Mistress to a Millionaire

by Helen Brooks

  The two women were staring at Daisy open-mouthed, and then, at her gentle prodding of, ‘Angelica?’ the younger girl blinked and nodded quickly, darting a nervous glance at Isabella before she left the room.

  Daisy waited a full sixty seconds before leaving the kitchen and outwardly she appeared very calm and composed as she walked to the drawing room. Inside her stomach churned and she felt sick at the prospect of the coming confrontation with Francesco’s grandmother.

  As she opened the door and walked into the room Signora Morosini turned from her contemplation of the massive family portrait above the ornate fireplace—this showed Slade, his wife—who had been very small, slight and pretty—and a six-month-old Francesco—and allowed some ten seconds to elapse before she responded to Daisy’s greeting of, ‘Good morning, Signora Morosini.’ Then she gave a coolly gracious inclination of her perfectly coiffured head and waved her hand at the sofa in front of her. ‘Please be seated, Miss Summers.’

  Her voice was almost accentless, crisp and very, very cold, and as Daisy met the hard grey eyes set in a face that was still quite strikingly beautiful she had never felt so intimidated in all her life. But she didn’t let it show by so much as the flicker of an eyelash.

  ‘I understand my son-in-law has taken it upon himself to offer you employment?’ It was not congratulatory, and the piercing eyes continued to dissect Daisy inch by inch.

  ‘I am Francesco’s new nanny, yes.’ Daisy spoke quietly and without hesitation, and the icy gaze narrowed slightly at her tone. It clearly wasn’t subservient enough.

  Claudia Morosini drew herself up to her full five foot ten inches, her slim, perfect body held ramrod-straight, and contemplated the slender English girl who had remained standing in front of her rather than taking the seat she had indicated. ‘And I am his grandmother, as I am sure you are aware,’ she said icily. ‘My daughter’s unfortunate death has meant that I have been obliged to take a close interest in my grandson’s welfare; you understand this?’

  Daisy allowed herself a brief nod but didn’t speak.

  ‘I do not wish Francesco’s well-being to be left fully in the hands of servants,’ the imperious voice went on with an insolence that was meant to subjugate, ‘as I am sure you can appreciate.’ The grey eyes held all the warmth of an arctic sky.

  Still Daisy said nothing; there was nothing to say after all.

  ‘Therefore I plan my time accordingly. I shall be taking my grandson to my home for a few days and your services will not be required. Angelica will accompany us of course.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Signora Morosini.’ Daisy kept her voice level and polite even though her cheeks were fiery. ‘Mr Eastwood told me he had made it perfectly clear that Francesco will be keeping to strict hours of study now he is getting older. If you would care to wait until the weekend I’m sure Francesco would love to come.’

  There was a moment of stunned silence and then, ‘No, I would not care to wait until the weekend,’ Claudia bit out frostily, ‘and I think you forget to whom you are speaking.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Signora Morosini, but Mr Eastwood was very clear on this matter.’ Daisy prayed the shaking in her stomach would not communicate itself to her voice. ‘Perhaps you would like to discuss it further with him when he returns, but for the time being I have to insist Francesco’s school hours are adhered to.’

  ‘You insist?’ The grey eyes became chips of granite. ‘You impertinent girl!’

  ‘I am not a girl, Signora, I am a grown woman,’ Daisy stated grimly, her tone adding—even if the words themselves remained unspoken—that she would not be bullied.

  ‘I see.’ There was a malevolence in the other woman’s face that was frightening. ‘And I take it you have encouraged Angelica and Francesco’s tutor to defy me too?’ she bit out savagely.

  ‘It is not a question of defying you,’ Daisy said evenly, ‘merely of carrying out Mr Eastwood’s instructions regarding his son. Francesco’s schooling is important, as I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  ‘And that is your last word?’ Slade’s mother-in-law didn’t wait for affirmation before she continued. ‘You will regret this day, Miss Summers. You will regret it very much. I will make sure of this personally.’

