Page 10 of The Housekeeper's One-Night Baby
Ifshe appeared.
He glanced again at his watch, because it was easier to concentrate on logistics rather than the tumult of unfamiliar emotions he was doing his best to block. Was it possible that the petite housekeeper had stood him up? It was already a quarter off three and never had he waited so long for someone to arrive. His mouth hardened. Especially not a woman. It went with the territory of being a billionaire. Everyone was always punctual—in fact, people invariably arrived too early. They waited for him and hung onto his every word and jostled for his attention. It meant he never had to try very hard socially—others were always more than willing to do the work for him. But Lizzie hadn’t reacted that way. He remembered the accusations she had flung at him and frowned. Had his wealth really made him so remote and inaccessible that the mother of his child had been unable to get an appointment to see him?
The mother of his child.
The phrase was cloaked with an intimacy which set his teeth on edge. It made his heart ache with hard-wired pain. It made the mantle of guilt even heavier.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Lizzie, walking through a giant wrought-iron arch towards the café, tiny and instantly recognisable, her hair banner-bright against the gunmetal-grey of the sky. As she pushed open the door and approached his table he noticed that her thin overcoat barely fastened over the curve of her belly and a fierce rush of something he didn’t recognise made him want to fix that. To swathe her in layers of cashmere and remove that pinched and suspicious expression from her face.
She spotted him instantly but didn’t smile or nod in recognition. As he rose to his feet to greet her all he could see was wariness cloaking her features and making her regard him with undisguised suspicion.
‘Hi,’ she said, and as she removed the thin coat and hung it on the back of the chair, he ran his gaze over her critically.
She had changed out of the ugly tabard into a dress of sturdy brown corduroy, which must have been chosen solely for its accommodatingly shape, rather than any attempt to look pretty. Yet despite her pallor and tired eyes, there was something intangibly appealing about her, which made Niccolò’s pulse unexpectedly quicken. Was it the spill of pale red hair which pregnancy had made extra thick and glossy—or the extraordinary colour of her pistachio eyes, which made it so hard to tear his gaze away from her face? He found himself wondering what she might look like if she took a little care with her appearance.
‘Sit down. Please,’ he said—and, to his astonishment, found himself moving round the table to pull out a chair for her, as if he were an accommodating waiter.
‘Thank you.’
Her narrow shoulders brushed against his fingertips as she slid into her seat and as Niccolò felt the jolt of instant physical connection he felt a lump invade his throat. So, that aspect of their relationship hadn’t altered, he acknowledged unwillingly—uncertain whether to be intrigued or alarmed. Their physical chemistry remained as white-hot as ever. His voice was thick as he resumed his place and offered her a menu. ‘What will you have to eat?’
‘Nothing, thanks. Just herbal tea for me.’
He frowned. ‘Have you had lunch already?’
‘No,’ she admitted, chewing the inside of her mouth.
‘Then why are you so late?’
Lizzie hesitated. She didn’t want to come over as some sort of victim, but that was how it would sound if she explained that Lady Cameron had needed a silk shirt ironed before she went out to play bridge that afternoon. Didn’t matter that she was supposed to have been off duty. Or that there were dozens of similar items hanging neatly pressed in her employer’s ginormous walk-in wardrobe. It had to bethatone—and no, Lizzie couldn’t possibly go off to meet her ‘friend’ until the task had been completed.
‘I needed to finish up some work,’ she said vaguely.
‘You need to eat—especially in your condition.’
She glared at him as some of the stresses and strains of the past few months came bubbling up out of nowhere, though maybe that wasn’t so surprising. Because if she couldn’t vent her indignation to the man who’d actually put her in this position, who elsecouldshe sound off to? ‘What is it about pregnancy which suddenly makes the whole world an expert on my welfare?’ she demanded. ‘Ishouldbe eating and Ishouldbe resting. Well, I’ll be the one to decide what I should be doing, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘So you’re not hungry?’
Unfortunately, her stomach chose that very moment to give a loud and very distracting rumble. Was it the mention of food which provoked it, or the tantalising waft of soup as a waitress carried a piled tray past their table?
‘A bit,’ she admitted reluctantly.
An expression of satisfaction flickered over his face, before it was replaced with one of resolution. ‘I thought so,’ he said, lifting his hand.
It was weird sitting back and watching him take charge—and equally weird to have someone taking care ofher, for a change. With consummate ease Niccolò soon had two waitresses fussing around him and the chef himself bringing a basket of warm bread from the kitchen—which was something of an achievement for a place where the views were wonderful but the service usually atrocious.
Before too long, Lizzie was sitting in front of a steaming bowl of vegetable soup, accompanied by bread, a chunk of cheese and a sprig of juicy purple grapes. And then hunger took over and blotted out every other consideration. With a hungry moan, she started eating and for a couple of minutes forgot where she was and why she was there. She even forgot who was sitting opposite her, watching like a hawk as she scooped up the delicious broth, finally sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction as her spoon clattered into the empty bowl.
‘Better?’ he questioned softly.
‘I suppose so,’ she said grudgingly.
His lips curved into a smile, which managed to look triumphant and supremely sexy at the same time. And she didn’t want him to smile like that. She didn’t want him to smile at all, because it was making her heart thump in a way which wouldn’t do her any good.
‘So.’ The smile had vanished and his gaze was boring into her, suddenly hard and cold and calculating. ‘We need to discuss the future,’ he said, pushing away his tiny espresso cup.
Lizzie was interested to know what he meant by the word ‘we’, but couldn’t think of a way of asking which wouldn’t make her come over as needy. So she didn’t say anything, just continued to regard him in silence.
