Housekeeper at His Command: The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire
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Standing aside as she preceded him through the door, Cayo’s eyes narrowed cynically as she swayed ahead of him at speed, on those ridiculously teetering heels. He deplored the way the enticing movement of her shapely backside awoke his most basic primal instincts, harshly reminding himself that the mention of a new wardrobe had got her moving as if she’d been shot from a cannon. Her big blue eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree at the thought of getting her hands on a whole bunch of freebies.
She couldn’t hide her greed, he thought with distaste—then promptly reminded himself that her greed was what he was working on. Cocoon her in luxury, shower her with gifts, demonstrate what it was like to live in the lap of luxury, totally spoiled and pampered, and she would switch her avaricious attention from his clueless uncle to him. Mission accomplished.
And then Miss Izzy Makepeace would receive one large and unpleasant surprise.
His wide, sensual mouth quirked with satisfaction as he caught up with her and laid a seemingly friendly arm across her narrow shoulders, guiding her towards the waiting car. ‘It’s not far. My driver will wait to take us on to the restaurant—we have a table booked for nine o’clock.’ He eased her into the rear seat. ‘He will then take your purchases back to the hotel.’
Leaning forward, he spoke rapidly in his own language to the driver, and as he settled himself beside her Izzy slid into the far corner. ‘I could eat back at the hotel—have something in my room,’ she objected.
She was already really, really nervous around him—terrified of the effect he had on her. Sharing dinner with him in some upmarket restaurant would be too much. Besides, dressed as she was, in a crumpled cotton skirt and one of her ordinary old T-shirts, she’d look horribly out of place. An excuse he’d understand, surely?
‘I’d rather—honestly. And in any case I’m not dressed to go any place fancy,’ she stressed as the car drew out into the early-evening traffic.
She stole a look at him from beneath long, fringing lashes and felt her heart stop, then flutter on. Angled from the corner, his eyes met hers. He was smiling. He was gorgeous! She felt dizzy.
‘Nonsense.’ His voice was like a slow, sexily warm caress. ‘It is your first time in Madrid, yes? I insist you enjoy our city, and you won’t do that by hiding in a hotel room.’
She had turned away from him now, her head downbent on the slender stalk of her neck, her glorious hair hiding her profile. But he wasn’t falling for the shrinking violet act—just as he hadn’t fallen for her story placing Augustin del Amo as the villain of the piece. It hadn’t rung true.
He had no liking for the man, but he didn’t need a degree in psychology to understand that as a highly respected banker—regardless of his alleged discreet extra-marital tendencies—he would have far too much sense to foul his own nest. And Izzy Makepeace had been working for him, living under his roof.
Del Amo might have described her—accurately—as a ‘lush little package’, but with his business and social standing, and his wife’s gimlet eyes on him, that would have been as far as it went. Del Amo might be many things he disliked, but he wasn’t a fool.
Cayo snapped out of his thoughts as the car came to a stop. Relieving his driver of the necessity, he strode round to hand the tricky little madam out, reflecting that she wouldn’t be able to hide her true colours when her greedy eyes fell on the delights Madame Fornier would have ready for approval.
His hand curved around her waist, urging her towards an arched doorway set in an elegant neo-classical building that looked nothing like any dress shop she had ever seen. Yet discreet gilded letters over the lintel announced ‘Fornier’ so she guessed, sinkingly, that it was some really fancy place where only the titled or extremely wealthy were admitted.
Izzy’s skin prickled. She wished he wouldn’t touch her. It made her feel quite dizzy! But at least, she comforted herself, he now believed her side of the del Amo story. He would still be being vile to her if he didn’t—not nice, friendly and courteous, treating her to this trip to Madrid, a night in his fancy hotel and a new dress. The fact that he now didn’t think the worst of her made her feel a little warmer inside. She was used to people finding fault—from her family to her past employers—so when someone was being nice to her she felt ridiculously like a tail-wagging, fawning dog!
And thinking of dogs—
Izzy dug her heels into the paving slabs. Not much more than a puppy. A miserable bundle of matted gingery hair and sticking-out ribs, cringing in the shadows of the archway, shivering in spite of the sultry evening heat.
