Page 1 of The Housekeeper's One-Night Baby
PROLOGUE
‘LEAVING?’LIZZIE’SFINGERStightened around the phone and a pebble of fear hit the pit of her stomach as she listened to her employer’s words. ‘I... I don’t understand.’
‘It’s quite simple, Lizzie.’ Sylvie’s cut-crystal accent slowed as if she were talking to someone very stupid. ‘The house is going to have to be sold. There’s someone coming to look at it next week, as it happens. That’s the beginning and the end of it, I’m afraid.’
‘But...’ Lizzie’s words tailed off as the fear inside her grew heavier.
There were things she wanted to say but she didn’t know how, because she wasn’t the sort of person who was confident about logical argument—especially with employers. She knew her boundaries. She was good at dusting and cleaning, and painting pictures of animals—dogs, preferably. She’d been brought up never to question the person who was paying your cheque, because security was all-important.
But Sylviehadn’tpaid her, had she? Lizzie had been subsisting on what remained of her savings for months. Meanwhile her boss had been vague in that charming way the upper classes had—of making you feel as if you should be grateful for what seemed like their friendship. Only it wasn’treallyfriendship. A friend would never leave you high and dry with barely any warning. A friend would never take advantage of you without a second thought. She sucked in a deep breath.
So tell her. Make her realise what this means to you.
‘But that means I won’t have anywhere to live,’ she objected quietly.
Sylvie injected a note of faux understanding into her plummy voice. ‘I realise that,’ she said consolingly. ‘But you’re a hard worker, Lizzie. You’re bound to find a job with accommodation, just like you did with me. And I’ll write you a glowing reference, you can be sure of that. There’s really nothing to worry about.’
Lizzie swallowed. This next bit was harder, because her mother had always taught her that talking about money was vulgar. But what price vulgarity if the cupboards were bare? ‘But you owe me money,’ she croaked, her cheeks flushing hotly. ‘I haven’t had anything for over three months now.’
‘Yes. Bit of a cashflow problem, I’m afraid. Look, I’m not going to promise something I can’t deliver, Lizzie—so how about you have a good hunt around the house and take anything you want, in lieu of payment? None of the antiques, obviously—but you’ll find plenty of last season’s clothes, which I won’t be wearing again. You could flog them on the Internet and make yourself a small fortune—isn’t that what people do these days? Listen, darling, I have to go—there’s a car waiting. I just want to say thanks for everything, and could you make sure the house is super-tidy for next Wednesday? Someone called Niccolò Macario is coming to buy it, hopefully. Some super-hot Italian billionaire, apparently.’ Sylvie gave a throaty laugh. ‘What a pity I won’t be there.’
CHAPTER ONE
HEHADHIREDa sleek silver sports car for his stay in England, but, having driven it to the centre of the tiny Cotswolds village, Niccolò decided to park next to the duck pond and then walk the last couple of miles. He was feeling wired. More wired than usual. His nerves were jangled. His heart was racing and his lips were dry. He tried not to give it too much thought. Thinking never helped anything and he should be used to this reaction by now. It always happened on this day. Every year, without fail. A pulse thudded at his temple. Without. Fail.
His footsteps slowed to a halt in front of the imposing house and he looked around, trying to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings as the sun beat down on his head. The ancient building which rose into the cloudless sky was the colour of honey and cream. The grounds were lush and beautiful. Heavy roses scented the air with their rich perfume and bees buzzed happily in among the colourful flowerbeds. It was the most idyllic of scenes. Rural England at her finest.
He glanced around and his eyes narrowed, because the beauty was an illusion, like so much else in life. It had an unkempt air about it—like a woman who woke up with last night’s mascara clinging to her eyes. If you looked closely you could see the peeling paint and scarred window panes. The inevitable creep of weeds not quite disguised by the vibrant hues of the abundant flowers.
His gaze flicked across to the glitter of an ornamental pool and a ragged sigh erupted from somewhere deep in his lungs. The ache in his heart was always at its most intense in the summer—the bright sunlight mocking the darkness which invaded his soul—the loss and guilt as potent as ever, even after all these years. He felt dead inside. As if someone had taken a blowtorch and blasted everything away, leaving him with nothing but a vast emptiness and a sense of futility.
