Kitabı oxu: «One Summer At The Lake»
One Summer at the Lake
Maid for Montero
Kim Lawrence
Still the One
Michelle Major
Hot-Shot Doc Comes to Town
Susan Carlisle
www.millsandboon.co.uk
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Maid for Montero
Excerpt
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Still the One
Excerpt
Dear Reader
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Hot-Shot Doc Comes to Town
Praise
Excerpt
Dear Reader
About the Author
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
Extract
Copyright
Maid For Montero
Isandro’s gaze lifted from the logo plastered across the tee shirt she was wearing. Not that he had read a word of the inscription—the words had mingled with the mental image of him peeling the shirt over her head.
Surely not…She couldn’t be…could she?
No, she couldn’t, he decided, clinging to his mental image of the perfect housekeeper—a woman of a certain age with an immovable irongrey helmet of hair and a brisk manner. He didn’t expect the new housekeeper to possess all the attributes of her predecessor, but this woman… girl…couldn’t be…
‘This part of the house isn’t open to the public, actually,’ Zoe admitted, softening the gentle remonstration with a smile.
Madre di Dios, she was!
‘None of it is, but people keep wandering…’ She heard the sharp note of anxiety that had crept into her own voice and closed her mouth, shaking her head as she smiled brightly and concluded, in her best fasten-your-seat-belt tone, ‘So if you’d like to follow me…?’
Would he like to follow her…? Yes—up the sweeping staircase and into his bedroom…
About the Author
KIM LAWRENCE lives on a farm in rural Anglesey. She runs two miles daily and finds this an excellent opportunity to unwind and seek inspiration for her writing! It also helps her keep up with her husband, two active sons, and the various stray animals which have adopted them. Always a fanatical consumer of fiction, she is now equally enthusiastic about writing. She loves a happy ending!
CHAPTER ONE
SOME MEN IN Isandro’s position would have whined about press intrusion. He didn’t. He considered he had little to complain about in life, and he knew it was perfectly possible, even for someone whose financial empire drew the sort of global media attention that his did, to have a private life.
Of course, if his taste had run to falling out of nightclubs in the small hours or the routine attendance of film premieres with scantily clad models, it might have been more difficult, but neither pastime held any appeal for him.
He viewed security as a necessary evil, a side effect of success—like midges in the Highlands—but he was hardly a recluse who lived his life behind ten-feet-high walls.
If he had had a family to consider, possibly he might have seen potential danger lurking around every corner, but he didn’t. He only had an ex-wife, with whom he exchanged Christmas cards these days rather than insults, and a father he had very little contact with. Given that he was confident in his ability to look after himself, Isandro was not alarmed when the electronic gates that guarded the entrance to his English estate—which did actually have ten-feet-high walls—did not swing open as he approached, for they were already open.
Slowing his car, he swept the area with narrow-eyed, irritated speculation. While he didn’t automatically assume this suggested anything dark and sinister, it did suggest a carelessness that he did not expect from those who worked for him.
The groove between his dark, strongly defined brows and his level of irritation deepened as his glance lighted on a brightly coloured bunch of balloons attached to an overhanging branch that looked incongruous beside the discreetly tasteful sign that simply read ‘Ravenwood House: Private’.
He had owned Ravenwood for three years, and in that time on the admittedly rare occasions he had visited he had never found cause for complaint, which was nothing less than expected. He employed the best, be they corporate executives or gardening staff, paid them extremely well and expected them to earn their salary.
It was not a complicated formula but one that he found worked, and if it didn’t…He was not a man renowned for patience or sentimentality in his professional or personal life. If those in his employ didn’t perform to the high standards he expected and deliver the goods they did not remain in his employ.
He opened the window, reached out and caught hold of the string dangling from the balloons. As he tugged two popped on the branches and the rest rose into the air, embracing their freedom. Following their merry progress with his eyes, he frowned before he pulled his head back in. He was not ready to read anything significant into the open gates or the balloons, but there had been a recent staff change, and the housekeeper did play a pivotal role at Ravenwood.
The previous postholder had not only been efficient, but had combined excellent man-management skills with the ability to blend into the background. She had never been obtrusive.
Under her watch he could not imagine open gates, invisible security or balloons. It was always possible none was connected with the new housekeeper, and he kept an open mind on the subject, innocent until proved guilty. No one could say that he wasn’t scrupulously fair, and he made allowances for human error.
What he couldn’t live with was incompetence.
He was prepared at this point to believe that the new housekeeper was as perfect as his personal assistant, who had interviewed the candidates, had indicated. He trusted Tom’s judgement, as the younger man had always shown it to be excellent and it had been his efforts and diplomacy that had gone a long way to soothing local ill will when Isandro had bought the hall.
Three years ago the local community had greeted the change of ownership of the local estate with deep suspicion bordering on hostility. The family that had given the house and the village their name had contributed nothing tangible to the local economy in decades, and the previous owner spent more time falling out of nightclubs and entering rehab clinics than repairing the roof or earning money to do so—so the locals’ blind loyalty to them seemed perverse to Isandro.
With Tom’s help he had addressed the situation with his usual pragmatism. He did not wish to be best friends with his neighbours, but neither did he want the inconvenience of being at war with them. The initial stream of complaints had faded to a trickle and visits from officials with clipboards from conservation and heritage groups that had halted work on the house and grounds had lessened and eventually vanished. He made a point of employing only local artisans and firms on the restoration work and made a donation that had put a new roof on the leaking church.
He considered the situation resolved.
Of all the houses he owned, this was the one where Isandro felt as close to relaxed as he ever did. It was beautiful and he enjoyed beauty. He invited none but his closest friends, and even then rarely. He never drove through the gates without feeling he was shedding the pressures of work.
He anticipated the next few days of rare relaxation, his wide sensual mouth twitching into a half-smile as he drove slowly through the pillared entrance. A moment later he was reversing.
The balloons snagged in the branch could have been accidental; this was not. Bizarrely tucked in beside one classical pillar was an upturned packing case.
With a mixture of growing incredulity and irritation, Isandro read the handwritten sign propped on it that informed him the eggs were free range and cost one pound per half dozen. There was no sign of the eggs mentioned, just a jar that was stuffed with coins and several notes suggesting trade had been brisk—the area had an unusual level of honesty.
Long brown fingers beat out an aggravated tattoo on the steering wheel. He had driven halfway down the long horsechestnut-lined driveway and was trying to rediscover his mellow mood when the noise hit him—a mixture of music, laughter, dogs barking and loud voices.
‘What now…?’
Angular jaw set, he swore and floored the accelerator. A moment later he hit the brake, bringing the vehicle to a screaming halt on the top of the rise that gave him the first view of the delightful Palladian mansion considered by those in the know to be an architectural gem set in a parkland setting complete with lake, folly and beautifully tended formal gardens.
The manicured west lawn, where on occasion he watched invited guests play a game of croquet—and where he had spent the journey from the airport picturing himself enjoying the silence and solitude, sipping some brandy and perhaps catching up on some reading after the month of intense negotiations—was barely visible beneath the massive marquee, several smaller satellite tents, makeshift stage, cluster of stalls and what appeared to be a small…yes, it was a funfair of sorts, he realised as he identified the giant teacups slowly spinning to the strains of an early Tom Jones number, the volume so loud even at this distance to vibrate in his chest.
Staring in unwilling fascination at the surreal spectacle, he started like someone waking from a nightmare as a voice over the loudhailer system announced the winner of the best behaved pet competition to be Herb—a result that, judging from the volume of the cheers and clapping, was popular.
Isandro swore loudly and at length in several languages.
The person responsible for this outrage would not be around to regret this invasion and misuse of his trust for long. For that matter he might sack the bunch of them because while this might have been the brain child of one person—presumably the new housekeeper—the rest of his staff must have sat back and let it happen, including his highly paid so-called professional security team.
Great! So much for leaving stress behind. His resentment levels rose as he mentally said goodbye to his much-needed, greatly anticipated break…So what if after a couple of days he’d get bored with the inactivity and grow restless? The point was he wouldn’t have the option of being bored now.
The feeling he had wandered into some sort of alternative universe intensified as a balloon that had presumably followed him up the drive floated past his head. It snagged on a branch and popped—the sound breaking Isandro free of his teeth-clenched scrutiny of the disaster scene.
His dark eyes as warm as ice chips, he reversed with a screech of rubber back to the intersection in the drive and took the secondary road that led directly to the stable block at the rear of the house, which seemed blessedly free of the insanity taking place elsewhere on his property.
Entering the house via the orangery, he snapped grapes from the vine that grew in coils across the roof as he went. He made his way to his study, not encountering a soul to demand an explanation of or vent his simmering anger on. When he reached the inner sanctum, however, he did discover someone: a small child he had never seen before, who was almost hidden by his desk as she spun around in his swivel chair.
The child saw him and grabbed the desk to slow herself, leaving a neat imprint of sticky finger marks on the antique wood. His lips twisted in a grimace of distaste. He had few friends with children and his exposure to them had been limited to brief appearances at baptisms bearing appropriate gifts. None had reached this child’s age yet…Five? Six? he speculated, studying the grubby freckled face.
