Mistress to a Millionaire

by Helen Brooks

  The next ten minutes exploded in flying paper, oohs and aahs, a ride round the breakfast room in the Jeep and more squeals of gaiety, and then Slade said, his voice soft and warm, ‘Daisy has kept her present until last and it is rather special. Would you like her to fetch it now, Francesco?’

  ‘Sì! Sì!’ And then, at his father’s raised eyebrows, Francesco said quickly, ‘I mean yes, please, Papà.’

  Daisy’s gift, with Slade’s agreement, was a pretty little cushioned cat basket and small earthenware bowl with the picture of a smiling feline at its base, and they had arranged a few days previously that she would bring them in, with Slade feigning surprise moments before producing the kitten. But now, as she stepped into the hall where Isabella was waiting with the presents, the housekeeper pointed to the basket wherein lay the kitten, fast asleep, and said, ‘The signore, he wants you to give it all, sì? The little cat also.’

  ‘He does?’ Daisy stared at Isabella for a moment. That was very generous, for Slade to give the moment of glory to her, for there was no doubt the kitten would be the hit of the day. She hesitated a moment and then took the basket, Isabella following with the bowl and little toy mouse and ball Daisy had also bought, and as she re-entered the breakfast room she saw Francesco’s eyes were liquid with anticipation and hope.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ Her voice was very soft at the look on the little boy’s face and there was a yearning in her heart that was physically painful. He was so small and so vulnerable and a perfect little miniature of Slade. They had the same bone structure, the same eyes, even the same way of turning their heads and moving; perhaps that was why she loved Francesco so much too?

  This thought was as uncomfortable as the earlier one, and again she brushed it aside with urgent agitation. Love! It seemed as though she couldn’t think about anything else this morning, and she was using the word love in place of affection and tenderness with Francesco. Of course she was.

  Francesco was ecstatic over the kitten, as they had known he would be. ‘Her name is Queenie,’ he announced at once, sitting back at the table with the basket balanced on his lap and such a look of rapturous devotion at the tiny sleeping feline that the lump in Daisy’s throat became bigger. ‘She is my little queen,’ he said tenderly.

  ‘That is very good.’ Slade nodded perfectly seriously, his eyes soft. ‘And you are responsible for her now, completely, yes?’

  Francesco had already thanked her but now he said again, his voice throbbing, ‘Thank you, Daisy. Thank you. I will take care of her, I promise.’

  ‘It was your father who had the final say-so, Francesco,’ Daisy reminded her small charge, and then, as she glanced at Slade over the child’s curly head, their look held, stretching, deepening, until her knees were weak and her head was spinning with what she read in the glittering black eyes.

  I want you, the dark gaze told her. I want you very badly and I’m not going to give up.

  There was a deep and urgent passion in his eyes, an intensity of feeling that was almost shocking, and as she tore her gaze from his she knew she was trembling.

  Angelica had stopped living at Festina Lente the last four weeks as Daisy had taken over Francesco’s welfare more and more, and now, as she heard the other girl’s voice in the hall which meant she had arrived via the kitchen entrance, Daisy had never been so glad of an interruption in her life, and welcomed the subsequent knock at the breakfast-room door.

  In the giving and receiving of Angelica’s present—a new game Francesco had particularly wanted for the games console he had had the previous Christmas—the moment of acute awareness faded a little, but Daisy made sure she kept busy for the rest of the morning and didn’t allow herself to think.

  It had shocked her, more than she could have imagined, that the last month had been a façade and Slade had been acting a part. It shocked her, frightened her…and thrilled her too, and it was that last emotion that told her she had to keep a firm control on every thought. She couldn’t allow herself—not for a minute, a second—to let that last feeling take over her mind. It was too seductive, too sweet. She wasn’t ready to handle a man like Slade Eastwood—she wasn’t ready to handle any man—and part of her wondered if she ever would be.

  At just after eleven in the morning Slade’s mother and stepfather arrived. Francesco’s birthday was to be celebrated in true Italian style, with family and friends making it a warm, happy occasion, and there were numerous other family members expected after lunch for the party in the afternoon—including Claudia Morosini.

