by Penny Jordan
‘What, now, Your Ladyship?’
‘Yes. Right now.’ A varnished scarlet fingernail began tracing a circle on the sheet of blotting paper on the desk and an odd, trembling note had crept into her employer’s aristocratic voice. ‘We don’t want Signor De Gennaro complaining about the cold, do we?’
‘We certainly don’t, Lady Avery.’
The last-minute purchase of the new duvet had been the reason why Molly hadn’t been on hand to greet the Italian tycoon when he’d arrived. And when she’d returned from her shopping expedition—gasping under the bulky dimensions of a high-tog goose-down duvet—there had been no sign of him. Only his open suitcase and a few clothes strewn around his room indicated he was somewhere in the vicinity, although he was nowhere to be seen in the house. Which at least meant Molly had been able to make up his bed in peace—though her heart had started racing when she’d spotted the faded denims slung carelessly over a stool. And when she’d picked up the dark sweater which lay crumpled beside it, she had been startled by the softness of the cashmere as she’d automatically started to fold it. Briefly, her fingertips had caressed the fine wool before she had taken herself downstairs for tea and some restorative cake and she was just on her third mouthful when the kitchen door opened then slammed shut with a rush of icy air and Molly looked up to see a man framed in the doorway who could only be the Italian billionaire.
Her heart crashed against her ribcage.
The most perfect man she could have imagined.
Her mouth opened slightly but she clamped it shut and the chocolate fudge cake she’d been eating suddenly tasted like glue against the roof of her mouth.
Mud-spattered and windswept, he was standing perfectly still—his singlet and shorts surely the craziest choice of clothes he could have selected for the bitter winter day, although a fleecy top was knotted around his narrow hips. His olive skin was silky-smooth and his body was… Molly tried not to shake her head in disbelief but it took some doing, because his body was sensational—and she was certainly not the kind of woman who spent her time analysing men’s bodies. In fact, her interest had never really been sparked by anyone.
Until now.
She swallowed, the cake she was holding suddenly forgotten. It took a lot for Molly to disregard the sugar craving which had always been the bane of her life, but she forgot it now. Because she’d never seen a man like this. Not someone with a rocky torso against which his wet top clung to every sinew, as if it had been painted on with a fine-tipped brush. Nor such narrow hips and sculpted thighs whose glorious flesh was exposed by the shorts he seemed to wear so comfortably. Her eyes moved up to his face. To eyes as black as one of those moonless nights when you couldn’t ever imagine seeing daylight again. And his lips. Molly swallowed again. Oh, those lips. Sensual and full, they were hard and unsmiling as they looked at her with something it took a moment for her to recognise. Was it…disdain? Her heart pounded uncomfortably. Yes, of course it was. Men with whip-like bodies which didn’t carry an ounce of extra weight would be unlikely to approve of an over-abundant female who was bulging out of her ugly uniform and stuffing a great big fix of carbohydrate into her mouth.
Flushing to the roots of her hair, she put down the half-eaten cake and rose to her feet, wondering why the ground beneath them suddenly felt as if it were shifting, the way she’d always imagined standing on quicksand might feel. ‘I’m…’ She blinked at him before trying again. ‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone…’
His voice was sardonic as his gaze met hers for one heart-stopping moment, before dropping briefly to the crumb-laden plate. ‘Clearly not.’
‘You must be…’ A dark angel who has suddenly fallen into my kitchen? The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen? Her chest felt tight. ‘You must be Signor De Gennaro?’
‘Indeed I am. Forgive me.’ Jet eyebrows were raised as he unknotted the warm top from his hips and pulled it over his head before shaking out his damp, dark curls. ‘I seem to have disturbed your snack.’
Her snack? Although his English was faultless, his richly accented voice was nearly as distracting as his body and Molly opened her mouth to say it was actually a late lunch because she’d been rushing around all morning preparing for his arrival, but something stopped her. As if someone like Salvio De Gennaro would be interested in her defence! As if he would believe her making out she was a stranger to cake when her curvy body told an entirely different story. Smoothing her uniform down over her generous hips, she tried to adopt an expression of professional interest, rather than the shame of being caught out doing something she shouldn’t. And he was still staring at her. Making her aware of every pulsing atom of her body in a way which was making her feel extremely self-conscious…but strangely enough, in a good way.
‘Can I get you anything, Signor De Gennaro?’ she questioned politely. ‘I’m afraid Lord and Lady Avery have gone to the village pantomime and won’t be back until later.’
‘I know,’ he said coolly. ‘Perhaps some water. And a coffee, if you have one.’
‘Of course. How do you take your coffee?’
He flickered her a smile. ‘Black, short, no sugar. Grazie.’
Of course not, thought Molly. No sugar for someone like him. He looked as if he’d never been near anything sweet in his life. She wished he’d go. Before he noticed that her brow had grown clammy, or that her nipples had started to push distractingly against the unflattering navy-blue uniform Lady Avery insisted she wore. ‘I’ll do that right away,’ she said briskly. ‘And bring them up to your room.’
‘No need for that. I’ll wait here,’ he said.
