‘Elijah, what on—?’

She never got to finish, never got to say another word, because his mouth was on hers, his flesh pressing hers, his skin warm against her frozen cheeks. He pinned her against the wall, kissing her cheeks, her eyes, as he took her icy hands. Then, just as she regrouped, just as she opened her mouth to speak, his lips hushed her again. She could feel him pressing a ring on her finger.

The whole intoxicating, dizzying contact took seconds, perhaps, but it utterly, utterly spun her mind. This kiss was nothing like the one they had shared last night.

She pushed him back, frightened by his fervour, till her eyes met his. She frowned at the silent plea she saw there… Another presence was making itself known—a figure on the peripheries of her vision, walking down the hall.

‘Ms Anderson!’ Elijah’s hand gripped hers tightly. ‘This is Ainslie…’

‘Ainslie?’

The middle-aged woman was picking up Guido. Maybe she was an aunt Elijah had discovered? Maybe the relatives had arrived and they were talking? Or a neighbour, perhaps? All these thoughts whirred through her head as a very dishevelled and bemused Ainslie offered her hand.

‘Is this the nanny?’

‘The nanny?’ Elijah let out a slightly incredulous laugh. ‘Heavens, no—didn’t I tell you? Ainslie is my fiancée.’

Carol Marinelli recently filled in a form where she was asked for her job title and was thrilled, after all these years, to be able to put down her answer as writer. Then it asked what Carol did for relaxation, and after chewing her pen for a moment Carol put down the truth: writing. The third question asked—What are your hobbies? Well, not wanting to look obsessed or, worse still, boring, she crossed the fingers on her free hand and answered swimming and tennis. But, given that the chlorine in the pool does terrible things to her highlights, and the closest she’s got to a tennis racket in the last couple of years is watching the Australian Open—I’m sure you can guess the real answer!

Carol also writes for Medical™ Romance. Her latest Medical, ONE MAGICAL CHRISTMAS, is out next month!

HIRED: THE
ITALIAN’S
CONVENIENT
MISTRESS

BY

CAROL MARINELLI

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

WHERE?

Jammed closely between rush hour commuters, her backpack hopefully still by the door where she’d left it, Ainslie didn’t even need to hold the handrail to stay standing as the London Underground jolted her towards a destination unknown and her mind begged the question: where could she go?

There was Earls Court, of course—wasn’t that where all Australian backpackers went when they were in London?

Only she wasn’t backpacking. She had come to London to work. She’d had a job and accommodation already secured, and had been enjoying her work and life for three very full months—until today.

Her thick blonde hair was still dripping from the rain shower she’d been caught in, and beads of sweat broke out onto her brow as another surge of panic hit.

What on earth was she going to do?

Oh, she had friends, of course. Or rather other nannies she’d first met at playgroup, then at weekly get-togethers with the children. Later, on their time off, they’d discovered together all that London had to offer.

Friends who right now would be sitting in a bar. Sitting and listening, aghast, to the news that Ainslie had been fired, had been accused of stealing from her employers. And whether they believed she’d done it or not didn’t really matter—their bosses moved in her ex-boss’s circles, and if they wanted to keep their jobs the last thing they needed was a branded thief arriving homeless at their doors.

‘Scusi.’ A low male voice growled in her ear as the tube lurched, and the baby the man was holding was pressed further against her.

‘It’s okay,’ Ainslie said, not even looking up, instead trying to move back a touch as the tube halted in a tunnel between stations. But there was no room to manoeuvre, and she arched her back, trying hard not to disturb the sleeping child in his arms.

God, it was hot!

Despite the cold December conditions outside, here on the tube it was boiling. Hundreds of people were crammed together, dressed in winter coats and scarves, damp from the rain, turning the carriage into an uncomfortable sauna, and Ainslie took a grateful gulp of air as someone opened an air vent.

The baby looked hot too. Bundled into a coat, he was wearing gloves and a woolly hat with earflaps—like an old-fashion fighter pilot—and his little cheeks were red and angry. But he didn’t seem distressed. In fact he was asleep, long black eyelashes fanning the red cheeks.

Cute kid, Ainslie thought for about a tenth of a second—before her eyes pooled with tears at the thought of Jack and Clemmie, the little charges she hadn’t even been allowed to say goodbye to.

‘Sorry!’ It was now Ainslie’s turn to apologise, as she was pushed further against the baby. She saw his little face screw up in discomfort, and she pressed herself back, to try and give him more room, looking up at his father to briefly express her helplessness. Only suddenly she was just that…

Helpless.

Lost, just lost for a moment, as she stared into the most exquisite face she had ever witnessed close up. Glassy blue eyes that were bloodshot briefly met hers. His thick glossy black hair was unkempt, and his black eyelashes were as long as his son’s. His mouth was set in a grim line as he nodded his understanding that it wasn’t her fault, before his eyes flicked away down to his son, trying to soothe the now restless, grizzling baby back to sleep, talking to him in Italian. But his rich, deep voice did nothing to soothe the child. The babe’s eyes fluttered open, as blue as his father’s, but it was as if the child didn’t even recognise him. His wail of distress caused a few heads to turn.

‘Hush, Guido, it is okay…’ He was speaking to him in English now—English that was laced with a rich accent as he again attempted to calm the baby. Now that he wasn’t looking at her, Ainslie could look at him more closely. Though stunning, he was clearly exhausted, his skin pale, huge violet smudges beneath his eyes, and he needed to shave. The stubble on his jaw was so black it appeared blue.

‘Guido, it is okay…’ His voice was louder now, as the tube lurched back into motion, but it only distressed the baby further. His back arching like a cat trying to escape, he clawed his way up his father’s chest, flinging himself backwards. But there was nowhere to go, and his little face pressed into Ainslie’s as his father struggled to contain him.

‘It’s okay…’ Ainslie didn’t know if she was talking to the father or his child as he apologised, gained control and pulled the babe tightly in. But Ainslie could see the child’s panic, had felt his burning cheek against hers for just a fraction of time—it had been boiling. Instinctively, as if at work, she put her hand to his head and felt him burning beneath it.

‘He’s hot…’ For a second time she looked into the man’s eyes, only this time her mind was on the child. ‘He has a fever…’

‘He’s sick…’ The man nodded, and Ainslie didn’t know if he would have elaborated further because just then the tube pulled into a station, and as commuters piled off and piled on they were separated.

She should have put it out of her mind. Heaven knows she had enough to think about at the moment—like finding somewhere to stay for tonight, finding a job with no reference, clearing her name, telling her mum—only she couldn’t. The little boy’s screams, though muffled, still reached her; the look on his father’s face, the wretched exhaustion, his voice, his eyes, stayed with her. This stranger had whirred her senses. He was wearing a heavy grey coat, but she’d caught a glimpse of a collar and suit. Maybe he’d picked the little boy up from daycare? Perhaps they’d just come from the doctor’s…?

