Melissa James - His Housekeeper Bride

She thrust a plastic sleeve at him, filled with letters.

His brows lifted as he read one glowing referral after another.

Honest, hard-working, discreet.

She made our house a home.

She became part of our family.

We offered her double to stay. We’re so sorry to lose her.

‘Impressive.’ He noted she’d updated the references that stretched back a dozen years to fit her name change. She obviously wanted to leave her past behind for some reason—a reason he’d have to find out. He hadn’t come this far in life by trusting anyone.

A wave of colour filled those soft-freckled cheeks. ‘I didn’t ask them to say it.’

The ‘Heart of Ice’ was famed for never descending to argument or reassurance on minor points. ‘I have a contract all employees sign—including a confidentiality clause. If you sell a story or steal anything from me I’ll sue you out of all human existence.’

She stared at him, and her flashing eyes—eyes the colour of old sherry, enormous, their curling lashes made thicker with mascara—held insult. The colour grew in her face. Sweet indignation and adorable anger. Yet she was so much a woman at that moment the image of little brave Shirley Temple wavered and fell in his mind, shattering like glass on a tile floor.

‘You’ll sign it?’ he pressed, fighting the ridiculous urge to take it back, to say he knew he could trust her. He hadn’t seen her in fifteen years. He knew nothing about the woman apart from her stiff-necked refusal to accept help. That much about her hadn’t changed a bit.

She nodded. ‘I have one condition.’

He lifted a brow. None of his housekeepers had ever tried to bargain with him before; he made sure they didn’t need to. ‘Well?’

‘I want to live in the cottage that comes with the job, but—’ her eyes held the smiling defiance he’d seen in her as a girl, setting boundaries as well as he did, with all his cold control ‘—you don’t come inside. Ever. ’

He almost laughed in her face. What did she think? He hobnobbed with the help? He hadn’t been in that place since he’d had it renovated years ago. ‘Done. Now, please wait outside. If your references check out, the job’s yours.’

‘Thank you.’ The words were cool, reserved, but he felt relief inside. Oh, yeah, he understood that desperation and that pride, the need for personal space and dignity.

She walked out, her little feet in low-heeled sandals making no sound on his wooden flooring. He watched the sway of her gently flaring hips beneath the swishing skirt, saw the way her fists curled, her head held high, and didn’t bother to call her former employers.

He was neither stupid nor blind. He knew inevitability when he saw it. Sylvie had the job, and she would live in the housekeeper’s cottage behind his house for as long as she needed. If warning signs were flashing, if he felt as if he was standing in quicksand, he still couldn’t do anything but hire her. If he let her down for the sake of his own security she’d haunt him for life: he’d be wondering where she was, what job she had, if they were good to her. He’d taken care of her by proxy for too many years to stop now.

Suddenly he wondered. Did Bren know how he’d cared for the Brown family? Did she know it was Shirley Temple when she brought her here?

Anger flooded his soul. Oh, yeah, Bren must have recognised Sylvie. By now the whole family must know that the child Sylvie had been made her the only woman who could break his defences on this day of all days. Why she’d come to him he didn’t know, but he knew his family—still trying to rescue him from a life they abhorred, trying to break the ice around his heart. They were always trying to find him a woman like—

Didn’t they know if he ever found another woman like Chloe he’d only run like hell? People like Chloe weren’t meant to live long lives with guys like him. Just as Chloe had done, as little Mary had done, they touched your life and then left you—bereft, empty.

As empty as his heart and soul had become in the past fifteen years.

It was too late for redemption. None of his success changed what he’d done. No amount of money could take away the damage he’d inflicted on others—and Shirley Temple had come fifteen years too late.

Her name’s Sylvie, and she’s not a kid anymore, his mind taunted him. Small, delicate, haunting, but she’s a woman, head to foot .

He clenched his fists, hating that just by telling him who she was she’d breached his defences. Her gentle face with its freckled prettiness was vulnerable and genuine, and it made him feel warm in a place he’d forgotten existed. But he couldn’t let her get too close or she’d destroy him—and, worse, he’d destroy her.

He shuddered. Never, never again. No. It was time to erect a few barriers.

With cold deliberation he reached for the phone and, instead of calling Dial-An-Angel, he called a woman he’d dated once or twice—a model-actress as callous and uncaring as he’d been for years, who wanted only fun and a few minutes of fame.

If Sylvie was in the cottage behind his waterfront mansion tonight, she’d be alone. He’d be out on the town with Toni, doing what he did best: forgetting there had ever been someone who loved him just as he was, and who pushed him to be his best.

On this day he had two choices: drink, or take a woman to a hotel.

As usual, he chose the latter.

Balmain

Sylvie wandered through the house, wide-eyed, whispering, ‘Oh,’ every few moments. Built in 1849 by a ship’s captain, right on Sydney Harbour, Mark’s house was a fascinating waterfront blend of colonial, naval and Victorian, with open beams, leadlight windows and wide-planked flooring; the outside was sandstone blocks.

It was a dream come true—the kind of dream she’d have had if she’d known this wonderful, eclectic, homey house existed. It was almost perfect… almost .

She grinned. So he had a date tonight? So what? Because of him, she now had a home, and a job that would pay the bills and allow her to save while she finished college. She was so deeply in his debt she doubted she’d ever be able to climb out—and she’d promised Chloe she’d take care of him. It was time for her to do some giving…and she knew where to start: the Friday night markets at The Rocks.

By running all the way to the ferry stop on the harbour, she just made the next ferry.

Later that night

MARK had to hold back from slamming the door.

What was wrong with him?

After the Lamaze classes, where he hadn’t missed a single opportunity to get the message across to Bren, he’d dropped her home and taken Toni, a stunning woman, for a late dinner and dancing at the best clubs. And he’d made sure his sister knew where he was going.

He’d fulfilled his part, given Toni the exposure she needed. She was currently between jobs, and being photographed with him would make all the tabloids. It was a guarantee that producers and casting agencies would remember to call her. In return, she’d have been happy to spend the rest of the night with him at a hotel—she didn’t want the intimacy of spending the night at her place or his, either—and yet he’d still said, ‘Another time…’

Toni’s amused acceptance of his being so able to keep his hands off her perfect tanned body hadn’t helped things, either. ‘So, what’s her name?’

He’d had a ridiculous urge to snap back, Shirley Temple .

And it was the truth. Oh, not sexually—it was guilt. After she’d signed the contract, he’d tossed his spare keys at a bemused Sylvie, scrawled the address on a piece of paper for her, and told her the housekeeper’s cottage was out at the back and to move in over the weekend. He’d said he expected breakfast at six twenty-five Monday morning, and he wouldn’t be home tonight.