‘Oh, you poor little thing!’ Izzy met the mournful brown eyes, registered the heart-rending whimper in response to her voice and was totally lost. Leaning forward, she scooped the pathetic little animal up. It wriggled ecstatically against her and nuzzled into the angle of her neck, its long, practically hairless tail furiously wagging.
Turning to Cayo, ignoring his frown, she stated, ‘I can feel all his bones—he’s starving!’
‘And likely to be crawling with fleas. Put it down. Madame Fornier would not appreciate—’
‘No.’ Izzy stood her ground, her chin lifting stubbornly. No way was he going to make her abandon the needy puppy. ‘I’m taking him back with me. He needs a bath and food. I can’t just leave him here—pretend I haven’t seen him. Even if you can!’
And then, because the Spaniard’s frown had deepened she added, less confrontationally, ‘Look, don’t think I’m not grateful for your offer of a new dress. I am. But I’m not bothered. I can live without a fancy dress, but this little thing won’t last long unless someone cares for it. Pop in and apologise to Madame Whatever. Then we can take this poor little scrap back to the hotel.’
She actually meant it.
Cayo’s spiralling perplexity deepened his frown still further. Had she been like this—five foot nothing of fierce protectiveness—when she’d stumbled across his uncle and the old man had collapsed? In that case she’d accepted a job at wages that were less than rock bottom in order to care for an old man she’d believed to be neglected and near destitute, caring for him when she’d thought that no one else did.
In this case she wasn’t ‘bothered’ about acquiring a whole new wardrobe of designer gear. The immediate care of a scruffy mutt was of more importance.
Nothing seemed as clear-cut as it formerly had. Had he been wrong about her? Had his famous sound judgement let him down badly?
Moving forward, he set one final test. ‘Does it have a collar or name tag?’ Receiving a decisive and negative shake of her tousled blond head, he opined, ‘Then I’m afraid it’s been abandoned. I’ll have my driver take it to a vet while we keep our appointment.’
As if the puppy had understood every word, it gave a piteous whimper and began licking Izzy’s face. Her hands tightened protectively around the scrawny body. She could feel its little heart beating frantically. ‘No!’ She could just imagine a huge white-coated man with a lethal injection bending over the poor little thing. ‘I can look after it!’
‘Bueno!’ Cayo’s mouth firmed decisively. ‘Wait in the car—and take that flea-ridden disaster with you.’
The last thing he needed in his life was a mangy puppy that would grow up into a mangy adult mongrel, but he knew when he was beaten and was practical enough to give way with good grace. Besides, for the first time in his adult life he felt as if he was on shaky ground, unsure of himself. He deplored the feeling.
Reaching into an inner pocket for his cellphone, he made three short, tersely specific calls with the utter confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted, to having others jump when he told them to. Then he strode towards the waiting car, his eyes glinting narrowly as he sought an answer to the question of whether he’d been catastrophically wrong about Izzy Makepeace.
He was never wrong!
And yet …
Izzy’s head was spinning and she couldn’t stop grinning. She and the puppy had been treated like royalty ever since they’d arrived back at the hotel.
The manager had been waiting for them. Obsequious and deferential, he had accompanied them up to her suite, barking out rapidfire orders to two of his staff, who had filled a plastic bath with warm water. To demonstrate how important he was, the manager had minutely inspected the bottle of baby shampoo before handing it to her.
Aware of all eyes on her, of Cayo sardonically distant in the background, Izzy had knelt and lowered the puppy into the water. Benji, as she’d already decided to name him, had taken immediate exception to the unfamiliar experience and scrabbled frantically to escape the unwanted dunking, soaking her and the bathroom floor, and venting cross baby yelps as she’d lathered and rinsed him, only subsiding when she had finally lifted him out and wrapped him in the big fluffy towel immediately handed to her.
Leaving his staff to empty and remove the bath, the manager had ushered her through to the opulent sitting room, where a low table had already been laid with a bone china plate of thinly sliced chicken breast meat and a silver bowl of water.
Now, oblivious to the cleaners, who had arrived to put the bathroom back to its former pristine state, Izzy watched the puppy wolf down the chicken with enormous satisfaction, too pleased with the frankly amazing and gratifying outcome of what she had believed would be a huge problem to worry as a vet and his assistant arrived, bowed down with packages.