What did it matter? Ainslie told herself as the tube pulled into Earls Court station.

According to her guide it was the descending place for Australians in London—now all she had to do was find a youth hostel. Pushing her way through the slowly moving masses, relieved that her backpack had amazingly still been where she’d left it, Ainslie stood on the platform, taking a deep breath, glad to be out of the stifling crowd.

She could hear her mobile trilling and sat on a little bench, nervous when she saw that it was Angus, her old boss, calling. Wondering what he had to say, she let the call go through to her message bank, grateful she wouldn’t have to come up with an instant answer to any difficult questions he might pose. Clearly Angus

Angus Maitlin might be a famous celebrity doctor—one who appeared regularly in magazines and on television—but he was also a consultant in Accident and Emergency and a wise and shrewd man. Living with him for three months, Ainslie had worked that out quickly, and in the evenings when he had been at home, listening to him as he read a book to one of the kids, half watching the evening news Angus had always made her smile.

‘There’s more to it!’ he’d often say at the end of a report—or, ‘He did it!’ as an emotional plea was read out.

But the memory wasn’t making her smile now, as Ainslie wondered how she could possibly lie and get away with it to this wise, shrewd, and also terribly kind man.

‘Ainslie—it’s Angus. Gemma just told me what happened. I don’t know what to say. Look—I don’t like that you’re out there with no money or references—I hope you’re at a friend’s. If you needed money…we could have sorted something out. I’m working till late, but I’ll ring tomorrow…’

Clearly Angus was finding the situation difficult, because his voice trailed off then, and Ainslie felt tears tumble out of her eyes for the first time since it had happened. Sadly she realised that he believed her to be guilty. She could hear the disappointment in his kind voice.

Well, of course he believed Gemma—she was his wife! A wife who had told her husband that things had been going missing since Ainslie had started. A wife who had told him she had caught the nanny red-handed, having found her ring and necklace in Ainslie’s bedroom drawer. Better that than admitting that it was the nanny who had actually caught her red-handed.

Or rather red-faced, beneath her lover, when Ainslie had brought the children home unexpectedly early.

Slumped against the wall on the busy platform, Ainslie began crying her eyes out—not loud tears, just shivering gulps as she gave in and wept. She’d been counting on her Christmas bonus—had needed the money desperately, thanks to Nick and the mess that was unfolding back home. It was the first time she’d actually cried since she’d picked up her mail two weeks ago and found out that her exboyfriend had, unbeknownst to her, taken out a joint loan while they were together. The deceit had been almost more upsetting than the financial ramifications, and the tears she had held back spilled out now, as she faced the bleakest of Christmases. Not that anyone noticed. Not that anyone even gave her a second glance. Surrounded by people in one of the busiest cities in the world, never had Ainslie felt more alone.

She could hear the baby crying again too, and his loud sobs matched how she felt…

Guido.

The fraught cries snapped Ainslie out of her own introspection, her eyes scanning the platform until she found him.

He wasn’t a baby, more a toddler—eighteen months old, perhaps. He was standing—no, sitting. No, now he was lying on the platform floor and kicking his legs, throwing a spectacular tantrum. His less than impressed father was half kneeling, a laptop and briefcase discarded on the platform beside him, holding his child with one hand as with the other he attempted to open a pushchair with all the skill of someone who’d never opened a pushchair in his life—and certainly not while trying to hold onto a frantic toddler.

And just as the crowd had ignored her tears, so too did they ignore this man’s plight. Heads down, they just hurried past, and either didn’t see or pretended not to notice; everyone was too busy to offer help.

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, Ainslie walked over. ‘Can I help?’

She watched him stiffen momentarily. His head was almost automatically shaking in refusal, highlighting that this was clearly a man who wasn’t used to accepting help. Then in almost the same instant he let out a reluctant breath and conceded, picking up the little boy and standing to his impressive height.

‘Can you open this pushchair?’

‘Of course.’

‘Please,’ he added as a very late afterthought, as with two easy motions Ainslie did just that.

‘Thank you.’ He dismissed her then, and really she should have turned and gone. But Ainslie knew that an open pushchair was only half the battle. She watched and wondered with vague amusement how he’d manage to get this stiff, angry child into the chair.

With great difficulty he tried to buckle Guido in. Failing on the first effort, he undid his coat, and Ainslie was treated to a glimpse of impressive suit, a shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Even Ainslie could tell that suits and coats as exquisite as the one this man was wearing didn’t often belong to a daddy who spent a lot of time at home.

This daddy, Ainslie guessed as Guido’s shrieks trebled, must have spent so much time in the office that his son hardly recognised him. There were no easy motions, no practised ease, as he tried to get the unwilling, resisting arms of the child into the straps of the pushchair.

‘I can manage!’ he growled as she hovered.

But he couldn’t. The angry little bundle continued kicking and thumping.

Just as Ainslie had decided to let him do just that and deal with her own problems, Guido caught them both by surprise…

Staring at his father, his screams stopped for a second, a second that allowed him to draw breath, and Ainslie stood open mouthed as the little boy, very deliberately, very angrily and very directly, spat in the face of his father.

‘Puh!’

It was no accident—he even added sound—and Ainslie’s eyes widened in horror, staring at the shocked expression of the man, who didn’t look as if he’d take too well to being spat on. Then he did the most unexpected thing and grinned; that crabby, exhausted, haughty face was actually breaking into a laugh, and it caught the little boy by surprise, because he relaxed just long enough for the pushchair strap to be clicked into place.

The man stood up and, still grinning, pulled out a very smart navy silk handkerchief and wiped his face.

‘Little gypsy tramp—just like his father!’

Which wasn’t the best of introductions!

‘Oh…’ Ainslie nodded.

The last remnants of his smile were fading, and, after wrapping the child in a blanket, he took off his coat and wrapped that around the little boy too. But even though it was freezing outside, it was way, way too much for a little boy who was boiling up.

Ainslie couldn’t help herself. ‘He has a fever!’

‘So I keep him warm.’

‘No…’ Ainslie shook her head in exasperation. ‘I work with children, and what he needs is to cool down…’ She looked at his bemused expression and knew he didn’t have a clue. ‘He’s very hot.’ When still he didn’t seem to understand, she spoke more loudly, more slowly. ‘He might fit…have a convulsion…’ she explained.

‘I am neither deaf nor stupid! You do not have to speak pigeon English.’

‘Sorry…’ Ainslie blushed.

‘I have just seen a doctor with him, and he has been prescribed some medicine.’ He pulled a rather scruffy bag from his pocket, along with a rolled-up tie. ‘When I get him home I will give it.’

