Housekeeper at His Command: The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire. Caroline Anderson
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seemed at ease. The only sign of his deeply unflattering opinion of her, and his stated intent to make her regret the day she’d been born if she didn’t do as he’d ordered, was the slight twisting of his sexy mouth whenever she tried to break the uncomfortable silence with some admittedly inane comment or other.
And then he put down his fruit knife, wiped fastidious fingers on one of the fine linen napkins she’d discovered at the bottom of a drawer and carefully laundered, leaned back in his chair and drawled, ‘I hear, Tio, that you are unwell?’ He raised an imperious silencing hand as Miguel, startled back into the here and now by that unwelcome reminder, opened his mouth to deny any such thing. ‘I intend to get all the facts from your doctor this afternoon. So any blustering denials you are preparing will be neither here nor there.’
Catching sight of Miguel’s quizzical glance, one brow raised in her direction above deep-set dark eyes, Izzy pinkened and confessed, ‘I thought I should mention it.’ She aimed an accusing stare at Cayo’s tough expression. ‘After all, you’ve been neglected for too long. Someone should take care of you and make sure you eat and rest properly.’
‘Something you do to perfection.’
The gentleness of her employer’s tone, the warmth of his smile made Izzy feel faint with relief. If his nephew had relayed the del Amos’ lies then he clearly hadn’t believed them.
She would have felt wretched if he had. She had grown fond of her old gentleman, impractical dreamer that he was; looking after him was like looking after an extra clever elderly babe in arms, and this time she hadn’t failed—in fact she’d made a success of her current job.
That empowering thought gave her the confidence to stand up from the table and address the brute sitting opposite. ‘I insist Miguel rests for an hour in the afternoon. Thank you for dropping by. I’ll see you out.’
The older man’s low, delighted chuckle had brought a dark, angry flush to his nephew’s fiercely handsome features, Izzy noted with immense satisfaction as he got to his feet, towering over her. Neatly sidestepping him, she led the way down the dingy staircase and through a narrow door that led into the tiny cobbled courtyard she longed to brighten with tubs of flowers. But she knew such a luxury was out of the question when money was so obviously tight. Which glaring fact gave her the resolution to turn and face the man as she reached the street door.
My, he was tall! Wishing she had the advantage of a pair of her highest high heels, now stowed away in the bottom of a cupboard in her small bedroom, she tipped back her head to meet his lethally contemptuous black eyes. She absolutely refused to let herself be intimidated by those powerfully muscled shoulders and chest, or wonder why the eye contact took her breath away and sent a frisson of unwelcome physical awareness shooting deep into her pelvis.
‘You obviously believe the worst of everyone,’ she stated, doing her best to get her breathing back on an even keel. ‘But ask yourself this—if I’m a greedy little scrubber, out for all I can get, why would I be wasting my time here with a man who’s as poor as a church mouse? What do you think I’m going to do? Steal his spoons? And, while we’re on the subject, you offered me money to make myself scarce, so you’ve obviously got some to spare. I suggest you use it to give your uncle an allowance—enough to make his existence a little less hand-to-mouth.’
In receipt of his abrupt, tight-lipped, non-verbal departure, Izzy banged the street door shut behind him and jumped up and down, hugging herself. She’d sent him packing with a flea in his ear! She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so alive!
The arrogant so-and-so had walked in, looking oh-so superior, and tried to make her leave because he believed lies. Naturally his sort would take the word of a wealthy banker over any denial that might come from a mere menial!
But she had refused to go. Just thinking of the utterly ridiculous payment she had demanded made her giggle. And—the icing on the cake—she had lectured him about his neglect of his uncle. With a bit of luck his conscience, if he had one—which was debatable, she conceded—just might move him in the direction of helping the poor old gentleman financially.
She had won the battle!
The fight was well and truly on, Cayo thought grimly as he left the doctor’s office, crossed Calle San Francisco Nueva and headed through the maze of narrow streets back towards Miguel’s humble dwelling. On two fronts.
Izzy Makepeace might think she was clever, pretending she was unaware that Miguel was an extremely wealthy man, but it was common knowledge that the absent-minded scholar was loaded. He had no interest in material comforts or possessions, and lived only for his painstaking work—information that would have been easy to pick up working for Señora del Amo, who was a notorious gossip and claimed to know everyone who was anyone and exactly what they were worth. A wealthy eccentric, a descendant of one of Spain’s oldest and most respected families, would certainly be worth talking about—even boasting, perhaps, of the business connection.
When Isabel Makepeace had failed to establish herself as a wealthy banker’s mistress she would have hung around the Topete area, where Miguel had his home. No believer in coincidence, he knew she must have planned on doing her best to get to meet the man she knew as a better-than-well-heeled elderly bachelor, grasping her opportunity when the poor old guy had collapsed virtually under her nose.
That she fully intended to get her claws into his naïve uncle and not let go had been proved a rock-solid fact when she’d answered his invitation to name her price with that ludicrously greedy demand.
She was after a lifetime of financial security. Make herself indispensable, Miss Sweetness and Light, then wheedle an offer of marriage from the wealthy old man and embark on the sort of high living that would leave his uncle floundering and hurt. He could think of no other reason for a mercenary harpie to work so hard for a pittance—and the evidence of the much improved state of his uncle’s home suggested that she did work hard.
His jaw hardened with steely determination. Tio Miguel could be exasperating, but he loved him. Far too much to stand by and see that scheming, greedy little blond pocket Venus ruin the years remaining to him and make him a laughing stock. He, Cayo Angel Garcia, would not stand by and see that happen.
And the news from Miguel’s doctor had been a wake-up call. The heart murmur of itself wasn’t too serious. But coupled with his neglected physical condition …
Guilt scored a line between winging black brows. True, he had lost count of the times he’d tried to persuade the elderly man to make his home at the castillo, where he could be well looked after. But after continuous polite refusal to take advantage of his nephew’s hospitality or to dismiss Benita, who’d been with him for years, Cayo had backed off, believing that every man had the right to live his life as he felt fit.
A mistake he deeply regretted.
One that wouldn’t be repeated. Liberal tolerance was now a thing of the past where his uncle’s wellbeing was concerned.
‘You work too hard,’ Miguel chided gently, finding Izzy in the kitchen ironing his shirts after rising from his siesta. ‘And, as Cayo pointed out, I pay you far too little.’ He shook his grey head, annoyed with himself. ‘I was unaware. I should think of things outside my narrow field of interest. I apologise. Cayo can be shortsighted and stubborn in some respects, I fear, but in this instance he is right. You must allow me to make amends. Will you tell me how excellent housekeepers should be financially rewarded? And by the same token tell me the modern-day cost of keeping a modest household such as ours running?’
Her soft mouth open, Izzy stared at her employer in shock. Not because he’d actually woken up to the fact that the cost of living had risen in the last twenty or so years, but because his brute of a nephew had actually pointed it out.
If he was so keen to rid his uncle of her contaminating presence, why had he asked what she was earning and given his opinion that it was far too little?
Unless, of course—her smooth brow furrowed—the information gained from his uncle had cemented his distrust of her into rock-hard certainty. He thought