Housekeeper in the Headlines

by Chantelle Shaw

  ‘I don’t know the journalist’s name,’ Betsy muttered. ‘He was hanging around the village a couple of days ago and he told me he worked for a local newspaper. He seemed familiar and I remembered that I’d seen him once at my aunt’s house in London.’

  Carlos’s jaw hardened. ‘Do you expect me to believe you?’ he asked sardonically. ‘It’s obvious that you and Vane devised this story that I have a secret child. I suppose he promised you that the tabloids would pay you a fortune if you said that I am the father of your baby? But you won’t get away with it. I want a paternity test. And when I have proof that the child isn’t mine, I will sue you for libel.’

  Betsy had often tried to imagine Carlos’s reaction if she told him about his son. Sebastian was growing up fast and was already developing a cheeky personality. It had saddened her that his father would never know him. Her conscience had pricked. Maybe she should have given Carlos the chance to decide if he wanted to be involved with Sebastian. But he had just given a TV interview in which he’d stated that he had no desire to settle down and have a family. Betsy had taken that as proof that he would not be interested in his son. And besides, she’d had no way of getting in touch with Carlos after he had returned to Spain.

  She supposed that she could have tried to contact him through his management company, but she hadn’t because her deepest fear had been that Carlos might decide that he did want Sebastian and try to take the little boy from her. Betsy knew what it was like to be at the centre of a custody battle. Her parents had fought over her, and she had felt torn between them. She was determined to spare Sebastian the same ordeal.

  Now she felt relief at Carlos’s reaction, which confirmed what she’d guessed: fatherhood held no appeal for him. But his accusation that she had sold her story to the newspapers made her furious.

  For a moment, she contemplated denying that Sebastian was Carlos’s son. Then he might go away and leave her in peace. But if he carried out his threat to sue her for libel the truth was bound to come out.

  She lifted her chin and met Carlos’s angry glare proudly. ‘A paternity test will prove that I am telling the truth. Sebastian is your son.’

  * * *

  Carlos was taken aback by Betsy’s vehement response, but he reminded himself that she was bound to stick to her claim that she’d had a child by him. Surely she must realise she wouldn’t get away with making such a false accusation.

  ‘We spent one night together, and I used protection both times we had sex,’ he said curtly. ‘Frankly, it would have been a miracle if you had conceived my baby.’

  She nodded. ‘I don’t know how it happened, but I agree that our son is a miracle.’ She walked across the room to where a gate was fixed in the door frame and held out her arms. ‘Isn’t that right, poppet? You are Mama’s little miracle.’

  Carlos stiffened as he watched a small child walk unsteadily over to the gate and lift his arms to Betsy. She picked him up and balanced him on her hip.

  ‘This is Sebastian.’

  There was fierce pride in her voice, and the look of love in her eyes as she smiled at the baby evoked a tug in Carlos’s chest. A long time ago his mother had smiled at him with the same loving pride.

  He pushed the memory away as he stared at the little boy, who had big brown eyes and a halo of dark curls and bore a striking similarity to Carlos’s nephew. His sister’s son, Miguel, was two, and he guessed that Betsy’s child was a few months younger—which meant that she must have fallen pregnant around two years ago.

  ‘He’s yours,’ Betsy said quietly. ‘He’s almost fifteen months old. He was born on the seventeenth of April, exactly nine months after you and I slept together. Before you suggest that I could have slept with another man at around the same time—I didn’t. I was a virgin and I haven’t been with anyone since you.’

  It was impossible, Carlos assured himself.

  He was conscious that his heart was pounding as hard as if he’d played a five-set tennis match. The fact that this child bore a resemblance to his nephew proved nothing. Sebastian could have inherited his brown eyes from his mother.

  But when Betsy walked towards him, carrying her son, Carlos discovered that the little boy’s eyes were the tawny colour of light sherry and flecked with gold—exactly like his own.

  Something close to panic gripped him. He couldn’t have a child. He’d spent his entire adult life avoiding responsibility.

  His mind flew back to two years ago. He had been at the peak of his career; winner on the international tennis circuit more times than any other player. But the London tournament’s coveted gold trophy had eluded him. It was the one victory he’d wanted above all others and his driving ambition had been to win the tournament in his mother’s honour.

  He had rented a house in London close to the tennis club, where he trained for a few weeks before the start of the tournament. But his determination to avoid distraction and focus on his game had been tested when an attractive young brunette had greeted him.

  ‘I’m the housekeeper, Betsy Miller,’ she’d introduced herself with a shy smile. ‘Don’t worry,’ she’d assured him quickly when he had frowned. ‘I promise that you won’t notice me around the house.’

  Her skin was pale cream and the rosy flush that had spread over her cheeks had snagged his attention. His initial opinion that she was simply attractive fell far short of the truth, he’d realised. This housekeeper was pretty in a wholesome, fresh-faced way that he’d found unexpectedly sexy.

  She was petite, and her figure was slim rather than fashionably skinny. His eyes had been drawn to the firm swell of her breasts before he’d dropped his gaze to the narrow indent of her waist and the gentle flare of her hips.

