Page 21 of The Housekeeper's One-Night Baby
‘You seem to make out that just because you’re offering to buy me a brand-new wardrobe, I should be falling over myself to thank you. Why? Is that what usually happens?’
‘I’ve never bought a woman clothes before,’ he snapped.
‘Presumably because the women you usually mix with can afford to buy their own swish clothes, and that’s okay. I understand why you’re doing it, Niccolò and I don’t deny that it’s with all the best intentions, but I grew up with...’
‘Grew up with what?’ he said, curious in spite of himself as her words tailed away.
‘My mother never really worked and we lived on benefits. Handouts from the state,’ she filled in, as the American model was probably different. ‘We did that because we had to, because she never tried to get herself a job, and she was okay with that. But it’s not how I wanted to live my life and since she died and I’ve been on my own, I’ve never taken a penny from anyone.’ She tilted her chin. ‘I may not have had the most lucrative jobs in the world, but I’ve always paid my own way.’
‘Which puts us at a bit of animpasse, doesn’t it?’ he observed slowly.
‘I know. I can’t even cook you meals to pay you back because you have a famous chef do that and I can’t make beds or dust the suite, because I think it would put Kaylie’s and all the other maids’ noses out of joint. But...’ her eyes narrowed consideringly ‘...I could do your portrait.’
‘If you think I’m sitting still while you paint me, Lizzie Bailey, then you’re deluded,’ he told her softly.
‘I usually do animals, but I think I could make an exception for you. Although come to think of it...’ She tipped her head to one side and narrowed her eyes consideringly. ‘Hmm. Yes. Definitely. I can see a distinct resemblance to an angry bear.’
And to Niccolò’s surprise, he started laughing.
CHAPTER SEVEN
NICCOLÒDROPPEDHISbriefcase on the floor more loudly than he intended, the sudden rush of air causing the roses in a nearby vase to shiver. With impatient fingers, he began to unbutton his jacket, throwing it down on a chair with his usual attention to sartorial detail forgotten. He’d had yet another frustrating day at the office for reasons which were as inexplicable as they were irritating—and it was all down to her.
Lizzie.
Lizzie Bailey.
A freckled face swam into his mind as it had been doing on occasions too numerous to count. Pale green eyes and glowing skin. A pair of soft, rosy lips crying out to be kissed. He shook his head, but the image refused to budge and he scowled. Total preoccupation with his unexpected houseguest was now his new normal and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit.
For days, he had uncharacteristically found himself glazing over during meetings at his company headquarters, in a way which had produced vague flutterings of surprise from his staff. Instead of focussing on the latest stratospheric profits of Macario Industries and finding new ways to increase them, which was what he was extremely good at—his attention had been dominated by one Lizzie Bailey.
He had tried too many times to analyse her allure—and this was the confusing thing, because he had dated women far more conventionally beautiful than her. But then, he’d never lived with a woman before and had perhaps underestimated the potency of proximity. He had deliberately placed her off limits, yet was discovering that the forbidden had a power all of its own. She was feisty and she was vulnerable—an undeniably distracting combination, made all the more affecting because he sensed it wasn’t contrived. And then there was her air of stubborn independence. Her reluctance to accept any of his considerable wealth, despite being as poor as a church mouse.
But there were other things about her which were equally perplexing. How come she was so uncannily good at reading his mood—sensing whether he wanted to talk at breakfast time, or remain silent? Was that rooted in her experience of working as a housekeeper? But she isn’t your employee, he reminded himself frustratedly. She was your lover—briefly—but not any more.
And wasn’t that something else which was driving him crazy?Those vivid memories of how good it had been between them?
A muscle began to work at his temple. He had tried to deny, ignore, dismiss and subdue his desire for her—but nothing seemed to work. Punishing early-morning sessions at the gym had proved useless. Long hours at his desk didn’t help. He felt as if he had temporarily ceded control to the tiny redhead, and since he was a man for whom control was key, this was disturbing. He’d even considered eradicating the pervasive memories of her curving body by taking another lover—although obviously, he would be very discreet about it. But although other women were always coming onto him and there was an abundance of suitable candidates from which to choose, he found the idea of having sex with anyone else abhorrent.
His mouth hardened.
He wanted her, and only her—despite the combative dialogue which sparked between them, like iron on flint.
He balled his hands into two exasperated fists.
There were a million reasons why he should be content to keep the pregnant housekeeper at arm’s length, but when he sought to reassure himself by analysing them—they seemed meaningless.
And while he had been giving less than one hundred per cent at the office, Lizzie had been settling into her new life in Manhattan, according to various members of his staff who she seemed to have charmed into total compliance. Mostly, she had been visiting the city’s art galleries, along with a guide she had grudgingly agreed to tolerate after the Central Park incident, and a security detail he’d arranged to keep an eye on her from a discreet distance.
Calculatingly, he had tried staying away from her as much as possible and had even stopped turning off his phone while eating dinner, which meant he was often able to distract himself with work calls instead of looking into her amazing eyes. But tonight he was taking her to a party and, weirdly, he was looking forward to it. It felt like a date when it most emphatically was not a date.
According to Lois, his assistant, Lizzie had finally capitulated and spent the day shopping at Saks, leaving the acquisition of a new wardrobe right up to the wire. He frowned. And that was another thing. He hadn’t realised that Lois owned a dog and that Lizzie had started painting it, setting herself up in a box room within the apartment and making the whole place smell of oil paint. It was an entirely new—and unwanted—pattern for his usually frosty aide to arrive at the office bearing a clutch of photos featuring some tiny piece of fluff called Blanche and asking him if he could pass them on to Lizzie. He wasn’t at all comfortable about his home life spilling over into his office life—but what could he do?
The hotel suite was quiet, which he liked, and the main reception area was empty, which he also liked. He gave a heavy sigh. It was at moments like this that he could almost imagine he’d got his old life back, and was just about to pour himself a restorative glass of whisky when Lizzie walked into the salon and Niccolò almost dropped the tumbler. He tried to scramble his thoughts into some kind of coherence because ofcoursehe recognised her—a pregnant red-head was hardly going to slip beneath anyone’s radar—but he wasn’t expecting such a visceral response to her dramatically altered appearance.
Gone were the ugly, shapeless clothes. She wore a fitted dress of ivory lace, which complemented her colouring and glowing skin. Her shiny hair had been styled into a fall of sleek waves which cascaded over her breasts and, quickly, he averted his gaze from their luscious swell. Reluctantly, his eyes strayed to her stomach and it was hard not to stare, because no longer was her condition concealed beneath a swag of shapeless material. Instead, in the close-fitting gown, her pregnant shape seemed almost to becelebrated. And wasn’t there something daunting about that? His heart gave a powerful punch because he didn’t like that feeling. So he focussed instead on her face... What had changed in her face? Niccolò regarded her suspiciously.
‘Are you wearing make-up?’