She wanted to tell him he was making her feel awkward by standing there, like some kind of brooding, dark statue—just staring at her. As if he had read her thoughts, he strolled over towards the window and she became aware of an almost imperceptible limp in his right leg. Had he injured himself when out running and should she ask him whether he needed a bandage or something? Perhaps not. Someone with his confidence would be bound to ask for one.
She could feel a stray strand of hair tickling the back of her neck and wished she’d had time to fix it. Or had been sitting reading some novel which might have made her look interesting, instead of scoffing cake and emphasising the fact that she was heavy and ungainly.
‘I’ll try to be as quick as I can,’ she said, reaching up into one of the cupboards for a clean glass.
‘I’m in no hurry,’ he said lazily.
Because that much was true. Salvio had decided that he was enjoying himself though he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was the novelty factor of being with the kind of woman he didn’t come across very often—at least, not any more. Not since he’d left behind the backstreets of Naples, along with those women whose curves defined fecundity and into whose generous flesh a man could sink after a long, hard day. Women like this one, who blushed alluringly if they caught you looking at them.
He had waited for a moment to see if she would recognise him. If she knew who he was—or, rather, who he had been. But no. He was familiar with recognition in all its forms—from greedy delight right through to feigned ignorance—but there had been no trace of any of those on her face. And why should there be? She was much younger than him and from a different country. How would she have known that in his native Italy he had once been famous?
He watched her busying herself, her curvy silhouette reminding him of the bottles of Verdicchio which used to line the shelves of the city bar he’d
swept as a boy, before the talent scouts had discovered him and ended his childhood. She turned to switch on the coffee maker and a sudden dryness turned his throat to dust because…her breasts. He swallowed. Madonna mia—what breasts! He was glad when she turned away to open the fridge door because his erection was pressing uncomfortably against his shorts, though, when she did, he then became mesmerised by her shapely bottom. He was just fantasising about what her shiny brown hair would look like loose when she turned around and surveyed him with eyes as grey as the Santissima Annunziata Maggiore—that beautiful church in Naples, which had once been an orphanage.
Their gazes clashed and mingled and something unspoken fizzled in the air as Salvio felt a leap of something he couldn’t define. The hardness in his groin was familiar but the sudden clench of his heart was not. Was it lust? His mouth twisted. Of course it was lust—for what else could it be? It just happened to be more powerful than usual because it had taken him by surprise.
Yet there was no answering hunger in her quiet, grey gaze—something which perplexed him, for when didn’t a woman look at him with desire in her eyes? She was wary, he found himself thinking, with a flicker of amusement. Almost as if she were silently reproaching him for his insolent appraisal—and maybe that sentiment was richly deserved. What was he doing surveying her curvy body, like a boy from a single-sex school who was meeting a beautiful woman for the first time?
‘You’re the cook?’ he questioned, trying to redeem himself with a safe, if rather banal question.
She nodded. ‘Sort of. Officially, I’m the housekeeper but I do a bit of everything. Answer the door to guests and make sure their rooms are serviced, that sort of thing.’ She pushed the coffee towards him. ‘Will there be anything else, Signor De Gennaro?’
He smiled. ‘Salvio. And you are?’
She looked taken aback, as if people didn’t ask her name very often. ‘It’s Molly,’ she answered shyly, in a voice so soft it felt like silk lingerie brushing against his skin. ‘Molly Miller.’
Molly Miller. He found himself wanting to repeat it, but the conversation—such as it was—was terminated by the sudden sweep of car headlights arcing powerfully across the room. As he heard the sound of a large car swishing over gravel, Salvio saw the way she flinched and automatically tugged at her drab dress so that it hung more uniformly over her wide hips.
‘That’s the Averys.’
‘I thought it must be.’
‘You’d better…you’d better go,’ she said, unable to keep the waver of urgency from her voice. ‘I’m supposed to be preparing dinner and Lady Avery won’t like finding a guest in the kitchen.’
Salvio was tempted to tell her that he didn’t give a damn what Lady Avery would or wouldn’t like but he could see the fear which had darkened her soft grey eyes. With a flicker of irritation he picked up his espresso and water and headed for the door. ‘Grazie mille,’ he said, leaving the warm and steamy kitchen and walking rapidly towards the staircase, reluctant to be around when the Averys burst into the hallway.
But once back in his own room, he was irritated to discover that the low burn of desire was refusing to leave him. So that instead of the hot shower he’d promised himself, Salvio found himself standing beneath jets of punishingly cold water as he tried to push the curves of the sweet little housekeeper from the forefront of his mind and to quell the exquisite hardness which throbbed at his groin.
Copyright © 2018 by Sharon Kendrick
Don’t miss
THE ITALIAN’S CHRISTMAS HOUSEKEEPER
by Sharon Kendrick,
available November 2018 wherever
Harlequin Books and ebooks are sold.
www.Harlequin.com
ISBN-13: 978-1-488-05002-2
THE BOSS’S MARRIAGE ARRANGEMENT
First published in 2004
This edition published in 2018
Copyright © 2004 by PENNY JORDAN
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