  She swept from the room in an icy swirl of expensive perfume and cool blue silk, leaving Daisy pale and shaking. But she did not come back.

  When Slade telephoned Festina Lente that night Daisy related the incident word for word, and after receiving his unqualified approval of her handling of Francesco’s grandmother Daisy determined to put the whole distasteful episode out of her mind. It had had to be said and that was the end of it.

  Claudia Morosini sent her chauffeur and maid for her grandson the following Saturday—a procedure which was repeated each week—but Francesco was delivered back to Festina Lente before nightfall. The time which followed until the little boy was tucked up and asleep in his bed was never easy, but gradually Francesco came to understand that any awkwardness and fits of ill humour would not be tolerated by Daisy, and, being the intelligent child he was, adjusted his conduct accordingly.

  But now it was the first week of June; Daisy had passed the check-up with Slade’s doctor with flying colours a few days before, Angelica was doing less and less and she was doing more and more…and Slade was expected home for a full month, his business affairs having stabilised.

  Daisy stood at her bedroom window gazing out at the immaculate grounds and the huge swimming pool glittering in the heat of the Italian afternoon. Another ten minutes and Francesco’s lessons for the day would be over, and then she had promised him an hour in the pool where she was teaching him to swim. She had been quite horrified in her first week at the villa when she had learnt Francesco couldn’t swim and, more than that, that he was frightened of the water.

  According to Angelica and Isabella the household had tried everything to counteract what was virtually a phobia, and Slade himself had spent hours trying to persuade his small son into the water. But all to no avail.

  Daisy had listened intently and then made a whole host of telephone calls. One week later, and with the help of Mario, she had prepared the pool while Francesco was busy with Signor de Sica, and then once the lessons were over for the day she had suggested to Francesco that they have their biscuits and milk outside in the fresh air.

  Francesco’s face, when he had first seen the colourful playground the pool had been transformed into, had been a picture. Along with small, large and jumbo-size inflatable plastic toys ranging from merry-faced dinosaurs and sea creatures to tyres, a small raft and a rainbow-coloured dinghy, Daisy had organised three children’s slides at the shallow end of the pool—one which curled round and round, being Francesco’s favourite—and a child-size table with four chairs and a parasol at the edge of the pool.

  Francesco had been hooked. It had still taken him over an hour just to venture into the water that first day but Daisy hadn’t rushed him, sitting on the edge with him and just chatting about this and that as they had dangled their feet in the silky depths and laughed together.

  And then she had made him laugh still further as she’d swum, pretending to dodge all the toys and having a fight with a huge sea serpent with a long tail and dopey face.

  He was a dear little boy. The smile on her face faded as a dart of disquiet made her frown. She couldn’t put a name to the feeling which had suddenly assailed her, but she felt uneasy, disturbed, as though her brain was trying to give her some kind of warning. Oh, for goodness’ sake! She shrugged the feeling away, irritable with herself. Everything was fine—it was—and this was just a job after all. She could walk away from it if she needed to. Of course she could.

  Once in the pool she and Francesco had a wonderful time in the cool, clean water. Now the swimming lessons were serious business Francesco was making exceptional progress, and Daisy had just promised the small boy he could try without his armbands the next day when she caught sight of a tall, dark figure striding across the lawns leading
down from the house.

  Her breath caught tightly in her throat, her heart raced and she inadvertently swallowed a mouthful of water which caused her to cough and splutter, but mercifully her confusion was obscured by Francesco’s scream of excitement as he caught sight of his father.

  ‘What is this?’ Slade’s bronzed face was smiling, and the black eyes were like warm velvet as he came to stand by the edge of the pool just as Francesco clambered up the steps. The little boy flung himself into his father’s arms and Slade—careless of the expensive suit and silk shirt—gathered the small wet body against his chest and hugged his son tight.

  ‘I can swim, I can!’ Francesco was beside himself with delight. ‘And I can try without my armbands tomorrow. Daisy says so. I am not frightened any more, Papà.’

  ‘This is good, Francesco, very good.’