‘Hello. Are you looking for the toilets?’
The question was so unexpected that for a moment Isandro did not respond.
‘No, I am not.’ Was it normal for a child to be this self-possessed? She definitely didn’t seem even slightly fazed to see him.
‘Oh.’ Hands on his antique desk, she began to twist in the seat from side to side. ‘The lady was but the other man was looking for Zoe. Are you looking for Zoe, too? I can do fifty spins and not be sick. I could probably do more if I wanted to.’
Glancing at the Aubusson carpet underfoot, he cautiously caught the back of the chair before she could put her boast to the test. ‘I’m sure you could.’
‘You picked grapes.’ The kid stared at the grapes he had carelessly plucked from the vine as he had walked through the orangery. ‘You’re not meant to do that,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You’ll be in big trouble, and maybe even go to jail.’ The thought seemed to please her.
‘Thanks for the warning. Want some?’ She seemed so at home he almost began to wonder if the place had been invaded by squatters and nobody had seen fit to mention it to him!
‘Can’t. You’re a stranger. And they’re sour.’
‘Georgie!’
Isandro’s head lifted at the sound of the musical voice with just a hint of attractive huskiness.
‘I’m in here!’ The kid bellowed back into his right ear, making him wince.
A moment later a figure appeared in the doorway. The body that matched the voice was not a let-down—anything but! Tall, slim, dark-haired with the sort of figure that filled out the faded denim jeans she wore to perfection. His immediate impression was of sinuous supple grace and an earthy sexuality that hit him with the force of a hammer between the eyes. Though the main physical response to her appearance was somewhat lower than eye level.
Isandro’s aggravation levels reduced by several notches as he studied this new arrival, who didn’t just have a great body but a vivid, expressive face he found himself wanting to look at. Stare at.
She possessed the most extraordinary eyes—electric blue that tilted slightly at the corners—and a mouth that made any man looking at it think of how it would feel to taste those plush pink lips…Isandro exhaled and reined in his galloping imagination. He had a healthy libido but he prided himself on his ability to control it.
‘Georgie, you shouldn’t be in here. I’ve told you. Oh…!’ Zoe stopped halfway through the open doorway of the study. Her blue eyes flew wide as she sucked in a tiny shocked breath, registering the presence of the tall figure who was towering over her niece.
The strange reluctance she felt to enter the room was strong, but not as strong as her protective instincts, so, with a cautious smile pasted in place, Zoe stepped forward.
There had been many occasions in her adult life when she had been accused of being too trusting, too inclined to assume the best of others, but since Zoe had acquired responsibility for her seven-year-old twin niece and nephew she had developed a new caution that bordered, she suspected, on paranoia, at least when it came to the safety of her youthful charges.
Under the pleasant smile, her newly awoken protective instincts were on full alert. She moved towards the man whom she had not seen outside. And she would have noticed him, because despite the casual clothes—expensive casual—he definitely wouldn’t have blended in with the carefree and relaxed people milling around outside.
She doubted that face did relaxed or carefree.
Without taking her eyes off the incredibly handsome stranger any more than you’d take your eyes off a stray wolf—and the analogy was not inappropriate, as he had the entire lean, hungry look going on—she held out her hand to her niece.
‘Come here, Georgina,’ she said in a tone meant to convey a sense of urgency without overly alarming her niece. Not that the latter would be likely—Georgie was friendly to a fault and she had no sense of danger whatsoever. Real parents probably knew how to make their kids sensibly cautious without scaring them witless and giving them umpteen issues later in life…but Zoe wasn’t a real parent and most of the time she felt like a pretty sorry substitute for not one but two brilliant parents.
She took a deep breath and fought her way clear of the oppressive weight of emotions that continued to hit her when she wasn’t expecting it. There wasn’t time to feel angry at fate or the drunk driver whose carelessness had taken away the twins’ parents. There was barely time to comb her hair some days!
‘I’m sorry. I hope Georgina wasn’t bothering you.’ It was more polite than ‘what the hell are you doing in here?’ but in her experience it was always better to try a smile before you brought out the big stick.
Though it would take a very big stick indeed or even a small army to make this intruder leave if he didn’t take the hint, she thought, sliding a peek at him under her lashes and looking away quickly. The heat climbed into her smooth cheeks as she realised her scrutiny was being returned, though there was nothing remotely surreptitious or apologetic about the way his dark eyes were wandering over her.
She flicked her plait back in a businesslike manner over her shoulder and, raising a brief cool hand to her cheeks, she wished that her protective instincts were the only reason she could feel the heavy, frantic beat of her heart in every inch of her body.
She’d never come across a man who exuded such a raw, sheer maleness before and it was deeply weird, not in a pleasant way, to find her indiscriminate hormones reacting independently to the aura he projected. She pressed her hand protectively to her stomach, which was quivering the way it did when she found herself in any situation that involved high places and the possibility of falling.
Logic suggested he was no danger to Georgie, just another visitor to the Fun Day who’d got lost or was just plain nosy but…the fact that she was the person whose job it was to protect the twins from everything bad in the world meant that Zoe was taking no chances.
‘Now, Georgie, please.’
With a show of reluctance and a big sigh the copper-headed little girl responded finally to the note of command and slid out of the chair. But Isandro wasn’t watching. His eyes were trained on the sliver of pale, toned midriff that was on show. The tantalising flash of flesh vanished as the woman’s hand closed over the child’s. Drawing her in, she bent to speak, saying something to the kid that made her nod before running out of the door.
Isandro watched as the young woman straightened up, throwing the fat plait of glossy dark hair over her shoulder again, exposing the firm curve of her jaw and the long elegant line of her pale throat.
The recognition that his response to her had been primal, out of his control, produced a frown that faded as he put the situation in perspective. Just because he had experienced an unexpectedly strong physical response did not mean he couldn’t control it…Since his failed marriage he had never been in any form of relationship that he couldn’t walk away from, and he never would.
She straightened up. ‘Sorry about that.’
Now the child was gone some of the tension seemed to have left her slender shoulders, though a degree of caution remained in the blue eyes that studied him now with an undisguised curiosity mingled with a critical quality he was not accustomed to seeing when a woman looked at him.
Isandro’s smile held a hint of self mockery…If she had not been beautiful would he have chosen to be amused…?
His appreciation of beauty was not restricted to architecture. He put this woman somewhere in her early twenties, young enough at least to wear no make-up and look good. Her clear skin was flawless, pale tinged with the lightest of roses in her smooth, rounded cheeks. She was not just sexy, she was beautiful.
Not in the classical sense perhaps, and absolutely nothing like the sort of woman he normally found attractive. For starters he dated women who worked hard at and took pride in their appearance. This woman’s grooming left a lot to be desired, but her oval face with wide-set, slanting blue eyes, delicate carved cheekbones and wide, full lips had an arresting quality that combined sexiness with a sense of vulnerability.
Vulnerability was another thing he avoided in women. Needy was just too time-consuming, and time was a precious commodity.
His response simply proved that sexual attraction was not an exact science. Her look was not even smart casual, more scruffy casual. Despite his unflattering assessment of her style he was conscious of a heaviness in his groin by the time his eyes had made the journey up the length of her lusciously long, denim-clad legs. Tall and slender but with feminine curves that the oversized white shirt she wore did not hide, she really did have a delicious body—and she would scrub up well, he decided, picturing her in something silky and insubstantial, and then in nothing at all.
He found his mood mellowing some more. The day might not be a total washout after all. He found himself more attracted to her than he had to a woman in months…It was possible that part of the appeal was she was not his type, not a samey clone. That and the clear-eyed stare, plus the extraordinarily sexy mouth, and the fact he felt confident that he could slide his fingers into her hair and not come away with a handful of hair extensions. Now that had been a real mood killer!
What had the kid called her…?
Not Mum, and she wasn’t wearing a ring, but that didn’t mean anything, so he remained cautious.
There were enough complications in life without inviting them, so Isandro kept his love life simple. He didn’t do long-term relationships and was upfront about it, and even so he had never had to work hard to get a woman into his bed.
Married women, single parents, women who wanted commitment were not conducive to simplicity, so he ruled them out. He had learnt from his mistakes, and an expensive divorce that had lost him both a wife and a best friend provided a steep learning curve. Quite frankly there was no point in inviting problems when there were any number of attractive unattached women who did not come with baggage.
He could fight for a prize when it was required, but it was not his style to fantasise over the unattainable. He had no problem walking away from temptation, however attractively packaged, so he was surprised to recognise that in this instance it was a struggle to adopt his normal take-it-or-leave-it attitude.
Now that her niece was safely away from strangers she should have been able to relax slightly, but Zoe discovered she wasn’t.
Obviously she had registered the fact he was not ugly the moment she entered the room, but she hadn’t noticed the ludicrously long eyelashes, the jet-black, deep set heavy-lidded eyes they framed, or the incredible sculpted structure of his patrician features. Each strong angle and plane of his face was perfect.
