Mistress to a Millionaire

by Helen Brooks

  It was going to be a formidable summer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WAS an hour later and Angelica had taken Francesco away to the nursery suite for his bath and tea, and Daisy was alone in her own mini apartment next door. She was sitting just as Francesco and Angelica had left her some ten minutes before, quite overwhelmed by both the luxury and beauty of her rooms and the overall feeling that she was in way over her head.

  Francesco, true to his word, had taken her on a tour of the vast house with its four separate towers—east, west, north and south wings, he had informed her importantly—and from the windows she had seen the grounds stretched all around the house, with a magnificent swimming pool and tennis courts at the rear of the property.

  By the time they had returned to the west wing, where her rooms were situated, Daisy had been exhausted and her ribs had been aching badly, but it wasn’t her physical state which now had her limp and wide-eyed as she glanced round the small sitting room in which she was sitting.

  Her apartment was beautiful—as was the rest of the house—and a sense of unreality had gripped her at the wealth and power displayed so casually. Her rooms consisted of the sitting room, a large bedroom with a big double bed and fitted furniture and a separate walk-in wardrobe, and a very luxurious bathroom complete with Jacuzzi—and this was just for the hired help, she thought bemusedly.

  The blue colour scheme—reminiscent of bluebells and delphiniums which made it the warmest of blues—was toned with varying shades of violet and dusky pink, and she was at present sitting on a small, plumply upholstered sofa looking at a pair of armchairs on either side of a shining gate-leg table. The bed had a beautiful antique quilt thrown over it, with hyacinth-blue rugs on either side on the polished wood floor, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere—even in the bathroom—their fragrance permeating the rooms with memories of hot summer days.

  ‘This can’t be for me?’ Angelica had joined them on the tour and when Francesco had opened the door to Daisy’s suite Daisy had turned to the other girl with wide eyes.

  ‘Sì, sì. Isabella—she get ready.’ Angelica’s English was not a patch on her small charge’s. ‘It is beautiful, sì?’ Angelica had sighed almost reverently.

  ‘It certainly is.’

  And the rest of the house was even more magnificent, Daisy reflected now. Angelica had told her that Francesco’s mother had hired the very best interior decorators from Rome to oversee the total transformation of the house—Slade having given his wife a free hand—and that each wing had its own colour scheme.

  Certainly Francesco’s suite next door, with its pièce de résistance for any small boy—a bed in the shape of a Lamborghini sports car with working headlights—was quite unique, Daisy mused, and the small boy had everything he could possibly want materially. And yet… Her gaze stopped focusing on the lovely surroundings and went inward. Francesco wasn’t happy; in fact she felt he was a very troubled little boy. And that wasn’t surprising, she supposed, if his grandmother was spoiling him outrageously on the one hand and his father was ruling him with an iron hand on the other.

  Daisy sighed heavily and then forced all thought of Slade out of her mind as her heartbeat went haywire. No, she would not think of that kiss, she told herself stoutly. Not for a minute, not for a second. She had been incredibly stupid but she would be on her guard now, and if he made one move towards her—just one—she would pack her bags and disappear back to England before he could say Jack Robinson! Nanny did not spell mistress in her dictionary whatever the Italian version said.

  After taking a couple of the pills the doctor in England had prescribed for the pain in her damaged ribs, Daisy walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed, intending to shut her eyes for just a moment before she ran herself a long hot bath.

  She must have been more exhausted by the journey than she had thought, because when she next opened her eyes it was to the realisation that the brightness of the sunshine streaming through the big window had mellowed and Isabella was shaking her arm gently, a warm smile creasing the homely Italian woman’s plump face.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Daisy sat up quickly.

  ‘Is no problem, signorina, but the signore, he think you like the tea, sì?’ The housekeeper pointed to a tray containing a pot of tea and milk and sugar, along with a plateful of what appeared to be shortbread slices and another of wafer-thin sandwiches, which Isabella had placed on the bedside cabinet. ‘An’ he say the dinner at eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you.’ Daisy smiled at the friendly-faced woman but her brain was still too dazed with sleep to form the enquiry that was buzzing in the back of her mind in a tactful manner. She was here as an employee of Slade Eastwood—not a house guest—and yet both Isabella and Angelica seemed to be treating her as one. Did they realise she was a hired hand like them? she asked herself as the large plump figure dressed totally in black bustled from the room.