‘But they’re antibiotics—what he needs…’ Oh, what was the point? Turning on her heel, she gave a shrug. The sooner this arrogant know it all got home to his wife the sooner his boiling, ill-mannered baby could get some paracetamol in him and hopefully cool down.

‘He needs what?’

A hand grabbed her arm, and Ainslie felt her throat tighten. He had just sooo done the wrong thing. Only he didn’t let go, and even though she had a jacket on the inappropriate touch burned through the thick material, just a trickle of fear invading. But she was on a busy tube station, Ainslie reminded herself, and turned around to confront him.

‘What is it he needs?’

‘Could you remove your hand?’ Angry green eyes met his, watched as he blinked and stared down at his hand as if it didn’t even belong to him.

‘I am sorry!’ Instantly he let go—his apology absolutely genuine. ‘I am worried about him—and I don’t know what to do.’

‘Get him home…’ Ainslie’s voice was softer. ‘He needs some paracetamol. Once he’s had that he’ll settle…’

‘Paracetamol?’ He checked, and Ainslie nodded.

‘And he needs his mum.’

This time she really was going. This time she knew he wouldn’t grab her. Only he didn’t have to. His voice stilled her as she started walking, his words halting her before she disappeared for ever into the heavy crowd.

‘She died this afternoon.’

CHAPTER TWO

HIS words seared into her. Aghast, she swung around, looked from father to son and back to the father, at the identical blue eyes that stared back at her.

And it was horrible.

That no one knew. That all those strangers had stood on that tube, had tutted at the baby, at the pushchair, had walked past as he’d struggled on the platform—and not a single one knew the misery that was taking place.

There were just a few days until Christmas.

The date didn’t matter—it would have been terrible on any day—but that it was so close to Christmas, that this beautiful little boy would be without his mother, that she would be without him, just made it worse somehow. And it made her own problems pale in comparison.

‘Can you help me?’ His voice was low but there was a thread of urgency.

‘Me?’

‘You said you work with children?’

‘I do, but—’

‘Then you must know how to stop his fever? How to take care of him?’ There was a plea in his rich voice, a tinge of fear, even panic for his son. ‘I don’t know what to do. I do not know children; I do not know what this boy needs…’ He dived out of his own hell just enough to glimpse her confusion, just long enough to interpret it. ‘He is not my son—he is my nephew. There was a car accident. I came from Italy this morning as soon as I hear the news.’

Heard the news. Ainslie opened her mouth to correct him, and then stopped herself—working with people who were usually under three feet tall gave her a tendency to do that! His story certainly explained his visible exhaustion. Dressed in a suit, juggling a laptop and a briefcase along with the stroller, he must have literally left in the middle of whatever it was he was doing and stepped onto a plane.

‘Where’s his father?’ The platform was full—again they were being pushed closer. Only this time they were together, sharing this appalling conversation.

Her eyes closed for a second as he answered, ‘He died instantly.’

When Ainslie opened them again, he was waiting for her, strong but desperate. His eyes held hers.

‘Can you tell me what he needs…help me with him?’

You don’t read out a list of questions when you witness someone drowning.

You don’t ask their name or age, or if they’re worthy of saving. You don’t ring for references or ask for a police check—instead you do what you can.

‘Yes,’ she said simply, because to Ainslie it was just impossible to even think of walking away, of not helping someone who so clearly needed it.

‘His home is close by—there is a pharmacy on the way.’

The platform was packed now. Another tube was pulling in and spewing out its contents. People walked fast as they left the platform, and the station was a blizzard of people, rushing to get home or to go out, stopping to buy their paper, chatting into their phones, arranging dates, parties, meetings—getting on with living.

Getting on with life.

A blast of icy December air hit them as they stepped out onto the busy street. It was the strangest walk; he took her backpack and Ainslie pushed the stroller. Christmas was everywhere—the shops ablaze with decorations, people tipsy from pre-dinner drinks heading for a work party—and it just seemed to magnify his loss. Even the chemist was full of cheery, piped music, chiming Christmas songs, and lazy shoppers were grabbing easy gifts as they stopped to buy Guido’s paracetamol.

‘Should we get nappies, wipes…or do you have plenty?’

‘I haven’t been to the house since I arrived—I have no idea what my sister would have. We’d better get them—get whatever you think he might need.’

So she did—put whatever she thought might be needed into a basket and stood trying to hush the little boy as his uncle paid, watching the checkout assistant chatting happily away to her colleague, briefly asking the man if he had had a good day, not noticing that he didn’t respond, his face a quilt of muscles as he handed over his credit card.

‘I don’t know your name.’ It was the first thing she said as he made his way back to them.

‘Elijah…’ He gave a tight smile. ‘Elijah Vanaldi. And you?’

‘Ainslie Farrell.’

And that was all they said. They walked along in silence till they came to a quieter street and stopped outside a vast four-storey residence.

But somehow, for now, it was enough.

It was surreal—Elijah working out keys as she stared at the wreath on the door, stepping into someone’s house, someone’s life, someone you didn’t even know, and being entrusted to take care of their most treasured possession. And though it was a beautiful towering white stucco home, as she stepped in, walked along polished floorboards and glimpsed the vast lounge, though her eyes took in the high ceilings and vast windows and expensive furnishings, they didn’t merit a mention. The only thing Ainslie could really notice was the collection of shoes and coats in the hall, the scent of pine in the air from the Christmas tree, and the half-cup of cold tea on the granite bench when she walked into the luxury kitchen. Sadness engulfed her when she saw the simple shopping list on the fridge and the breakfast dishes piled by the sink.

Elijah undressed an exhausted Guido.

‘Has he had dinner?’

‘He had some biscuits, he doesn’t seem very hungry.’ Elijah held his hand to his forehead. ‘He still feels hot. Should I bathe him?’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it tonight. Let’s just get him changed for bed and give him his medicine.’ As she wandered upstairs to find pyjamas for Guido, Ainslie could tell that this elegant house with its lavish furniture and expensive fittings was first and foremost a home—a home with a book by the unmade bed, and hair staighteners still plugged in. In the bathroom a tap drizzled, and piles of damp towels and knickers littered the floor, reminding Ainslie that this was a family home that had been left with every intention of coming back.

‘She rang me last week to say she was giving in and finally going to get a housekeeper…’ His voice behind her made Ainslie jump, and she felt the sting of tears behind her eyes as he walked over and turned off the tap. ‘She was never very good at tidying up.’

‘Mess doesn’t matter.’

‘She’d die if she knew we’d seen it like this…’ Elijah halted, grimacing at his own words. ‘You always had to ring Maria to warn her you coming over—she hated it when people dropped in. She’d hate that she didn’t do one of her infamous quick tidies—she’d be embarrassed at someone seeing the place like this.’