  Returning his eyes to her face, he had watched her blush deepen and recognised awareness in her expression. It happened to him so often that he was never surprised. He was rarely intrigued by a woman. But something about Betsy had stirred his jaded libido.

  ‘Don’t be too confident of that promise,’ he’d murmured. ‘You are very noticeable, Betsy Miller.’

  Dios! Carlos forced his mind back to the present in this flood-damaged cottage. The woman standing in front of him looked like a character from a Dickensian novel in her filthy old clothes and with her hair hidden beneath a scarf. But even though Betsy wore no make-up, and lacked the glamour and sophistication of his numerous past mistresses, her natural beauty and innate sensuality lit a flame inside him.

  To his astonishment, he felt his body spring to urgent life. Why her? he wondered furiously. He’d gone through a rocky period after he’d won the BITC, and his libido had fallen off a cliff. In fact, he hadn’t slept with any other woman since Betsy.

  The startling realisation did nothing to improve his temper.

  ‘I have never had a condom fail before,’ he said harshly. ‘And if by a minuscule chance it did, why didn’t you tell me when you found out you were pregnant?’

  ‘I didn’t know until a few weeks after you had gone back to Spain.’ She bit her lip. ‘I saw you being interviewed on television, soon after you had announced your retirement from competition tennis. After there had been rumours in the media that you planned to marry your girlfriend, the model Lorena Lopez, and start a family.’

  Carlos gave a snort. ‘I had a brief affair with Lorena, but it was over before I went to England to prepare for the championship. I had made it clear that there was never a chance I would marry her, but she wouldn’t accept it and told the press that we were engaged.’

  Betsy nodded. ‘You told the TV chat show host that you were a “lone wolf” and did not intend to ever marry or have children. I realised then that you wouldn’t want your baby.’

  It could not be true.

  Carlos raked his fingers through his hair. When he’d seen that newspaper headline he had been certain the allegation that he had a secret son was untrue. Now he did not know what
to think. Betsy was either a very good liar or she was telling the truth, and the child who was struggling to wriggle out of her arms was his flesh and blood.

  ‘Poppet, I can’t put you down on the dirty floor,’ Betsy murmured, trying to pacify the little boy, who had started to grizzle.

  Sebastian might only be fifteen months old, but he was already showing signs that he was strong-willed. Had he inherited the trait from him? Carlos wondered.

  ‘I have arranged for a paternity test to be carried out,’ he said abruptly. ‘A doctor is waiting at a hotel a few miles from here to take the necessary samples and the DNA testing clinic guarantees the result in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘What do you intend to do when the result is positive?’ Betsy challenged him. ‘If you plan to regard Sebastian as merely your responsibility, or worse an inconvenience, it might be better not to do the test. You can walk away right now and forget about him.’

  ‘Is your reluctance because you know the test will prove you are a liar?’ His jaw hardened. ‘You have publicly alleged that I am your child’s father and I am determined to clear my name.’

  Angry spots of colour flared on her cheeks. ‘I swear that the story in the tabloids had nothing to do with me.’

  ‘It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.’ Carlos could not hide his frustration. ‘This evening there is a party in London to launch the UK office of my sports management company. Veloz represents some of the biggest names in the world of sport. But now my integrity is being questioned. I want the truth, and a paternity test is the only way I can be sure to get it.’

  ‘Fine.’ Betsy did not drop her gaze from his. ‘I’m all for the truth. But how can we go anywhere while the village is flooded? I’m surprised you were able to get here.’

  ‘I came to Fraddlington by helicopter and walked across a field as the main road is impassable.’ Carlos strode towards the front door, grimacing as his handcrafted Italian leather shoes squelched in the layer of mud on the floor. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘You obviously know nothing about small children if you think I can simply leave the house.’

  Betsy’s wry voice stopped him.

  ‘I’ll need to pack a change bag for Sebastian and make up a bottle of his formula milk.’

  The toddler had stopped squirming in her arms and was staring at Carlos. He was a beautiful child. Carlos was once again struck by Sebastian’s resemblance to his nephew.

  He walked back to Betsy, compelled by a feeling he could not explain as he studied her son’s apple-round cheeks and mop of dark curls. ‘I’ll hold him while you organise what you need,’ he said tersely.

  She hesitated. ‘He might not want to go to you. He’s wary of strangers.’

  Carlos held out his hands and took the unresisting little boy from her. He had some experience, having been coerced by his sister to hold his nephew since Miguel had been a tiny baby.

  The strong similarity between the two boys could simply be coincidence, he assured himself. He was not going to jump to conclusions ahead of the DNA test. Nevertheless, he felt an unnerving sense of recognition when his gaze locked with Sebastian’s sherry-gold eyes.

  Betsy had asked what he intended to do if he had proof that he was her baby’s father. Up until he’d walked into the cottage he had not seriously considered it a possibility. But she sounded so certain that he had to accept it might be true. And if it was...if Sebastian was his...

  A host of conflicting emotions surged through Carlos, but the fiercest and most unexpected was protectiveness. Since he was a teenager he had not had the support from his own father that he had desperately wanted, and he had even doubted that Roderigo loved him. If Sebastian was his, he would claim his son and love him unconditionally.

