by Abby Green
Maggie stood back and moved aside. ‘Please, come in, Mr Marchetti. It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Kildare House.’
He made a rude sound and walked in, placing a small holdall bag down on a nearby chair. He was even bigger and more gorgeous under the bright lighting of the hallway. He looked around the hall and then proceeded to walk into one of the nearby reception rooms.
Maggie was still reeling from his scent, which had washed over her as he’d entered. Nothing manufactured—or maybe it was just expensive enough not to smell synthetic. Musky, woodsy and pure male essence...
She closed the front door and followed him to the doorway of the reception room to see that he had taken off his jacket and flung it carelessly over the back of a chair. He was at the drinks cabinet and opening a whiskey bottle, pouring a measure into a small tumbler glass.
‘Would you like me to show you around?’ Maggie asked, aiming to sound professional and breezy when she felt anything but.
Whatever it was about this man, he’d lodged himself under her skin and she prickled all over. With awareness and something much more volatile.
He turned around. ‘Sure.’
He walked towards her, taking a sip of the whiskey and keeping the glass in his hand. He looked thoroughly dangerous and disreputable and a little shiver raced over Maggie’s skin.
Acutely aware of him, prowling behind her like a large, sensual jungle cat, she showed him the rooms leading off the circular hallway—more reception rooms, formal and informal, and a formal living room. At the back, overlooking the gardens, was a study, filled with state-of-the-art computers which had never been touched.
On the other side of the hall was a less formal living room, complete with media centre and projection screen for watching movies. It was possibly Maggie’s favourite room in the house. Floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books lined the walls. Books that she’d surmised had been chosen purely for show. The works of Shakespeare... Dickens...
Nikos Marchetti faced her. ‘Lead on.’
Maggie all but tripped over her own feet as she led him back through the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen. He barely glanced at that, clearly more interested in the gym and indoor lap pool on the same level. There were also rooms for massage or spa treatments. A sauna and a steam room.
He couldn’t have looked more insouciant, with his open shirt, dangling bowtie and the glass of whiskey in hand, inspecting a property he owned but had never even laid eyes on before. So far every judgement Maggie had ever made about rich, powerful men was being proved right.
He turned to face her and drained his glass, holding it carelessly between two fingers. Was it her imagination or did something in those mesmerising gold eyes flare for a second? She realised now that they weren’t entirely golden, there were green flecks too. And hazel.
To her shame and disgust, she felt a wave of heat rise up through her body from her core, and she turned quickly before it could reach her face. As pale as she was, every passing emotion registered on her skin—much to her embarrassment.
‘The bedrooms are on the first floor.’ Maggie led the way back up to the main area of the house, not even checking to see if Nikos Marchetti was following her.
But he was. She could sense him—as if from the moment she’d seen him, she’d been plugged into a new awareness.
Nikos was finding it hard to notice much about the house when the tantalising vision of his housekeeper’s bottom and swaying hips filled his vision as she climbed the stairs in front of him. Not to mention those long bare legs.
Theos. He was usually far more sophisticated than this. He just hadn’t expected...her to answer the door of his country house in the middle of nowhere outside Dublin.
She was walking briskly down the corridor ahead of him now, opening doors and saying, ‘These are all spare bedroom suites. Yours is here at the end...’
She’d opened a door and was standing back. He noticed now that she was wearing flip-flops. And that she had pretty feet. Toenails painted a coral colour.
He gritted his jaw and went into the room—but not before he caught her scent again: crushed roses and something much earthier. Musky. It made him grit his jaw even harder.
He barely took in the luxurious room, with windows overlooking three sides of the house, its gardens barely visible now in the rapidly gathering night. He recognised it from the photos he’d been sent by the interior designer after it had been completed.
This was the first house he’d bought—his other properties were apartments in the hotels his company owned. And now he was here he felt a little exposed—as if his motives for buying the house on the basis of a picture that had caught at his gut were being laid bare for this stranger to see.
He could feel her watching him. This woman with a body built like a siren and those huge blue eyes.
He turned around. Maggie Taggart’s arms were folded across her chest again, which only pushed the generous swells of her breasts together under the thin material of her T-shirt.
The feeling of exposure was not welcome. Nikos didn’t do introspection.
He deflected the attention back to her. ‘Why are you dressed as if you’re attending a barbecue?’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘If I had been informed of your arrival you can be sure I would have dressed appropriately. However, considering the fact that it’s well past official hours, I don’t see why I have to justify dressing as I please. In light of the fact that your presence here is somewhat...irregular, I’ve taken the liberty of working the hours that suit me. I don’t think you can fault the state of the house. I work seven days a week and it has been kept in a permanent state of readiness for your arrival.’
Nikos felt his conscience prick. Which was rare for him.
An innate sense of fairness made him admit, ‘You have kept the house pristine. Look, can we start over?’
He walked over to where she stood in the doorway. Suddenly she didn’t look so confident. He could see a pulse throbbing in her neck. Not as spiky as she looked. Or behaved.
