Helen Brooks - Mistress To A Millionaire

It had been that revelation which had opened the door to further disclosures—unearthed slowly over a matter of weeks whilst she had been staying with Stephanie and Malcolm. The present woman—Susan Bannister—was wealthy, very wealthy, rich enough to finance the business Ronald had been longing to set up for some time, and it hadn’t seemed to worry Susan that her lover’s wife was five months pregnant.

She had lost the baby.

Daisy took another deep gulp of the coffee as her stomach churned and the blackness came. She had had a miscarriage—brought on by extreme stress and anxiety, according to the doctor at the hospital—and her daughter had lived for three minutes. She had held the tiny body in her arms for much longer than that, and as she had stared into the beautiful little face her love for Ronald had turned to hate.

And now he was looking for her, and there would be confrontation after confrontation—she knew enough about Ronald to know that. And he could get nasty, very nasty—she knew that too.

‘…if that suits you?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Daisy came out of the black abyss to the realisation that Slade had been talking and she hadn’t heard a word.

‘I said should you decide to accept the post of nanny to my son I would like you to fly out to Italy no later than the middle of May if that is convenient?’ Slade repeated patiently. The patience was unusual for him but he had seen something in her face which had appalled him in the last few moments.

She stared at him—the hospital room, Slade, the normality of it all strange after the darkness of her thoughts.

‘And I would like you to make a decision as soon as possible, of course,’ he added carefully. ‘Three months is not very long and the clock is already ticking away.’

And that same clock might be bringing Ronald nearer and nearer. The thought spun in her head. And she was never going to come to terms with the loss of her daughter and all that had happened with the threat of Ronald in the background.

Italy was far, far away. Her ex-husband wouldn’t find her in Italy, and perhaps she might even find some peace of mind in an alien land where there was nothing to remind her of that terrible Christmas Eve when they had buried her daughter in a tiny little white coffin? Perhaps…

She looked straight at Slade now and the hard, glittering eyes were waiting for her response, their darkness unfathomable.

‘You…you said a trial period?’ she asked numbly.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her white face. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said evenly. ‘And you have my word that if you find the post is not to your liking there will be no questions asked or pressure brought to bear. You will be flown home at the end of three months and that will be that.’

‘You might find I’m not to your liking,’ Daisy said quietly, her voice shaking a little. ‘It works both ways.’

Slade looked into the deep honey-gold eyes with their thick, silky lashes, at the small, straight nose and full, generous mouth framed by a silver halo of white-blonde hair, and he nodded again. ‘Yes, I might,’ he agreed expressionlessly, his dark face giving nothing away.

She was crazy to even be considering accepting this job. She didn’t want to work for him and she certainly didn’t want to be a mother figure to the sad little boy in the photograph when her arms were still aching for her own baby daughter, Daisy told herself silently. And then she heard a voice—which sounded suspiciously like her own—saying, ‘All right, Mr Eastwood, I would be very pleased to accept your generous offer if you are sure I am suitable for the post. But…but if you want me to come to Italy I would prefer to do it soon—as soon as possible in fact.’

‘I see.’ The deep, slightly husky voice betrayed no surprise or emotion whatsoever, and Daisy found it helped enormously. Suddenly it wasn’t such a crazy thing to do—it was a job, just a job, and if it didn’t work out on either side nothing was lost. But she would be out of Ronald’s grasp, in a different environment, and that could only be good. ‘But there is one thing I must stipulate,’ he added quietly.

‘Yes?’ she asked weakly, suddenly nervous again.

‘My name is Slade. This “Mr Eastwood” makes me feel sixty-four instead of thirty-four,’ he murmured with dark amusement.

And then he smiled, really smiled, and the cold, autocratic face turned into someone else—someone much younger, someone who could be tender, someone who was so breathtakingly attractive that it was mind-blowing…and someone who scared her to death.

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