He was her idea of a fallen angel—fatally beautiful and seductively dangerous—supposing angels were six-five and wore designer black from head to toe.
He smiled. It was usually possible to tell when a woman felt a reciprocal tug of attraction, and in this case it definitely was…She either wasn’t attempting to hide her reaction or she didn’t know how, not that she was trying to flirt with him, which was actually refreshing. Even a perfect vintage could become pedestrian if a man drank it for breakfast, lunch and dinner; he enjoyed flirtation to a point, but once you knew the moves of the modern mating ritual it could on occasion become painfully predictable.
A sense of expectation buzzing through his veins, he bit into the grapes. They were sour, as predicted, but he smiled.
The flash of white teeth and the intensity of the stranger’s hard dark eyes sent a shiver through Zoe’s body unravelling like a silken ribbon of desire. It was a relief when she finally discovered a flaw, which should have made him less attractive but had quite the reverse effect. The imperfection was relatively minor—a scar, a thin white line that began to the right of one eye and traced the curve of one chiselled cheekbone.
Zoe swallowed and plucked at the neckline of her shirt as the palpable silence in the room stretched. Her tingling awareness of him was so strong that there was a delay for several seconds before her body responded to the desperate commands of her brain. She was close to applauding with sheer relief when she managed to gather up the shreds of her self-control and lower her gaze.
‘I’m afraid you shouldn’t be here, either.’ She pitched her tone at friendly but firm, it came out as breathy. Nonetheless, she was happy—breathy was a big step up from open-mouthed drooling!
Isandro’s gaze lifted from the logo plastered across the T-shirt she was wearing—not that he had read a word of the inscription, but mingled in with the mental image of him peeling the shirt over her head an astonishing idea had occurred to him, making the pleasurable picture fuzz and fade.
Surely not…She couldn’t be…could she?
Had Tom lost his mind?
If she was, he definitely had!
Or had his normally super-reliable assistant been thinking with a different part of his anatomy when he appointed this woman to the post of housekeeper?
No, she couldn’t be, he decided, clinging to his mental image of the perfect housekeeper—a woman of a certain age with an immovable iron-grey helmet of hair and a brisk manner. He didn’t expect the new housekeeper to possess all the attributes of her predecessor but this woman—girl!—couldn’t be…?
‘This part of the house isn’t open to the public, actually,’ she admitted, softening the gentle remonstrance with a smile.
Madre di Dios, she was! Tom actually had lost his mind.
‘None of it is but people keep wandering…’ She heard the sharp note of anxiety that had crept into her own voice and closed her mouth, shaking her head as she smiled brightly and concluded in her best ‘fasten your seat belt’ tone, ‘So if you’d like to follow me…?’
The irony of being asked to leave his own study was not lost on Isandro, but instead of putting this person in her place he found himself considering the question.
Would he like to follow her…? Yes, up the sweeping staircase and into his bedroom, which was not possible as he didn’t date employees. It was a no-exception rule. But he was about to sack her, which would make her not his employee…?
Maybe Tom had been having similar thoughts when he had decided this woman fulfilled the brief of experienced and efficient. Maybe she possessed both these qualities in the bedroom? Maybe his assistant already knew…?
The possibility that his assistant had given his girlfriend a job she was patently unsuited to because of her skills in the bedroom sent a rush of rage through Isandro.
Was he mad because Tom had broken the rules, or mad that Tom had broken them before Isandro had got the chance?
Responding to the voice in his head with a heavy frown that drew his dark brows into a single disapproving line over the bridge of his nose, Isandro gave a frustrated grunt of tension.
When the tall, unsmiling stranger with his film-star looks and smoky eyes didn’t react to her invitation to leave, Zoe felt the panic she had been struggling to keep at bay all day surface before she ruthlessly subdued it.
She could panic when this day was over, even though right now it felt as if it never would be.
How could anything that had started so innocently become this monster? she asked herself despairingly.
The answer was quite simple: she’d lost the ability to say no…She’d agreed to so many things she’d forgotten or more likely blocked half of them; by this point if the Red Arrows did a fly past she wouldn’t have been surprised.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS A total nightmare. In the past five days, she had lied more—by omission, which amounted to the same thing—than she had done in her entire life!
It was that first lie that had kicked it off and started the snowball effect, but the snowball was now the size of an apartment block.
It had seemed so innocent and she had been so desperate to help when poor Chloe, her dead sister’s best friend—Chloe who always put on a brave face—had broken down in tears after inviting Zoe to a coffee morning.
‘Who am I kidding? A coffee morning!’ She shook her head in teary disgust. ‘Do you know how much Hannah’s operation costs?’
Zoe shook her head, guessing that such ground-breaking medical care in the States did not come cheap.
‘And that’s without the cost of travel to America. And time’s running out, Zoe, while I’m organising coffee mornings and treasure. Baking isn’t going to get Hannah to that hospital—it’ll take a miracle!’ she sobbed. ‘In three months’ time the disease might have progressed too far and the treatment might not work…They might not even agree to try and she’ll be stuck in a wheelchair for life!’
Her heart bleeding for the other woman, Zoe hugged her, feeling utterly helpless.
‘This isn’t you, Chloe. You’re a fighter. You’re tired, that’s all.’ And small wonder. God knew when she had had a break; she commuted almost daily for Hannah’s hospital appointments. ‘Everyone’s behind you, so involve us! We all want to help.’
She shook her head, wishing she had more than platitudes to offer the other woman. Then it came—the inspired idea—and she didn’t pause to think it through, just blurted it out.
‘Have your coffee morning at the hall. You know what people are like—they’ll come just to have a nosy. We could put up some trestle tables in the garden and I’m sure Mrs Whittaker would bake some of her scones.’ She knew that the entire community were gagging to see the changes made by the enigmatic new owner of the hall almost as much as they were gagging to see the man himself!
‘Really?’ Chloe had taken the tissue Zoe offered and dried her eyes. ‘Won’t Mr Montero mind? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. I know when we asked if we could use the cricket pavilion for the charity match we got the thumbs down, though he did provide a nice shiny new cup for the winners,’ she conceded with a sniff.
Wasn’t hindsight grand? Of course it was easy now to recognise that this had been the moment to admit she’d have to run it past him, but she hadn’t and neither had she run it past him afterwards because she knew what the reply would be. Chloe had been right: her new employer did not want to continue any old traditions or start any new ones of his own. He wanted, as Tom had explained, to keep the village the other side of the ten-foot wall.
‘Not that he’s not a great guy,’ the loyal assistant had assured Zoe when he saw her expression. ‘He’s just private and he doesn’t like getting personally involved. He’s very generous, does heaps of stuff you don’t hear about, but any charitable donations he makes are through the Montero Trust.’
The Montero Trust was apparently involved itself in such diverse projects as adult literacy programmes and providing clean water to remote Third World villages. It seemed worthy, but a solution loaded with red tape, and Chloe needed help now; she didn’t have time to be at the bottom of a pile of worthy causes.
‘Let me worry about that.’
And she’d been worrying ever since, but her reward had been Chloe’s smile. She thought about that smile every time she got a fresh attack of guilt, which was often.
What had Tom said at her interview? ‘He’ll expect you to work without supervision, show initiative.’ She suspected that today might be classed as too much initiative, but it wasn’t as if the man would ever know. And his standing in the local community had been massively raised without any effort on his part. It was a win/win…or lose/lose for her if he found out!
No matter how hard she tried to rationalise what she’d done, Zoe knew that she had overstepped her authority big time and, as she was still working her trial period, if her actions were discovered the ‘inspiration’ could well lose her her job!
Her job…which meant her home and a roof over the twins’ heads.
Small wonder she’d not had a decent night’s sleep for the past week. And that was even before it had all got horribly out of hand. For some reason, once she had started saying yes she couldn’t stop! Everyone had been so enthusiastic and generous, contributing their time and talents, that it had seemed churlish to be the one dissenting voice. The tipping point was probably the bouncy castle. After that Zoe had stopped even trying!
The only thing she could do today was stay on top of things and make damned sure that the grounds were returned to pristine condition once the day was over. She had an army of volunteers lined up for the task.
But right now what she had to do was get rid of this man—not as easy as it sounded because he made no effort to move as she stood back to let him pass—then check nobody else had wandered into the house.
‘If you were looking for the toilets, go past the tombola and the refreshment tent and follow your nose.’ In his case the nose, narrow and aquiline, was just as impressive as the rest of him. As she made a conscious effort not to stare their glances connected, only briefly but long enough to make all her deep stomach muscles contract viciously.
Seriously shaken by the extent of her physical response to this man, she huffed out a tiny breath from between her clenched teeth to steady her nerves and focused on a point over his left shoulder.
‘You can’t miss it.’
He still didn’t take the hint. Instead he set his broad shoulders against the panelled wall and looked around the room.
‘You have a beautiful home.’
Zoe folded her arms, hugging tight to hide her involuntary shiver. He had the sexiest voice she had ever heard and the faint accent only added another fascinating layer to it.
