Housekeeper at His Command: The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper / His Pregnant Housekeeper / The Maid and the Millionaire

Which was today.

A huge marquee had been erected on one of the fastidiously tended sweeping lawns, and there tenant farmers and the inhabitants of the two sleepy villages which formed part of the vast Las Palomas property would be entertained with flamenco, dancing to a string quartet, and enough food and drink to keep an army going for a month.

Strings of coloured lights festooned the castle walls and every tree and fountain, just waiting for darkness to fall. The kitchens were a hive of activity as the chef and his helpers started preparing the banquet for the company of VIP guests and their wives and partners, who would apparently be arriving any time now to stay overnight, because she’d heard that the dancing would go on until dawn.

And there was still no sign of Cayo.

She chewed on a corner of her lower lip as she watched Benji chase a butterfly. She was being sensible about the future, and her departure from this lovely place, so she could congratulate herself. She was being adult about what had happened, too, she decided, feeling glum.

She’d fallen in love with Cayo—which was a silly thing to do, but she wasn’t going to let herself obsess about it. Of course not. She’d get over it, given time. And so what if that kiss had given her a taste of rapture she was sure she would never experience again? She’d get over that, too. Maybe even forget it had ever happened.

Given time.

And time was what she’d had ever since he’d disappeared without so much as a, see you.

Time to think. About the way he’d broken that kiss as cataclysmically as he’d started it. Stepping away from her. Apologising! Looking as stiff and granite-faced as a carved effigy before snapping round on his heels and stalking away. Leaving her shuddering with the aftermath of exquisite physical sensation and the earth-shattering revelation of having fallen head over heels in love.

Lunch had been served in the sitting room of her suite that day, and he’d acted as though nothing had happened. The perfect, ultra-considerate gentleman. She’d been disorientated by his annoying behaviour—she’d so wanted him to kiss her again, and he had behaved as if she were a kid sister, leaving her wanting to jump up and slap him. And all of that had been mixed up with the truly awesome bombshell of really falling in love, ensuring that she’d gone along with every last one of his suggestions.

That she allow him to show her something of the city, as formerly arranged. That Miguel’s gift of the Fornier wardrobe be accepted, and that she spend some time at Las Palomas with his uncle while he sorted out a suitable occupation and affordable accommodation for her.

All commendably sensible.

And during the days that had followed, as he’d escorted her around Madrid’s highspots, he had been the perfect companion—knowledgeable, kind, considerate. Only once, when he’d announced that they’d be dining out and going on to some classy-sounding nightclub, and she’d worn a silky little scarlet Fornier creation, had he taken one glance in her direction and looked as pained as if a hornet had taken a bite out of him. It had left her agonising over whether he’d looked like that because she looked tarty, wondering if the clinging dress was too short, showing too much cleavage to be acceptable in polite society.

She’d noticed that he hadn’t really looked at her again, and when they’d hit the nightclub he’d suggested they leave almost immediately. He hadn’t said one word to her on the short drive back to the hotel.

But apart from that Cayo’s behaviour couldn’t be faulted. So why had she swung between feeling dizzy with love for him and feeling so frustrated and miserable she could have screamed?

He had to be deeply ashamed of having kissed her, really regretted it, and was horrified by her more than merely enthusiastic response, she decided. She was deeply mortified as she recalled the way she had clung, squirmed and wriggled against his hard, lean body, as if she could never get close enough until she’d fused their bodies together.

Her hands had taken on a life of their own, touching, revelling in the strongly boned and muscled breadth of his shoulders, the smooth outline of his body where it narrowed to his taut, flat waist, and then moving up again like a heat-seeking missile so that her fingers could tangle in the midnight softness of his hair.

Her face flaming scarlet with humiliation, Izzy busied herself searching for Benji’s favourite ball. She’d behaved like a real hussy. No wonder a guy as coolly sophisticated as Cayo had been turned off. If she wanted to do herself a favour she’d do as he had obviously done and put it out of her mind.

Right out.

Because …

Because just possibly there was something entirely different going on here. Suppose kissing her had been part of his plan? That he’d had to really steel himself to do it, and hadn’t been able to bring himself to repeat it?

That possible scenario had occurred to her in the small hours of the night, waking her from a dream she’d been having of the first time he’d taken her hands in his.

He’d been apologising for thinking the worst of her, explaining that he had just that morning spoken to her former employer and had the truth from him regarding what had happened, confirming that she’d been blameless.

And all the time she’d been under the impression that he’d believed her side of the story when she’d recounted it much earlier. That impression had been strengthened when he’d immediately started to treat her like a human being—even to the extent of inviting her to accompany him to Madrid for a short holiday. So why, obviously still convinced that she was out to wriggle herself into Miguel’s affections, to make herself indispensable and get her hands on his money, had he stopped calling her vile names, threatening her, and started being nice to her?

Her lush mouth wobbled now, as the only viable and most distressing answer that had presented itself in the small hours claimed residential status in her mind.

Miguel’s wealth. Which Cayo would inherit. Provided the elderly man didn’t marry, or leave it to a sneaky little gold-digger.

To make sure that didn’t happen Cayo would have put himself up as a sort of well-heeled diversion, that would make the calculating heart of a career gold-digger beat faster and swiftly change allegiance.

He’d gritted his enviably strong white teeth, taken her hands in his, and acted as if he cared about her. Even kissed her silly to make her think he was more than a little attracted to her. And all the while not trusting her an inch—even though he’d claimed to have had the truth of her innocence from the horse’s mouth.

He wouldn’t believe in her innocence if the Angel Gabriel himself proclaimed it!

Despising herself for being so slow on the uptake, and falling for a man capable of such devious behaviour, she finally located the gaudy yellow and scarlet ball. She straightened, whistled for Benji, and threw it as far as she could over the tall grasses, watching as the puppy, yelping with excitement, scampered after it. And resolutely blinked the tears from her eyes.

‘She is exercising our puppy.’ Miguel laid aside the magnifying glass through which he’d been examining an illuminated manuscript and smiled as he answered his nephew’s query. ‘I believe she takes him beyond the immediate grounds and into the meadows, where he can run wild. You will find her if you look.’

He bit back a chuckle as he encountered the younger man’s stony gaze and added, with seeming innocence, ‘She will be pleased to see you. I believe she has missed you. She has been desanimada, without her usual sunny spirits.’

Deciding he’d said enough on that subject as Cayo’s expression darkened, he probed slyly, ‘Did you find alternative employment for my soon to be ex little companion?’

‘Nothing suitable.’ Cayo swung on his heels and exited, his strong, blue-shadowed jaw set at an uncompromising angle. Was his uncle trying to make him feel guilty?

He felt guilty enough without any input from him!

He had kissed her because he hadn’t been able to stop himself. His legendary cool had deserted him. His mind, normally as reliable as a calculating machine, had seriously malfunctioned.

Punching a balled fist into the open palm of his other hand, he left the castle by a rarely used side door, to avoid the interminable to-ings and fro-ings of his staff, and took a winding path that led towards the perimeter wall.

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