First Chapters: The Right Track by Jill Limber

THE RIGHT TRACK, by Jill Limber, Buroughs Publishing Group, Kindle $2.99.

Jefferson Kennedy runs his life and his business in an orderly, practical and scheduled way. When he decides it is time for him to marry, he does his research and picks the most likely candidates for the position from women he has met over the years. As he travels cross-country in his private restored antique train car, his new gourmet chef is amused at his plans, and when she begins to fall for him, things heat up in the kitchen, turning Jefferson’s plans into chaos as he falls in love with his fun-loving, madcap companion.

The First Chapter:

The Right Track

Jill Limber

Copyright © 2012 by Jill Limber

ONE

The locomotive whistle sounded, startling Liz Bassett. She paused in the tiny kitchen of the private railroad car. If old Mr. Kennedy, the owner of the car, the Samuel J. Hayes, missed the train, would she be out of a job?

She had already spent the paycheck she would get at the end of the trip.

Liz picked up a set of stainless steel mixing bowls, then turned sideways in the small space to bend over and look out the window sandwiched between the low cupboards and the sink. With her free hand she tucked a wisp of hair back into the knot low on her neck.

“Who the hell are you?” An angry male voice from behind her caused Liz to spin around. Several of the nested mixing bowls flew out of the stack she clutched, clattering and rolling around on the surface of the big iron stove. She brought her free hand up to her chest, covering her pounding heart.

A tall bearded man stood in the doorway to the kitchen glaring at her with bloodshot eyes. He looked like he had slept in his stained jeans, khaki vest and plaid flannel shirt. In his right hand he held a large burlap bag.

Her heart beating double time, Liz steadied herself as she took in the stranger.

He blocked her only way out. Deciding the best defense was a good offense, she scanned the counter for a weapon.

“Who are you?” She pulled herself up to her full height and calculated the distance to the knife rack hanging on the wall. He looked like a bum and smelled like a dead fish.

The man blinked in surprise and studied her for a moment. “Jefferson Kennedy, the owner of this car.”

Liz’s mouth dropped open in surprise. This was Mr. Kennedy? The man she had been hired to cook for and clean up after? His lack of grooming aside, she had expected a much older man.

Before she could think of a thing to say, he held up his hand. “Where’s Earl?” His dark brown eyes never left her face.

Still suspicious, she studied him as she spoke. “At home, nursing a broken arm.”

She grabbed the ticket from Mr. Kennedy’s secretary and turned it over, holding it out so he could see the instructions written on the back.

He stared at the writing for a moment, then groaned and rubbed at his temple, muttering something about a situation going from bad to worse. That simple gesture made him seem more human and less threatening to her. Liz relaxed a little as she put the instructions back on the shelf.

“Here.” He thrust the heavy burlap bag into her hand. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”

He turned and left, but the smell lingered.

The locomotive’s whistle sounded a second time and the car started with a lurch that threw her against the edge of the counter.

Liz stuck her head out the kitchen door and watched him disappear down the narrow hallway into the dining room. He had an athletic walk and swayed easily with the motion of the train.

His shoulders were so wide he had to angle his body to get through the door frame.

She blinked a couple of times and then pulled back into the kitchen. The car pitched again and she widened her stance to compensate for the movement.

Could that possibly be Mr. Kennedy? He looked more like a bum than a rich businessman. Maybe he was eccentric. Earl hadn’t mentioned that when he had asked her to take over for him. In fact, she realized, Earl had said little about the boss.

Liz had jumped at the chance to work a cross-country trip with great pay. And it had sounded so easy. All she had to do was cook for luncheons and dinner parties and keep the car clean and tidy.

Once again her impulsive behavior had gotten her in deeper than she had expected.

She had only been thinking of one thing when she accepted the job. She could start her own catering business sooner than she had dreamed possible. Yesterday she had ordered equipment on credit.

Perhaps the money she had been offered to do the job was high because Mr. Kennedy was an oddball. She shook her head, regretting her hasty acceptance. This might turn out to be a very long three weeks.

The odor of the damp bag in her hand finally got her attention and made her wince.

Phew! She lifted the sack into the sink and stripped off the smelly burlap to reveal a whole fish. The thing had to weigh at least ten pounds. She lifted it by the tail, relieved to find it had already been gutted.