‘No, yes…I mean it isn’t mine.’ It crossed her mind that he was being sarcastic. ‘As I’m sure you can tell,’ she murmured, flashing him an ironic grimace before extending a trainer-clad foot and laughing.
His hooded stare made a slow sweeping survey from her extended foot to her face. ‘I try not to judge by appearances,’ he drawled.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘That’s not always easy.’
Like now it was hard not to judge this man by the faint sneer and the innate air of superiority he exuded. She supposed arrogance was natural for someone who looked in the mirror each morning and saw that face looking back…and his body, from what she could see, was not exactly going to give the owner any major insecurities! Her gaze moved down the lean, hard length of his long body. Not only did he look fit in every sense of the word, he was supremely elegant in an unstudied, casual sort of way.
Her smooth cheeks highlighted by a rose tinge, she brought her lashes down in a protective sweep. If there was a time to be caught mentally undressing a stranger, this was not it.
‘Actually I just work here…’ The sweep of her hand encompassed the elegant room with its warm panelled walls and antiques. ‘It is beautiful, though, isn’t it?’ A cross between a museum and a very expensive interior designer’s heaven, the place, in her view, lacked a lived-in-look. There were no discarded newspapers, open books or sweaters draped over the backs of chairs, no sign at all that anyone lived there—it was just too perfect.
But then essentially no one did live here. It amazed her that anyone could own such a beautiful place and barely spend any time here at all.
The staff had been more than happy to fill her in on the many houses owned by their elusive boss, and the many cars and private jets…Isandro Montero obviously liked to buy things whether he needed them or not. Zoe had always suspected that people who needed status symbols were secretly insecure. Mind you, having a bank account that hovered constantly just above the red made a person feel insecure too. Zoe knew all about that sort of insecurity!
His mobile ebony brows lifted in response to the information. ‘So the owner has allowed his home to be used for this…event?’
Zoe felt her cheeks heat.
‘How generous and trusting.’
If he had been trying he couldn’t have said anything that made her feel more terribly guilty. Her eyes fell. ‘He’s very community minded.’
If he could hear me now, she thought, swallowing a bubble of hysteria as she imagined the expression on the face of the billionaire who didn’t want to rub shoulders with the locals.
Her blue eyes slid to the wall lined with valuable books. Did he spend his time here reading the first editions on the shelves or were they, like the cricket pavilion, just for show…part of the entire perfect English Country Home?
What was the point in restoring a cricket pavilion if you never intended to use it? What was the point in buying books you were never going to read?
‘The house is out of bounds today.’
He did not comment on the information. He was staring with what seemed to her far too much interest at a painting on the wall.
She went pale as for the first time she realised how vulnerable the house was. If he could just walk in here, how easy it would have been for someone to wander in—still was, and…not just someone! Her blue eyes suspicious, she turned to look at the tall stranger who continued to stare at the painting. God, she had been so sidetracked by physical awareness of him that it hadn’t even crossed her mind that his presence here might not be accidental!
‘There is an excellent security system in place, and security guards.’
He heard the nervousness in her voice, saw the sudden alarmed dilation of her pupils and smiled slowly, without feeling any sympathy. Well might she be worried, he thought grimly. The odds were that some of his valuables were even now in the pockets of light-fingered visitors. His security team would be lucky to come out of this with jobs.
‘So I couldn’t just pick up…’ He made a show of looking around the room, then reached out and picked up a gilt-framed miniature from its stand. It was one of a pair he had outbid a Russian oligarch for six months earlier. He did not begrudge the inflated price, as he liked the sense of continuity—the miniatures were coming back to where they had been painted. ‘This?’
The casual action made her tummy muscles flip. When she had first arrived she had literally tiptoed around the place, seriously intimidated by the value of the treasures it housed and scared witless of damaging anything. Though she had relaxed a bit now, seeing this valuable item treated so casually was alarming.
She gave a nervous laugh and thought, Calm down—no genuine thief would be this obvious…would they?
‘No, you couldn’t…’ She sucked in an alarmed breath and fought the impractical urge to rush forward and snatch it from him. She didn’t have a hope in hell of taking anything away from six feet five inches of solid muscle. She looked at his chest and swallowed, her tummy giving a nervous quiver as she pressed a hand to her middle where butterflies continued to flutter wildly.
‘Is it genuine?’ he asked, holding the delicate gilt frame between his thumb and forefinger.
‘A clever copy,’ she lied, nervousness making her voice high pitched. ‘All the valuable stuff is locked away in the bank.’ I wish!
‘So that’s why you’re not concerned about stray visitors putting a souvenir in their pocket and walking out.’
Zoe swallowed as she watched the miniature vanish into the pocket of his well-cut jeans, but was able to maintain an air of amused calm as she returned his wolfish grin with a shaky smile of bravado and shook her head. What did it say about her that even at a moment like this she had noticed how rather incredible his muscular thighs were?
‘We’re not actively encouraging it, but if anyone’s tempted we have a very strong security presence.’ She saw no need to explain that this presence was at the moment helping out with directing people in and out of the parking areas. She felt extra bad about that because she had pretty shamelessly taken advantage of the absence of the head of the security team to persuade his deputy to relax the rules. She had used every weapon, including moral blackmail and some mild but effective eyelash fluttering.
‘So I would be stopped before I left the building…?’
Even though she positioned herself strategically in the doorway, Zoe was well aware that he would find her no obstacle to escape if he wanted. Though she was not sure he wanted to—he seemed just as happy taunting her as making good his escape.
Zoe placed her hands on her hips, lifted her chin to a don’t-mess-with-me angle and resisted the temptation to return an ‘over my dead body’ response. He might decide to take it too literally. Instead she said calmly, ‘Definitely not. I’ll have to ask you to return the miniature. It’s very valuable.’
‘Yes, it was quite a find.’ The blue eyes he held blinked and a small furrow appeared between her dark feathery brows. He experienced a stab of guilt. She was obviously scared stiff and he did not enjoy scaring women even if on this occasion she deserved it.
‘Find?’
He tilted his head in acknowledgement of her bewildered echo. ‘The lady here was considered a great beauty of the day, but she was trade—the daughter of a wealthy mill owner. The marriage caused quite a scandal when Percy there brought her home.’ He glanced at the twin of the portrait he held still sitting in its stand. ‘It turns out that old Percy started a trend in the family, though I’m afraid the other heiresses that subsequent male heirs married were not always so easy on the eye as Henrietta here.’ He studied the painting, taking a moment’s pleasure from the masterful brush strokes and eye for detail shown by the artist. ‘He really caught her…Such a sensual mouth, don’t you think? Personally I think this is better than the Reynolds on the staircase.’
His eyes were trained, not on the portrait in his hand as he spoke, but her own mouth. The effect of the dark-eyed stare was mesmerising. Zoe didn’t respond, mainly because she could barely breathe past the hammering of her heart against her ribcage, let alone speculate on how he knew so much about the history of the house and family.
‘Maybe they were in love?’ Her voice sounded as though it were coming from a long way away.
He laughed. The throaty sound shivered across the surface of her skin, raising a rash of goosebumps. ‘A romantic.’
The amused mockery in his voice made Zoe prickle with antagonism. What was she doing discussing love with a possible art thief? Was he? He certainly seemed to know more than she did about the artwork in the house.
‘Actually, no, I’m not.’ Her chin lifted. ‘But if I was I wouldn’t be ashamed of it. Now, Mr…I have things I need to attend to. If I could ask you to—’
‘Shame is a very personal thing,’ he mused, cutting across her. ‘I wonder if Percy was ashamed of his heiress? You call it love, but I call it symbiosis.’
She compressed her lips. ‘I wasn’t calling it anything. I was simply not discounting the possibility.’
He tilted his dark head in acknowledgement of her interruption. ‘Well, there is no doubt that she had money and he had social position, the ability to guarantee her acceptance into society, though maybe looking at that mouth there might have been other factors involved?’
He levelled his obsidian gaze on Zoe.
‘Do you not think she has a sensual mouth?’
Now there was a case of pot calling kettle, she thought, dragging her gaze from the firm sculpted outline of his own mouth.
‘I’m no expert on sensuality.’
‘I’m sure you are being modest.’ He arched a satiric brow and the speculation in his smoky stare sent a rush of embarrassed heat over her body. ‘Well, I shall continue to think that our Henrietta was a woman of passions…and that perhaps Percy was a lucky man? We will, I suppose, never know. What we do know is that when there were no more rich social-climbing heiresses, the family sold off treasures and land until finally there was nothing left. There is a certain sense of continuity in seeing this pair back where they started.’
‘That’s very interesting but…’ She stopped, the colour fading from her face. His manner, his accent, the fact he displayed no sign of discomfort being caught in the house…Of course he had acted as though he owned the place, because he did!