  But they must do. Of course they must, she reassured herself in the next moment. She was being over-touchy here. Slade had no doubt been thinking of her recent accident when he had suggested Isabella wait on her today—it was an act of kindness, nothing more. And both the women knew she was going to take over the care of Francesco when Angelica left.

  After drinking two cups of tea and eating several of the minute sandwiches—which were absolutely delicious—and three of the shortbread biscuits, Daisy padded through into the bathroom to run the bath she had promised herself earlier.

  She would soak in the wonderful Jacuzzi for half an hour or so and wash her hair, and then take her time getting ready for dinner. Dinner. She frowned suddenly. She should have asked Isabella if they ate in the kitchen or if Slade liked his household to eat with him in the smaller of the two dining rooms downstairs. The large one—which was all chandeliers and heavy antiques—she assumed was for formal dinners when Slade was entertaining.

  Oh, no matter. She shook her head at herself. She had a plain silk-jersey dress in rust-brown which had cost a bomb but was gorgeous and classless; she would team it with her strappy sandals and waist-length cashmere top and the whole outfit would dress up or dress down to whichever room they were in.

  She had unwound aching muscles and relaxed stiff limbs in the bath, washed her hair, and was just walking through to the bedroom clothed in her big fluffy towelling robe with her hair wrapped turban-fashion in a hand towel, when a knock, followed by Angelica’s voice, sounded outside.

  ‘Oh, scusi, signorina, scusi,’ Francesco’s nanny said as Daisy opened the door on to the landing. ‘You have the bath?’

  ‘It’s all right, Angelica, I’ve just finished,’ Daisy said pleasantly, ‘and please, call me Daisy. You wanted me for something?’ she added when the other girl didn’t speak.

  ‘Sì, signorina.’ Angelica’s smile was nervous but that seemed habitual with the pretty Italian girl who really seemed very unsure of herself. If Francesco’s maternal grandmother was anything like the picture Slade had painted of her, Daisy could understand Angelica would have been no match for the older woman. ‘It is the bambino, Francesco. He want—how you say?—he want the conversazione?’

  ‘Conversation? Oh, you mean he wants me to come and say goodnight?’ Daisy asked quickly.

  ‘Sì, sì, the goodnight,’ Angelica agreed. ‘He very tired, but he cry an’ cry. You come now?’ she asked a trifle desperately.

  ‘All right, Angelica.’ It was clear the other girl was harassed; no doubt the little monkey had been playing her up, Daisy thought wryly, and as Francesco’s suite was only next door—Angelica’s rooms being on the left and hers on the right of the nursery suite—it would only take her a moment or two to help Angelica by settling the little boy down. ‘I’ll come now.’

  Angelica’s thanks were heartfelt—indeed she didn’t seem that far away from tears—and as Daisy followed the Italian girl into Francesco’s bedroom she determined to take a firm hand with the little boy. It wouldn’t bode well for their future re
lationship if he got the impression he could manipulate her as easily as he obviously did Angelica, she told herself silently.

  However, her first sight of Slade’s son sitting up in the car bed clad in teddy-bear pyjamas and with his black curls damp about his small head tested her resolve. He looked so impossibly sweet and angelic that she just wanted to gather him up in her arms and love him, she told herself ruefully, before she shook her head slowly at him as she walked across the room.

  ‘I can hardly believe what I’ve been hearing,’ she said as soberly as she could manage when faced with the great big liquid eyes that resembled brown velvet. ‘Is it true that a big boy like you has been crying because he doesn’t want to go to sleep?’

  ‘I wasn’t crying because I didn’t want to go to sleep, Daisy, I was crying because I wanted to see you,’ Francesco said with disarming ingenuousness, before adding with a shy smile, ‘And Leonardo—’ Daisy had been introduced earlier to Francesco’s dearest possession—a dog-eared, semi-bald toy rabbit with the impressive name of Leonardo ‘—was crying because he wanted to say goodnight too.’

