Page 17 of Cinderella's Christmas Secret 1
She shrugged. ‘You’re a rich man. Apparently, that’s what rich men do. And youdohave a chauffeur.’
‘Sí.I do. But the answer is no, I am completely on my own. Because surely a man is not a true man if he cannot fend for himself. If he cannot live independently of his staff.’
‘Christmas is not a time for independence,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s a time for family.’
‘And will your family be missing you, Hollie?’ he questioned suddenly. ‘Is that why you are so eager to get back?’
‘I have no family,’ she said, deciding it wouldn’t be diplomatic or wise to tell him that her desire to get away had been all about his effect on her. Baldly, she gave him the bare facts, the way she always did, just so they could get the inevitable mechanical sympathy out of the way. ‘Both my parents are dead.’
‘Snap,’ he said softly.
It wasn’t what she’d been expecting and Hollie almost wished he hadn’t told her that, because that was the stupid thing about the mind—it took you down false paths, based on very flimsy evidence. If she wasn’t careful it would be easy to start imagining they had something in common, because they were both orphans. When she knew and he knew that they had absolutely nothing in common, other than an inconvenient sexual chemistry and a baby neither of them had planned.
‘At least nobody’s going to miss us!’ she observed brightly, wishing it didn’t please her so much to see him smile in response. But the curve of his lips lasted only a second, as though this man was not comfortable with smiling.
‘I’ll leave you to get settled in,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ll be downstairs. Come and find me when you’ve finished. Take as long as you like.’
Settling inseemed a rather over-ambitious term for getting used to such spartan accommodation, but after Maximo had left, Hollie tried to make the bedroom as comfortable as possible. There were no sheets, but she hunted down several mismatched velvet throws and a thick eiderdown, which provided a colourful display against the quiet grey hues of the faded walls. And thankfully she wasusedto sleeping in a chilly bedroom.
The nearby bathroom was ancient, with a noisy cistern and a vast, old-fashioned bath—but the water was piping hot. She washed her hands with a bar of rock-hard soap then stared into the rather mottled mirror above the sink. She was expecting her appearance to come as a shock, but to her surprise her eyes were shining and her cheeks were pink and glowing. She brushed her hair, tempted to leave it loose because wouldn’t that provide some essential warmth around her neck and shoulders? But something stopped her and it was the memory of Maximo using a single strand of it as a rope, just before he’d kissed her. Because those kinds of memories weren’t helpful. Not helpful at all. Carefully, she wound it into a tight chignon and pinned it into place, before heading downstairs to find Maximo.
He wasn’t in the library, but she could smell the aroma of food cooking and Hollie made her way through a series of maze-like corridors towards the kitchen. She could hear movement but when she walked in, the sight which greeted her was the last thing she had expected. Whathadshe expected? She wasn’t sure—but it certainly wasn’t to see the Spanish tycoon with his back to her, his black sweater rolled up to his elbows as he stirred something.
Did she make a sound? Was that why he turned around, his olive skin gleaming from the heat of the hob? And Hollie could do nothing about the instant wrench of her heart, as if she were registering his gorgeousness for the very first time. Because Maximo, holding up a wooden spoon as the conductor of an orchestra might hold a baton, looked insanely sexy. Maybe her hormones were making her respond to him this way. Because right then he looked like the carer and provider. The alpha man. The hunter. The father of her baby. Beneath her sweater she felt her breasts tighten and wondered if he’d noticed. Would that account for the almost imperceptible narrowing of his eyes and the sudden tension which stilled his magnificent body so that he looked almost poised to strike?
‘Gosh,’ she said.
‘Gosh?’he echoed, his sardonic tone easing a little of the tension in the air. ‘Am I to take that as a very English word of surprise?’
‘I suppose I am a bit surprised,’ she admitted. ‘I didn’t have you down as a budding chef.’
‘Less of the budding, more of the accomplished.’
‘Of course. Silly of me to forget that you probably excel in everything you turn your hand to.’
‘You’re getting the hang of me, Hollie.’
‘Who taught you to cook?’
‘I’m self-taught.’
‘Wow.’ She blew a silent whistle. ‘Now I’m even more impressed.’
‘Why wouldn’t I teach myself how to cook?’ he questioned. ‘As I told you, my independence is important to me.’ His black eyes glittered a challenge at her. ‘And isn’t your assumption that I’m breaking some sort of mould rather sexist?’
Was it? Hollie wasn’t sure. As he turned back to the hob, the only thing she was certain of was a stupid sense of yearning as she feasted her eyes on the black tendrils of hair which brushed against his neck. She didn’t want to feel wistful but it was difficult not to. Because if they’d been a real couple they might have done stuff like this—cooked meals and flirted a little. They might have gone out on a few dates, instead of letting passion lead them to a one-night stand with massive consequences. But she wasn’t the type of woman Maximo dated, she reminded herself fiercely. She’d seen photos of his girlfriends on the Internet and she was nothing like any of them. She just happened to be a warm and willing body who had made herself available on a night when he’d obviously wanted company.
But those were pointless thoughts. Negative thoughts she wasn’t going to entertain. Instead Hollie watched as Maximo chopped onions with rather terrifying dexterity and realised he hadn’t been exaggerating about his prowess in the kitchen. ‘So what are you cooking?’ she asked.
‘It’s a variation of a dish calledcocido montañéas.Mountain stew. It comes from northern Spain. From Cantabria.’
‘And is that where you come from?’
‘It is.’ He sliced a wooden spoon through the thick mixture, clearly more comfortable discussing the meal than details about his birthplace. ‘It’s more of a winter soup really, with pork and chorizo and beans and greens and wine and garlic and pretty much anything else you can find to throw in.’
‘It’s not...’
‘Not?’ He turned round again as her words tailed off, only this time his gleaming black gaze pierced through her like a sword. ‘Not what, Hollie?’
