Caroline Anderson – Housekeeper at His Command: The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire (страница 13)

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.