  ‘I see.’ It was the first night; she had all the time in the world to be firm and that could start tomorrow. ‘Do you think he will go to sleep like a good rabbit if I tell him a story?’ Daisy asked seriously. ‘Would that work?’

  The little head bobbed eagerly.

  ‘How about one concerning some of his relatives in England who live in a big forest?’ Daisy suggested softly.

  Even more fervent nodding.

  ‘Let’s get comfortable, then.’ Daisy settled herself by Francesco’s side as he made room in the bed for her, putting one arm round the little thin figure and drawing him into her tenderly as she began, ‘Once upon a time, Leonardo’s English cousin, who is called Bobtail, got into the most terrible fix…’

  She had always been good at making up stories—first for her two younger sisters and then for the children she had worked with—and now she weaved a tale that had Francesco all agog as he lay snuggled up beside her.

  She had just pronounced, ‘And Bobtail never went wandering off by himself again,’ and then kissed the sleepy little face which lifted up to her at the end of the story, when a deep voice shattered the peaceful atmosphere in the warm, shadowed room and brought Daisy’s head jerking round towards the door.

  ‘If I make enough fuss will I get a bedtime story too?’

  Slade was standing just behind her to one side of the bed. She hadn’t heard him enter the room and for such a big tall man he moved very quietly, Daisy told herself resentfully as her heart continued to race.

  ‘I always told my sisters a bedtime story when they were small,’ she said with as much dignity as she could muster considering the position she was in. Until this moment it hadn’t been a problem that she had nothing on under the robe, but now—in spite of the thick towelling folds—she felt as naked as the day she was born.

  She wanted to pull the belt tighter round her waist and adjust the lapels more securely over her breasts, but she just knew the black gaze would sense how she was feeling and so she restrained herself, merely rising to her feet very carefully, her cheeks pink.

  ‘Lucky sisters,’ murmured Slade softly, and then, his eyes going to his son, his countenance changed into father mode and he bent and ruffled the black curls before dropping a kiss on the small forehead. ‘Daisy is going to get ready for dinner now.’ The dark, glittering glance that swept over her for one moment made her feel acutely hot all over, and Daisy found she resented it bitterly. ‘So say goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight, Daisy.’ This was followed by a big yawn as Francesco wriggled deeper into the covers, Leonardo tucked under one small arm. ‘Thank you for my story.’

  ‘That’s all right, Francesco. Sleep well.’ Daisy’s voice and face were soft as she turned back to the child—something that was not lost on Slade as he took her arm and led her out of the room into the sitting room beyond where Angelica was sitting reading.

  ‘You can put the night light on now, Angelica,’ Slade said quietly as the girl jumped up at their entrance. ‘And no more drinks or visits to the bathroom or anything else to delay bedtime; he has to learn to do as he is told.’

  ‘Sì, signore,’ the Italian girl murmured nervously.

  Slade hadn’t checked his pace as he had spoken and once they were on the landing outside her rooms, the door to the nursery suite closed, Daisy stiffened her back for what was to follow. And then he completely took the wind out of her sails as he said quietly, ‘You handled him very well, Daisy.’

  ‘What?’ Her head jerked up in surprise.

  She looked at him to find him slanting a glance at her under half-closed lids, his dark face unreadable. ‘You find my opinion surprising?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘No—Yes—’ She took a deep breath and forced her brain into gear. ‘I got the impression you thought I wasn’t firm enough,’ she managed fairly coherently, and now she did pull the belt of the robe tighter. He looked very big and very dark standing there, his mouth slightly curved in a cynical smile—that same mouth that had kissed her just an hour or two before… No, no, she couldn’t think of that now, not with him so close and only a layer of thin towelling between her and nakedness.

  ‘Did you?’ he murmured thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing still more until they became slits of black light in the handsome face. ‘How strange. But then you don’t know me…yet, do you?’ he stated softly, the brief pause causing her toes to curl in her towelling mules.