How could she have been so stupid? Because he wasn’t what she had been expecting, of course—if she’d walked into a room and found a short, balding man using expensive tailoring to hide an affluent middle-aged spread she would immediately have considered the possibility that she was looking at her employer.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Small wonder the stable girl who had shown the double-page spread to her in the society magazine had looked at her oddly when she’d responded to the Welsh girl’s enthusiastic, ‘Isn’t he utterly unbelievably lush?’ with a polite but surprised response that he wasn’t really her type. He hadn’t been the man in the photo handing out the cup at the polo tournament—he’d been the one receiving it!
She had left the stables that morning reflecting sadly on the number of people who saw a man’s bank balance before anything else. If the stout, balding man handing over the cup to the Latin-looking polo captain had not had the odd billion in the bank pretty Nia wouldn’t have looked twice, and there she was acting as if he were some sort of centrefold pin-up.
My God, he was the centrefold!
Struggling to accept the evidence of her own eyes and lose the invented image in her head, she watched the polo-playing captain put the portrait back in its place.
I just knew this job was too good to be true.
CHAPTER THREE
‘MY NAME IS Zoe Grace.’ She lifted her chin and clung to a shaky façade of calm. ‘I’m your new housekeeper, Mr Montero. I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you,’ she apologised stiffly.
‘So I was looking for Zoe after all.’ He met her confused blue stare before his glance fell to the hand extended to him and, ignoring it, he continued in the same conversational tone. ‘I think you’ll find you’re my ex-housekeeper. You may have managed to con Tom…’
Zoe’s shock at the calculated insult was followed swiftly by anger that she couldn’t check. ‘I didn’t con anyone!’
‘Then I can only assume you’re sleeping with him because I can’t think of any other reason why Tom would employ someone so stupendously unsuited to this or, as far as I can see, any other position of trust. And before you waste your time fluttering your eyelashes at me I have to tell you I’m not Tom. I enjoy a good body and—’ he paused, his eyes making a cynical sweep of her face before he delivered a crushing assessment ‘—passably pretty face, but when it comes to staff I prefer to keep the lines firmly drawn. It cuts down on confusion and time-consuming, messy litigation.’
Zoe hated him before he was halfway through the scathing tirade.
Dismay widened her blue eyes. He was already turning away. In the grip of panic she surged after him, catching hold of his arm. ‘You can’t sack me!’
He arched a brow and looked down at her hand.
Zoe let it go, biting down on her full under lip as she backed away, shaking her head.
‘I mean, you can, obviously you can, but don’t…’ She swallowed and bit her lip. Unable to meet his eyes, she lifted her chin, a note of sheer desperation creeping into her voice as she added huskily, ‘Please.’
There were times when a person had to swallow her pride and this was one of those occasions.
Of course, if it had been just her she would have told him where to stuff his awful job. In fact if there had been just herself to consider she wouldn’t be doing the job to begin with.
But there was more than herself to consider now.
Even if she could get some sort of job locally that would enable the twins to continue going to their school—they’d had enough disruption in their lives without being snatched away from everything that was familiar—Zoe couldn’t have afforded the rent on a property within the catchment area. As for buying—she would have been laughed out of any bank.
The property prices were inflated in the village because of the number of affluent parents eager to move into the area due to the success of the local state school. Laura and Dan had frequently joked that they were sitting on a fortune, but their lovely little thatched cottage had been taken by her brother-in-law’s creditors along with everything else they had.
Though his expression did not soften, Isandro did after a short pause turn and face her.
‘I need this job, Mr Montero,’ she said, wringing her white hands in anxiety at the prospect of being jobless and homeless.
His expression held no hint of sympathy as he read the earnest appeal in her blue eyes.
‘Perhaps you should have thought of that before you turned my home into a circus. Unless this is all someone else’s fault…?’
Zoe didn’t even consider passing the buck. She lifted her chin and thought, You got yourself into this, Zoe, now get yourself out—crawl, grovel, whatever it takes. ‘No, this was all me.’
‘And you’re not even sharing the profits of this little enterprise…?’
Anger made Zoe momentarily forget her determination to grovel. ‘Are you calling me a…?’ She lowered her gaze and added quietly, ‘I’m not making money from this. Nobody is!’
He arched a sceptical brow. ‘No…?’
‘All the money goes to a good cause a—’
He lifted an imperative hand. ‘Please spare me the sob stories. I have heard them all before. And as for appealing to my community spirit, don’t waste your breath. I don’t have any.’
Or a heart, either, Zoe thought, trying to keep her growing sense of desperation and panic under control.
She bit her lip. ‘I know I overstepped my authority but I didn’t see how a coffee morning could do much harm.’
His ebony brows hit his hairline. ‘A coffee morning?’
She flushed and lowered her gaze. ‘I know, I know…things got out of hand. It’s just they were so enthusiastic and—’ she lifted her eyes in appeal to his ‘—it was such a good cause that it was hard to say no.’
A flash of irritation crossed his lean features. If this woman expected he would react to a combination of emotional blackmail and big blue eyes she was in for a disappointment. ‘It is always a good cause,’ he drawled carelessly.
Zoe had to bite her lip to stop herself reacting to his contempt.
She bowed her head. If he wanted humble, fine, she could do that…She had to do that. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’
‘How inconsiderate of me to arrive unannounced.’ The sarcasm brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘I admit I’m curious—what part of your designated role as someone responsible for the smooth running of this establishment did you think you were providing when you decided to turn my home into a cheap sideshow?’
‘I thought…well, actually…I’ve already said it did get a bit out of hand, but it’s not as if you are ever here.’
‘So this is a case of while the cat’s away. You have a novel way of pleading your cause, Miss Grace.’
‘I need this job.’ It went against every instinct to beg but what choice did she have? Speaking her mind was a luxury she could no longer afford. ‘I really need this job. If you give me a chance to prove myself you won’t regret it.’
His lifted his magnificent shoulders in a shrug. ‘Like I said, you should have thought about that.’ He studied her white face and felt an unexpected flicker of something he refused to recognise as sympathy as he could almost taste her desperation. ‘Have you actually got any experience of being a housekeeper?’
She was too stressed to give anything but an honest answer. ‘No.’
‘I think it might be better if I do not enquire too far into the reason my assistant saw fit to offer you this job.’
‘He knew I needed it.’
Her reply drew a hard, incredulous laugh from him. Actually, he had some sympathy for his assistant. If her performance at interview had been half as good as the one she was delivering now, he would not have been surprised if the man had offered her more than a job.
He would be having words with Tom.
‘If when I take an inventory there are any valuables missing you will be hearing from me. Other than that I shall expect you to have vacated your flat by the morning.’
Zoe gave a wild little laugh. Short of falling to her knees, which might give him a kick but would obviously not change his mind, what was she meant to do? She had no skills, nothing to sell…The sheer hopelessness of her situation rushed in on her like a black choking cloud.
Falling back on the charity of friends was her only option, and that was only temporary.
She made one final attempt.
‘Please, Mr Montero.’
His mouth thinned in distaste. ‘Your tears are very touching, but wasted on me.’
She looked at him with tear-filled eyes. There was no longer anything to lose by telling him what she really thought. ‘You’re a monster!’
He shrugged. Being considered a monster was to his way of thinking infinitely preferable to being a sucker.
Zoe lifted her chin and, head high, walked towards the door, feeling the honeysuckle-scented breeze blowing through the open window stroke her cheek as she walked past him.
She was so blinded by the tears she fought to hold back that she almost collided with the vicar who was entering the room.
‘Oops!’ he said, placing both his hands on her shoulders to steady her. ‘Zoe, dear, we were looking for you.’ In the act of turning to include in this comment the woman who stood beside him with the child in a wheelchair he saw Isandro and paused, his good-natured face breaking into a beaming smile as he recognised him before surging forward.
‘Mr Montero, I can’t tell you how grateful we are…all of us.’
Isandro, who had met the man on one previous occasion, acknowledged the gushing gratitude with a tilt of his head. ‘The work is finished on the new roof?’
‘New roof? Oh, yes, that’s marvellous but I am talking about today. This totally splendid turnout. It warms the heart to see the entire community pulling together.’
He didn’t have a heart to warm, Zoe thought as she saw the hateful billionaire tip his dark head and hide his confusion behind an impassive mask of hauteur. Actually it wasn’t a mask; it was probably just him. Cold, cruel, vindictive, positively hateful!
‘Mr Montero, oh, thank you…Hannah, this is Mr Montero, darling. Come and say thank you.’
Startled to find himself being hugged by a tearful woman, Isandro stood rigid in the embrace, his arms stiff at his side. Oblivious to the recipient’s discomfort, Chloe sobbed into his broad chest and told him he was marvellous.
Zoe took a small degree of comfort from the discomfort etched on the Spaniard’s handsome face. She’d have preferred a job and a roof over her head but it was something.
When Hannah propelled her wheelchair over, her little face wreathed in smiles, and informed the startled billionaire that he could have a puppy from the next litter, his expression almost made her smile…though that might have been hysteria.
‘Bella is the smartest dog, even though she was the runt, and everyone wanted her last puppies, though this time we think the father might be…Well, that’s all right, you’ve plenty of room here and you look like a dog person.’