“What does he want me to do with you?” she wondered aloud, then felt silly talking to a dead fish. Mr. Kennedy’s appearance had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She distinctly remembered a photograph hanging on the wall in the dining room of Mr. Kennedy standing next to former President Reagan. The two men looked the same
age.

After she wrapped the scaly monster and shoved it whole into the refrigerator, she washed her hands. Picking up a case of wine, she carried the heavy box down the hall to the dining room, trying to get used to the pitch and roll as the train moved north.

Liz stowed the expensive vintage away in the built- in wine cooler in the leaded glass breakfront, then went to take another look at the photograph. A framed thank-you note on White House stationery hung next to the picture, addressed to ‘Jefferson’ and signed simply, ‘Ron’.

If the man in the photo was Jefferson Kennedy, who was the man in the stateroom?

“My grandfather.”

For the second time the sound of Jefferson Kennedy’s voice behind her caused her to spin around. Intent on studying the picture and letter, she hadn’t heard him approach. For a moment she forgot to breathe. The devastatingly handsome man who stood in front of her bore no resemblance to the bum who had handed her the smelly bag of fish.

When he had said he was going to get cleaned up, she hadn’t figured on results like this.

Yes, sir, Liz thought, he cleaned up very nicely.

Freshly bathed and shaved, wearing an expensive- looking polo shirt and pleated slacks, he looked like a million bucks and smelled even better. Except for the thick, dark hair that needed a trim and the signs of fatigue on his face, he could be a model for GQ. He had a classically handsome lean face, a long, straight nose and a strong jaw. Even bloodshot, his heavily lashed dark eyes were stunning.

Suddenly the car seemed smaller than it had a minute ago. Liz stared at him and stammered in a breathy voice, “What do you want me to do with your fish?”

Jefferson ignored her question. He studied the young woman whose expression made her look like she had just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Wide green eyes, a little nose, and pretty, full lips, now open in surprise, and an oval face. Nice combination.

Now that she had turned to face him, he could see the front view was as attractive as the back. He was tempted to reach out and put his hands on her, to touch a woman he didn’t even know.

Get hold of yourself, Kennedy. She’s an employee.

He continued to study her. She wore a loose white blouse tucked into beige slacks.

When she took the pins out of her practical hairdo, how long would her hair be?

“You didn’t tell me your name,” he said, his voice gruffer than he’d intended.

“Liz. Liz Bassett.” She blushed.

When was the last time he had seen a woman blush? “I’m sorry I frightened you in the kitchen, Ms. Bassett. I wasn’t expecting to find a stranger.”

“I wasn’t frightened.” Her chin came up a notch.

Feisty, too. His stomach rumbled and he remembered why he had come looking for her in the first place. “I need lunch.”

She looked relieved at his request. “Of course.”

“Let me know when it’s ready.” He headed to the porter’s room next to the kitchen, now converted to an office. He slid into the built-in bench and eased his long legs under the table, then dialed his inside office number in San Diego.

He hadn’t slept for days. That could account for his reaction to Ms. Bassett. Sure, Kennedy, he thought sourly. It was fatigue and not her shapely rear. He rubbed his hand over his face.

“Office of Mr. Kennedy.” His secretary Mildred answered in her usual no-nonsense voice.

“Mildred, hello.” Jefferson leaned back so he could look through the small opening above the counter connecting the porter’s room and the kitchen to watch the very fine

Ms. Bassett as she worked the tiny kitchen.

“Where have you been? I was worried.” Mildred’s tone jerked his concentration back to their conversation. Now she sounded more like a mother than a secretary.

Jefferson rubbed his hand over his face again. “Hurricane off Baja. I spent three days trying to get out. Phones were dead.”

He had planned everything carefully so he could spend two days in his main office in San Diego between his fishing trip and the railroad trip. He hadn’t planned on Hurricane Barbara.

Jefferson hated disruptions in his schedule. Even those he couldn’t control.

Especially those he couldn’t control.

The sound of a frying pan hitting the old cast-iron stove and the smell of onions cooking distracted him.

“Where are you now?”

He shook his head as he remembered his dash from the airport in San Diego to the train station. “I boarded the Samuel J. just as the train was about to leave. Thank you for getting my bags here.”