As Spanish seemed the order of the day, Izzy left the vet and his helper to their examination, contenting herself with exploring the packages, bulky and small. Cayo had arranged for the delivery of everything to make a small puppy happy and comfortable. There was a comfy padded dog bed, a soft blanket, a pack of puppy kibbles, feeding bowls and a minute collar and lead of the softest leather imaginable.
When the vet had finally made his departure Cayo lobbed a look—part exasperated, part amused—at Izzy, as she knelt over the dog bed, where the animal had finally settled.
Smiling, Izzy rose from her knees, turned and faced him, her hands on her curvy hips. ‘You don’t fool me, Cayo Garcia! You’re nothing like as hard-hearted as you try to appear!’
Her huge eyes were glowing. They looked like priceless sapphires. The front of her T-shirt was soaked, moulding the thin fabric to every lethally voluptuous curve of her breasts.
His breath felt hot in his lungs. Whether or not she had mercenary intentions, whether she was a scheming, greedy gold-digger or a soft-hearted innocent in need of protection from her own headstrong, thoughtless altruism he had yet to discover. Only one thing was clear: she was a walking man-trap!
She was moving towards him, her luscious hips a swaying temptation, her smile wide and dazzling enough to make a man believe the sun had come out at darkest midnight. A small hand stretched out to him.
‘He’s really cute when he’s asleep. Come and look. His name’s Benji—’
‘I’ll pass.’
His voice sounded rusty. Something gave a violent wrench deep inside him. His face felt hot. Time to get out of here. Right now! He tore his eyes away from the temperature-raising outline of her nipples, the way the wet fabric clung.
‘I suggest you get changed. I’ll have dinner brought to you.’ And he exited through the door that connected to his suite before he could give in to the shaft of driving sexual need that was invading his entire system.
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT FELT exactly like a blow between the eyes. Izzy blinked back the sudden sting of tears. For a few minutes she’d been feeling relaxed, even hopeful that her volatile relationship with Cayo could be somehow redefined, that there was at least an outside chance of an easy friendship between them—and who knew where that might lead? A girl could dream, couldn’t she?
She’d almost—just fleetingly, of course, in a moment of insanity—believed herself to be falling in love with him!
How feeble could a girl get?
Disconsolately she plodded to the bathroom, stripped off her sodden clothes and had a quick shower. She took ages towelling herself dry, brooding over her lack of judgement.
The things he’d done to make sure the stray puppy received all necessary care had made her think that he’d transmogrified from the kind of guy who would walk past a starving small animal without batting an eyelash into someone who cared enough to summon vets, hotel managers and plates of chicken. A man with a kind heart.
How silly!
He’d only done it because he’d seen she’d been adamant about rescuing the puppy, and he hadn’t wanted his precious hotel infected with fleas or to have to put up with her loudly wailing recriminations if the ‘flea-ridden disaster’, as he’d unflatteringly named poor Benji, had died!
And there she’d been, making a first unselfconscious friendly gesture towards him, wanting to share her pleasure with him, making a fool of herself, almost falling in love with him! And what had he done?
Flattened her!
Just as Marcus had done. The only difference being that Marcus had been Mr. Charming to her face, while ridiculing her behind her back and taking really hurtful advantage of her admittedly silly crush, and Cayo had been up-front, letting her know to her face that he wasn’t interested in sharing a warm, happy moment with her.
Just what his reaction would be if she inadvertently allowed him to see that she fancied him rotten didn’t bear thinking about!
Knowing her, and her inability to hide what she was feeling, that just might happen. She was going to have to be extra careful around him, she stressed firmly as she got into the complimentary bathrobe. She left the en suite bathroom to find that a tray of utterly delicious-looking food plus a bottle of wine had been left on one of the tables—a table that fronted one of the delicate antique sofas.
She poked glumly at the food, but she wasn’t hungry. So she poured herself some wine and, sipping, took it with her as she went to check on the puppy. He was still asleep. She almost wished he wasn’t. She could do with some company.
She almost jumped out of her skin when a knock on the suite’s door heralded the arrival of two porters with arms full of boxes which, smiling serenely, they deposited in a mountainous heap.