At a loss for once in his life, the dog person swallowed and wondered if the entire community here were off their heads.
Chloe still bubbling, her face alight, stopped her daughter’s chair before it hit the desk. ‘You two made this happen…’ She took Zoe’s hand and then that of the man she considered benefactor and pressed them palm to palm before sealing them between her own.
Standing there with a frozen smile on her face, Zoe had to fight the urge to tear her hand free. The only comfort she found in the situation was that he had to be hating this as much as she was.
‘We made the target, so you won’t have to shave your head!’
Zoe, forgetting for a moment her own situation, smiled happily, without noticing the expression on the tall Spaniard’s face as he watched her light up with pleasure.
‘Oh, Chloe, that’s marvellous! Is there enough for John to come with you?’
‘Not quite,’ the older woman conceded. ‘But he wouldn’t be able to take that much time off work anyway. And we’ll have so much to tell Daddy when we come home, won’t we, Hannah?’ She released the two hands she held and ducked down to her daughter, leaving Zoe standing there with her fingers curled around the long brown fingers of Isandro Montero.
While Chloe was kissing her daughter, and the vicar was taking off his glasses to study one of the paintings on the wall, Zoe took the opportunity to wrench her hand free and sling a poisonous look up at his face.
‘Oh, Zoe, you’ve worked so hard. How will we ever be able to thank you? And don’t you worry—we’ll be here bright and early to clear away.’ She stretched up to kiss Zoe’s cheek. ‘I wanted you to know first. Now I think we should go and tell everyone else…Vicar?’
‘Yes, indeed. Mr Montero, you have a very impressive art collection here…amazing…’ He wrung the younger man’s hand with enthusiasm before following Chloe from the room. Zoe, who had tacked on behind them, was stopped by the sound of her name.
‘Miss Grace, if I could have a moment…?’
Half inclined to carry on walking but knowing if she did the likelihood would be that the story would come out, Zoe paused and turned back, promising Chloe she would catch up. She knew it was inevitable that her friend would feel in part responsible for her sacking, but she saw no need to cast a cloud over this happy moment for the family who had not had a lot to be happy about recently.
She held herself rigid as he walked past her and closed the door.
‘So?’
She shrugged and matched his tone. ‘What?’
‘Would you like to tell me what that was all about?’
Now he wants to know. ‘I was trying to explain.’
Isandro’s jaw tightened. He was furious to have been put in the position of being treated like some sort of hero and not having a clue why, and his anger was aimed at the person he held responsible for it.
‘Well, explain now.’
‘The fund-raiser was for Hannah.’
‘The child in the wheelchair?’
Zoe nodded. ‘Hannah had surgery for a spinal tumour. It was successful, they got all the tumour, but the pressure on the spinal cord caused damage and she can’t walk. The doctors can’t do anything, but Chloe, her mum, found a hospital in Boston that might be able to help. The treatment is experimental but so far the results have been really good.’
‘And all this today was for that cause?’
She nodded.
His dark brows drew together in a straight line above his hawkish nose. ‘Why on earth did you not tell me this straight away?’
She stared at him, staggered he could ask the question with a straight face…Priceless—the man was incredible. ‘Possibly because you didn’t give me a chance?’
Before he could respond there was a tap on the door and Chloe poked her head into the room.
‘I almost forgot—we’re having a party tomorrow at our house. Please come, Mr Montero.’
‘Isandro.’
‘Isandro,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’m sure Zoe will drive you if you want a drink,’ Zoe was mortified to hear her friend suggest warmly. ‘Her being the teetotaller she is.’
Zoe tensed, dreading the man would respond with a crushing refusal to the invitation, but to her surprise he simply nodded and said, ‘Most kind of you.’
‘Great—we’ll see you both at seven.’
The door closed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make your excuses. I’m assuming that as you know I’m not some sort of con artist you’ll allow me to work my notice. I’m not asking for myself, but the children—’
Frowning, he cut across her. ‘They all seem to be under the impression that I gave the go-ahead for this…this…’
‘Fund-raising Fun Day.’
‘Fun?’
‘It started out as a coffee morning and then it just…’
He produced the sarcastic smile that made her want to stick a pin in him.
She clenched her teeth. ‘Got out of hand.’
‘It would seem you have a problem saying no.’ He looked at her mouth and imagined her saying yes to a lot of things…yes and please. ‘Did it not occur to you to tell me what this was about?’
She lifted her chin in response to his daunting disapproval and countered, ‘Did it not occur to you to tell me who you were?’
The retort drew a frown. ‘You have placed me in an impossible situation,’ he brooded darkly.
Logic told him his hands were tied.
Sack her now and he would go from being the hero of the hour to the villain in a breath, and while he did not care overly for his standing in the local community, what bothered him was the press getting a sniff and running with it.
With the Fitzgerald deal in the balance the timing was as bad as it could be and this was the sort of story that the tabloids loved. The wheelchair-bound child, the rich landowner…He could see the headlines now, closely followed by the deal he had spent the last six months pulling together going down the drain along with all the jobs it would bring.
As tempting as it was to let the dismissal stand—every instinct he had was telling him she was nothing but trouble—Isandro knew the more sensible alternative was letting her stay. He had no doubt whatever that he would not have long to wait before she provided him with ample legitimate reasons to dismiss her.
An image of the pale freckled face flashed into his head. ‘The child could not be treated in this country?’
Zoe smiled—the day had done some good. ‘No, the surgery is ground-breaking.’
‘And shaving your head?’ He directed a curious glance at her glossy head, the light shining from the window highlighting natural-looking glossy chestnut streaks in the rich brown. ‘A joke?’
Zoe lifted a self-conscious hand and flicked her plait over shoulder. ‘Not really. Chloe has bad days sometimes and to make her laugh I said if the day didn’t raise the money she needed I’d shave off my hair to raise more.’
‘No!’ The strength of his spontaneous rebuttal startled Isandro as much as it appeared to the owner of the hair.
She blinked, startled. ‘Pardon?’
‘It would not be appropriate for my housekeeper to go around with a shaved head.’
For a moment Zoe stared at him, her hope soaring despite the voice in her head that counselled caution. ‘Housekeeper. Does that mean…?’
‘I will be back tomorrow and I expect—’ He broke off as a great roar went up from outside. ‘I will expect things to be back to normal.’
‘So you’re not sacking me?’ Zoe lowered her gaze, appalled to find her eyes filling with weak tears of relief.
‘I will give you a trial period.’ He gave her a month.
‘You won’t regret it.’
He probably would. ‘The child…?’ He touched the back of the chair she had been spinning around in. ‘The one with the ginger hair.’
‘Auburn. That was Georgie…Georgina.’
‘She is…?’ he prompted impatiently. It was like getting blood out of a stone.
‘My niece.’ She beamed happily. He could look down his aristocratic nose at her as much as he liked—she was no longer homeless, jobless and virtually destitute.
‘She is staying long?’
‘She lives with me and her twin brother, Harry.’ In her head she could hear Laura on the phone when the scan had revealed she was carrying twins…One of each, Zoe, how lucky are we?
In the act of opening a diary on his desk, he stopped, his hands flat on the desk as he lifted his head. ‘You have two children living here? No, that is not acceptable. You will have to make other arrangements.’
Zoe stared at him, breathing deeply to distract herself from the rush of anger. ‘Arrangements? What,’ she asked, ‘did you have in mind?’
His eyes narrowed at the edge of sarcasm in her voice. ‘I know nothing about children.’
‘Except that you have no room in your twenty-bedroom house for two small ones.’
‘So you’re suggesting you move into my home.’ He arched a sardonic brow and watched her flush. ‘Or perhaps you already have?’ It struck him that this might not be so far from the truth—the child had looked very comfortable in his chair.
Zoe flushed and bit her lip. ‘Of course not.’
‘So you would agree that the accommodation that comes with the job is not suitable.’
‘It’s fine.’ It was free and in the catchment area of the twins’ school, which made it not just fine but incredible!
His dark eyes sealed to hers as in interrogation mode he ran a hand across his jaw, shadowed with a day’s growth of stubble. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong…’
Oh, sure, I bet that happens a lot, she thought, struggling to keep her placid, perfect housekeeper smile pasted in place. She could see him now surrounded by little yes men falling over themselves to tell him how wonderful he was.
‘But I was under the impression that the housekeeper’s apartment had one bedroom?’
‘A very big bedroom, and it has a perfectly comfortable sofa bed in the living room.’
‘You sleep on a sofa bed?’
He could not have looked more appalled had she just announced she dossed down on a park bench or in a shop doorway.
‘The arrangement works very well.’ She smiled brightly in the face of his undisguised scepticism. If he was looking for an excuse to give her the push, she wasn’t going to give him any. ‘I’m always up before the twins, and they are in bed before me.’ It wasn’t a room of her own that kept Zoe awake at night, it was balancing her budget.
‘In other words it is a perfect arrangement.’
