Housekeeper at His Command: The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire. Caroline Anderson
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for turning his son into a stranger to emotion, and that, in her book, made Cayo Angel Garcia a desperately poor man.
And she knew in that moment that she loved him.
Blinking back the annoyance of fresh tears, her heart hurting, she reached out a hand and touched the side of his extravagantly handsome face in an instinctive gesture of compassion.
She heard the catch of his breath. And then his lean, finely boned hands cupped her face, his long fingers splaying in her hair as he brought his dark head down to hers, his lips claiming hers with scorching demand, sending rivers of fire right down to her toes. The level of response she gave back to him as she greedily accepted the plundering of his tongue shocked her by its wild intensity.
His hands were on either side of her head, their hungry lips the only point of contact, and Izzy whimpered deep in her throat with the driving need for so very much more. She found her hands splayed against the breadth of his chest, touching him, and the erotic heat of him sent her out of her mind with need, with craving, with love …
CHAPTER TEN
THE COOL mountain breeze gave welcome relief from the midday heat that was baking the inner courtyard. But out here, beyond the massive castle walls, it danced amongst the high meadow flowers and carried the refreshing scent of pine. And if she closed her eyes Izzy was sure she could smell the sea which, so Miguel had told her, lay beyond the crumpled mountains of western Andalucia.
Dominating the limestone plateau, Las Palomas had to be the most beautiful place in the whole of Spain, Izzy decided as she watched Benji chase his tail in the long seeding grasses.
The little dog had improved almost beyond recognition since she’d found him cowering in that Madrid doorway. His once pitifully thin body was growing strong and sturdy, the mangy coat thicker and sleeker.
Izzy’s smile was wistful.
The only opportunity she had to spend quality time with the rescued stray now was when she brought him out here to use up some of his boundless energy. The rest of the time he stuck to Miguel closer than Velcro. It was amazing how the pup and the elderly man had taken one look at each other and formed an immediate mutual admiration society.
Once, only half joking, she had told Miguel, ‘Know something? I’m really jealous! The way Benji’s taken to you puts my nose right out of joint!’
The elderly man had simply said, ‘Look on the mutual devotion as a bonus. If you insist on leaving me and this beautiful place, and if Cayo insists on finding you paid employment—I guess it will be something truly exciting, like chambermaiding and a nice little room in an attic, if any of his hotels have attics, that is—then you will be pleased to know that your little stray has a happy and secure home here with me. Because, you see, my nephew was right. He always is, of course—and woe betide anyone who tries to tell him differently! I’ve decided to stay here permanently.’
That was the sensible way of looking at the situation, Izzy knew. Stupid to feel hurt because on learning of her decision to give up her job as his totally unnecessary companion her old gentleman had merely raised one brow, smiled what she had privately thought a suspiciously secret sort of smile and said, ‘I see.’ Not once had he tried to persuade her to change her mind. And there’d been a marked touch of unusual sarcasm in his voice when he’d mentioned chambermaiding and attics in the same breath!
Stupid to feel hurt. So she wouldn’t. She would be sensible. Just as sensible as she’d been ever since Cayo had brought her back to Las Palomas five days ago. Then disappeared.
‘Business,’ Miguel had said, waving a languid, dismissive hand. ‘The man doesn’t know how to relax. But he’ll be back for the Summer Ball.’
Which was today.
A huge marquee had been erected on one of the fastidiously tended sweeping lawns, and there tenant farmers and the inhabitants of the two sleepy villages which formed part of the vast Las Palomas property would be entertained with flamenco, dancing to a string quartet, and enough food and drink to keep an army going for a month.
Strings of coloured lights festooned the castle walls and every tree and fountain, just waiting for darkness to fall. The kitchens were a hive of activity as the chef and his helpers started preparing the banquet for the company of VIP guests and their wives and partners, who would apparently be arriving any time now to stay overnight, because she’d heard that the dancing would go on until dawn.
And there was still no sign of Cayo.
She chewed on a corner of her lower lip as she watched Benji chase a butterfly. She was being sensible about the future, and her departure from this lovely place, so she could congratulate herself. She was being adult about what had happened, too, she decided, feeling glum.
She’d fallen in love with Cayo—which was a silly thing to do, but she wasn’t going to let herself obsess about it. Of course not. She’d get over it, given time. And so what if that kiss had given her a taste of rapture she was sure she would never experience again? She’d get over that, too. Maybe even forget it had ever happened.
Given time.
And time was what she’d had ever since he’d disappeared without so much as a, see you.
Time to think. About the way he’d broken that kiss as cataclysmically as he’d started it. Stepping away from her. Apologising! Looking as stiff and granite-faced as a carved effigy before snapping round on his heels and stalking away. Leaving her shuddering with the aftermath of exquisite physical sensation and the earth-shattering revelation of having fallen head over heels in love.
Lunch had been served in the sitting room of her suite that day, and he’d acted as though nothing had happened. The perfect, ultra-considerate gentleman. She’d been disorientated by his annoying behaviour—she’d so wanted him to kiss her again, and he had behaved as if she were a kid sister, leaving her wanting to jump up and slap him. And all of that had been mixed up with the truly awesome bombshell of really falling in love, ensuring that she’d gone along with every last one of his suggestions.
That she allow him to show her something of the city, as formerly arranged. That Miguel’s gift of the Fornier wardrobe be accepted, and that she spend some time at Las Palomas with his uncle while he sorted out a suitable occupation and affordable accommodation for her.
All commendably sensible.
And during the days that had followed, as he’d escorted her around Madrid’s highspots, he had been the perfect companion—knowledgeable, kind, considerate. Only once, when he’d announced that they’d be dining out and going on to some classy-sounding nightclub, and she’d worn a silky little scarlet Fornier creation, had he taken one glance in her direction and looked as pained as if a hornet had taken a bite out of him. It had left her agonising over whether he’d looked like that because she looked tarty, wondering if the clinging dress was too short, showing too much cleavage to be acceptable in polite society.
She’d noticed that he hadn’t really looked at her again, and when they’d hit the nightclub he’d suggested they leave almost immediately. He hadn’t said one word to her on the short drive back to the hotel.
But apart from that Cayo’s behaviour couldn’t be faulted. So why had she swung between feeling dizzy with love for him and feeling so frustrated and miserable she could have screamed?
He had to be deeply ashamed of having kissed her, really regretted it, and was horrified by her more than merely enthusiastic response, she decided. She was deeply mortified as she recalled the way she had clung, squirmed and wriggled against his hard, lean body, as if she could never get close enough until she’d fused their bodies together.
Her hands had taken on a life of their own, touching, revelling in the strongly boned and muscled breadth of his shoulders, the smooth outline of his body where it narrowed to his taut, flat waist, and then moving up again like a heat-seeking missile so that her fingers could tangle in the midnight softness of his hair.
Her face flaming scarlet with humiliation,