He held out his hand. ‘I’m Nikos Marchetti—owner of this house. Sorry for the lack of notice about my arrival and thank you for keeping it so beautifully. Clearly you are doing an amazing job.’
He congratulated himself on keeping any mocking tone out of his voice.
His housekeeper looked at him suspiciously, but eventually she slipped her hand into his. Immediately Nikos felt the slightly rough skin of her palm, and the desire he felt turned into full-on arousal. Hot and pulsing through every vein. Instinctively he closed his hand around hers.
Maggie couldn’t breathe again. What had this man just said? Her brain felt fuzzy. All she was aware of was how big his hand felt around hers, dwarfing it completely. Dwarfing her, actually. She was tall, and she’d got used to being described by various people throughout her life as a big, strong girl, but Nikos Marchetti towered over her, and for the first time in her life she felt...delicate.
Even in heels she’d barely graze his jaw—a fact which, though she hated to admit it, was a little intoxicating. It was rare for her to have to look up at a man. Not that she’d ever had much opportunity. A lifetime of moving around with her mother hadn’t been conducive to forming a core group of close friends, and the few dates she’d embarked upon in a bid to broaden her social circle had invariably ended with a limp handshake when the men had turned out to be several inches smaller than her. Every single time.
So for that and a myriad other reasons—including her general mistrust of men, bred into her by her mother—she’d shied away from intimacy. But here...now...it felt very intimate.
She pulled her hand free. ‘Have you eaten this evening? There’s some leftover chicken stew. I can’t remember if it’s on your list of preferred foods, but you’re welcome to some if you’d like me to heat it up?’
She was babbling—a habit when she was ne
rvous and one she hated. She took a few steps back, putting some much-needed space between her and this man who was making her think about all sorts of things and...intimacy. He was her boss.
He shrugged minutely. ‘Sure. I need to take a shower and change. I’ll be down shortly.’
Maggie said, ‘Your walk-in dressing room is stocked with a full wardrobe, should you need anything.’
She went downstairs and cursed herself for being so affected by him. He was undeniably gorgeous and sexy, yes, but he probably had the same effect on everyone he encountered. It was just proof that she wasn’t immune to his very potent brand of sexuality.
She stopped in the hallway when she spied his overnight bag. It looked expensive. As she’d told him, he had a fully stocked wardrobe in his suite, but she should probably take his bag up too. Wasn’t that part of the job spec of a housekeeper?
She went back upstairs and halted at his door, suddenly uncertain. It was half closed. She couldn’t hear anything, so she knocked lightly and cleared her throat. It felt weird, after having had the house to herself.
There was no response, so she pushed the door open. Then she saw the door leading to the en suite bathroom was half open. There was the sound of running water, and tendrils of steam drifted out. He was in the shower.
Maggie crept forward and put the bag on the bed, turning to make a hasty retreat. Before she did, though, she looked in the direction of the bathroom and saw a tall, dark shape. The water wasn’t running any more. And she stood, transfixed, as Nikos Marchetti’s body was revealed in the sliver of space at the open doorway as the steam evaporated.
She couldn’t move. There was a roaring in her head. He was naked and he was...magnificent. Breathtaking. Long, lean limbs. Hard-muscled torso. Every inch of olive skin gleamed and rippled. The hair on his chest led in a line down to the curling hair between his legs where—Maggie’s face flamed—she could see the evidence of just how potent his body was.
And then he stilled.
Maggie’s gaze moved up and she was caught in the beam of those dark gold and green eyes. Totally unperturbed, Nikos Marchetti reached for a towel and slung it around his narrow hips, covering his body. He didn’t say a word.
As if someone had come along and slapped her across the face, to break her out of her stasis, Maggie got out a garbled, ‘Sorry... I thought you might need...something...your bag...’
Then she turned and fled from the room, body and face burning.
Nikos drained his glass of the white wine that had accompanied a surprisingly delicious chicken stew. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until Maggie had placed it in front of him in the less formal of the dining rooms and the smell had made his stomach rumble. Food was rarely more than a means to keep going in his world.
He sat back now, ruminating on the fact that everything about this evening had been surprising.
Such as arriving here to find his housekeeper at least twenty years younger than he’d expected. And beautiful. And sexy in a way that caught at Nikos deep inside, where most women didn’t impact on him. He liked to keep things superficial. Light. He wasn’t in the market for anything deeper after a lifetime’s learning that his emotional needs wouldn’t ever be met. He focused on transitory pleasures and amassing his fortune—staking his claim on the family business.
Maggie reappeared in the doorway. She’d changed her clothes since that explosive moment when he’d looked up and caught her staring at him as if she’d never seen a naked man before. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Her huge blue eyes big and round and fixated on that part of him that had refused to cool down in spite of turning his shower to cold for several long seconds at the end.
It was a good thing she’d left when she had or she’d have seen just how potent her effect on him was. He’d had to get back into the shower and turn it to cold for long minutes, resisting the urge to take the edge off his acute desire. He wasn’t at the mercy of his body and hormones—no matter how tempting his housekeeper was.