Zoe pretended not to recognise the dry sarcasm. ‘Not perfect,’ she conceded calmly. ‘But a workable compromise.’ Like he knew a lot about compromise, she thought, but, smothering the prickle of antagonism, she continued serenely, ‘And if you’re thinking that the twins have a negative impact on my work, actually the reverse is true.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Having a family and responsibilities makes me ultra-reliable.’ And totally lacking in pride, suggested the scornful voice in her head.
‘You mean you need this job so you’ll bite back the insult hovering even now on the tip of your tongue.’ His hooded dark eyes slid to the soft full outline of her quite spectacularly sexy lips.
The words hovering on the tip of Zoe’s tongue involved telling him to stop staring at her mouth.
She found herself thinking with nostalgia of the days when her temporary cash shortages had been dealt with by not buying the pair of shoes she’d been drooling over, or cutting back on the number of coffees she bought in a week. Things were no longer so simple. She was still reeling over the cost of new school uniforms for the twins, who had both shot up the previous term.
‘You are speaking as if this arrangement is permanent. I assumed the children were spending their holiday with you.’
And I could have let him continue assuming that—the man is here so rarely he wouldn’t have known the difference—but no, I had to go open my big mouth.
‘No. They are my sister’s children.’ She swallowed. She didn’t discuss the details of the accident that had killed her sister and her husband or mention the underage drunk driver going the wrong way on the motorway who had been responsible for the simple fact that she was afraid if she did she would start shouting. ‘She and her husband died. I’m the children’s guardian.’
‘I am sorry.’
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
According to the grief counsellor anger was normal…It would pass, she said. There might be a time when she would stop being angry, but six months after that terrible day Zoe could not imagine a time when she would come to terms with it, stop wanting to beat her bare fists against a brick wall at the sheer terrible waste.
‘You are very young to have such responsibilities.’
‘That’s relative, isn’t it?’ Only last week Zoe had watched a programme that followed a week in the life of children who were the main carers for their disabled parents. It had made her feel ashamed—compared to them she had it easy.
‘Surely there is someone more suitable who could take care of these children?’ He scanned her up and down and shook his head.
‘My sister was my only family and Dan didn’t have any family. It’s me or social services.’ She’d do what it took to stop that happening. The children would enjoy the sort of childhood she’d had…It was far too short as it was.
Zoe closed her eyes, remembering Laura’s face the day she met Dan, and swallowed, concentrating on the anger, not the pain, as the same old question followed—why? Why Laura of all people in the world? Why did it have to be her?
He eyed her beautiful face cynically. ‘I am assuming that housekeeping was not a career choice for you.’
Zoe moistened her lips, trying to decide what the right answer to this question was. In the end she kept it simple and honest.
‘I never really knew what I wanted to do with my life.’
There had never seemed any hurry to make up her mind. She liked to travel; she liked new experiences and meeting new people.
Well, now it was her turn to step up to the mark and, yes, she would beg and be tearfully grateful to this awful man. She would grovel if necessary, even if it killed her. She would do whatever it took to keep her family together.
She gave a quietly confident smile. ‘But I never give any less than a hundred per cent, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this job…Anything,’ she added fiercely.
‘Anything…?’
Something in the way he said it made her feel less secure, but she wouldn’t back down—she couldn’t. She nodded.
‘Absolutely.’
Expression impassive, he brushed an invisible speck off his dark top with long brown fingers.
‘“Anything” covers a lot of territory so if you’re offering sexual favours I should tell you I normally get it for free.’
Zoe’s hands curled into tight fists at her sides as she breathed through the energising rush of anger. He was taunting her, but he knew full well she couldn’t respond and in her book that made the man a bully. She rubbed the hand that tingled to slap the expression of amused disdain off his smug, impossibly handsome face, and tilted her chin to an enquiring angle.
But would she…?
She pushed away the question and willed herself not to blush, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm. At least she was safe from any unwanted attentions—the man was obviously too much of a snob to consider sleeping with the help.
But if he did?
Her body reacted to the unspoken question and Zoe had no more chance of halting the visceral chain reaction than she did stopping her fingers jerking back from a hot object.
Taking a deep breath, she brought her lashes down in a protective sweep and wrapped her arms across her middle in a hugging gesture, glad that she was wearing a loose-fitting top. She was saved the added embarrassment of having her shamefully engorged nipples on view, but it didn’t stop her being painfully conscious of the chafing discomfort of her bra or the heavy liquid ache low in her pelvis.
Closing down this internal dialogue as her temperature rose, Zoe managed to break contact with his disturbing steely stare and lifted her shoulders in a tiny shrug.
‘Jokes aside, I can promise you I shall be totally professional.’
He arched a brow and didn’t look convinced by her claim. She felt panic trickle down her spine and thought, God, please don’t let him change his mind.
‘You won’t be sorry.’ Her fingernails gouged crescents into the soft flesh of her palms as she held her breath awaiting his response, feeling like a prisoner in the dock waiting to hear his sentence read out.
His tall figure framed in the doorway, Isandro turned. He already was regretting it.
‘I am sorry for your loss, but I have to tell you I do not allow sentiment to sway my judgement, so do not expect any special favours here.’
Just how well would his judgement withstand the pressure of great legs and a stupendous mouth?
Her smile was cold and proud. ‘I won’t expect any.’
‘We’ll see. I judge by results, not promises.’ Or lips, he thought as his gaze made an unscheduled traverse of the lush pink curve of her wide mouth before he could think better of it.
‘I never had any complaints.’ The unintentional innuendo after his previous comment brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘In any of the jobs I’ve had,’ she added hastily.
‘That cannot be many. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two, and actually—’ She lifted a hand, about to list the jobs she had done, and dropped it again, not wanting to give the impression that she didn’t have staying power. As it happened, it was too late, as his next disturbingly perceptive remark revealed.
‘What is the longest time you have remained in one job?’
Outwardly cool, inwardly thinking, Why, oh, why can I never keep my big mouth shut? she furrowed her smooth brow. ‘Is that relevant?’
‘It is if you walk after a week.’
‘I have done a number of jobs, it’s true, but who hasn’t in this job market?’ As if he knows such a lot about this job market. He may employ a lot of people in his various empires, but to him they are statistics on a chart. ‘I’ve never left anyone in the lurch. I’m totally reliable.’
‘But you don’t like to stay in one place long? You have no staying power?’
‘I have…’ She forced her lips into a smile and bit back a retort even though it choked her to do so. ‘Please don’t judge me on first impressions. I have responsibilities now that I did not have previously.’
‘We’ll see.’ He flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch. ‘My chef will be here later. You will make the arrangements.’
She nodded and produced a smile that oozed professional confidence. ‘Of course.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘What arrangements would they be?’
Unable to decide if she was joking, he regarded her with an expression of stern disapproval. ‘This is not a work experience position, Miss Grace.’
‘Of course not, Mr Monster…Montero.’ Thrown into confusion by the horrifying Freudian slip, she almost fell over in her haste to get to the door before him to open it.
‘I do not require grovelling. I require efficiency.’
She tipped her head meekly. ‘Of course.’ What he required, in her opinion, was taking down a peg or several hundred. She just hoped she was around to watch when it happened.
Passing through the door, Isandro revised his month estimate. She wouldn’t last a week. If she had mouths to feed that was not his problem—he was not a charity.
CHAPTER FOUR
IF HE FOUND so much as a curtain fold out of place she’d eat her rather grubby trainers, Zoe decided, doing a final survey of the room.
The army of volunteers had cleared away any sign of yesterday’s festivities in the grounds. The word had got around that the boss had put in an unexpected appearance the previous day and the staff had really gone the extra mile on the house. The rest of the rooms were equally pristine, about as lived-in as your average museum, but presumably cosy was not what he wanted.
Thinking the word ‘cosy’ in the same thought as Isandro Montero made her lips quirk, but not for long. She had spent a really awful night reliving yesterday’s encounter, by turns breaking out in cold sweats when she thought of how close she’d come to losing the roof over their heads and seething with resentment that she’d had to crawl to keep it.
The couple of times she had managed to drift off she hadn’t been able to escape the awful man who held their fate in his elegant, over-privileged hands. Shivering, she pushed her fingers into her hair and shook her head. Typical. She normally forgot the contents of her dreams the moment she woke up. But the dark erotic images from last night remained disturbingly fresh, as did the lingering shivery feeling in the pit of her stomach that did not diminish with each subsequent flashback.
Get a grip, Zoe, she told herself. The man only comes here once in a blue moon, so grit your teeth and give him no opportunity to criticise.
‘You don’t have to like him.’ And you definitely don’t have to dream about him, she added silently as she rubbed a suggestion of a smudge off the surface of a mirrored bureau door with the sleeve of her sweater.
Catching sight of herself, she gave a horrified gasp. The house and grounds looked terrific but she didn’t!
Rushing out into the square marble-floored hallway, dominated by the graceful curving staircase that rose to the second floor and the glass dome above that flooded the space with light, Zoe couldn’t help glancing nervously at the big front door, her heart beating fast in reaction to the image in her head of it opening to reveal the master of the house. A shiver travelled the length of her spine before she shook her head, laughing.