Organizing this train trip had been a scheduling nightmare and he was grateful for her foresight. He hated to make changes in his itinerary. He hated change, period. Once a plan was made, he stuck to it

There was the briefest hesitation before Mildred spoke. “So you’ve met Earl’s
replacement?”

He knew Ms. Bassett could hear his side of this telephone conversation. “Oh, yes. We met as soon as I boarded.”

He chuckled to himself when he remembered the look on her face as she had turned to see him standing in the kitchen doorway.

“I had to make the substitution.” Mildred rushed to explain. “I checked Miss Bassett’s references and she is well-qualified for the job.”

Miss Bassett “Full name?”

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Anne Bassett,” came the prompt reply from the ever-efficient Mildred.

Elizabeth. Traditional. It fit. He leaned back to try to get another look at her through the little window. She was at the stove with her back to him. All he could see was the back of her shirt crisscrossed by the ties of her apron around her slim waist.

After a pause Mildred’s voice cut in on his wandering thoughts. “Mr. Kennedy, are you still there?”

“Call Earl and give him my condolences. See if he needs anything.”

“Yes, sir. “Jefferson could tell by the scratching noise on the other end of the line that Mildred had started to make notes with a pencil on her ever-present steno pad. He heard a tentative knock on his open door.

He turned his head and saw Elizabeth standing hesitantly in the hallway just outside the porter’s room. “Your lunch is ready, Mr. Kennedy.”

He gave her a nod. By the time he stood up and disconnected the call on the cellular phone, Elizabeth had returned to the kitchen. He walked down the hall to the dining room. The table was covered with a white linen cloth and a single setting of silver and china. A fluffy omelet surrounded by fresh fruit and browned potatoes looked ready to be photographed for the cover of a gourmet magazine. His mouth watering, he scooped up the plate and the silverware and headed toward the kitchen.

He found her leaning against the counter in the kitchen, a pencil tucked behind her ear, looking over a stack of papers.

Liz tried to read the expression on Mr. Kennedy’s handsome face as he stood in the doorway. She glanced down at the plate in his hand, then up at him. A client returning an untouched plate of food was not a good sign.

“What’s the matter?”

He looked surprised at her question. “Nothing. I wanted to discuss the schedule with you.” He motioned for her to follow him to the room next to the kitchen and put his plate on the table, then maneuvered his tall frame into the bench seat.

Liz caught a whiff of his spicy aftershave. Suddenly the cozy quarters felt far too small. She put her papers on the table and wished the man didn’t make her so nervous. She dealt with clients all the time, and none had ever affected her quite like this.

“Coffee?” she asked.

At his nod she jumped up and ducked into the kitchen. She could see him from the shoulders down from the pass-through window between the two rooms. “Cream? Sugar?”

“Black. In a mug,” came his reply, mumbled around a mouthful of food.

Liz filled a cup for herself, too, and returned to the porter’s room. Fork poised in the air, he smiled at her. “This tastes great.” Then he bent back over his food.

While cooking his meal she had heard snatches of his conversation with his secretary about being stuck in Mexico. That accounted for his appearance and late arrival. She was relieved that there was a reasonable explanation.

Liz slid onto the padded leather seat opposite Mr. Kennedy. Now that she knew he wasn’t dangerous, another problem came to mind. She imagined that privacy was going to be a difficult commodity to come by. There was only one bathroom, and living space was limited.

“You wanted to discuss the schedule?” She looked down and fiddled with her stack of papers so she wouldn’t be so tempted to stare at him.

“Just to be sure we’re coordinated.” He scooped up the last of his potatoes. She wondered if he hadn’t eaten for a while or if he always had such a big appetite.

“If you’re still hungry I can make more.” He was a big man, but he looked lean, aside from his broad chest and shoulders. Maybe he was one of those lucky people who could eat a lot and not put on weight.

“I’m fine. It was excellent.” He set his knife and fork neatly across his empty plate, then pushed the fine china to one side and picked up his coffee cup in his big square hand. His fingernails were clean and well-tended.

For heaven’s sake, Liz, she scolded herself, get your mind back to business. There were a few questions she needed to ask him. She’d been going over the menus and the recipes his secretary had given her, making out a list of supplies she would need. When she’d toured the car two days before the trip she had decided she would have to shop at some of the stops. There was no way to store everything she needed for the entire trip.