Thatwas why he chose an annual hands-on project like this to supplement an already busy life—a diversion to capture his attention, as well as adding to his considerable fortune. Buying a potentially valuable property took him back to when he’d first started, when he had been hungry to succeed. He didn’t need the money any more, but work was a useful focus for his restless spirit. His lips tightened. It could blot out most things if you let it.
He glanced down at his watch and walked towards the door. The agent from the real estate office was supposed to be meeting him here, though there was no sign of his car. Maybe he had walked, too. As he pressed the doorbell, Niccolò thought about what he’d been told about the property. The owner was a wealthy socialite, apparently, and desperate to sell. He gave a calculating smile. Indiscreet of the agent to let that slip, but always good to know from a negotiating standpoint.
He heard the sound of echoing footsteps from inside the house and then the heavy oak door was pulled open and a woman stood there, framed by the darkness of the interior. A strange wraith of a woman with hair the colour of a faded Halloween pumpkin and translucent skin which was dusted with freckles. She wore a gown of rich green silk, which clung to the luscious outline of her body, and her bare arms were strong. The dress, its hem brushing the stone floor, was completely inappropriate for daytime wear—yet somehow it seemed fitting that such a glorious creature would inhabit a residence as old and historic as this.
Her full lips parted as if in shock and Niccolò felt the unexpected punch of desire as he gazed at her. It was powerful and it was potent. The heavy beat of his heart. The tantalising ache of his groin. He wanted to reach out and touch her, to see if her skin could possibly be as soft as it looked and then to trace the outline of her lips with the pad of his thumb and make them tremble. His mouth was dry as he shook his head, in an attempt to bat away his wayward thoughts. Since when had he started hitting on a total stranger? Didn’t women always hit onhim?
He cleared his throat but that did little to quell the tightening sensation in his chest. ‘Niccolò Macario,’ he explained succinctly, elevating his eyebrows in question, when still she said nothing. ‘I believe you’re expecting me?’
Lizzie gazed back at the powerful, black-haired figure who was standing in front of her and all the things she’d been trained to say, like:Good morning, sir. May I help you?or,I believe you’ve come to view the house, sir?were stubbornly refusing to leave her lips. Her head was spinning and she couldn’t move. Literally couldn’t speak. She felt disorientated and bewildered. Because...because...
Could this man possibly bereal?
She blinked at him in disbelief.
It wasn’t just that he was exceptionally tall or exceptionally muscular, with ruffled hair as dark as the wing of a crow. Or that her unwilling attention was drawn by his immaculately cut trousers to the powerful thrust of his legs, just as the rippling silk shirt directed her gaze to his honed torso. It wasn’t even the glittering jet gaze, or sexy accent—both of which were making goosebumps shiver over her arms. No, it was the way he was looking at her, those hard eyes narrowed and curious. As if he’d just seen something he hadn’t been expecting. Something worth looking at. Normally Lizzie would have glanced behind her to check if his attention had been caught by someone else, which of course it would have been.
Except that she knew herself to be alone.
Alone in a grand house which had been her home, but not for much longer, wearing an outrageously expensive dress belonging to her boss, which was gliding over her flesh like a second skin.
As instructed, she’d spent the morning going through Sylvie’s wardrobe—trying to work out the potential value of the various outfits and balancing it against the unpaid wages she was owed. Most of the garments had been badly treated—the odd cigarette burn and red-wine stain making them unwearable—but this one had stood out like a beacon. It was a fantasy dress, the sort of thing she wouldn’t usually have dreamed of wearing, even if she’d been able to afford it. She always dressed practically and comfortably, both of which suited her humble position in life and her tendency to shrink into the shadows. But something had compelled Lizzie to throw caution to the wind and slither into it, after first removing her bra so that the silky fabric wouldn’t reveal any lumps or bumps.
She swallowed. It was the most exquisite thing she had ever worn. It made her feel different and was obviously making herlookdifferent, too. Why else was a man like Niccolò Macario seemingly transfixed by her, when usually she barely merited a second glance from members of the opposite sex?
‘Youareexpecting me?’ he repeated, slight impatience tinging his tone as he glanced over her shoulder. ‘Is the estate agent here?’