‘For you, señorita,’ the taller of the two explained, his accent thick. ‘With the compliments of Señor Garcia.’ They were both grinning at her now. Knowingly? Izzy’s face flamed. Did they think she was the hotel owner’s bit on the side?
Too mortified to be able to speak, even to say thank you, she watched them leave, swallowed the remainder of her wine in two thirsty gulps, and approached the boxes as if each and every one contained a time bomb.
They were matt black, with ‘Fornier’ inscribed in elegant gilt lettering. She felt so guilty she needed another gulp of wine. She smothered a giggle. The situation she’d gone and got herself into was turning her—she who rarely drank except the occasional small glass—into an alcoholic!
Poor madame! Because they’d failed to keep their appointment, Cayo had made the poor woman pack up the selection of dresses she’d been meant to choose from and had them sent over to the hotel. Didn’t he care what trouble he put people to on his behalf?
Probably not.
Definitely not!
Well, the least she could do was make her choice now. Surely one out of what looked like a massive selection would fit? Not having laid eyes on her, madame would probably have covered all options, from lofty stick-insect to short, fat dumpling. Into which latter category she was afraid she would slot.
Unprepared for the reality, Izzy felt her eyes widen to saucers and her soft mouth drop open as each lid she lifted revealed something different. From formal wear through to smart-casual, exquisite underwear and dainty, kitten-heeled shoes. Everything in her size. How had madame known that? Had Cayo told her? Made a wild and, as it happened, accurate guess?
Costly fabrics, sumptuous colours. Perfectly cut, beautifully styled. The sort of garments that would probably cost a king’s ransom!
Her face set, her generous mouth mutinous, she replaced the lids on all the boxes. She could not, would not accept them.
Under mental protest she would accept one dress to wear for the dratted ball. She wasn’t at all comfortable about that, but had reluctantly gone along with it because Miguel, bless him, wanted her to, and she could understand that he’d been feeling bad about hiring her at slave-labour wages.
Despite the air-conditioning she felt decidedly hot and bothered, and knew she’d never be able to get a wink of sleep if she didn’t tell Cayo right now that this was all way over the top. No way was she going to allow anyone to spend such a large amount of money on her.
‘You deserve only what you can pay for yourself. Anything else is freeloading. Look at James. He works hard. He’s well on the way to being able to have exactly what he wants. The way you’re going you’ll be lucky to afford to keep yourself in those ridiculous shoes you insisted on wearing.’
It had been constantly drummed into her since she’d been a schoolkid, in an attempt by her parents to get her to achieve the unachievable—in her case high grades at school. Grades that would lead to that glittering goal: a high-paying, ultra-respectable career.
Cayo closed his cellphone, terminating the conversation with his chief accountant, citing the lateness of the hour as his reason for silencing the dry-as-dust voice. In reality he was completely unable to concentrate on the information he had asked for, disturbing the man in whatever he did to relax in the late evening.
Never before had he suffered from an inability to keep his mind on track. It was a first, and he knew who was to blame.
Izzy Makepeace!
His lean, strong features hardened. Had he made a serious error of judgement? To one who prided himself on rock-solid character assessment it was a possibility that sat uneasily on his broad shoulders. Recalling his initial treatment of her, the things he’d said, he flinched.
If he’d been wrong, then his behaviour had been reprehensible.
But had he?
True, earlier this evening she’d passed up acquiring a whole new wardrobe and dining at one of Spain’s finest restaurants in favour of rescuing a stray puppy of the un-cute variety. If it had been an act to convince him that his opinion of her as a scheming, money-grubbing slut was way off the radar, then she was obviously a tragic loss to the theatre.
Striving for pragmatism, telling himself that only time would tell, that even now she would be trying on and drooling over the goodies he’d had the Frenchwoman send over, he crossed to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a sparing amount of Scotch.
Only to swing sharply round on the balls of his feet as the connecting door was flung open without ceremony and the object of his uncharacteristically muddled thoughts bounced in.
His grip tightened on his glass. Even with her bright mane of hair tumbling around her flushed face, her startlingly blue eyes narrowed and flashing like an angry cat’s, and her luscious body bundled in a silk bathrobe, she was spectacularly sexy. His pulses quickened. He ignored them, deploring his body’s sexual reaction to her.
