Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride. Sharon Kendrick
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gaze? He shook himself. Predatory? Over Natasha?
She was straightening up now, with a piece of yellow plastic held between her fingers, and the fabric fell loose away from where it had been moulded to the tight, high curve of her buttocks. And all Raffaele could think was why the hell had he never noticed that before?
‘You wouldn’t have wanted to have stepped on that with bare feet!’ she said triumphantly, and put it in her pocket as she marched out without a backwards glance.
Raffaele watched as she shut the door behind her, and suddenly there was Troy, sitting with some dumb, expectant grin on his face, looking at him as if he had found the key to the universe.
‘Well? What do you think, Raffaele? Isn’t this the answer to our predicament? Wouldn’t Natasha do?’
‘NO!’ RAFFAELE snapped back, in an icy voice. ‘Natasha would not do! She’s my housekeeper, for Dio’s sake!’
Outside the study door, the sound of her name halted Natasha right in her tracks and presented her with an age-old moral dilemma. Should she stay or should she go? Should she listen or not? But, surely, if they were talking about her didn’t she have every right to listen?
Heart thumping, and with misgivings which were making her forehead ice into a cold sweat, she put her head close to the door. Their voices were muffled, but she could make out certain words like unsuitable, inappropriate. And then something else, which ended with Raffaele saying, quite loudly and quite forcefully, ‘No one would ever believe it!’
And Troy’s response. ‘Why not ask her?’
She heard the sound of a chair being scraped back, and instinct made her move quickly away from her giveaway position. She hurried down to the kitchen, realising that time was tight if she wanted to have the cake made before she went out to collect Sam.
The radio was blaring as she changed her mind about lemon drizzle and instead made cupcakes, which she iced in lurid shades of green and blue, especially designed to appeal to small boys—and to hell with the additives!
Despite the apron she’d put on, she’d still managed to get splodges of cake mixture over her dress—and she was going to have to leave in a minute. She ran upstairs and changed into something warmer—because the autumn afternoons were beginning to bite.
She put on a pale blue sweater, which brought out the colour in her eyes, and a pair of old jeans Then she brushed her hair and wove it into its habitual French plait. Her fingers hesitated over the little tub of lipgloss which had been on special offer at the chemist back in the summer, and which some impulse had made her buy. She’d only used it a couple of times, and it didn’t really seem to be her, so she’d put the top back on and had never used it again.
So what was it that made her pick it up today? Did it have something to do with the way the two men had looked at her in the study—or rather the way they’d not looked at her? As if she was some old piece of furniture—reliably comfortable, but not something you’d want to show off to a guest.
Defiantly, she opened it and stroked on some of the strawberry-scented gloss. Perhaps some of her reluctance to dress up had come from knowing that she could never compete with the other mothers, who arrived at the school looking as if they’d stepped out of the pages of a glossy magazine. Maybe that was why she was always being mistaken for one of the nannies—though she had to admit that most of them made more of an effort than she did.
Outside, the late-afternoon sky was a clear blue and the trees were etched against it in startling relief. All the leaves were turning rich shades of bronze and toffee and gold and, in the distance, she thought she could smell the faint drift of smoke, which was unusual in London, though this area was exclusive enough to have gardens big enough to cope with bonfires.
Natasha was suddenly overcome with the sense of nostalgia which autumn always provoked. The end of the summer and the start of winter and soon Sam beginning full-time school. During no other season was she quite so aware of the passing of time as this, when the leaves began their dizzy spiralling dance to the ground below.
There were luxury cars in abundance parked in the streets near the school—most people had to travel from all over the capital to get there—and Natasha never forgot to count her blessings that she lived close enough to walk there.
She watched as the children began to file out in their rather old-fashioned uniform of knee-length shorts for the little boys and kilts for the girls, along with thick sweaters which looked like home-knits, and sturdy shoes and dark socks. Sam was excitedly anticipating the time when he would graduate to long trousers—like the ‘big’ boys at the middle school—and Natasha began to wonder how long she could let things continue like this. With Sam getting more and more used to the luxurious lifestyle which Raffaele could afford to give him. Was it time for her to start getting real? To live within her means?
‘Maman!’ Sam called as he came running over, his little friend in tow. ‘You’re wearing lipstick!’
‘Hello, darling—was it a French day today?’
‘You’re wearing lipstick!’ accused her son again.
‘Yes, I am—do you like it?’ She smiled down at Sam’s best friend. ‘Hello, Serge. How are you?’
‘Très bien, merci!’ replied Serge, with the solemn confidence learnt from his French diplomat father.
‘Well, that’s good,’ she replied, as the three of them began to walk the route home, which took them past the area’s best conker tree. ‘I’ve made monster cakes!’
‘Monster cakes?’ Serge frowned as Sam began to scoop up the shiny brown nuts. ‘But what are monster cakes?’
‘It means you turn into a monster if you eat them!’ chanted Sam. ‘Will Raffaele be there?’
‘He’s probably busy, darling—we’ll see.’
‘Oh!’
The boys played with their conkers in the garden and then came inside for supper. Because it was Friday, there was no homework, so she left them playing a complicated game with battleships. She was just wondering whether Raffaele wanted her to make him supper when she almost collided with him.
‘Just the person I wanted to see,’ he said grimly.
It didn’t sound that way. And why was he looking at her like that, with an expression on his face she had never seen before? The black eyes were brilliant and piercing and they narrowed as they swept over her, as if they were assessing her for something—but what?
Some kind of sixth sense set off a distant clamour which seemed to make Natasha acutely aware of the pulsing of her blood—as if something had just sprung to life within her. Alarmingly, she felt the tips of her breasts begin to rub against the rough lace of her bra and the corresponding flood of colour to her cheeks.
‘Well, here I am,’ she said.
But Raffaele wasn’t listening. He was struck by the way her cheeks were looking uncharacteristically pink—like the wild roses of summer. And by the way…the way…Madre di Dio, but this could not be happening!
Irresistibly, he found his gaze locked onto the luscious curve of her breasts, and he started wondering whether this was because of what had happened earlier—an awakening which had been triggered by something as simple as a woman bending down to pick up a toy. The sudden realisation that behind the guise of her unerring efficiency Natasha was a woman. A real flesh-and-blood one at that. He found that he wanted to cup his palms over those buttocks and bring her right up close against him.
‘Any more news about Elisabetta?’
Her question was like an icy bath on his senses, and he discovered that he had been guilty of some very impure thoughts, indeed—and that wasn’t on his agenda at all. He hardened his voice.