She now wore a white shirt tucked neatly into black trousers. Flat black brogues. Hair pulled back into a bun at the back of her head. And, bizzarely, even though she was conforming exactly to the way he would have expected his housekeeper to behave, it irritated him intensely.
Yet he couldn’t fault her. The house was pristine. And he had been out of line arriving without any notice. She worked here—she couldn’t be expected to be in a state of readiness 24/7. That was just...not feasible.
She came over, avoiding his eye, and picked up the plate.
He said, ‘That was very good. Excellent, in fact. You said you made it?’
Maggie was doing her best to avoid eye contact with Nikos Marchetti. But she couldn’t ignore him. She forced herself to look at him. His hair was still damp and curling thickly on his head. Which only reminded her of that moment...
She said quickly, ‘I used to work as a commis chef in a restaurant. That’s what I want to do eventually...be a chef.’
Nikos Marchetti frowned. ‘Why did you leave?’
Maggie wished that the clothes she’d put on—her uniform—felt like a barrier against that dark gaze. But when he looked at her she felt as if he was seeing all the way through her to where her blood was rushing and still felt so hot.
‘Because of my mother’s illness. Also, the head chef was too handsy for my liking.’
Nikos Marchetti tensed visibly. ‘You mean he touched you?’
Maggie was surprised at his reaction. ‘Me and pretty much every other female member of staff who came within a few feet of him. But my mother fell ill, so it wasn’t a hard decision to come here to help her. She thought she could manage with my help. But then her illness progressed quickly...’
Nikos Marchetti stood up and took the plate out of Maggie’s hands. He pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down.’
Maggie hesitated for a moment, but then sat down. Nikos Marchetti sat down too.
‘I’m sorry about earlier. Someone should have rung ahead to tell you of my arrival. And I’m sorry about your mother. You were lucky to have had her as long as you did. You sound as if you were close.’
Maggie looked at her boss. Maybe if she kept reaffirming that in her head—her boss—she would be able to ignore the way there seemed to be a million signals between them going on under the surface. Her awareness of him...the way he looked at her. It was illictly thrilling.
‘We were close. She was a single parent and I was an only child.’
‘Your father wasn’t on the scene?’
Maggie shook her head quickly. ‘No, he wasn’t.’ In a bid to divert him away from a subject she avoided like the plague, she asked, ‘Is your mother still alive?’
Instantly Nikos Marchetti’s expression shuttered. ‘No. She died a long time ago. I don’t remember her at all.’
For some reason Maggie had a sense that wasn’t entirely true. But she said, ‘I’m sorry. Losing a parent at any age is tough.’ She reached out to take his plate again and stood up. ‘If you’d like to move into the lounge I can bring you coffee, or tea?’
Nikos Marchetti looked at her and for a moment it was as if he’d forgotten she was there. He’d disappeared for a second.
Maggie suspected that the persona he projected—rich, careless—was a little bit of a construct, hiding something far more formidable under the surface. He was watchful, even though he carried that careless air of nonchalance.
‘I’ll have a whiskey. But on one condition.’
Maggie had been turning away and now looked back. Nikos Marchetti was standing up. ‘What condition?’ she asked. For some reason her heart tripped into a faster rhythm.
‘That you join me for a glass. It’s the least I can do after arriving unannounced.’
Maggie’s hands tightened on the plate. She felt breathless again, just imagining inhabiting the same space as this man. Especially
after seeing him naked.
‘That’s really not necessary.’
‘Please. I’ve had more scintillating conversation with you in the last couple of hours than I’ve had with anyone in the last month. Indulge me.’
CHAPTER TWO
NIKOS WAITED IN the living room for Maggie to return. He didn’t know if she’d take him up on his offer and realised it had been a long time since a woman had held any element of surprise for him.
He was used to not having to fight very hard or work very hard to get what he wanted—women or deals. He knew this was largely thanks to his genes and his wealth. He was under no illusions that if those elements were stripped away his life would be very different.
Still, life had become...boring of late.
He stood at the open French doors. The air was warm and still. Nothing was moving. A lone cow mooed in the distance. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been somwhere so peaceful, and to his surprise it wasn’t making him itch for distraction—it was soothing his ragged edges.
No one knew he was here. That had been one of the indefinable things that had appealed to him about this house. The fact that it was so rural—a complete contrast to the life he usually led—had made his spontaneous purchase even more surprising. But he didn’t want to analyse that now. And he certainly didn’t want to analyse the sensation that he was in a place that felt like home, when nowhere had ever felt like home to him.
He didn’t have a home and he didn’t want one. Home was a myth.
He went over and looked at the bookshelves that lined one wall. Something caught his attention. He reached out and pulled a book off the shelf. It had been a childhood favourite of his, and it immediately and disconcertingly took him back in time to when he’d used books as a form of escape in his younger years.
He heard a sound and looked round. Maggie was coming in with a tray. Immediately he noticed the two glasses beside the bottle of whiskey. The rush of anticipation that coursed through him might have surprised him in another setting, but this evening had thrown up so many surprises that he barely noticed.