‘She thought she was coming home.’

‘He has an ear infection.’ Elijah watched as she easily measured out the antibiotics. ‘The doctor said that was why he was miserable and so naughty, but—as I explained to him—from what my sister tells me, and what I have seen of him, he is always trouble!’

‘He’s got croup too,’ Ainslie said, as Guido suitably barked. ‘Poor little thing. The medicine should help his pain, though, and the antibiotics will hopefully kick in soon.’

‘Hopefully.’ Elijah sighed. ‘For now I will make him some food, then he can go to bed.’ He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it for a moment, then headed to where Guido was sitting on the couch, his eyes half closed, half watching the cartoon that Elijah had put on for him.

There were people who had no idea about children, and people who had no idea about children, and Ainslie watched as he peeled a rather overripe banana and handed it to the little boy, who just blinked back at him, bemused.

‘Maria said he liked bananas.’

‘He’s not a monkey…’ Ainslie’s grin faded. ‘Let me,’ she said instead, and headed to the kitchen. She found some bread in the freezer and gave it a spin in the microwave, then took off the crusts and put some mashed banana in. She arranged it on a plastic plate and offered it to Guido, who this time accepted it.

Later—when he was falling asleep with exhaustion—Elijah carried his nephew upstairs and Ainslie followed, tucking the little boy, unresisting, into bed.

‘He has a night light.’ Elijah was looking at his bit of paper again. ‘He wakes up, but all he wants is his blanket put back on.’

Watching his strong hands tuck the blanket around the little boy’s shoulders, Ainslie could feel her nose running, and had to turn her head quickly away as he straightened up. She headed down the stairs and into the lounge, sniffing away tears as a short time later he came back in, holding two mugs of coffee.

‘Thank you.’ He handed one to her and sat down, took a sip of his drink and held it in his mouth before talking again. ‘I am not a stupid person…’

‘I know.’ Ainslie gulped. ‘I’m sorry about what I said about the banana thing…’ She managed a little smile, and he did the same.

‘I have nothing, nothing to do with children. Nothing!’ he added again, in case she hadn’t heard it the first or second time. ‘And my sister said that she wanted me to have him. That she wanted me to be the one who raises him.’

‘What happened?’

For the first time it seemed right to ask—right that she should know a little bit more.

‘There was a car accident—it ran off the road and caught fire on impact.’ He gave a hopeless shrug. ‘I was at work when the hospital called—in the middle of a meeting. Normally I would not be disturbed, but my PA called me out, said this was a call I needed to take. I knew it would be bad. I had no idea how bad, though—a doctor told me that Rico, Guido’s father, was already dead, and that my sister was asking for me. I came straight away. Guido had been at a crèche and they’d brought him to the hospital.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘She knew she was dying—she had terrible burns—but she was able to talk. She waited for me to get there so she could tell me what she wanted, so she could tell me herself the things Guido likes…’

‘That was the list you were reading?’

He nodded, but it was a hopeless one. ‘I love my sister, I love my nephew, but I have no idea how they really lived. I saw them often, but I have no clue with day-today things, I’ve never even thought of having children…’

‘Is there anyone else?’ Ainslie blinked, glimpsing how impossible it must be for him—for his whole life to be turned around, to be so suddenly plunged into grief and told you were to be a father.

‘There was just my sister—our parents are dead.’

‘But her husband’s family…’ It was never going to be the easiest conversation to have—sitting with a stranger who was engulfed by grief and exhaustion—it was always going to be difficult. But, watching his face harden, hearing his sharp intake of breath, even if she didn’t know him at all, Ainslie knew she had said the wrong thing.

‘Never!’ The venom behind the single world had Ainslie reeling.

‘Soon they will be here. Already they are making noises about taking care of Guido, and noises are all I will let them be. They are not interested in him.’

‘But they say they want him?’ Ainslie frowned, her mouth opening to speak again, and then she got it. As he flicked his hand at their impressive surroundings, she answered in her head the question she hadn’t even asked yet.

Elijah answered it with words. ‘They want this. And the insurance pay-out—and the property Maria and Rico had in Italy…’ He glanced over to her. ‘And in case you are wondering—I do not need it…’ He drained his mug. ‘Neither do I need a toddler. Especially one who spits!’ In the pit of his grief he managed to smile at the memory, and then it faded; his voice was pensive when next it came. ‘I hope Rico knew that I did actually like him.’

She didn’t understand, but it wasn’t right to ask—wasn’t right to demand more information from a man who had lost so much, a man who had just been plunged into hell.

‘You should try and sleep,’ Ainslie offered instead.

‘Why?’ He stared back at her. ‘Somehow I do not believe that things will be better in the morning.’

‘They might…’ Ainslie attempted, but it was pretty futile.

‘Thank you…’ He said it again, only it was more determined now. He was back in control and, ready to face the challenge of what lay ahead, he stood up. ‘Thank you for explaining about the medicine and for helping me to get him to sleep. I will be fine now. Can I get you a taxi…?’

‘Actually…’ Ainslie ran a worried hand through her hair. She had been so consumed with his problems that for a little while she’d actually forgotten her own.

‘Do you know a number?’

‘Sorry?’

He was picking up the phone. ‘For the taxi—do you know a number?’

‘I can walk.’ Ainslie’s voice was a croak, but she cleared her throat. Surely a youth hostel would still be open? Surely?

‘You’re not walking!’ Elijah shook his head. ‘I will take…’ He must have remembered at that point the sleeping toddler upstairs, because his voice trailed off. ‘I insist you take a taxi.’ Which was easier said than done. First he had to find a telephone directory, and then, as Ainslie stood there, he punched in the numbers and looked over. ‘To where?’

‘The youth hostel.’

‘Youth hostel?’ He frowned at her skirt and boots, at her twenty-eight-year-old face and glanced at his watch. In those two small gestures he compounded every one of her fears—she wasn’t a backpacker, and nine p.m. on a dark December night was too late to start acting like one. ‘How long have you been staying there?’

‘I haven’t.’ Ainslie gave a tight shrug. ‘I was on my way there when we met. I’m actually from Australia…’

‘I have just come from Italy—first class,’ he added, ‘and I looked more dishevelled than you when I got off the plane.’

Somehow she doubted it, but she understood the point he was making.

‘Well, I’ve been here for three months. I have a job—had a job…’

‘Working with children?’

‘That’s right.’

‘But not now?’ She shook her head, loath to elaborate, but thankfully he sensed her unwillingness and didn’t push.

‘Stay.’ It was an offer, not a plea. The phone rested on his shoulder as he affirmed his offer. ‘Stay for tonight—as you say, tomorrow things may seem better.’

