another questioning look but remained silent.

“Juice?” he asked. “There’s orange.” He peered into the refrigerator as if there were some uncertainty, then added, “And cranberry.”

“Orange juice would be good,” she said, watching him closely. Apparently she could no longer contain her curiosity, because she added with concern, “Richard, are you upset about something?”

“Absolutely not,” he said sharply, in a tone guaranteed to contradict his words.

Melanie retreated into wounded silence, which was what he’d been hoping for—wasn’t it? Instead, he felt like he’d kicked a friendly puppy.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “Obviously I got out of bed on the wrong side this morning.”

She shrugged. “Just proves you’re human.”

“Stop that! Stop letting me off the hook,” he snapped, annoyed with her, with himself, with the universe.

She stared at him. “Okay, what’s really going on here? Have I missed something? Did you want me to take off right away? Have I tested your patience long enough?”

Richard sighed. “No. It’s not you. It’s me. To be honest, I don’t know what I want. Blame my lousy mood on stress, not enough sleep, whatever.”

“You said you slept like a baby.”

Naturally she’d been paying close attention to his stupid lie and just had to call him on it. He should have expected that. Frowning, he admitted, “I lied.”

“Why?”

“Because you came in here all cheerful and bright eyed and I didn’t want you to think I’d lost even a second’s sleep last night.” He kept his gaze firmly fixed on the waffle iron when he made the admission.

“Are we having some sort of competition?” she asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

“My entire life has been about competition,” he muttered, as he snagged the golden waffle, put it on a plate and placed it in front of her.

“With whom? Your brothers?”

He shook his head. “With myself. I set goals, mostly based on my father’s expectations, then I battle with myself to attain them.” He gave her a wry look. “So far I’m right on track.”

“But are you happy?” she asked quietly.

“Of course,” he said quickly, possibly too quickly.

Melanie kept her steady gaze on him and waited.

“Mostly,” he amended finally. He’d been completely happy until he’d watched that ridiculous movie and started questioning the lack of a woman in his life.

“What do you win in these competitions of yours?”

“Respect,” he said immediately.

“You mean self-respect.”

Richard shook his head. “No, just respect.”

She regarded him quizzically. “Your father’s?” she asked, her voice incredulous. “Is that it, Richard? Are you still trying to earn your father’s respect?”

As she said it, he heard how ridiculous that sounded. His father had been dead for twenty years. “That would be impossible,” he said, shaken by the sudden awareness of what he’d been doing for far too long. He’d been living his life to please a man who could no longer be satisfied—or dissatisfied—with his accomplishments. And overnight he’d been examining his entire life based on a movie premise…and on one offhand comment from a woman who barely knew him.

“Yes,” Melanie told him. “It would be. Self-respect is far more important, don’t you think?”

This was more self-analysis than Richard could cope with on an empty stomach. “Enough of this,” he said brusquely. “How’s your waffle?”

Her gaze held his, challenged him, but then she finally let it drop to the forkful of waffle she was holding. “Perfect,” she said. “You could always open a restaurant, if you get tired of running a multinational conglomerate.”