  But for now Daisy wasn’t thinking of Slade’s mother-in-law as she faced Francesco’s other grandmother, a tall, sweet-faced woman.

  ‘Daisy.’ Slade had made all the necessary introductions as soon as his mother and stepfather had arrived, but with Francesco beside himself with excitement it was some twenty minutes later before Aloysia—his mother—had the opportunity to take Daisy’s arm and draw her aside from the others. ‘I am so pleased to meet you at last, my dear. Slade has told me how well Francesco is doing with you and I can see he didn’t exaggerate.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Martella.’ How different from Claudia’s reaction!

  ‘Oh, call me Aloysia, please,’ the other woman said at once, her quiet, heavily accented but beautifully modulated voice friendly. ‘I do not like formality; it is such a cold thing, sì?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Daisy said again, feeling acutely uncomfortable as Aloysia’s large brown eyes took in every detail of her face and dress in a perusal which, although not unkind, was very thorough.

  The other woman must have liked what she saw because the next moment she drew Daisy over to one of the sofas in the drawing room, sitting down herself and then patting the seat beside her. ‘Tell me all about yourself,’ she invited softly. ‘How did you meet my son?’

  There was something wrong here. Daisy sat down and forced herself to respond to Aloysia’s gentle questions politely and quietly, but all the time she was thinking, She’s acting as though I’m something more than the nanny, almost as though I’m Slade’s girlfriend or something. She does know the situation, doesn’t she? He must have told his mother how things really are?

  They had lunch by the pool where Francesco insisted on showing off his new swimming prowess for his grandmother before he ate, and although Aloysia and her husband—a small, portly man with smiling eyes—were charming, and Slade was perfectly cool, calm and collected, Daisy felt awkward and disturbed.

  It was a relief, once the alfresco meal was over, to insist that Francesco come back to the house and have a rest before the rest of the company started to arrive, and Francesco didn’t object too hard with the allure of Queenie in situ.

  What impression had Slade given his mother and stepfather—not to mention the rest of his relations—about the position she held? Daisy asked herself once she left Francesco settled down for a nap with Angelica, Queenie behaving herself admirably and snuggling down to sleep alongside her small master.

  It was one thing for him to let his mother-in-law know that the new nanny had his full authority and backing any time he wasn’t in residence at Festina Lente, quite another to suggest to all and sundry she was his… What? she asked herself with a frown. His girlfriend? His mistress? He was devious. He was, he was really devious, and from where she was standing right now there didn’t seem an awful lot of difference between Slade and Ronald!

  Immediately the thought formed she felt guilty. Slade wasn’t a bit like Ronald, Daisy admitted as she ran quickly down the winding stairs and turned towards the kitchen to help Isabella with the thousand and one things that needed doing as she had promised she would. Slade was— Well, Slade was Slade—a one-off—and as such defied description! Which didn’t really help the present situation.

  ‘Daisy?’

  The door to Slade’s study was open and she saw him rise from behind the massive mahogany desk as he caught sight of her. ‘Would you come in here a moment, please?’ he asked quietly.

  Wh
at now? She really couldn’t take much more and there was still Francesco’s birthday party to get through, which was bound to continue well into the night, Daisy thought warily. She stood for a moment, hesitating in the hall, and then slowly entered the beautiful book-lined room on tentative feet.

  ‘Shut the door.’ It was soft and low and something in his tone caused her stomach to turn over. This wasn’t a brief chat about trivialities but it was too late now—she was in the lion’s den. Nevertheless she didn’t shut the door until his voice came again, deeper and firmer. ‘Shut the door, Daisy.’

  She stood just within the room once she had done as he said, and as Slade looked at her it came into his mind that she resembled a velvet-eyed doe, trembling as she sensed a predator’s presence. But he wasn’t a predator, damn it, even if she did make him feel like a cross between a sex-crazed pervert and an out-and-out monster half the time. That was when he wasn’t holding her or touching her in any way. When he did…she melted for him. He knew it and she knew it. It was the only thing that gave him hope.