“Our first luncheon and dinner will be in the Bay Area.” He was looking out the window as he spoke. She felt the train slowing.

Liz nodded and noticed Mr. Kennedy check his wristwatch as they rolled to a stop in Oceanside. People on the platform stared and pointed at the private car.

The Samuel J. Hayes was an impressive addition to the train, with its shiny burgundy paint job and fancy old-fashioned gold lettering. Mr. Kennedy obviously went to a lot of
expense to keep it in a perfectly restored condition.

Liz shuffled through her papers and found the recipes marked ‘Oakland’. “Okay. Have it right here.”

As the train pulled out of the station, he checked his watch again and then checked a timetable he had wedged between the window and the frame. She wondered if he was going to keep track of every stop on the entire trip.

Liz patted her papers, looking for her pencil. Mr. Kennedy startled her by reaching across the table and pulling it from behind her ear. A strand of her hair came loose and self-consciously she smoothed it into place in the knot she had pinned at the back of her neck, rattled by the sensation of him reaching toward her. Now why should such a gesture on his part cause her heart to pound?

He cleared his throat before he spoke, and she wondered if he knew he unsettled her.

Probably. Her friends always told her they could tell what she was thinking just by looking at her.

“First, the business meetings. I have offices in each of the cities where we’ll be stopping. We’ll do luncheons for the managers here on the car.”

She realized she was staring at his mouth and quickly looked down. He had a very nice mouth.

He continued to talk. “Not more than six to eight people at each lunch. Chris Parker, my assistant, will fly ahead and be at the offices before we reach each city. Part of his job is to issue the invitations and give you a final count You have the recipes for each of the luncheons?”

Liz nodded. She had them, in detail, right down to the last ingredient.

“Good. Then, in the evenings, I’ll be having guests in for dinner. That will be social rather than business.”

Liz found the page outlining the time and menu for the first dinner party, with attached recipes.

“Any questions?” he said.

“Just one. How many guests will you be having for the first dinner?”

He looked surprised at her question. “One.”

Liz found the next page. “And the next stop, in Sacramento?”

He raised his eyebrows. “One.”

She glanced at the third page. “Salt Lake City?”

“One.” He smiled.

“Denver, Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago?” Taking three weeks to travel cross- country to entertain seven business associates made no sense to her.

He held up his index finger. “One.”

Her curiosity got the better of her. “May I ask a personal question?”

He gave her a wary look as he leaned back against the padded seat and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Yes.”

Perhaps she was out of line, but the thought of what he was paying her to cook each meal for only one guest appalled her practical nature. He could entertain dozens of people and the price for her services would be the same.

“Wouldn’t it make sense to entertain more people at each dinner?” She took a sip of her coffee.

He studied her for a moment before he answered. “Is that what you would do, Miss Bassett, if you were looking for a husband?”

She swallowed hard, almost choking. She must not have heard him correctly.

“Excuse me?”

“If you were looking for a husband, would you invite a lot of extra people to be there while you got to know the man?” His expression was solemn as he repeated his question.

Liz was so surprised by what he said that it took her a moment to reply. She didn’t think he was teasing her, but the idea was so absurd she couldn’t believe it

“Is that what the dinners are for? To look for a wife?”

“Yes.” He nodded and smiled, apparently pleased she finally understood.

She didn’t understand. Why would a handsome, successful man like Jefferson Kennedy have to go cross-country searching for a wife? The word eccentric occurred to her for the second time since she had met him.

She really wanted to get married and have children, but the idea sounded absurd even to her.

She studied his face, trying to decide if he might be joking. “And in each city you’ve invited one woman to join you for the evening?”

He nodded, looking completely serious.

A little voice told her she shouldn’t say anything more, but this was too good to just let it pass. She had to know. “How did you find these women? Did you put ads in the paper?”

His expression showed an instant disdain for her question. “Don’t be absurd. I am acquainted with some of them. Others I’ll be meeting for the first time. Friends of friends. They all meet my requirements.”

He had some kind of screening process. She wondered what Jefferson Kennedy would require in a wife. “Requirements?” This gets better and better, she thought

“That’s right” He refolded his napkin and placed it neatly by his plate.

He had allotted one night to each woman, she thought. Not much time to get to know someone. Then a thought occurred to her and she asked, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Of course not.”

