Caroline Anderson - Housekeeper at His Command - The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire

The smile vanished. His black eyes were cool and distant. She was in no position to make demands of him. ‘If you will excuse me, it is my custom to see my guests settled.’

Ignoring her agitated, ‘Oh—but listen—’ he strode past her, and Izzy swung round to watch him greet his uncle, one arm around the older, shorter man’s shoulders. For some reason she wished he could have greeted her that way, with obvious affection and warmth, and then she wished she hadn’t wished that at all—because it showed her up as being really stupid.

And maybe she shouldn’t have demanded they talk just like that, she decided, feeling flattened. He was obviously adding a total lack of manners to his tally of her sins, branding her as not fit for polite company. But she’d been so anxious to put him straight about her ignorance of Miguel’s true financial situation that she had been able to think of nothing else since the shattering revelation that, far from living a hand-to-mouth existence out of financial necessity, Miguel had no idea, and no interest in, how much he was worth.

Just like her to open her big mouth and put her foot in it!

Embarrassment painted her heart-shaped face with a hot flood of fiery colour as the two men joined her. Miguel flung an arm wide, encompassing the courtyard, the magnificent central fountain, the tubs of exotic flowering shrubs and the white doves fluttering from the shady stone arcades that led through to the no-doubt sumptuous living quarters, and asked, ‘You approve, Izzy?’

‘I’m sure your companion is most suitably impressed,’ Cayo said drily, before she could respond, and immediately cursed himself for the sarcastic tone. He was going to have to try harder—to act in a duplicitous manner completely foreign to his straightforward nature if he was to have a hope in hell of persuading her that of the two vast fortunes she could see dangling in front of her greedy eyes his was the one to aim for.

‘Ramona—my housekeeper—will show you to the rooms that have been readied for you, Tio,’ Cayo imparted. Izzy trailed after them as they entered a vast marble-paved hall. ‘They are on the ground floor, close to the library. You will have no need to use stairs or find your way about the warren of passages—unless you wish to reacquaint yourself with your childhood home.’ His austere features softened in a smile that made him seem human and just impossibly handsome, Izzy thought, deploring the toe-curling effect it had on her as he went on, ‘And don’t worry. Your books and papers have not been unpacked. No one will touch or muddle them,’ he assured the older man gently. ‘You may arrange them in the library at your leisure.’

He really cared about his uncle, Izzy granted as introductions were made to the housekeeper and a handful of wide-eyed maids. Cayo gave instructions in rapid Spanish which sent the super-efficient-looking housekeeper leading Miguel to an arched doorway at the far side of the great hall and the maids scurrying to do his bidding. He spoke and things happened.

He firmly believed that she was up to no good—had attached herself to his uncle for mercenary reasons—and he cared enough for the old gentleman to make sure she took herself off with her tail between her legs. Now that she knew that her impoverished and neglected old gentleman was nothing of the sort, she could understand where he was coming from. Especially since he’d heard the del Amos’ lies.

She shivered, and nearly leapt out of her skin when he touched the bare flesh of her arm, making her feel as if she’d been prodded by an electrically charged pin. It fuzzed up her brain to such an extent that she couldn’t take in what he was saying until the pressure of those lean bronzed fingers around her arm increased and he repeated, ‘I will show you to your suite of rooms and see you settled.’

‘What? Oh, right—’ She attempted to claim back her arm, but the pressure of his fingers simply increased as he led her to an enormous stone staircase. Mounting it, she felt like a prisoner being led to a cell and her mouth went dry. She had to explain. Had to. But, remembering her earlier faux-pas , she knew she had to wait and not launch forth when members of his staff were crisscrossing the hall below, well within earshot.

Partway up the soaring staircase, a corridor led off to the right, dimly lit, its stone walls hung with ancient and probably priceless tapestries. Ahead, the corridor branched in three directions. The whole place was an intimidating mystery.

Izzy wished she’d never agreed to come here. She only had because she had thought then that it was the right thing to do for the sake of Miguel and his future wellbeing, believing as she had that he was existing on a mere pittance and it was time that his selfish, wealthy nephew took care of him.

But it hadn’t been necessary. Miguel, had he been so minded, could have lived in luxury. She knew that now. Too late.

A blinding flash of insight had her digging her heels into the cool marble flooring and accusing, ‘As you’re so fond of calling the shots, why didn’t you just go ahead and arrange for your uncle to have a properly paid, decent housekeeper years ago? You pretend to care for him, so you could have done that. It took me, a total stranger, about ten minutes to realise he’s so wrapped up in his work he can’t be bothered about taking proper care of himself!’

She met his black gaze without flinching. She knew the answer—didn’t she just! He’d only muscled into his relative’s life now, taken over, because he believed—wrongly—that she was about to weasel her way into taking his inheritance. As if he weren’t already eye-wateringly wealthy in his own right! Greedy, or what?

He lifted his proud head, centuries of Spanish high breeding carved into the unforgettably handsome features. ‘You will moderate your tone and keep your skewed opinions to yourself while you are a guest in my home,’ he advised, as smooth and cold as glass.

He did not take personal attacks—especially not from a mouthy little madam who was no better than she should be. Seducing her away from her plans to get the naïve Miguel firmly in her clutches, the devious but necessary assignment he’d set himself, suddenly felt too far beneath his honourable nature to be contemplated. There had to be another way.

Acidly polite, he stepped ahead and suggested, ‘Perhaps we may proceed?’

Cringing at that put-down, Izzy followed, engulfed by frustration. He was really good at making out she was an ill-mannered boor—not fit to sully his splendid home, where he was insulated by fabulous wealth and had an army of servants to cater to his slightest whim. But then he was labouring under the misapprehension that she was some sleazy sort of career mistress—that, having failed with the oily banker, she’d set her sights on his uncle.

Time to set the record straight. Convince him that she wasn’t what he thought she was. A huge smile wreathed her expressive features as she imagined his grovelling apology—which she would consider and finally accept with dignity, giving herself the high moral ground for once!

On that cheering thought she pattered on, catching up with him as he flung open a door and stepped just inside the threshold of the loveliest room she’d ever set eyes on.

‘Wow!’ Her big eyes widened. Acres of luxurious white carpet, panelled walls painted a delicate misty primrose-yellow, tall windows with gauzy white drapes, a group of three comfy chairs upholstered in yellow silk placed around a low coffee table, bowls of beautifully arranged roses to perfume the air, and what looked like a fully stocked drinks cabinet.

Cayo dug his hands into the pockets of stylish chinos and drawled, ‘Your sitting room. The bedroom is through that door, with en suite bathroom, of course. I’ll leave you to relax and will see you at dinner.’