  CHAPTER TWO

  BETSY HELD HER breath as the helicopter took off. After the torrential rain that had caused the floods it was a beautiful sunny day and there was not a cloud in the blue sky.

  ‘Are you nervous about flying?’ Carlos was sprawled in a seat opposite her in the luxurious cabin and appeared totally relaxed, unlike Betsy.

  ‘I’m not a fan,’ she admitted, and gasped as the helicopter jolted.

  ‘That was just some turbulence.’

  His gravelly voice sent a shiver of sexual awareness across Betsy’s skin and she knew the knot of tension in her stomach had nothing to do with her nervousness about being in the helicopter.

  She couldn’t quite believe that Carlos had turned up at the cottage. If only she’d had prior knowledge of his visit she might have been able to erect some defences against his smouldering sensuality, but instead she felt like a teenager on a first date.

  ‘Have you flown in a helicopter before?’ he asked.

  ‘Not since I was a child and visited my father. He had a pilot’s licence and lived in a remote part of Canada which was only accessible by helicopter.’

  ‘Why didn’t you live with him?’

  ‘My parents divorced when I was eight and my mother was awarded custody of me, but the access arrangement stipulated that I could spend time with my dad.’

  Betsy looked away from Carlos and stared out of the window as memories crowded her mind. After the divorce she had lived with her mother in London, but every school holiday she’d been put on a plane to Toronto to visit her father. Towards the end of one visit, Drake Miller had driven her to a small airfield where they had boarded a helicopter.

  ‘We’re going to have an adventure,’ he’d told her. ‘Just you and me, exploring one of the wildest areas of Canada.’

  ‘Is Mum okay with it?’ Betsy had felt uneasy. ‘I have to go back to England before school starts next week.’

  ‘The truth is, honey, that your mother doesn’t want you living with her any more.’ Drake had frowned when she’d started to cry. ‘Hey, what are your tears for? Don’t you want to be with your old dad?’

  Of course she did, she had quickly assured him as she’d scrubbed her tears away. She’d loved both her parents. But she thought she must have done something terrible for her mum to have sent her away permanently.

  Six months later the Canadian police had arrived at the log cabin in a remote part of British Colombia where Betsy had been living with her father and she’d learned the truth. Drake had kidnapped her. He had lied when he’d said that her mother did not want her. He’d maintained that he had done it because he could not bear to live apart from his only daughter. But Betsy suspected that he’d kept her hidden out of spite, as part of his festering feud with her mother.

  Her childhood had left her with a deep mistrust of the concept of romantic love, and she could not understand why she had fallen under Carlos’s spell so completely. What she’d felt had been lust, she reminded herself. And that was certainly all it had been for Carlos.

  After she had overheard him telling the journalist that she was a casual fling, she’d written him a note, making the excuse that she’d had sex with him because he was famous and telling him that to avoid any awkwardness it would be better if they did not see each other again. Then she had left the house, and when she’d returned, hours later, he had gone.

  Sebastian was growing bored with sitting still and tried to wriggle off Betsy’s lap. She was conscious of Carlos’s brooding gaze, watching them, and wondered if he was judging her parenting skills.

  Motherhood had been a steep learning curve for her, especially as she’d had no help from anyone. Her mother had flown over from LA, where she now lived, when Sebastian was six weeks old, but Stephanie Miller had spent most of the visit telling Betsy that she did not feel old enough to be a grandmother and that it would be the end of her acting career if film producers discovered her real age.

  Betsy had refrained from pointing out that her mother hadn’t had a big film role for years. And after several glasses of wine Stephanie had admitted that she had money problems.

  ‘I wish
I could help you out, darling, but my finances are stretched. I expect your father is raking it in with the royalties from his books,’ she said bitterly. ‘Apparently, he’s the top thriller writer in North America, although I’m surprised that he has the energy to write. His latest wife is only a year or so older than you.’

  Betsy had not met her father’s third wife. She’d been estranged from him since she’d fallen out with wife number two and Drake had told her it was best if she didn’t visit again. She’d phoned him when Sebastian was born, and he’d sent a congratulations card, but he had never met his grandson.

  ‘I don’t need money from Drake,’ she’d told her mother. ‘My pet portrait business is doing quite well, and I supplement what I earn from painting with my job at the village pub.’

  Now she doubted that she would be able to resume her job as barmaid. Her friend Sarah, who owned the pub, had said that it been badly damaged in the floods. And she would have to move out of the cottage, where she had a painting studio in the attic.

  Sebastian started to grizzle, and Betsy stroked his curls off his brow. ‘Not long now, poppet,’ she said, trying to soothe him. She glanced at Carlos. ‘How far is the hotel?’

  He spoke to the pilot over the intercom. ‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes.’

  Carlos’s sunglasses hid his expression and Betsy had no idea what he was thinking. When he had held Sebastian at the cottage she’d hoped for something—a sign that he recognised his son. Seeing Sebastian with his father had emphasised their physical likeness, but perhaps Carlos couldn’t see it—or more likely he didn’t want to accept the baby was his.