Deplorable if he’d been right about her in the first instance, and just as deplorable if she turned out to be a wronged innocent.
He didn’t bed innocents.
But he wanted to bed her?
Before that question could lead to an answer he wouldn’t like, he lifted his proud dark head and ground out, ‘What is it? Did you forget to knock?’
Sarcastic brute! There he stood, in all his male magnificence. Long legs planted firmly apart, his suit jacket shed, shirtsleeves rolled up to display the golden skin of his strong forearms, slightly roughened by fine dark hairs, with a lock of silky black hair falling forward to brush his arched, expressive brows.
Haughtily disdainful eyes.
She would never understand him in a million years! Nice as pie one moment; utterly vile the next. She had to be the world’s biggest fool to fancy him. So she wouldn’t, she told herself tipsily. She would say what she had come to say and then sweep out with dignity.
Looking at a point beyond his left ear, because she always went peculiar when she looked directly at him, she dragged in a deep breath and blurted, at volume, ‘Send that stuff back! I’ll pick out something to wear for that dance—sale or return, because I may not be around that long—but the rest’s going back! I may not have two pennies to rub together, but I’m not on any registered charity list that I know about! And I’m not a freeloader, either!’
Satisfied that he’d got the message, she twisted round, took a giant stride in her haste to reach the connecting door, caught her bare foot in the hem of the swamping robe and fell on her face.
‘Are you hurt?’
Tears of frustration, anger and downright mortification pooled in her eyes as strong hands fastened on either side of her waist and Cayo lifted her back onto her feet. She’d meant to be so dignified and decisive, and all she’d done was fall flat on her face in a heap!
Breath gathered in her lungs and stuck there, burning. Any minute now she was going to put the tin lid on it and burst into loud and messy tears—that was her chagrined thought as he turned her round to face him, repeating, ‘Have you hurt yourself?’
His strong hands still steadied her, scorching through the silky fabric. He was so close—too close. She was stingingly aware of his lithe and powerful male body. An awareness that flooded her with tension.
Her heart began to pound heavily and she couldn’t breathe. Against all common sense she lifted her eyes to his and felt exactly as if she were drowning in the soft dark depths.
Panicking, her knees threatening to give way under her, she reached out to clasp the strength of his forearms for support—and almost cried out in shock as the touch of warm skin sent a jolt of electrified sensation right through her body. ‘I’m fine!’ she gasped, dropping her hands and making a futile attempt to move away from him.
His hands tightening, Cayo held her still, his eyes surveying the downbent head with its mass of silky silver, and felt his heart jerk beneath his breastbone.
Her explosive entry into his room, the way she’d shouted at him—something no one had had the temerity to do for as long as he could remember—had forced a crooked smile of unwilling admiration to his sensual lips.
When she felt strongly about something—Tio Miguel, the scruffy mutt, a designer wardrobe most women would give their eye-teeth to be gifted—she stood up to him, waded in, fists metaphorically flying. It was refreshing after the immediate and simpering compliance of the sophisticated women who inhabited his social circle and bored him to distraction.
Gently, he used a long, tanned forefinger to lift her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. Her full lower lip trembled ominously and the deep blue of her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Hurt eyes, as clear and innocent as a child’s.
Physically she was unharmed. But she was hurting. Self-contempt tightened his gut. He had wronged her, believed lies, dismissed her version of events out of hand, harbouring the unjust opinion that she had set out to weasel herself into his uncle’s affections in order to get her hands on his fortune.
In all honour he had to make amends.
‘We will sit and talk calmly—clear the air between us,’ he announced, dropping his hand and taking one of hers in his. He led her through to the suite she was using, noting the untouched food and the opened bottle of wine. The scruffy puppy snuffling in the padded dog bed was beginning to wake.
Swallowing a sigh, he excused himself momentarily and picked up the house phone, his orders terse and clipped. His brows clenched together when he turned and saw that Izzy had squeezed herself into the corner of one of the sofas, her legs tucked up beneath her, her arms wrapped around her body, as if she were trying to make herself invisible. Her lovely face was troubled.