Ainslie opened her mouth to tell him why she couldn’t possibly—only nothing came out.

Even if a hostel was open, even if she could get in one, the thought of registering, the thought of starting again, of greeting strangers, lying in a bed in a room for six, held utterly no appeal.

‘Stay!’ Elijah said more firmly. ‘Guido is sick—it makes sense.’

It made no sense.

Not a single scrap of sense.

But somehow it did.

CHAPTER THREE

THOUGH he never voiced it, Ainslie knew and could understand that he didn’t want to be alone. Jangling with nerves after the day’s events, while simultaneously drooping with exhaustion, she sat on the sofa, tucked her legs under her and stifled a yawn as Elijah located two glasses and poured them both a vast brandy. Even though she didn’t particularly like the taste, she accepted it, screwing up her nose as she took a sip, the warmth spreading down her throat to her stomach. She knew there and then why it was called medicinal—for the first time since she’d caught Gemma in between the sheets the adrenaline that had propelled her dimmed slightly, and she actually relaxed a touch—till he asked her a question.

‘You said you worked with children?’

‘I’m a kindergarten teacher—well, I am in Australia. Here I’ve been working as a live-in nanny.’

‘Why?’ Elijah frowned.

‘Why not?’ Ainslie retorted—though he was hardly the first to ask. Why would she give up a perfectly nice job, walk out on her perfectly nice boyfriend, and travel to the other side of the world to be paid peanuts to live in someone else’s home and look after their kids?

‘What were you running away from?’

‘I wasn’t running…’ Ainslie bristled, and then, because he had been honest, somehow she could be more honest with this stranger than she had been with her own family. ‘I suppose I was running away—only I didn’t know from what at the time. I had a nice job, a lovely boyfriend, nice everything, really…’

‘But?’

‘Something wasn’t right.’ Ainslie gave a tight shrug. ‘It was nothing I could put my finger on, but it turns out my instincts were right.’

‘In what way?’

Shrewd eyes narrowed on her as she stiffened, and Elijah didn’t push as, with a shake of her head, Ainslie stared into her glass and declined to elaborate. ‘Everyone said I was crazy, that I’d regret it, but coming to London was the best thing I’ve ever done—I’ve loved every minute.’

‘So why were you standing on the platform crying?’ Elijah asked, and her eyes flew back to his. She was surprised he’d even noticed. ‘And why are you checking into a youth hostel so late in the evening?’

‘Things didn’t work out with my boss…’ Ainslie attempted casual, but those astute eyes were still watching her carefully. ‘I’ll find something else.’

‘You already have,’ Elijah answered easily. ‘I don’t know how long it will be for, but I’m certainly going to be here till after Christmas…’

‘You don’t know me…’ Ainslie frowned.

‘I won’t know the girl the agency sends tomorrow either!’ he pointed out. ‘The offer’s there if you want it.’

‘Won’t his father’s family want to help out?’ She could see him bristle—see him tense, just as he had before when they were mentioned.

He was about to tell her it was none of her business—about to snap some smart response—but those green eyes that beckoned him weren’t judging, and there was no trace of nosiness in her voice. Elijah realised he didn’t want to push her away, didn’t want to be alone. For the first time in his life he actually needed to talk.

‘Our families have never got on. When Maria started going out with Rico I didn’t talk to my sister for two years.’

‘Were you close before that?’

‘We were all the other had. I was five when my mother died; Maria was only one. Our father turned to drink, and he died when I was twelve.’

He’d never told anyone this—could scarcely believe the words were coming out of his own mouth. Her jade-green eyes hardly ever left his. Every now and then she looked away, swirling her brandy in her glass as he spoke, but her gaze always returned to him. Her damp blonde hair was drying now, coiling into curls on her shoulders, and for the first time he walked through the murky depths of his past in the hope that it would guide him to the right future, that the decisions that must surely be made now would be the right ones for Guido.

‘We brought ourselves up,’ Elijah explained. ‘Did things that today I am not proud of. But at the time…’ He gave a regretful shrug. ‘There was a family in our village—the Castellas. They were as rough as us, and after the same thing—money to survive. You could say we were rivals, I guess. One day Rico’s older brother Marco came on to Maria.’ His eyes flinched at the memory. ‘She was still a child—thirteen—and she was an innocent child too. I had always been the one who did the cheating and stealing while Maria went to school; she was a good girl. Maria always hated Marco for what he did to her; she would not want him near Guido.’

‘So this isn’t about revenge?’

‘I had my revenge the day it happened,’ Elijah said darkly. ‘I beat him to a pulp.’

‘So the hatred just grew?’ Ainslie asked, but Elijah didn’t answer directly.

‘When I was seventeen I was outside a café, watching some rich tourists. It was a couple, and I was waiting till it was darker, till they’d had a few more drinks and wouldn’t be paying close attention to their wallets. They spoke to the waiter. Their Italian was quite good—they were looking to retire, wanted a property with a view…’ He smiled at the memory. ‘There was no estate agent in our small village in Sicily then—it wasn’t a tourist spot. I knew, I just knew, that I didn’t want to be stealing and cheating to get by any more. Finally I knew what I could do to get out of it.’

She didn’t comment further, didn’t frown at the fact that he’d stolen, didn’t wince at his past, and that gave him the strength to continue.

‘I sold them my late grandfather’s home—to me and to my friends it was a shack, just a deserted place we hung out in. It had been passed to us, Maria and me, but till then it had been worth nothing. But we cleaned it painted and polished it, and Maria picked flowers for the inside. I could see what they wanted, and knew that this villa was it.’

‘You sold it to them?’

‘They dealt with the lawyers, they had the papers drawn up.’ Elijah nodded. ‘Then, after that, I sold our own home. With every bit of money I made I bought more properties, then I moved out of our village and on to bigger things—and the Castellas were still there, thieving on the beach. With every success that came our way they hated us more—just as we hated them.’

‘You’re a real estate agent?’ Ainslie checked, wondering why that made him smile.

‘I’m a property developer. I buy homes like this one—beautiful homes the world over—and I retain the exterior, gut the interior, and turn them into flats.’

‘Ouch!’ Ainslie winced, staring around at this vast lounge, the size of a ballroom, at the ornate cornices and the marble mantelpiece over the dreamy fireplace, loath to think of it being destroyed.

‘Of course we try to retain as many original features as possible!’ He gave an ironic smile.

‘Philistine.’

‘Perhaps!’ Elijah conceded. ‘Maria, too, fell in love with this place.’

‘And she fell in love with Rico too?’

After the longest time he nodded, that single gesture telling her he would reveal more.

