Housekeeper at His Command: The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire. Caroline Anderson
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to tug at their forelocks and ask, Please, sir, how high, sir?
A slight sprain, that was all. The doctor had deftly bound the offending ankle, given instructions that she was to stay off it as much as possible for the remainder of the day, and then Cayo had slid the footstool beneath her foot and left with the elderly medic. Leaving her to stew in her self-declared mania. And fume.
Until: ‘We both missed breakfast.’
Izzy’s heart thumped wildly as Cayo entered the room, complete with loaded tray, and the simmering, sexy smile that increased her inner turmoil by rocket-propelled miles produced a self-protective snipe. ‘Do-it-yourself time, is it? No platoon of waiters and managers and fanfares—?’
‘Shut up.’
His dark eyes were liquid. Warm. Dressed now in a fresh, startlingly white shirt, and hip-hugging dark trousers that made his legs look endless, he was a menace to the female sex, Izzy accused mentally as she watched his lithe movements. He placed the tray on a low table by her side and swung a delicate gilded chair to place it within touching distance. There was a trite phrase, wasn’t there? ‘Poetry in motion’? Trite or not, it just about cut it.
She expelled a long sigh. One minute she’d been a bundle of fuming disgruntlement because he’d left her alone, and the moment he showed his face she went all unnecessary!
Pouring dark, fragrant coffee, Cayo handed her a cup. It rattled on the saucer as she took it. Poor scrap!
Leaving with the doctor, he’d done what he should have done days ago. Put through a call to Augustin del Amo. His tone had held threats that hadn’t needed to be voiced—because no one who had a thought for his future peace of mind refused to co-operate when Cayo Angel Garcia demanded it. He had quickly obtained the truth that lay behind Izzy’s summary dismissal from the household.
A truth he had been increasingly convinced of himself.
Now all he had to do was try to make amends.
He hooked a chair closer to the one she was using. Sat.
‘I have something to tell you, Izzy. And something to ask you.’
CHAPTER NINE
GRITTILY determined not to let him get his word in first, to sidetrack her, Izzy gulped down her coffee without tasting it. One second in his company was enough to knock her common sense clear over the boundary and scatter her resolve to the four winds, so the sooner she made her intentions known the better.
‘I’m leaving—can you get me back to Las Palomas, please?’ She practically babbled in her haste to get her self-protective, set-in-concrete decision voiced.
She didn’t look at him in case she turned to jelly, as she always did. She kept her eyes glued to the puppy, who was lying on his back, snoring, hoping the gods would be kind and help her find a job and a place to live where pets would be welcome.
‘So soon?’ Cayo disposed of his empty cup with care, one flaring ebony eyebrow lifting. ‘But you’ve seen nothing of the city,’ he pointed out mildly, wondering what had brought this on. ‘Madrid has much to offer.’
His narrowed dark-as-midnight eyes searched what he could see of her averted features. He learned nothing beyond the obvious: something had rattled her cage. It was the first time he had encountered a female he couldn’t immediately read like a tediously boring book.
Unless, of course, her ankle was still painful. That might explain her grouchy mood. Though he had been assured that the sprain was slight. Or maybe she thought—wrongly—that she was to be incarcerated in this room, with her foot stuck on a stool, for the duration of her visit to the capital.
Satisfied that he had found the answer with his usual incisiveness, he imparted, with the smoothness of silk, ‘You don’t have to spend all your time cooped up in a hotel room. We’ll hit the town later. You won’t be up to sightseeing or dancing the night away—not for twenty-four hours, anyway—but a superb meal and a glass or two of fine champagne in one of the city’s premier restaurants might put a smile back on your face. And it will give you the opportunity to try out something from your new Fornier wardrobe.’ It was the least he could do after what he had learned from the sleazy apology for a man Augustin del Amo.
The smile in his voice curved his mouth as he waited for her response, fully expecting to enjoy the radiance of her gorgeous smile as she accepted that invitation. Of course he wasn’t smug! The satisfaction he felt was down to confirming that he hadn’t lost his touch. He’d always been able to second-guess what other people were thinking—a knack that had proved its worth in gold in his business dealings.
Had he been standing, he’d have been rocked back on his heels when she turned her head and gave him a look overflowing with frustration and loathing, and bawled, ‘How shallow can you get?’
Telltale patches of hectic colour adorned her cheeks. She felt so wound up she was in danger of exploding. Did he think all she wanted to do was to flounce around in designer dresses and swill champagne? ‘I wasn’t talking about leaving this room! I meant your uncle’s employ, and possibly even Spain! Like now, or sooner!’ Her deep blue eyes were sparkling with tears of rage.
She’d screwed herself up to the point of accepting that she had to do the sensible, properly adult thing and remove herself from his dangerous presence—even though knowing she’d never see him again made her feel sick and empty inside—and his only and no doubt predictable response was to react as though she were the idiotic, empty-headed child he obviously thought she was, easily placated by the offer of a treat!
But he didn’t know how she felt, she admitted, subsiding, always the first to see the other side of a story. He didn’t know—couldn’t know—that she only had to set eyes on him to be wanting to rip his clothes off. And her own!
‘I see.’ Cayo’s eyes narrowed as he swiftly recovered from the shock of having been proved wrong. An event as rare as finding a lap-dancing nun! There had to be some kind of witchery about this lady, because she’d done the unthinkable and proved him wrong all along the line.
So she was definitely planning to walk away from her job as Miguel’s housekeeper-cum-companion? So why was his brain already formulating objections when seeing the back of her was what he’d been so desperate to achieve since he’d learned she was working for his uncle?
And why had the bellowed information immediately put him in direct opposition, just as diametrically determined to keep her around?
But wanting to see the back of her had been then. This was now, when he knew the truth, he rationalised. He had an international reputation for hard-nosed ruthlessness, but had always believed he was fair-minded. He didn’t want her to leave without some recompense for the hard time he’d given her when he’d taken the words of the banker and his wife at face value.
He couldn’t forget the way she’d set to and looked after Miguel, working hard for slave-labour wages just to see that an old man she thought was on the breadline was comfortable and cared for. That alone, in his book, demonstrated a rare generosity of spirit, and deserved reciprocal generosity on his part.
Relieved that he’d worked that out, and that his initial shattering reluctance to see her pack her bags and walk away had nothing to do with his regrettable difficulty in keeping his hands off her, he relaxed. Lust he could deal with. No problem. But his conscience wouldn’t let him see her leave before he’d made adequate recompense.
Swinging himself to his feet, he removed the breakfast tray. Neither of them had touched the fruit or the linen-wrapped hot crusty rolls. No matter. Eating was low on his list of priorities at the moment. She’d been loudly vehement in her stated desire to leave his uncle’s employ—‘now or sooner’.
He would change her mind. Tio Miguel would expect it of him. He would be vastly upset if she were to leave with no job to go to and nowhere to live, just her clothes bundled into a rucksack and a scruffy mutt on the end of a lead. Or so he excused his own bone-deep reluctance to