The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress. Emma Darcy
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vivacity, making the eyes that warred with his in flaming fury even brighter.
His abrupt appearance in front of her had shocked her into stillness, but it was the stillness of a tightly coiled spring, nerves twanging at the suppression of movement away from him. Her chin jerked up belligerently. The brown pill-box hat slid slightly from its perch on top of her head. He barely restrained himself from reaching up and straightening it for her. He wanted contact—intimate contact—with this woman.
‘Mr Cartwright…’ she bit out, obviously hating being trapped into this encounter.
He smiled, intent on pouring soothing balm over whatever was making her bristle in his presence. ‘Let’s make that Ethan.’
She sucked in a quick breath, her eyes flaring a denial of any familiarity between them. ‘Congratulations on your win,’ she said tersely. ‘I didn’t place a bet on your horse. As I told you before, I don’t gamble, so there’s nothing more to say, is there? We have nothing in common.’
Ethan was not about to let his feet be cut out from under him before he’d even started to make inroads on getting to know her. He turned his smile into an ironic grimace. ‘I need some assistance.’
She raised a disbelieving eyebrow, offering him no encouragement to spell it out.
‘That is your job, isn’t it? Assisting any of the guests here who have a problem?’ he pushed.
‘What is your problem, Mr Cartwright?’ she demanded, her eyes glinting open scepticism.
‘You are, Daisy Donahue.’
She frowned, her certainty that he had no problem shifting into a flicker of fear. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have the curious sensation that you’re shooting mental bullets at me all the time. I’d like you to tell me why.’
For a moment her face went totally blank, as though a switch had been thrown and defensive shutters had instantly clicked into place. He watched her labouring to construct an apologetic expression—a sheer act of will, against her natural grain. Her eyes took on a pleading look, begging his forgiveness. Her mouth softened into an appealing little smile. She spoke in a tone that mocked herself.
‘I’ve just had to deal with some trouble in the catering tent and it may cause more trouble. I’m sorry if I’ve channelled my own angst onto you, Mr Cartwright. I didn’t mean to attract your attention. In fact, you’ll be doing me a great favour if you’ll walk away from me right now. My boss won’t like it if she sees you talking to me.’
‘Surely as a guest I’m entitled to speak to whomever I like,’ he argued.
‘I’m not a guest and I’m taking up your time—time Miss Twiggley would prefer you to spend with her,’ she said pointedly.
‘I’ve said all I intend to say to Lynda Twiggley.’
‘That’s not my business. If I don’t stay clear of you, my job might very well be at risk. So please excuse me, Mr Cartwright.’
‘Be damned if I will!’ Frustration fumed through him. His hand snaked out and grabbed her arm as she turned away to escape him again. ‘This isn’t the Dark Ages!’ he shot out before she could voice a protest.
‘Oh, yes, it is!’ she retorted with blistering scorn, the defence system cracking wide open at being forcibly held. Wild hostility poured into wild accusation. ‘You’re acting like a feudal lord manhandling a servant girl who can’t fight back.’
The image was wrong. She could fight back. She was doing it with all her mental might. But for once in his life Ethan wanted to be a feudal lord, having his way with this woman. He knew he should release her yet his mind had lost all sense of civilised behaviour. Imposing this physical link with her was arousing a host of primitive feelings that demanded satisfaction.
‘You’re denying me the assistance I asked for,’ he argued.
‘With good reason,’ she hotly returned.
‘Nonsense! It’s totally unreasonable!’
‘What is the matter with you?’ she cried in exasperation. ‘Why bother with me when—?’
‘Because you bother me more than anyone here.’
‘What? Because I’m not seeking your attention? Are you so used to women hanging on your every word, your high and mighty ego is pricked by one who doesn’t?’
‘You did want my attention, Daisy Donahue,’ he slung back at her in burning certainty. ‘You were looking at me.’
She tried to explain it away, biting out the words with icy precision. ‘The model you were talking to had complained about coffee not having been served. I had intended to inform her it was on its way when I saw you with her.’ Her teeth were bared in a savagely mocking smile. ‘Mindful of my boss’s instructions and contrary to your arrogant assumption, I didn’t want to draw any more attention from you, Mr Cartwright.’
Ethan was not convinced. It wasn’t dismissal he’d felt coming from her. It had been a powerful bolt of passion aimed directly at him. It was still hitting him. His whole body was energised by it. His eyes derided her evasion of the truth as he attacked her reading of his character.
‘You can stick me with ego and arrogance as much as you like, but there’s more going on in your head than you’re telling me, and it has nothing to do with Lynda Twiggley’s instructions.’
‘What I think is my business,’ she whipped back.
‘Not when it involves me.’
Impasse.
She glared at him, the wheels of her mind going round and round in a fierce search for an exit line he might accept.
He wanted to drag her into his embrace and kiss her until all her resistance melted. Never had he been so aroused by a woman. For the first time in his life he was in total tune with the cavemen of old who simply hauled off the object of their desire and took their pleasure at will. Was it her hostility that excited him? Had he grown too bored with women who were only too eager in their compliance?
Intensity…the word leapt into his mind. That was what had been lacking in all his other connections with women. Daisy Donahue was transmitting it, hitting the same chord in him. Normally he channelled it into his work. It wasn’t a social asset. Intensity disturbed people. Too dark, Mickey said. But there was a dark side to Daisy Donahue, too, setting off a weird wave of exhilaration through his bloodstream. And a compulsion to explore it.
She dragged in a deep breath and tore her gaze from his, dropping it pointedly to the hand still grasping her arm. He softened his grip, rubbing his thumb along the underside of her wrist, finding the beat of her pulse, exulting in its rapid drumming.
She was excited, too.
Or was it fear?
‘I’m sorry I bothered you, Mr Cartwright,’ she said in a stilted little voice. Her beautifully feminine breasts lifted as she filled her lungs again. Her eyes met his in a plea that held a vulnerability he hadn’t seen before in her. ‘Please let me go.’
It made him feel like a cad for holding her against her will, yet he couldn’t bring himself to let her go. ‘You said we have nothing in common. I think we do, Daisy Donahue.’
She shook her head, agitation flickering into definite fear as she was distracted by something behind him.
‘Ah, Dee-Dee,’ came the smarmy voice of Lynda Twiggley who was obviously about to insinuate herself into the situation.
‘Miss Twiggley,’ she said in a shaky subservient tone as the woman stepped forward to part them.
It enfuriated Ethan that Daisy should feel it necessary to kowtow to her snaky employer. She was a natural-born fighter. It was wrong for her to be in this position.
‘Catering needs a prompt to