‘Not till years later. I was furious—so too was his family. None of us went to the wedding…’ He closed his eyes in regret. ‘She still worked for me, supported her husband. I kept pointing out that he wasn’t working, but slowly I started to see that they were for real. They had to be real. Because in spite of what had happened—with all that his brother had done—still she loved Rico. So we started speaking again, and then I realised how hard things were for them. Rico’s family blamed Maria for what had happened to them, for the slur to Marco’s name. They said that she had asked for it, that it had been her coming on to him…’

‘She was thirteen!’

‘Easier for them to blame her than change him. Rico is a mechanic, and his family ran the car repair place in the village, so he couldn’t work. I knew they couldn’t stay in the village—there was too much bad blood, too many slurs for them to ever make a real go of it. I suggested they move in here for a while—Maria spoke some English. I had purchased the place furnished, and I said she could oversee the plans, help with the architects and inspections till it was ready to get off the ground. It never did.’ He smiled as he said it. ‘The renovations started—only not the ones I had intended—Rico found work straight away, and they settled right in. I would often come to visit…’

‘You were living in London?’

‘No, I am mainly in Italy. But I am here once or twice a month, and every time I came here I noticed it had become more and more their home—a few new cushions for the couches, a rug here and there. And then when she got pregnant Maria started talking about a mural in the nursery. I gave in when Guido was born. I knew that they loved each other completely, and as a belated wedding gift I decided to sign the place over to them.’

‘Some wedding gift!’

‘Oh, it was to be their Christmas present too!’

Ainslie smiled at the faint joke. She knew nothing about property prices, save that London was fiercely expensive. She’d thought Gemma and Angus lived in luxury, but this house, right in the heart of London, was just stunning. Under any other circumstances she’d have paid to enter and be gazing at this lounge from behind a red rope! Ainslie gulped, staring over at the man sitting beside her on the couch. And under any other circumstances she’d be gazing at him on the silver screen, or in a glossy magazine.

Effortlessly stunning, he was quite simply the most beautiful man she had ever witnessed in the flesh. The features that had first dazzled her on the tube merited closer inspection now.

His jet hair was thick and glossy, and there was a slightly depraved look to his piercing blue eyes—but that could, Ainslie conceded, be more born of exhaustion than excess. His very straight Roman nose was a proud feature. All his features were wonderful in their own right, yet combined they were stunning. But what moved Ainslie most, what exalted him from good-looking to stunning, were the full lips of his mouth—the curve of them when he smiled. It was a mouth that softened his features, a mouth that flexed around his expressive language, a mouth that drew you closer, that held your attention when he spoke.

‘It felt right that she have this house. Right that I could take care of her still. She’s my sister—was my sister…’ His voice husked, his mouth struggling with the correction.

‘She still is…’ Ainslie said softly. ‘Always will be.’

‘This place was their home. It is right that it’s Guido’s home now.’

‘What will you do?’

‘I don’t know.’ He stared into the bottom of his near-empty glass as if he were trying to gaze into a crystal ball. ‘Marco and his wife, Dina, have never seen him, have played no part in his life, and yet now Rico and Maria are dead they say they want to be involved.’

‘Were you involved?’

‘I’ve never babysat, never changed his nappy…’ Elijah answered. ‘But I spoke with my sister on the phone most days. As I said, I’m in London once or maybe twice a month, and I normally stopped by. I was—am—a part of his life. It just never entered my head it would be to this extent.’

‘It might be the same for Marco and Dina,’ Ainslie offered. ‘Maybe they’ve had a shock? Maybe they’ve realised…?’ Her voice trailed off as he shook his head.

‘I don’t trust them.’ He drained the last dregs before continuing, ‘I don’t want that man near my nephew—he is the last person Maria would want for him. I know people can change, and I know that it was a long time ago. But some things—well, they are too hard to excuse or forgive.’

‘There’s no one else?’

‘No one apart from one reprobate uncle who likes to burn the candle at both ends and has an appalling track record with women.’

‘Oh!’ Ainslie blinked, rather liking the sound of him. ‘Where’s he, then?’

‘You’re looking at him.’ He even managed to laugh, but it faded quickly. ‘The trouble is, as wrong as I think Marco and Dina would be for him, I don’t trust that I am right for Guido either. I don’t have a lifestyle that really fits in with raising a child. I can provide for him, I can give him the best of everything…’

But he deserved so much more than that, and they both knew it.

‘It might be time to grow up, I guess!’ Elijah said, putting down his glass and standing. ‘Either that or try and find a way to put aside lifelong rivalries and remember it isn’t a patch on the beach we’re fighting over any more.’

‘You’ll work it out.’

‘Just not tonight…’

They shuffled through the house and up the stairs.

‘This is a guest room,’ Elijah announced. ‘And there’s another one here.’ Elijah pushed open another door. ‘You can choose.’

‘I don’t care…’

Ainslie shrugged, so he chose for her, depositing her backpack in a pretty yellow and white room that was to be her home for tonight.

‘I’ll just check on Guido.’

They both did.

Stood in his parents’ bedroom and peered into his cot. His flushed face was paler now, his thumb was in his mouth and his bottom was in the air, and tears welled in Ainslie’s eyes as she stared down at him. Safe and warm but suddenly alone, without the two people who would have loved him the most. The vast bed in the room looked horribly empty as they crept out.

‘Will we wake up?’ As he turned to go he thought better of it. ‘Who will wake up to Guido?’

And it was a very sensible question. Babies who woke in the night wouldn’t usually be factored in to Elijah Vanaldi’s agenda. Little whimpers of distress wouldn’t necessarily jerk a man like him from slumber.

‘I’ll wake.’ Ainslie smiled softly at his exhausted face. ‘You should try and get some rest.’

She’d wake if only first she could sleep.

Her head was racing at a million miles an hour as she lay in the strange bed, listening as Elijah showered. Familiar sounds in an unfamiliar place, and for the first time since she’d put the key in the front door this afternoon she was able to draw breath.

To actually think about what she should do with her own situation.

If she pleaded her case Gemma had made it clear that without warning or hesitation she would call the police, and Ainslie knew that no one would employ a childcare worker who was being investigated. Even if she could prove her innocence, the slur alone would be enough to ruin her time in England. Elijah had offered her a position, but for how long? A day? A week? How long would it be till he went back to Italy?

Ainslie blinked into the darkness. He was trusting her to help him—what would he say if he knew that she had been accused of theft?

As the shrill screams of Guido pierced the night Elijah sat up, gulping in air as he awoke from a nightmare…

His sister had been dead—no, she’d been dying—her body horribly disfigured, her voice a strained, hoarse whisper as she’d tried to speak through her swollen and damaged windpipe, imploring him to listen, warning him of the Castellas descending, claiming her baby, taking what they considered theirs. He’d gone to hold her hand, to tell her it was all okay, that he would take care of things. Only her hand… He could feel bile rising in his throat as he replayed the image.

