The Australian's Housekeeper Bride

by Armstrong, Lindsay

  LINDSAY ARMSTRONG

  The Australian’s Housekeeper Bride

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Prologue

  Rhiannon Fairfax shared a taxi one day with a man to die for. She was twenty-two at the time.

  It was during a massive Sydney thunderstorm and it was to prove a memorable ride.

  They met on a rain-drenched pavement in the city. He had an umbrella, she was smothered in a bright yellow hooded plastic raincoat. He’d been there first, but when she and a taxi arrived almost simultaneously she wiped the rain out of her eyes and asked him above the din of the downpour if they could share it. Because her other options appeared to include being washed away and she was also running late.

  He agreed and they went through the awkward business of getting his umbrella down and getting themselves into the taxi while the driver grumbled about them flooding the back seat.

  ‘Phew!’ Rhiannon pushed her hood back, uncovering a navy beret pulled down over her ears with all her hair tucked up into it. She didn’t normally wear it like that but she was cold and that was the only way she could keep it on under the hood. ‘What a day!’

  Her companion regarded her quizzically. ‘At least you’re dressed for it.’

  She fingered the beret and grimaced. ‘Warmth and dryness take precedence over looks at the moment. So where are you headed?’

  He told her and they consulted the driver and worked out that he would be dropped off first.

  Then she sat back as the taxi, its windscreen wipers working overtime, pulled out into the slick grey canyon of the street and she looked at her companion properly for the first time.

  Rhiannon’s eyebrows rose slowly, almost until they were touching the beret, as she took him in. Tall, dark and handsome multiplied by a factor of ten summed it up, she decided. Thick dark hair, deep blue eyes, slightly hollow cheeks and aquiline features that gave him an aloof air, broad shoulders beneath the jacket of a superbly tailored though now damp charcoal suit…

  He looked to be in his early thirties. He looked—she tried to sum it up—the embodiment of someone who wielded power in a boardroom. Yet there was a tantalising aura of a man who would be good at other things.

  What things, she wondered? And how had she got that impression? From his physique, his long, strong hands, his tan?

  Then she realised he was returning her gaze enigmatically.

  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured with a rueful little smile, ‘but you must be used to it.’

  His lips twisted. ‘I could probably say the same for you, except there’s not a lot to see.’ His gaze drifted down the voluminous raincoat that fell almost to her feet.

  She wasn’t sure why she felt so chatty with a perfect stranger, except for the fact that her life had taken an upward turn only about half an hour ago. ‘I suppose you’re very much spoken for?’

  He settled those impressive shoulders against the seat. ‘I’m not, as it happens.

  I’m actually sworn off being “spoken for” at the moment and possibly the duration.’

  ‘Oh, dear, what a shame.’ Rhiannon eyed him concernedly. ‘If you’re serious?’

  For a fleeting moment his mouth hardened then he shrugged and turned the question. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Actually,’ Rhiannon looked away and pleated the yellow plastic of her raincoat, unaware of the air of vulnerability that overcame her, ‘I’m pretty sure I’m sworn off men for life.’

  He watched her busy fingers. ‘How come?’

  ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’ She made a determined effort not to go down that road again. ‘So what were we talking about before?’

  He looked into her sparkling brown eyes. ‘I was trying to pay you a compliment in return for the one you paid me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I’m a ten,’ she replied, ‘but I do have some good points.

  My figure’s not bad, I’m actually a natural blonde under this thing,’ she pointed to her beret, ‘if you go for them—but if there’s one thing I’m sinfully proud of maybe, it’s my legs.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Why sinfully?’

  ‘Legs is as legs does,’ she recited and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘It’s your soul that counts.’

  ‘Let me guess, the preaching of your convent school?’ he hazarded.

  Rhiannon laughed. ‘In my last year at my convent school, my Mother Superior was convinced my legs were going to lead me on a downward path. On the other hand, my next school took a different view. They were of the opinion they were a great asset.’

  ‘Next school?’ He frowned.

  ‘I had a rather extended education,’ she said quickly.

  ‘If I could see your legs, I might be able to—settle the dispute. That is,’ his deep blue eyes were grave but not so grave as to hide the wicked little glint in them, ‘advise you whether it’s sinful to be proud of them or not.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘if nothing else I think we should take the driver’s sensibilities into account, don’t you?’

  They’d left the city and were driving down a dripping, classy, tree-lined street in Woollahra, her companion’s destination. When the driver didn’t respond, it was only because, as they realised moments later, he’d lost control of the taxi as it planed through a sea of water.

  They mounted the pavement and hit a tree. They bounced off the tree and crunched through a fence behind it and came to rest precariously at the top of a rocky incline that led down to a park.

  The next few minutes were chaotic. The passengers discovered themselves to be uninjured but the driver was knocked out. How long they would balance at the angle at which they were tilted was a moot point.

  So they scrambled out into the rain, used a mobile phone to call for help and began to get the driver out before the car rolled down the incline.

