Mistress to a Millionaire

by Helen Brooks

  It was generous—it was incredibly, wildly generous; she just couldn’t believe it, Daisy acknowledged blankly.

  ‘Your rooms at Festina Lente would comprise of your own small sitting room, bedroom and en suite bathroom,’ Slade continued smoothly, ‘which are situated next to Francesco’s suite.’

  ‘Festina Lente?’ Daisy caught at the name of the villa as much for something to say as anything else—she had never felt so overwhelmed in all her life. And gauche. Painfully gauche.

  ‘It means hurry slowly—that is, take things easily,’ Slade answered after the slightest pause. ‘My wife did not approve of my lifestyle—’ his voice was sardonic ‘—and naming the villa such was her way of reminding me of the fact. It was a gentle reminder—’ the mordant note deepened ‘—because Luisa was not a confrontational woman; in fact she couldn’t cope with conflict.’

  Daisy nodded. He hadn’t added, Unlike you, but she felt the words in the air nevertheless and it rankled.

  ‘You would like to see a photograph of Francesco?’ It was a rhetorical question: he had already placed the picture in front of her on the bedcover, leaving her no choice in the matter.

  Daisy looked down at the small, brown-eyed and black-haired little boy who was looking into the camera with a serious face, his wide, heavily lashed eyes guaranteed to melt the hardest heart, and fell immediately in love. He was so sweet, so small and fragile, and not at all as she had expected.

  ‘This was taken only a couple of months ago,’ Slade said softly as she picked the photograph up to scrutinise it more closely. ‘Of course the mental and physical strain of the accident and the ensuing months have meant he is not as robust or as big as other children his age, although the doctors have assured me this will rectify itself in time.’

  He was trying to tug on her heartstrings—manipulate her for his own advantage. Daisy knew it but somehow—with the photo of his motherless son in her hands and the appealing little face looking up at her with an expression deep in the soulful eyes that no child should have—it didn’t matter.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure it will,’ she said quietly. ‘Children are far more resilient than we give them credit for.’

  Anything else he might have said was interrupted by the return of the nurse and a coffee tray groaning with fresh scones and cream and strawberry jam. ‘I thought you might fancy a snack with your coffee.’ She was bustling about pulling the coffee table close to Slade and missed the dark, amused look he gave her, but Daisy noticed it and her soft lips tightened.

  He thought he only had to snap his fingers and the rest of the world jumped, she thought irritably—and that was probably because they did! If it had been anyone else—anyone else—she would have been overcome with gratefulness for all they had done for her, and she didn’t doubt for a minute he was quite willing to forget all she owed him as he had suggested. But she would rather die than be beholden to this man. She couldn’t explain why—there was no logic or rhyme or reason to it—but he didn’t even have to open his mouth to catch her on the raw.

  In spite of the prevailing atmosphere Slade seemed to thoroughly enjoy his scones and coffee, sitting back comfortably in the easy chair—one leg crossed over the other and the big body perfectly relaxed—as he munched his way through three of the scones and drank two cups of black coffee.

  Daisy forced herself to eat one scone—she certainly wasn’t going to let him think she was nervous or in any way affected by his presence—but each mouthful was a huge effort and the food tasted like cotton wool. And behind the calm mask she found her brain was working at express speed.

  Ronald was looking for her—she had to face that, along with the knowledge that her ex-husband always accomplished anything he set out to do. He was a determined man and—she had come to realise in the last sixteen months—an extremely ruthless and selfish one. He wouldn’t care a fig about her feelings or the fact that she didn’t want to see him; in fact any opposition would only make him more intent on having his own way.

  They had met when she was at college in Cambridge—her family having lived in the area—and Ronald was attending the university there. He had been taking maths and physics and was a brilliant student, and his striking good looks had meant he was never short of female hangers-on, but right from the moment he had seen her at one of the nightclubs in the town the students frequented he hadn’t looked at another woman. Or so she had thought. Yes, so she had thought!

  Oh, she had been so gullible. It made her want to squirm if she thought about it. She forced herself to bite into the scone and chew steadily as her stomach muscles clenched at the memory.

  When her father had received a marvellous job offer in the States and the family had decided to uproot themselves from everything familiar, she had stayed. For Ronald. And a year later, when he had graduated with a first, they had married. She now knew that he had been seeing other women—one-night stands mostly—all through their courtship and engagement, and marriage hadn’t changed him. Not one iota.

  He was a serial adulterer. That was how Stephanie had described him when the full story had come to light, and she was right. But by then Daisy’s heart had been smashed to smithereens.

  She took a sip of coffee, that same heart pounding at the unwelcome memories that were crowding in. She wasn’t aware of an ebony-black gaze trained on her pale face, or the intensity in Slade’s eyes as he watched her—she was back in Scotland on a cold, snowy December night some sixteen months ago, and she had just opened an envelope which had been waiting for her on her return home from work.

  She had expected to find a Christmas card—it was only a week before Christmas Eve and hordes of cards were arriving daily—but instead her fingers had closed on the photographs the envelope had contained. Explicit photographs—foul in content—of Ronald and another woman. She had stared at them for long minutes, her mind and body stunned and still, and then she had walked through into their shining kitchen and sat and waited for Ronald to come home.