His indignant tone indicated she’d accused him of something distasteful.

“Besides, most people mistake passion for instant love.”

She thought about that statement for a moment “So love is not one of your requirements?”

He pushed his plate aside and braced his strong, tanned forearms on the table in front of him. “Marriages are supposed to be based on what you define as love, right?” His smug look told her he thought he had gained the upper hand in their discussion.

Liz thought about her answer for a moment and decided there was only one way she could respond. “Yes.”

“But don’t more than half of all marriages fail?” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

She hesitated before she answered. “I’ve heard that statistic.”

His theory on finding a spouse was absurd, but he looked as though he thought he was right.

“Now, do you still think love is a valid indicator of the potential success of a marriage?” He made a sweeping gesture with one hand, as if his question were all the summation he needed.

A valid indicator of success? What an odd, stiff way to describe a happy marriage. Liz had a brief flash of a distant memory of her parents cuddling on an old wooden swing on the front porch. She would settle for nothing less than a marriage like the one she remembered her mother and father sharing.

The man she married would have to love her to distraction. No lukewarm, businesslike arrangement for her.

She tried to keep her emotions out of her voice. “So you intend to marry without love?”

He shrugged. “I married once for love. It was a disaster.”

His flat tone told her a lot. So, he had a failed marriage in his past. That could explain his attitude, she supposed.

“So, no love?”

He shrugged again “I’m sure I’ll feel some fondness for at least one of the women.”

His smug, superior attitude annoyed her. She deliberately misunderstood his answer.

“Would you then immediately dismiss her as a candidate?” she said sweetly.

He looked surprised at her thinly veiled sarcasm. “Excuse me?”

She knew her remark was out of line. For heaven’s sake, she barely knew the man and he was her employer. But she never had been able to keep her mouth shut when someone annoyed her.

“Would you simply move on to the next woman before that feeling of fondness has a chance to taint the relationship?”

His features stiffened. “You don’t understand.” He frowned and sounded as if she’d wounded him.

She smiled at his tone. “No, Mr. Kennedy, I think I understand very well.”

He sat up straighter and leaned forward a little, placing his broad hands on the edge of the table. The muscles in his arms flexed.

“And you don’t approve?” he asked, his voice low.

She’d gone too far with her prying questions. This man wasn’t paying her for her personal opinions. She glanced out at the ocean, pretending to take in the scenery and buy herself a little time to come up with an answer.

At this point the tracks ran close to the beach, and she could see surfers in the water, waiting for waves. Studying the scenery for a moment, she decided the time had come in this conversation for her to keep her thoughts to herself.

She smiled at him and tried to look sheepish. “It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove.”

He stared at her with those marvelous dark brown eyes before he spoke. “But you don’t think my plan is sound?”

He wasn’t going to let it drop. Did he really want to hear her opinion? She eyed him for a moment, unable to tell.

Oh, well, she thought. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“If you’re planning to hire an employee, fine. But to find a wife? What about passion? Someone who stirs your blood.” Liz warmed to her subject in spite of his skeptical expression.

“What about all those warm fuzzy feelings? Think of what you’ll miss. I wouldn’t even consider marrying a man who wasn’t romantically and desperately in love with me.”

“So you plan to fall in love and get married, and live happily ever after,” he said shaking his head and rolling his eyes, giving her a look that made it clear he thought she was a fool.

That was exactly what she planned to do, but he made it sound as if she were attempting to do the impossible, like finding a way to turn lead into gold.

“Yes,” she said, her stubborn streak bubbling to the surface. “Everlasting love. I wouldn’t settle for anything less. And I want a house with a white picket fence, and a dog. And babies.”

“Everlasting love,” he said in a flat tone. “Highly overrated. Not efficient. I’ll leave it out of the equation.”

Efficient? Equation? What a way to describe a courtship. He’d spoken in an irritating you-need-to- be-reasonable tone that grated on her nerves.

Actually, she felt sorry for him and wondered if his unique approach to finding a wife came from being in love, then badly hurt Or maybe he’d never been in love at all. But since he was her employer and she needed this job, she figured she’d already said more than enough on the subject.

Liz forced a smile and shrugged. “You’re the boss.” Why should she care how he chose a wife?

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