  The familiar phrase caught at Daisy’s consciousness and she didn’t like the pang her heart gave, or the way her eyes seemed determined to feed on the big lean body and hard, handsome face. And then, as Slade glanced at her over Francesco’s wet curls, another problem presented itself.

  She was wearing nothing but a swimming costume—a very modest, high-necked one-piece which she had bought specifically for its demure cut, admittedly, but a swimming costume nevertheless—and Slade was fully clothed. Normally it wouldn’t have mattered—Daisy had never been a prude and neither was she ashamed of her figure or her femininity—but with Slade… She felt naked, stark naked; she couldn’t help it. She had never been so aware of the response of her breasts to the fresh air as she followed Francesco out of the pool, or the way her nipples became hard and pointed as they strained against the midnight-blue material which was clinging to her shape like a second skin.

  And Slade was looking; he wasn’t even bothering to pretend he hadn’t noticed, she thought feverishly, her cheeks hot. She almost forgot how to walk as she made for the chair where she had carelessly slung her wrap half an hour before, and it wasn’t until she had slipped into its concealing folds that she found the nerve to turn and say, her voice very steady, ‘Hello, Slade.’

  ‘Hello, Daisy.’ His voice was deep and husky and the accent was very strong. Her toes curled on the sun-warmed terracotta tiles and she jerked the belt of the robe even tighter, stitching a smile on her face by sheer will-power.

  ‘I can’t believe all this.’ He waved his free hand, his other arm holding Francesco who was perched on his father’s hip. ‘Your idea?’

  She nodded carefully. Isabella had confided that Slade had spent hour after frustrating hour trying to persuade his son to forget his fear of the water, and Daisy wasn’t sure how Slade would react to a relative stranger accomplishing what he had failed to do.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough.’ And he meant it; she could see that. Perversely she found herself wishing he had been peeved and that shocked her, because with the knowledge came the understanding that she needed to find some weakness in him, and small-mindedness would have been as good as anything else.

  She didn’t have the courage to ask herself why—not with him standing in front of her and the magnetic power of his dark sensuality so real it was interfering with her breathing—and she brushed the confusion away with the excuse that she had lived for years with a man who would have reacted to such a situation with pique and hidden displeasure.

  ‘So you have turned into a little fish, eh?’ Slade had turned his attention back to the exhilarated, wriggling child in his arms, and as Francesco’s proud face beamed at him he hugged his son tight again before placing him on the ground. ‘Show me how you swim, little fish,’ he invited tenderly.

  ‘You come too, Papà?’ Francesco took Slade’s hand as he added, ‘Please?’

  She had foreseen that something like this might happen—it was obvious, wasn’t it, and perfectly natural?—but as Slade nodded, his voice easy and amused as he said, ‘I will go and change and come straight back, Francesco. Does that suit?’ Daisy felt a warmth that was nothing to do with the bright June sun.

  He smiled at her once before he turned and went back to the house—a lazy, comfortable smile that made her pounding heart and suddenly dry mouth even more ridiculous—and then Francesco tugged at her hands. ‘Come on, Daisy, let’s play before Papà comes back and then I will show him how I can swim.’

  You are a grown woman of twenty-four years of age so behave like one. You can do this, you can; it’s simple. Just act naturally; he will be concentrating on Francesco, not you. This is not important. The words were tumbling about in Daisy’s mind but they only increased her inner turmoil as she quickly slipped out of the wrap and followed Francesco back into the glinting blue water.

  However, it was nothing to how she felt some minutes later when Francesco’s shriek of, ‘Papà! Papà! Hurry!’ turned her head towards the house.

  Slade was walking slowly, indolently, and he was clearly quite at ease with his body and the world in general, Daisy thought weakly, and he was quite, quite magnificent. There was just no other word for it.

  He was lithe and tanned and flagrantly male, his smooth shoulders broad and muscled and the dusting of black curly hair on his chest narrowing to a thin line which jutted down his taut belly and into the concealing fabric of his brief black swimming trunks. His body looked big and hard and powerful, and in that moment Daisy acknowledged the physical hunger which had begun the day she had first set eyes on him—shattered as she had been—and which had grown stronger every hour since.