  He had blustered and shouted—he had even raised his hand to slap her at one point in the almighty row that had followed his return, but something in her eyes had stopped him. And he had lied, over and over again, saying his association with the woman in the pictures had been over before he had met her. But a hundred little question marks which had been mounting for years were adding up and Daisy hadn’t let the matter go.

  Eventually he had admitted to the affair, saying it had finished six months before and that the woman in question was jealous of her. The woman had been jealous, but not of her— Ronald had just started seeing the woman’s best friend, which had sent the female in question into a frenzy of bitter resentment and spite at his rejection.

  It had been that revelation which had opened the door to further disclosures—unearthed slowly over a matter of weeks whilst she had been staying with Stephanie and Malcolm. The present woman—Susan Bannister—was wealthy, very wealthy, rich enough to finance the business Ronald had been longing to set up for some time, and it hadn’t seemed to worry Susan that her lover’s wife was five months pregnant.

  She had lost the baby.

  Daisy took another deep gulp of the coffee as her stomach churned and the blackness came. She had had a miscarriage—brought on by extreme stress and anxiety, according to the doctor at the hospital—and her daughter had lived for three minutes. She had held the tiny body in her arms for much longer than that, and as she had stared into the beautiful little face her love for Ronald had turned to hate.

  And now he was looking for her, and there would be confrontation after confrontation—she knew enough about Ronald to know that. And he could get nasty, very nasty—she knew that too.

  ‘…if that suits you?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Daisy came out of the black abyss to the realisation that Slade had been talking and she hadn’t heard a word.

  ‘I said should you decide to accept the post of nanny to my son I would like you to fly out to Italy no later than the middle of May if tha
t is convenient?’ Slade repeated patiently. The patience was unusual for him but he had seen something in her face which had appalled him in the last few moments.

  She stared at him—the hospital room, Slade, the normality of it all strange after the darkness of her thoughts.

  ‘And I would like you to make a decision as soon as possible, of course,’ he added carefully. ‘Three months is not very long and the clock is already ticking away.’

  And that same clock might be bringing Ronald nearer and nearer. The thought spun in her head. And she was never going to come to terms with the loss of her daughter and all that had happened with the threat of Ronald in the background.

  Italy was far, far away. Her ex-husband wouldn’t find her in Italy, and perhaps she might even find some peace of mind in an alien land where there was nothing to remind her of that terrible Christmas Eve when they had buried her daughter in a tiny little white coffin? Perhaps…

  She looked straight at Slade now and the hard, glittering eyes were waiting for her response, their darkness unfathomable.

  ‘You…you said a trial period?’ she asked numbly.

  He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her white face. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said evenly. ‘And you have my word that if you find the post is not to your liking there will be no questions asked or pressure brought to bear. You will be flown home at the end of three months and that will be that.’

  ‘You might find I’m not to your liking,’ Daisy said quietly, her voice shaking a little. ‘It works both ways.’

  Slade looked into the deep honey-gold eyes with their thick, silky lashes, at the small, straight nose and full, generous mouth framed by a silver halo of white-blonde hair, and he nodded again. ‘Yes, I might,’ he agreed expressionlessly, his dark face giving nothing away.

  She was crazy to even be considering accepting this job. She didn’t want to work for him and she certainly didn’t want to be a mother figure to the sad little boy in the photograph when her arms were still aching for her own baby daughter, Daisy told herself silently. And then she heard a voice—which sounded suspiciously like her own—saying, ‘All right, Mr Eastwood, I would be very pleased to accept your generous offer if you are sure I am suitable for the post. But…but if you want me to come to Italy I would prefer to do it soon—as soon as possible in fact.’

  ‘I see.’ The deep, slightly husky voice betrayed no surprise or emotion whatsoever, and Daisy found it helped enormously. Suddenly it wasn’t such a crazy thing to do—it was a job, just a job, and if it didn’t work out on either side nothing was lost. But she would be out of Ronald’s grasp, in a different environment, and that could only be good. ‘But there is one thing I must stipulate,’ he added quietly.

  ‘Yes?’ she asked weakly, suddenly nervous again.

  ‘My name is Slade. This “Mr Eastwood” makes me feel sixty-four instead of thirty-four,’ he murmured with dark amusement.

  And then he smiled, really smiled, and the cold, autocratic face turned into someone else—someone much younger, someone who could be tender, someone who was so breathtakingly attractive that it was mind-blowing…and someone who scared her to death.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DAISY flew out to South Tyrol in northern Italy straight from the hospital a few days later once the doctors were satisfied that the concussion, which had proved more of a problem than her fractured ribs, was gone. She collected her clothes and other personal items en route to the airport, her passport being up to date.

  She had advised Stephanie against visiting her at the hospital the same night she had accepted Slade’s offer of employment, and her friend had understood perfectly. Stephanie, too, was under no illusion now as to Ronald’s true nature, and neither woman would have been surprised if he had tried to follow Stephanie or use her in some way to reach Daisy.

