Housekeeper at His Command: The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire. Caroline Anderson
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dropped it again.
Getting sharply to his feet, he incised, ‘As the meal was not to your liking and is now cold you must help yourself to coffee and rolls. I’ll see you in the morning. As I said, there are things to discuss.’ And he left with as much haste as his condition would allow to seek a long cold shower.
She had her wish, Izzy acknowledged, stunned by his abrupt and curt departure. He was seeking his own suite and no doubt locking the door! So why did it feel as if she’d been drenched with a bucket of freezing water?
He’d probably legged it because she’d been looking at him as if he were a juicy steak and she was starving, she admitted with deep embarrassment. Around him, especially when he was being okay and not calling her names or threatening her with goodness knew what because he thought she was after his uncle’s money, she couldn’t help herself.
Feeling drained and ridiculous, she wandered over to pour herself a cup of coffee, and sat to await the puppy’s return.
The only sensible thing to do was to take herself off, out of his orbit, and find work, hopefully with accommodation thrown in. Some place where a small puppy would be tolerated.
He’d said there were things they had to discuss. Well, her departure, as soon as possible, would be top of the list.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE second of his two tiresome but apparently necessary business calls returned and completed, Cayo crossed to the bank of tall windows and flung them wide open. At this time of year Madrid sweltered beneath an unforgiving brassy sun, sending those Madrileños who could heading for cooler coastal or mountain climes.
But this early in the morning the temperature was bearable, and he filled his lungs with the last of the cool air he could expect to enjoy today, looking with wry affection out over the rooftops of the uncompromisingly modern city. Big and busy, it offered its fair share of culture in the form of museums, theatres and opera. And the rare treasures of the Royal Palace and its elegant parks, and sophisticated entertainment such as nightclubs and restaurants were second to none.
A consumer’s paradise, and a rich feeding ground for the likes of gold-diggers—as he’d first named his uncle’s housekeeper.
Unfairly blackening her character?
Maybe.
Almost certainly.
The thought did nothing to make him feel good about himself.
A few days—a week if he stretched it—of allowing Izzy Makepeace to wallow in the best the city had to offer, showing her that at his side the world was her oyster, or could be, was now unthinkable. At least not for the reasons that had led to his initial plan.
But as a way of making amends it was doable. Right. That was if he had anything to make amends for.
He couldn’t remember a single time in all of his thirty-three years when he had fallen prey to indecision. He weighed up known facts and made up his mind. And that was that. No ifs and buts.
But in Izzy’s case he damn well wasn’t sure. He’d lain awake half the night reviewing the known and conflicting facts, and still, to his chagrin, he hadn’t reached a rock-solid unarguable conclusion.
Was she, as the events of the last twenty-four hours would appear to suggest, innocent of all he had mentally and verbally accused her of being? Or was she just diabolically clever and a remarkably fine actress into the bargain?
Only time would tell.
Despising himself for what in others he would have named a deplorable weakness of character—an unprecedented and decidedly uncomfortable emotion, and one he wasn’t prepared to live with for much longer—he flung open the connecting doors to her suite. They would continue the discussion he’d aborted the previous evening, and he would winkle out as many facts about her as he could.
He stood, straddle-legged, on the threshold of her suite. Of what looked like her empty suite, he noted scowlingly.
He called her name. It hung, unanswered, on the still air.
Last night she had approached him with a warm and gorgeous smile that could prove to be an unwary man’s downfall, her hand outstretched in invitation. Inviting him to coo over her new pet! The naïve action of an innocent, or a calculated prelude to something far more earthy?
Madre de Dios! All he’d wanted to do, burned to do, was to sweep her into his arms and strip away the silky robe, revealing himself to be as excited as a kid tearing the wrappings from a wickedly tempting package on Christmas morning!
Recognising danger came instinctively to him. He’d made some brusque remark and left her. Likewise, earlier, when he’d escorted her back to her suite, he’d been drawn into the sudden sultry mystery of her eyes and felt himself to be drowning, wanting to explore the mystery, draw her to him, taste her, know her.
Thankfully he’d had the strength of mind to distance himself smartly from temptation, because on the one hand he didn’t make love to greedy tramps and on the other he didn’t seduce an innocent—especially an innocent he’d already wronged.
Either way, Izzy Makepeace was strictly out of bounds! And this morning they had things to discuss. She knew that. He’d made it plain. He vented an expletive beneath his breath. When he made arrangements he expected them to be adhered to—to the letter!
That had to be why this almost frantic sense of frustration was claiming him after a search of the entire suite revealed nothing. Apart from the empty dog bed, and the neatly stacked Fornier boxes that had the air of rejection about them, Izzy might never have been anywhere near these rooms.
He ran lean fingers through his midnight hair, his scowl deepening as he reached for the phone and dialed down to the manager—to learn that the Señorita had been seen walking the small dog in the grounds of the hotel. Early. About an hour ago, or maybe longer.
An hour!
The hotel grounds were beautifully tended, tranquil, but nowhere near extensive enough to hold her interest for an hour or possibly more. Had she grown bored and set off into the city with that ridiculous puppy? Totally forgetting that he would be expecting her to be in her suite, waiting for him to join her?
Just another aspect of her thoughtless behaviour.
His features set in grim lines. On the whole, Madrid was a relatively safe place, but there were areas of the city where it was definitely unsafe for a lone female to venture. And this lone, sexy female wouldn’t have a clue as to where she was going. She barely spoke half a dozen words of the language, and those in an accent so excruciating as to be unintelligible.
His heart was pumping fit to burst out of his chest as he brushed past a startled waiter and bounded through the wide French windows onto the terrace a scant four minutes later.
Nothing. A couple of early risers drinking coffee at one of the terrace tables. The sweep of emerald-green lawn beyond, empty of any strolling, lush little lady with a ragged, stumpy-legged dog on a lead.
Unless …
His long, loose-limbed stride took him over the immaculate grass in double-quick time, past a stand of oleanders towards the walled perimeter, where a deep belt of parasol pines cast welcome shade and filtered out the noise of traffic.
If she wasn’t down here he would have to scour the city streets, and when he found her he would take a great deal of pleasure in wringing her little neck for doling out such unacceptable measures of anxiety!
After the glare of the sunlight the shade was dark as Hades, and he allowed his eyes a few moments to adjust before he strode deeper, calling her name with growing irritation. He swallowed a full-throated, anger-filled roar as a small, sparsely-haired missile hurled itself at him, stubby legs working overtime, lead trailing, and fixed him with bright beady eyes, the tail wagging the body.
Gritting his teeth, Cayo bent to grab the lead. Where the mutt was, its owner wouldn’t be far away.