  Oh, help. Considering she had been a married woman, borne a daughter, survived the holocaust of her baby’s death, Ronald’s treachery and a bitter divorce, she had never felt so naive and adolescent in all her life. But it was him, Slade Eastwood—he was unnerving. Was he flirting with her? She stared back at him, her honey-gold eyes betraying her confusion to the dark man watching her so intently. She wasn’t sure. She thought he was—especially after that scene in the drawing room earlier—but she wasn’t sure. He was so…foreign.

  Daisy took as deep a breath as her healing ribs allowed. ‘Look, Slade, I feel I need to make one thing perfectly clear,’ she said quickly before she lost her nerve. She was probably going to make an even bigger fool of herself than she had earlier—although that would be difficult, she reflected unhappily. ‘I…I’m here in the capacity of nanny for Francesco, aren’t I? Just that, nothing else.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ he returned with silky smoothness, his voice trickling over her overwrought nerves like warm cream. ‘I thought I had made it perfectly clear that I have Isabella and her husband who see to the running of the house and the grounds?’

  It wasn’t what she had meant and she had a feeling he had known quite well what she was trying to say.

  ‘Of course there are two women who come in to clean every week day, and Mario has a man who helps him with the gardens,’ Slade continued helpfully.

  She didn’t care about the two women and she didn’t care about Mario’s little helper either! Daisy gritted her teeth and swallowed hard as she warned herself not to rise to his bait. The swine knew exactly where she was coming from. ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ she said carefully as she felt herself flush still pinker.

  ‘No?’ Slade relaxed back against the far wall of the corridor, crossing muscled arms over his broad chest as he surveyed her easily from under dark brows. ‘What, exactly, did you mean, Daisy?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I meant…’ Oh, he was no gentleman, despite his outward good manners and polished urbanity, she told herself desperately. ‘I meant earlier— I don’t want you to think— Oh!’ The last was a furious little grunt and in the same moment she turned and wrenched open her door, shooting inside the room and closing the door behind her in one angry movement.

  She thought she heard a dark chuckle but she could have been wrong, and now she hurried across the outer room and into the bedroom, the towel falling from her damp hair as she lifted her hands to her burning cheeks.

  H
e was a pig, a real pig of a man! She paced up and down a few times and then stopped because it was hurting her ribs too much. She hated him, she really, really hated him—arrogant didn’t even begin to describe Slade Eastwood.

  She continued in the same vein until she ran out of adjectives and her temper began to die down, and it was then that she caught sight of herself in the big ornate arched mirror on the far wall.

  She looked awful! What on earth had happened to her hair? It was sticking up all over her head like a banshee’s! And her face was all shiny without any make-up…

  The next hour was spent in creaming and conditioning and painting and titivating, and at a quarter to eight, when Daisy prepared to leave the dubious security of her suite, she knew she looked her best. Not that she wanted to look her best for Slade Eastwood, she told herself firmly as she stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her. Of course she didn’t! But neither did she want to give him the idea that he had hired someone the cat wouldn’t deign to be seen dragging in either.

  The stairs seemed endless as she picked her way downwards with respect for her precariously high-heeled strappy sandals—the last thing she needed was a headlong dive to complete what had been a far from perfect day, she thought caustically—and once in the vast hall she stood for a moment, unsure of where she should be.

  ‘Don’t tell me you are that rare and precious thing—a woman who knows how to tell the time?’

  He had done it again—materialised out of thin air, Daisy thought irritably as she turned at the sound of Slade’s voice behind her, but then she took a long, silent breath and called on all her resources before she was able to answer in a fairly offhand voice, ‘I hate unpunctuality.’

  Slade had dressed up—black dinner-jacket and tie—and the formal clothes took his dangerous attractiveness to another dimension. But attractiveness didn’t even begin to describe the dark magnetism that oozed out of every pore and cell of that lean body, Daisy admitted with reluctant honesty. He was powerful, controlled, virile, threatening—the list was endless—and she should never have agreed to leave England and come to this little corner of the globe where he was master.