  ‘I’m sorry about my mother.’ He didn’t sound at all sorry. ‘But it is only natural that she is curious about the woman living in my house, don’t you think?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I’m not a woman, I’m Francesco’s nanny.’ It was a ridiculous way to put it and at the lift of his dark eyebrows she quickly qualified, ‘You know what I mean, Slade. I work for you, that’s all. Your mother seems to have got the wrong impression of how I fit in here.’ And he knew it or else they wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Her chin rose a fraction at the thought.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He moved closer until he was standing just in front of her but he didn’t touch her, merely studying her face with narrowed black eyes. ‘If you are worried that my mother thinks we are indulging in a casual affair, think again. My mother can see you are not the sort of girl a man has an affair with, Daisy.’

  She stared at him, her honey-brown eyes wide and apprehensive.

  ‘You are the sort of girl a man falls in love with,’ he said with devastating tenderness.

  ‘No.’ It was instinctive and full of panic. ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ It was very definite. ‘Oh, yes, Daisy.’

  She couldn’t take this, what she thought he was saying, and the fear in her face caused his own expression to harden as she said, without considering her words, ‘No, you don’t mean it, not really. You have lots of friends, women friends—’

  ‘If you are asking me if I’ve slept with a woman since my wife died then the answer is no,’ Slade stated with grim flatness. ‘And in anticipation of the next answer that is not why I am saying I love you.’

  He loved her. Oh, dear God, please don’t let this be real, Daisy prayed frantically. Let them go back to the last month.

  ‘I could have had women in my bed,’ Slade continued coolly, ‘if that was what I wanted, but, contrary to what you obviously believe, I am not some sex-crazed philanderer or ladies’ man. I love you, Daisy. I have never said that to a woman before and you will have to take that as fact because I am not going to beg that you believe me.’

  ‘Slade, don’t. Don’t do this,’ she whispered helplessly.

  ‘Why?’ he asked softly. ‘Tell me why? I thought at first, when I came home, that it was that you didn’t like me. I knew we were attracted to each other, on a physical level, but I thought you didn’t like me. But this last month together has told me that’s not true. You do like me, Daisy. In fact I think you more than like me.’

  ‘No.’ She was staring at him, her eyes huge and the pupils dilated with shock as she struggled to come to terms with her panic.

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was tight now and very controlled.. ‘And I have done everything you asked of me; we have played the game of being friends until it has driven me crazy.’

  ‘It wasn’t a game!’ Her voice was wild now.

  ‘Oh, yes, it was—every damn minute of it,’ he growled darkly. ‘I want you, Daisy. I want you in every way possible and “friends” doesn’t even begin to cover it. And don’t say you don’t want me because I know you do.’

  Oh, how had she ever got into this? Her heart was thudding so hard she felt nauseous and she had a dizzy feeling in her head that was making it difficult to think. But she had to think.

  ‘You’ve been hurt, Daisy, I understand that.’ One hand was in the small of her back, the other lifting her chin to meet his searching gaze. ‘But you have to come back into the land of the living some time. You will die in the shadows.’

  His mouth was light on hers at first, soft and stroking as it played with her sealed lips, and she trembled at the tender caress. She stood in his arms, very still and tense, and then, as his lips moved to her cheeks, her throat, her closed eyelids, she shivered with how he was making her feel. He pulled her closer into him at the movement and now the nature of the kiss changed as he sensed what she was trying to hide.

  He moulded her against his shape and as she gasped at the feel of him, hard and virile, against her softness Slade took advantage of the opportunity to invade her mouth, his lips and tongue hot and urgent as he filled the undefended territory.

  The hand in her back was moving her against him, slowly, erotically, not rushing her, just getting her used to the feel and shape of his primitive male desire, and it was his very lack of force, his gentle control and dominance, that evoked such sensual stirrings in her blood.