It was just a dream, Elijah assured himself, sheathed in sweat, and trying to pull himself out of it. A nightmare. The horrible panic, the utter dread with which he’d awoken should be abating now, should be dimming as reality filtered in. Instead, Elijah could feel his heart quicken as he took in his surrounds. Another shot of adrenaline propelled him out of bed in panic. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his hips, dashing to his nephew as he realised he hadn’t awoken from a nightmare—he was living one.

‘He’s okay!’

It was like falling off a cliff into soft outstretched arms. Ainslie was leaning over Guido’s cot, pressing her finger to her lips to tell him to be quiet, dressed in vast, shapeless pyjamas that were covered in some pattern he couldn’t make out. Guido’s little night light caught the gold in her blonde hair as briefly she looked up from the child she soothed, her voice soft and calming—not just to Guido, but to himself.

Only Ainslie herself wasn’t soothed. Clemmie and Jack had both regularly woken in the night and, used to sleeping light, she’d woken when Guido had first whimpered. She had been stumbling down the hall by the time his screaming had started, and had been able to quickly soothe him—deliberately not turning on the light, so her strange presence wouldn’t alarm him. Instead she’d replaced his blanket, as Elijah had mentioned, and patting his back had gently hushed him. And then Elijah had come to the door, breathless, as if he’d been running.

‘He’s nearly back to sleep,’ she whispered as he came over quietly. Ainslie lowered her head back into the crib.

Suddenly she was glad for the dim lighting in the room, because her face was one burning blush at the sight of Elijah wearing nothing more than a towel, and she was absolutely aware of his presence as he stood beside her till she was happy that Guido was asleep.

Of course he’d be wearing nothing, Ainslie scolded herself as they crept out of the bedroom. He hadn’t exactly had time to pack, and she couldn’t somehow see a man like Elijah rummaging through his dead brother-in-law’s clothes to find something to wear.

But that wasn’t the problem and she knew it—hell, she’d caught Angus, her old employer, on the landing in nothing more than a pair of boxers loads of times, and it had done nothing for her, nothing at all, had barely merited a thought. But walking along the landing behind Elijah, seeing the taut definition of his muscled back, the silky olive skin, inhaling the soapy masculine scent of him, well, it merited more than just a thought.

‘Goodnight.’ He turned to face her, his hair all rumpled from falling asleep with it wet, still unshaven, his incredibly beautiful eyes dark wells of anguish as he hesitated to go. ‘Do you think he knows? Do you think he knows that they are gone?’

‘On some level, perhaps.’ She was helpless to comfort him—had been wondering the same thing herself as she’d soothed the little boy back to sleep. ‘He’ll know things are different, he’ll be unsettled and he’ll want his parents. But so long as his little world is safe he’ll be okay.’

‘Will he remember them?’ He delivered a slightly mocking laugh to himself. ‘Of course he won’t.’

‘I don’t agree,’ Ainslie said gently, because it was up to Elijah now to turn the fragile images Guido held and somehow merge them into his life. ‘I mean, there will be pictures, DVDs with them on it that he can watch over and over. I don’t know much about child grief, but I think…’

‘I can hardly remember,’ Elijah said, explaining the mocking laugh. ‘I can hardly remember my mother at all—and she died when I was five. Guido is not even two. He’s only fifteen months old.’

‘Did your father talk to you about her?’ Ainslie pushed, but she already knew the answer. ‘You can make it different for Guido.’

‘Can I?’

Her hand instinctively reached out for his arm, touching him as she would anyone in so much pain. Only the contact, the feeling of his skin beneath her fingers, the hairs on his arm, the satin of his skin against her palm, the touch that had been offered as comfort, shifted to something else entirely as her eyes jerked to his.

At any point she could have reclaimed her hand. At any point she could have said goodnight and gone back to her room. Only she didn’t—couldn’t. The air thrummed with the thick scent of arousal—grief and shock a strange propellant, one that forced a million emotions into the air in one very direct hit, accelerating feelings and blurring boundaries. The day that had left them both reeling, forced them to go through the motions, to run on sheer adrenaline, was at an end now, and now they paused—paused long enough to draw breath before the impossible race started again. A race neither wanted to resume.

Just easier, far easier, to ignore the pain for a moment, to stand and instead of facing the future face each other.

Elijah stared into her eyes as he tried to picture the last few hours without her in it. Always he had a solution—another plan to initiate if things didn’t go his way. There was nothing that truly daunted him. But walking out of that hospital, holding his nephew in his arms, he had felt the weight of responsibility overwhelm him. Gripped with fear, not for himself but for Guido, he had had no glimmer of a plan, no thought process to follow, had just clung on to his nephew as he’d clung to him. And then she had come along—an angel descending when he’d needed it most. And he needed her now.

‘Why did you stop?’ His voice was low, his question important.

‘Why wouldn’t I stop?’ Ainslie blinked. ‘You needed help.’

‘But no one else did.’

Hundreds had passed him that day—had jammed against him on the underground, hadn’t made room as he’d lifted the stroller, had squashed into Guido as if they didn’t even notice he was there. At the platform before he’d met her many had seen him struggle, and out of all of them she was the only one who had tried to help. He didn’t want to picture how this night would have been without her kind concern. Didn’t want to envisage stepping into this house alone with Guido. Didn’t want to think about any of it for even a second longer…

His breath was getting faster now, the nightmare coming back, and he struggled to surface from it, to drag in air and escape. He needed her now just as much, if not more, than then. He drew comfort in the only way he knew how. He lowered his mouth and claimed hers, the bliss of contact fulfilling a craving, a need for escape—such a balmy escape—the medicine so sweet, the feel of her in his arms like a haven.

For a second she resisted, fought the urge to kiss him back. The speed of it all, the inappropriateness, flitted into her mind, then flitted out—because maybe she craved oblivion too. As his tongue parted her lips and his skilled mouth searched hers Ainslie thought that maybe it was because she’d never been so thoroughly kissed before. The wretched, wretched day was fading—the sting of Gemma’s accusations, the panic and fear that had gripped her when she’d found herself alone in a strange city—all was abating as with his mouth he soothed and excited.

In this crazy day he had helped her too—was helping her now.

This heady, blinding kiss was frenzied almost—like an anaesthetic, dousing pain, dimming thought. His hands knotted in her hair as he drank from her mouth, his mouth so hot on hers there was a delicious hurt. Deep lusty kisses both claimed and bestowed, and each breath she took was his, each breath she gave he gulped in. It was a dangerous kiss that could only lead moreto more. Yet somehow he made her feel safe, his strong arms holding her, his hands clutching her to him, his lips grazing her neck, the scratch of his chin on her sensitive skin making her weak. She’d never been kissed like this before—never been wanted or wanted so badly herself. The heady rush fizzed in her veins, racing around her body—stroking her pelvic floor like an inner caress. And it had to stop, because if it didn’t then they wouldn’t.