  She fancied him. In fact she fancied him rotten, she conceded feverishly, but it was just a physical thing, a sexual response to his overwhelming maleness, and as such could be controlled. It was perfectly natural—healthy in fact, she assured herself fervently—and as long as she did nothing about it everything would be fine. She ought to be relieved she could still feel like this about a man after the trauma and heartache of the last eighteen months; she really should. Until Slade had walked into her life she had thought her libido had been damaged along with her emotions. Yes, this was good—positive—and now she had admitted it half the danger was gone. She could be fully on her guard. No problem.

  As the pep talk ended Slade dived into the water, his perfectly honed body scarcely making a splash, which caused Francesco to shout his delight and splash excitedly.

  And then he surfaced just beside her, a brilliantly dark and powerful god from another world, and Daisy knew a moment of paralysing fear as the beautiful black eyes, their thick lashes diamond-bright with crystallised water, stared hard into hers before they roamed over the creamy, sun-touched skin of her face and throat. ‘I didn’t know you could swim,’ he said softly.

  ‘You never asked,’ she managed shakily.

  ‘No, this is true. I never did.’

  And then Francesco reached them, leaping at his father with a squeal of delight, and things were normal again—or as normal as they could be when Slade Eastwood was anywhere near, Daisy acknowledged ruefully.

  The next hour was full of fun and laughter and exuberance, and Francesco was beside himself with joy at having his father home again. After twenty minutes or so, and after an energetic game of piggy-in-the-middle—Daisy had been the piggy and had never once succeeded in catching the ball, much to Francesco’s gratification—Daisy left father and son in the cool water and retreated to her towelling robe and a lounger in the sun.

  But even with her eyes shut she continued to see the perfect male body—the smooth, taut muscles, the hard, lean buttocks and strong legs. He must work out, she told herself silently. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on the whole of that powerful frame, and he would never have kept in such superb shape sitting behind a desk.

  The thoughts continued to ebb and flow—all of them acutely disturbing—and when she found herself speculating on what it would feel like to be held close to that virile body, to have his hands run over her breasts, her stomach, her inner thighs, she told herself the fantasising would have to stop. More to the point, it shouldn’t have started
! Speculating about such things in a safe, distant way—and with someone unreal or a star of the silver screen—was one thing, but Slade wasn’t safe or distant. He was six foot plus of lean, hard, virile male and she was living in his house and taking care of his son. And—Daisy took several long, silent pulls of air deep into her lungs—he was going to be very much around for the next four weeks.

  ‘He is a different child; you have worked a miracle.’ The dark, husky voice brought her eyes opening wide in time to see Slade fling himself on to the lounger at her side. ‘A few weeks ago it would have been impossible to even get him in the water, let alone begging to stay in for a few minutes more.’ He was looking across at Francesco as he spoke which gave Daisy much needed seconds to compose herself all over again at the sight of his brazen magnificence stretched out beside her.

  ‘It was the toys and slides that did it.’ Amazingly her voice sounded quite steady.

  ‘No, it was you.’ His eyes turned to look at her then and he smiled slowly. ‘You understand him, don’t you? Do you have this insight with all children?’

  ‘I don’t know about insight,’ she said carefully, willing her eyes not to leave his and wander downwards where acres and acres of dark, tanned male flesh were waiting to make her cheeks hot. ‘Most of the time it’s common sense that’s needed in dealing with children, and appreciating they need plenty of reassurance and love however tough and brash they might appear to be. It’s the naughty ones, the unlovable ones, that cry out the most often but usually in ways that adults find unacceptable. Then they get punished and, worse, labelled as naughty, difficult children, and so the problems perpetuate.’

  He surveyed her through half-closed lids for some moments. ‘I think I have just been admonished,’ he murmured softly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ She jerked her eyes frontwards to where Francesco was turning inside out to get their attention as he engaged in a noisy fight with a benignly smiling whale. ‘I was just saying, that’s all.’