  It was no easy task. The impact had buckled the driver’s door and, had Rhiannon’s companion not been very strong but also extremely quick-thinking and resourceful, they’d have lost the driver and his taxi down the rocks.

  They laid him on the grass, still out cold, on a waterproof sheet they’d found in the boot and Rhiannon ripped off her raincoat and covered him with it.

  They were both, by this time, muddy, scratched, dirty and soaked.

  The taxi settled then quite slowly slid down the rocks to bury its nose in the park.

  ‘Thank heavens we got him out!’ she breathed. ‘Are you all right? You’ve cut your hand and you’ve ruined your jacket.’

  ‘I’m OK. I—Ah!’ They both turned at the sound of sirens and in short order a police car and an ambulance arrived. Before long they’d been reassured that the taxi driver was not seriously injured.

  By the time they’d both given their details to the police, Rhiannon to a policewoman who’d taken pity on her and invited her into the police car, Rhiannon was aware she was running very late so she explained her situation to the policewoman and asked her to call another taxi.

  It came almost immediately, a miracle on a day like that, probably something to do with being summoned by the police.

  She climbed out of the police car and the man she’d shared the first taxi with turned to her, having given his details to the second police officer.

  ‘Would you like to share it?’ she asked. ‘Unfortunately I’m running terribly late now, so—but…’ She hesitated with real anxiety written large in her eyes.

  ‘Thank you, no. I’m nearly the
re so I’ll walk.’

  ‘Well, let me pay my share of the first ride, not that I have any idea what it is, but—’ She flicked her purse open.

  He closed his uncut hand over hers. ‘It’s on me and I won’t take no for an answer.’

  She looked down at the lean, tanned hand over hers and felt an unmistakable frisson run through her.

  She tore her gaze away and looked up into his eyes.

  ‘As for your legs,’ he said, and flicked a dark blue look down her short tight skirt to her feet, ‘you’re right, they’re sensational.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ she protested, going pink.

  ‘No, of course not, you simply drew my attention to them.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m not complaining about that at all.’

  She blushed more vividly and he smiled at her, suddenly and unexpectedly, such a breathtakingly, purely wicked masculine smile it put her into a worse fluster.

  ‘Well, good-goodbye, then,’ she stammered. ‘I do have to dash.’

  He waited as she stood rooted to the spot for a moment before shaking herself and scrambling into the second taxi.

  When she got home she rushed in but her father was exactly where she’d left him, watching television.

  She heaved a sigh of relief, kissed the top of his head and went away to shower and change.

  The sight that greeted her in her bedroom mirror caused her to close her eyes in frustration. She’d forgotten about the wretched beret she was wearing pulled down to her ears and for a moment she almost didn’t recognise herself. It certainly was about as un-flattering a frame for her face as she could think of.

  She ripped it off and her silky fair hair made a much better frame. Still, how mortifying to meet a man to die for looking like that?

  Then the irony of it all claimed her. If anyone had reason to be turned off men, she did. So what had happened to her in the taxi?

  Chapter 2

  Four years later it was an older and wiser Rhiannon Fairfax who found herself staring wide-eyed at a man in an airport lounge.

  Her flight was delayed and she was feeling bored and restless.

  He was, she supposed, a striking example of the male species. He was tall and dark and she got a glimpse of aquiline features. His physique was superb, wide-shouldered and sleek-hipped beneath designer jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket that shouted expense and quality craftsmanship.

  He was the man she’d shared a taxi with four years ago, she was sure!

  He had someone with him, almost as eye-catching as he was; a woman, tall, slim, dark and expensive-looking. She spoilt it with a slightly submissive air as she received what was obviously a string of instructions from him.

  Then his briefing came to an end and he turned more towards Rhiannon and smiled, suddenly and unexpectedly, at the woman he was with. She blushed and looked for an instant as if she’d been transported to heaven, before taking her departure.

  If there’d been any doubt in Rhiannon’s mind, that smile banished it

  But that was when he lifted his head and surveyed the crowded lounge with the smile gone.

  She caught her breath at how well she remembered his dark blue eyes and that aloof air—although today it was more than that. He had the air of a man who took what he wanted when he wanted it and damn the consequences…

  All the same, she felt herself smiling at the memory of that rain-soaked taxi trip.

  Then she realised he was looking at her, and for a long moment she was flustered into immobility with the smile still etched on her lips.

  He took his time as he examined her short though stylish fair hair, her figure beneath her grey, severely tailored trouser suit worn with a black blouse. It was such a long, slow assessment and so intimate, she broke out in goose-pimples.

  Then he looked back into her eyes and, with a shrug, turned away.

  Rhiannon felt herself blush vividly.

  He obviously hadn’t recognised her—perhaps it wasn’t so surprising without that dreadful beret. But did she look like the kind of girl who made tacit passes at men?

  She bit her lip suddenly. She’d certainly pursued an unusual line of conversation with a strange man in a taxi…

  She was still smarting when the flight was called and she boarded economy class while her perfectly arrogant stranger disappeared into business class.