Pulling back her head, though his arms still circled her body, she called a reluctant halt. Both were staring, both breathing as if they had run a mile. The delicious shock doused her, her own body’s response astonished her— every encounter in her life laid end to end didn’t come close to matching this.

‘Don’t…’ He husked his response to her unvoiced statement—disparity evident as her body thrummed in his arms.

‘I have to.’ She could hardly speak, her whole body so drenched with arousal, so utterly opposed to her mind, that it took every ounce of effort she possessed to walk from his room, to lie on her bed…to walk away from his.

It was just a kiss. She told herself. A kiss because…

Only she couldn’t answer that one. Ainslie’s fingers moved to her mouth, feeling it swollen where his lips had been. She could still feel the tender flesh of her neck where his chin had made her raw.

And it wasn’t just a kiss—kisses had never left her weak like that; kisses had never left her lost. Which she had been, completely lost in the moment with him.

She tried to put it out of her mind, to focus on her problems instead of letting her imagination wander, to tell herself to let it go.

But her body said otherwise. And the slightly open bedroom doors channelled their want as they both lay alone in the oppressive silence. Ainslie, her body twitching with desire and thick, greedy need, lay there rigid, almost in desperation for the escape they had briefly found, willing herself to relax, to sleep. Trying to ignore the man who lay just metres away, who was, after one kiss, the only man who had utterly moved her.

CHAPTER FOUR

‘WHEN did all that come?’ Exhausted, dishevelled, and still coming to terms with yesterday, Ainslie had tripped over a pile of luxury luggage in the hall.

‘While you were sleeping,’ Elijah said, not looking up. Dressed only in a pair of grey hipsters, unshaven and tousled, he still managed to look absurdly sexy as he shared a bowl of cereal with Guido—one spoon for his nephew, then a larger one for Elijah. ‘I arranged some belongings to be couriered over yesterday.’ He glanced up at her raised eyebrows—raised because, with all that had taken place, how could he even think about clothes? ‘I couldn’t face putting on my suit again today.’

‘Oh!’ Ainslie said, feeling horribly small all of a sudden, as she tried to work out the kitchen. She knew how adrift she felt without all of her belongings—but at least she had clean knickers.

Elijah turned to face her. ‘I’ve also arranged a driver—Tony. He’s going to be staying in a room on the third floor, so he’s available whenever you need him—that is if you stay.’

‘A live-in driver!’

‘It’s impossible to park in London.’ Elijah shrugged, lying easily. She didn’t need to know he’d actually arranged a bodyguard for Guido—there was no way he was risking the Castellas coming to take him. ‘And I don’t like walking. Actually,’ he conceded slightly, ‘he’s just broken up with his wife and he needs a live-in job. It was either him or rely on taxis.’

‘You’ve been busy.’

‘I always am.’ Elijah waited till she came over before continuing. ‘Look, I really don’t want to push, but I need to know if you are willing to work for me.’

His eyes met hers when finally she joined him at the breakfast table. There had been no mention of what had taken place last night. He’d shown not a trace of awkwardness when he’d greeted her. In fact he was so cool, so completely together, Ainslie even wondered if she’d imagined the whole thing—like some strange erotic dream that made her blush to think about it. She was actually starting to wonder if anything had happened, because Elijah didn’t look at all fazed or embarrassed.

Or maybe he was just used to it, Ainslie mused as she sugared her coffee. Perhaps he was so used to snogging the hired help whenever it took his fancy it didn’t merit a second thought.

It had merited more than a second thought for Ainslie. Problems like finding work and somewhere to live in a strange country just a few days before Christmas, like coming up with some quick money to pay off her debt, had all become mere irrelevancies as she’d lain in bed and relived his kiss over and over.

And now he was asking for an answer as to whether she would work for him—an answer that, on several levels, she was hesitant to give.

‘Can I have some time to think about it?’

‘Unfortunately, no—I have already received a rather irate call from Guido’s case worker. It would seem that I should not have taken him without the Social Services department’s approval.’

‘Well, that would have gone down well!’ Ainslie couldn’t keep the note of sarcasm out of her voice.

‘It didn’t.’

‘So how did you respond?’

‘I said that perhaps they should question their procedures rather than me!’ He gave a tight smile. ‘That didn’t go down too well either! And Marco and his wife, Dina, have arrived, and have made it clear that they will be applying for custody. Guido’s case worker is coming to meet with me here this morning—it would be helpful to say that I already have arranged childcare, and if you can’t work for me I can at least call an agency and be able to say that I have lined up some interviews.’

‘I understand that…’ Ainslie stirred honey into some porridge and attempted to feed a less than impressed Guido, who was far happier sharing his uncle’s bowl. ‘I just don’t think it’s going to be possible for me to work for you.’

‘Because you have another job to go to?’ She could hear the sarcasm in his voice.

‘No.’

‘Because you would rather spend Christmas in a youth hostel?’

His arrogance didn’t faze her.

‘Maybe because I’d prefer to have a few days off over

Christmas and New Year rather than being treated like dirt while I mind some rich family’s child!’ She gave him a sweet smile over Guido’s porridge, but it didn’t meet her eyes. They both knew that wasn’t the reason.

‘I would not treat you badly. And there would be no repeat…’ He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. The colour roared up her cheeks as for a dangerous second they both revisited last night, as her erotic dream was confirmed as reality. ‘The top floor is self contained—you could have that. We could draw up a contract…’

‘That’s not the only issue…’ Ainslie swallowed hard, her face burning as she wondered if a lie was a lie if it was by omission. It would be so, so easy to accept his offer. The thought of spending Christmas at a youth hostel, of searching for work at the most impossible time of the year, was daunting to say the least. She knew Elijah was desperate, that he probably wouldn’t get around to checking her references for a while, but still integrity won, and Ainslie knew she had somehow to tell him her truth without revealing Gemma’s indiscretion. ‘You might not want me looking after Guido.’ Two vertical lines deepened on the bridge of his nose, but that was the only reaction she took in before she quickly looked away. ‘It wasn’t a mutual parting of ways—I was actually sacked yesterday.’

‘For?’

It was a reasonable question—a very reasonable question—and one Ainslie didn’t know how to answer. To tell him the truth, the whole truth, felt disloyal to Angus and especially to the children—privileged information gathered when you worked in someone’s home, whether good or bad, wasn’t hers to divulge. Yet to be labelled a thief, to have her own reputation tarnished, posed for Ainslie an impossible conundrum.

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