Master?
‘Really, Zoe!’ She shook her head again, ignoring the fact her laugh this time had a breathless sound to it. Living with all this history was making her thoughts turn positively feudal, she decided, exiting through the door that led into a long winding inner hallway and in turn to the sturdy door that led outside into the quadrangle of outbuildings at the rear of the building.
She headed across the cobbled yard, past the rows of stone troughs filled with artistically arranged tumbling summer flowers, and up the stone steps that led to the flat above what had once been a coach house but now housed what was by all accounts an impressive collection of vintage sports cars.
Inside the flat she closed the door and leaned against it, relieved that he hadn’t put in an appearance while she was looking like a scarecrow. Walking across to the fitted cupboard that housed her clothes, she grimaced at her reflection in the full-length mirror inside the door. Not exactly the image of cool efficiency she was determined to exemplify.
Stripping down to her bra and pants, she folded her jeans. When the space was limited neatness was essential but fortunately she didn’t have many clothes, which made her choice of a suitable outfit pretty easy. Padding through the living room and through the twins’ bedroom into the en-suite, she popped her dusty top in the linen basket, then pinned her hair up before she stepped into the shower. Though she would have liked to wash her hair, it took an age to dry and she was short of time.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing a crisp white blouse, a pair of narrow-legged tailored black trousers and with her hair in a fat plait down her back, she slid her feet into a pair of sensible black leather loafers. She gave herself a critical once-over, bending at the knee to see the top of her head in the angled mirror. Resisting the temptation to jazz up the sombre outfit with a pink scarf dotted with orange roses, she slid a pair of gold hoops into her ears. The sound of them jingling brought a smile to her lips as she lifted her head, more confidence in her stride as she headed across the courtyard. She was determined to make up for the disastrous first impression she had made; she could do it.
She had to do it.
Her smile faded slightly as she approached the building, tensing as she heard a car in the distance, but the vehicle that drove through the arch was a delivery van from the local butcher’s. She started breathing again, delivering the silent advice, Cool it, Zoe, before she paused to thank one of the gardeners for donating a box full of the vegetables from the kitchen garden to the raffle the previous day, and admiring the magnificent lavender tumbling from a group of barrels.
‘The smell always makes me think of summer and at night it fills the flat,’ she told him, adding warmly, ‘The flowers you cut for the house were marvellous.’ She had spent a pleasant half-hour filling bowls in several of the rooms with the fragrant summer blooms.
He tilted his head in acknowledgement and looked pleased with the compliment. ‘The other one here before you sent up to London for fancy arrangements every week. I told her it was a criminal waste.’
‘I’m sure they were very beautiful.’ The gardener might approve, but Zoe suddenly felt less secure about her amateur attempts to add a touch of colour to the house; they were hardly professional.
Resisting the impulse to run back to the house and remove all the flowers, which in her mind were fast becoming tasteless and ugly displays of amateurism, she chatted a little longer to the man before she finally excused herself.
In the end she couldn’t bring herself to dump the freshly cut flowers, deciding as a compromise not to volunteer the information she was responsible—unless directly asked, which seemed unlikely. She walked around the place a final time to double-check everything, leaving it until the last possible moment before she jumped in her car and set off to pick up the twins from school.
For all she knew Isandro Montero might not arrive until midnight; he might be a total no-show—if she was very lucky.
The narrow country lane that led to the village was in theory a short cut, but Zoe got stuck behind a tractor, and the children were already waiting at the gate when she arrived, chatting to Chloe and Hannah.
‘I’m sorry I’m late!’ she exclaimed.
‘You’re not late,’ Chloe soothed. ‘They only just got out.’ She took in Zoe’s outfit and her brows lifted. ‘Wow, you look very…’
‘Weird,’ supplied Georgie bluntly.
‘Very sexy librarian,’ Chloe corrected.
‘Are librarians sexy?’ Harry asked.
Chloe exchanged a look with Zoe, who suppressed a smile and said, ‘In the car, you two.’ Adding, ‘Do you want a lift, Chloe?’
The older woman shook her head. ‘No, I’m picking up some glasses for tonight from Sara on my way back.’
‘I hope you all have a great night, I wish I could come but…’ She lifted her slender shoulders in a regretful shrug; her babysitting arrangements had fallen through that morning.
‘You can…I know, just call me fairy godmother. You know how John’s mum is having Hannah? Well, she’s offered to have your two as well. John will pick up the twins on his way home and he’ll fetch them back in the morning.’
‘Oh, Chloe, that’s really kind but I couldn’t impose…’
‘It’s not imposing. Maud offered and they’ll have a great time, you know they will.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Yes but nothing, Cinders, you’re going to the ball and don’t forget the invite includes your utterly gorgeous boss…I tell you, if I was a few years younger I’d give you a bit of competition there.’
Zoe struggled to smile at the joke. ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid.’ She felt a guilty tug as her friend’s face fell.
‘I thought he was due back today. John’s going to be so disappointed—he wanted to thank him personally and return his hospitality. Half the people there only came because they wanted to take a look at the hall.’
Zoe’s unease increased. Short of admitting that the hospitality they wanted to return had not been given freely, she had no way of preventing the decision to treat the new lord of the manor as a community-minded philanthropist.
‘He was…is…due today,’ she admitted. ‘But when I left he hadn’t arrived.’
‘But he might do.’
‘Anything’s possible,’ Zoe admitted, but the thought of Isandro coming to a party where the glasses were borrowed and the food was provided by guests! Possible but not very likely, thank goodness!
‘Well, promise you’ll remind him if he does turn up? Tell him that we’d love to see him and he seemed very keen to come. He’s obviously making an effort to be part of the community.’
Zoe didn’t have the heart to shatter this illusion and explain that the man had only said yes to cut the scene short and get rid of them as quickly as possible.
‘If he does I will,’ Zoe promised, imagining with horror the admittedly unlikely scenario of Isandro putting in an appearance at the party. Him spending the entire evening with his lips curled contemptuously would suck the joy out of any occasion and Zoe wanted to save her friends that. On a less unselfish note she wanted to save herself from spending her precious off-duty time with a man who made her skin prickle with antagonism even before he opened his mouth and said something vile and unpleasant. The fact that half the vile things he said were actually the truth was neither here nor…Losing track of her train of thought, she shook her head slightly to banish the image of the lips that combined overt sensuality with an underlying hint of cruelty.
She was getting fixated on the man’s mouth when it was the things that came out if it that she ought to worry about.
‘John will be by around six to pick up the twins.’
Isandro did not get involved in other people’s lives. His charitable donations to selected good causes were made anonymously, and he never responded to any form of moral blackmail or sentimental sob stories, but the story of the little girl and her ‘last chance to walk’ trip to America continued to play in his mind.
Admit it, Isandro, the kid got to you.
This perceived weakness was responsible for putting the indent between his sable brows. His father had been a sentimental man, a kind, trusting man who was moved by the suffering of others. A man who taught his son the importance of charity, and led by example.
And where had that got him?
Universally liked and admired certainly—but at the end he had been a broken and disillusioned man.
Isandro had been forced to stand by helplessly and watch while the woman his father had married and her daughter had systematically robbed the family business, stealing not just from his father but from major clients. He had no intention of emulating his parent, had no room for sentimentality in his life, expected the worst from others and was rarely disappointed.
Experience had taught him that everyone had an angle and the most innocent of faces could hide a devious heart, like his stepmother and her daughter. Forced to brake hard to avoid a cat that shot across the road out of nowhere, he shook his head, banishing the thoughts of the pair of con artists who had with clinical efficiency isolated his father, alienating him not just from trusted friends and colleagues but his family, ensuring that when Isandro had passed on the concerns expressed by senior staff it had been treated as jealous spite.
Isandro would never be the man his father had been; he’d make sure of that. The possibility that his name was synonymous with cold and heartless was to his way of thinking infinitely preferable to being considered a mug.
A faint smile flickered across his face. According to the lovely Zara he was both cold and heartless among other things. She had lost it big time and reverted to her native Russian, a language Isandro had only a smattering of, so some of the choicer insults had been lost on him, before she swept majestically out of the restaurant on her designer heels.
He exhaled, feeling a fleeting spasm of regret. The woman looked magnificent even when she was spitting fury, and the sex had been excellent.
Great sex had been about the only thing they had going for them, and it had been pretty much the perfect relationship while Zara’s demands had stayed in the bedroom, but recently…He shook his head. He was not into post-mortems but if he’d lived last night again he might not have replied so honestly when Zara had pouted and asked, ‘Have you listened to a word I’ve been saying all night?’
If he’d contented himself with an honest, no frills ‘no’ he might have cajoled her out of her sulks and things might not have escalated so noisily, but he hadn’t. He’d irritably gone into more detail, rather unwisely revealing that he had minimal interest in shoes, the latest way to remove a skin blemish, or minor royals.
Pulsuz fraqment bitdi.