  She tried to comfort herself with the thought that he probably had some short-comings like an unmasculine sort of vanity—it didn’t altogether work but, by the time the flight landed on the Gold Coast, most of her equilibrium had been restored.

  She’d spent the last half-hour concentrating on her new position. Put plainly, she was a housekeeper. Put more accurately, she specialised in putting her skills to work for the rich, and sometimes the famous, for short stints while she reorganized their households to maximum efficiency and style; or in some cases for a special event.

  This wasn’t what she’d set out to do with her life. For most of her childhood she’d been rich and her parents had been famous. Then it had all fallen apart, she’d lost her mother and been forced to make a living.

  It had occurred to her that her time at an expensive finishing-school in Switzerland could be put to better use than its original purpose of “finishing”

  her to take her place in society.

  The result was that now, at twenty-six, she had her own one-woman agency that specialised in passing her expertise in house management, style, cuisine—she was a passionate cook—on to others.

  She rarely accepted assignments that were longer than a month. This one would be for that duration and she would be extremely well paid for it. She’d learnt not to sell herself cheap.

  The assignment, the one she was flying to the Gold Coast for, was an interesting one.

  Southall, the present family seat of the Richardsons, was a vast country mansion perched on the scenic rim of the Gold Coast. The Richardson family owned large tracts of Queensland grazing country as well as cattle stations in West Australia and the Northern Territory.

  It was an old family and an extremely wealthy one. And as its grazing empire had expanded, Southall, rural but with the advantage of being close to the coast, had been chosen as the family headquarters.

  That had been in Ross and Margaret Richardson’s time.

  Then Margaret had died five years ago and Ross had remarried fairly swiftly, a woman young enough to be his daughter—Rhiannon knew this from the gossip columns. Ross had taken his second wife, Andrea Comero, a model, to the south of France to live. He’d handed over the reins to his elder son, Lee, who was unmarried. Ross had died less than a year ago.

  Both his sons had been unmarried at the time of Ross’s second marriage but the younger son, Matthew, had since made the trip to the altar with a gorgeous television starlet, Mary Wiseman. After a six-month honeymoon touring the world he had brought his bride to Southall.

  Again, Rhiannon had gleaned this from the gossip columns but, while Margaret and Ross Richardson had been household names and faces, while Matt Richardson’s marriage had achieved quite a bit of publicity, while Andrea Comero had been a well-known face, Rhiannon knew nothing at all about the elder son, Lee.

  It was on Lee’s behalf, however, that Rhiannon’s services had been sought by his PA. With great diplomacy she’d been given to understand that Mary Richardson née Wiseman, in her early twenties, was not au fait with running a large household.

  She was, however, said to wish to return to Southall its reputation for providing great food, wonderfully comfortable beds and always interesting company that it had held in Margaret Richardson’s day.

  Where Lee Richardson himself came into it all, Rhiannon had no idea. Still, it was none of her business if he wanted his younger brother’s wife to take over Southall. It was Rhiannon’s windfall, in fact.

  Rhiannon collected her luggage from the airport carousel then presented herself at the information desk, as she’d been instructed to do.

  She was just about to
give her name to one of the clerks, when a deep, husky voice beside her asked another clerk whether a Rhiannon Fairfax had made herself known to them.

  She shut her mouth and turned to the speaker, only to stop as if shot. It was none other than the man from the taxi, the man who’d obviously mistaken the way she’d been looking and smiling at him in the airport lounge before the flight.

  Her abrupt movement caught his eye, and he turned to her. Their gazes clashed.

  ‘Well, well,’ he drawled, ‘if it isn’t the lady who was trying to come on to me in Sydney, although “lady” may not be perfectly apt.’ His gaze swept downwards.

  Rhiannon opened her mouth a couple of times but nothing came out. Then she took hold and said icily, ‘I was not trying to “come on to you”, I would scorn,’ her eyes flashed, ‘to do that.’

  ‘Could have fooled me, ma’am.’ But he frowned suddenly.

  ‘The thing is,’ she persisted through her teeth, ‘I happen to be Rhiannon Fairfax.’

  Those rather amazing dark blue eyes narrowed. ‘Now, that,’ he said softly, ‘should be really interesting, Ms Fairfax.’

  ‘On the contrary—’

  He overrode her smoothly. ‘Because I happen to be Lee Richardson, your—’ he let the word hang in the air ‘—employer.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was a singularly ineffective response, Rhiannon was uncomfortably aware, but it was all she was capable of at the time.

  ‘Mmm…’ he agreed with a lightening look of wicked amusement. ‘Perhaps you should bear in mind that life can be littered with coincidences before you eyes—’

  ‘Don’t go on,’ she interrupted, ‘unless you’d like me to turn around and go straight back to Sydney?’

  ‘I’m afraid you can’t, ma’am,’ said one of the wildly interested clerks who’d been following the exchange word for word. ‘The last flight left half an hour ago.’

  ‘I can spend the night in a motel, then—’

  ‘You can’t,’ Lee Richardson said, ‘because—’

  ‘Will you both stop telling me what I can’t do?’ She eyed him and the clerk with exasperation.