  She shifted in his arms, her body relaxing and becoming languorous as a depth of emotion that seemed to come from the very core of her made her fluid. This felt so right, to be close to him like this…

  His hands had moved up to cup her breasts, the pads of his thumbs caressing their taut peaks through the thin cotton of her blouse, and his skilful arousal of her body made her moan softly against his lips. He answered the sound with a little growl of his own, and now her hands went up round his neck and she found herself pressing into him with an abandonment she wouldn’t have dreamt of moments before.

  Daisy could feel the hard thud of his heart against the muscled wall of his chest, the force of its pounding indicating his control was not as solid as he would have liked her to believe. And that thrilled her; it sent the blood racing through her limbs like hot mulled wine as the knowledge of her feminine power over this dynamic, strong, vigorous man increased her own passion.

  They were kissing fiercely, hungrily now, straining into each other, and after the long weeks of being so close and yet so far—of being in each other’s company practically day and night and yet not exchanging so much as a kiss—their lovemaking was all the more frenzied.

  ‘You love me, Daisy; say it.’ His voice was husky with desire and exultation against her mouth. ‘You want me as much as I want you. Say it; I need to hear you say it.’

  She heard him but she tried to ignore it; she didn’t want to talk. If she had to think, to rationalise what was happening it would have to stop and she didn’t want it to stop. She wanted his arms round her, his strength enfolding her; she wanted to be in this magical world where time stood still and only the present mattered. And the present was Slade. His hands, his mouth, his voice, his maleness.

  She was aching, swollen and tender, but as her mouth searched for his, her eyes shut and her body pressing further into him, there was a change. He wasn’t responding any more.

  ‘Slade?’ She opened her heavy lids slowly and his eyes were waiting for her. ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

  ‘What do you see, Daisy?’ His voice was very flat. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him, not understanding.

  ‘This is me—Slade,’ he said grimly. ‘Not that excuse for a man you were married to. Why can’t you say it, why can’t you admit there’s something good between us? It sticks in your throat, doesn’t it? And that can only be because you don’t trust me. You don’t, do you?’

  It was a statement, not a question, but Daisy answered it all the same as liquid ice flowed where hot
sensation had been just seconds before. ‘Does it matter?’ The colour drained from her face, leaving it pale and fragile. ‘You said you want me; I would have thought you’d have been happy with that.’

  ‘Then you would have thought wrong,’ he bit back angrily. ‘Haven’t you got it into your head yet? I don’t just want to make love to you, Daisy. I want to love you, and for you to love me. I don’t want an affair! Damn it, there are any number of women I could have if I just wanted that. I want you in my life.’

  ‘I am in your life,’ she said numbly.

  ‘The hell you are!’ And then, as she flinched at the blazing anger in the ebony eyes, he repeated more quietly, ‘The hell you are. Look, I’ve been patient but this is driving me crazy, don’t you understand that? I’m not like your ex-husband, Daisy. I am not going to hurt you and I am not going to let you down. Sooner or later you are going to have to start trusting me.’

  No, no, she couldn’t do that. She stared back at him, her eyes wide and horror-stricken as his words opened a door in her mind and she saw things clearly for the first time. She already felt far too much for him to allow herself to trust him. She had trusted Ronald; she had thought she loved him although she had to admit the feeling she had had for her ex was nothing like the consuming emotion that was turning her inside out now. And through Ronald betraying her, through all the anguish and pain she had let herself feel then, she had killed her daughter.

  A sob caught at her throat and she averted her face, but Slade caught her to him, his voice a groan as he said, ‘Don’t cry. Hell, don’t cry, Daisy.’

  She had killed her daughter. The doctors had said it was stress that had caused the miscarriage, and she had let herself feel that stress. She had put Ronald—Ronald and her own feelings of despair and confusion—before that precious little being until her body hadn’t been able to keep her baby. She should have been strong; she should have just let him go and concentrated on her unborn child, but she hadn’t. And by the time she had realised her mistake it was too late. Jenny had been born too early, far, far too early, and oh, oh, she wanted her. She wanted to see her, to hold her, to kiss her and tell her she was sorry. So, so sorry.