  The flight was short and uneventful but very comfortable—courtesy of the first-class ticket Slade had insisted on buying for her—and Slade had promised she would be met at Verona airport and driven to Merano in South Tyrol, a distance of some 175 kilometres, by his housekeeper’s husband who acted as gardener and chauffeur.

  Only it wasn’t Mario who greeted her once she was through Customs, much to Daisy’s consternation.

  ‘Daisy.’ Slade’s voice was deep and warm and his big body—clothed in an open-necked pale gold shirt which showed the shadow of curly black hair at the top of his chest, and black denim jeans, tight across the hips—perfectly relaxed. He looked cool and controlled and utterly at ease with himself, she noted desperately, whereas she—she was hot all over. Which was stupid, ridiculous, she admonished herself savagely. She was here as one of his employees—no more and no less, and she was not physically attracted to this man. She would never let herself be attracted to a man again—or certainly not a good-looking, sensual type anyway. Ronald had been like that.

  ‘Hello, Slade.’ It was easier than she had thought to call him by his Christian name and she even managed a cool smile in spite of her churning stomach and weak knees.

  ‘How was your flight?’

  He had taken her arm as he’d spoken and after her, ‘It was fine,’ he smiled before turning to the porter who had all her luggage stacked on his trolley and speaking in rapid Italian.

  And then he turned back to her, giving her another swift, all-consuming glance before saying, ‘Come this way.’

  She noticed he matched his long legs to her shorter strides as he led her out of the airport building, but she was concentrating very hard on acting like a sensible, down-to-earth prospective nanny and forced her eyes and her thoughts from the hard, lean body at the side of her.

  ‘I thought Mario was meeting me?’ she asked with careful aplomb.

  They had reached his car, and as the porter loaded her cases into the back of the magnificent and very stately Bentley Turbo Slade glanced at her, his ebony eyes narrowed against the white sunlight which, although bright, was without real heat. ‘Disappointed?’ he asked lazily.

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said a trifle stiffly, flushing slightly.

  ‘I’m not convinced.’ He folded his arms over his chest and looked at her intently and she looked back. ‘You need a few good platefuls of Isabella’s pasta,’ he said consideringly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t believe her ears.

  ‘You’re too slender, and it’s not just because of the accident, is it? You haven’t been eating properly for months,’ he accused calmly. ‘You are far too fragile.’

  How dared he? How dared he? Daisy’s expression revealed just how she welcomed his observation but he was quite unrepentant, his black eyes very direct as he added, ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but what I eat or don’t eat is absolutely nothing to do with—with anyone but me,’ she snapped hotly.

  He was quite aware of what she had been about to say; his crooked grin confirmed it. ‘Daisy, in a few weeks’ time you will assume the responsibility for my son,’ he said mildly, ‘and that gives me the right to make sure you are eating properly. And sleeping properly. And anything else beneficial for your ultimate well-being.’ He eyed her angry face impassively.

  ‘I don’t think so!’ She couldn’t believe his arrogance.

  ‘I know so,’ he said steadily.

  He had terribly thick lashes for a man. The observation—coming out of nowhere as it did—was shocking, and caused her lips to tighten. ‘I am more than able to fulfil your requirements,’ she said coolly, and then, as the thick black eyebrows rose and his eyes assumed a wickedly mocking glint, the colour flooded her face. ‘What I meant was—’

  ‘I know what you meant, Daisy.’ His voice was soothing but there was laughter at the back of it.

  He was laughing at her! She was surprised at how much it mattered, but then, in the next instant, he had opened the door of the car and was ushering her into its luxurious interior.

  She was still bristling when he joined her in the Bentley and she was very much on the
defensive, but then he took her aback when he turned to her, his dark, handsome face suddenly very serious as he said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Daisy.’

  Her immediate reaction was withdrawal and he noticed this, his voice purposely steady and without expression as he added, ‘Francesco needs the stability you can give him.’

  Francesco? She stared at him as her guilty mind reprimanded her for the terribly presumptuous nature of her thoughts. He had been talking about her role as mother figure to his son—of course he had—and she had assumed… She blushed to think of what she had assumed. Why would a man like Slade Eastwood be interested in the nanny? she asked herself caustically. He could have any woman he wanted with a lift of his little finger.

  ‘Of course you won’t be taking a major role while those ribs heal, I know that,’ he continued smoothly, starting the powerful engine as he spoke. ‘But it will be good for Francesco to get to know you gradually, without any pressure. All in all, I think this has worked out very well.’

  Daisy, still coping with her dreadfully carnal mind, could only nod weakly.

  ‘It will take us a couple of hours to reach Merano,’ Slade said gravely, slanting a look at her red face, ‘and I’m sure you must be starving. I thought we’d stop for a meal at a little inn I know. The food is excellent and the atmosphere convivial.’

  She could smell that delicious aftershave he used and she was terribly conscious of the hard, aggressive power in the big male frame so close to her—it was causing all sorts of feelings she could well have done without.

  Animal magnetism. She almost nodded at the thought and stopped herself just in time. It didn’t mean a thing, not really—any woman would probably react the way she was doing. He was a virile, strong male in the prime of life and the instinctive biological urge that had kept the human race going from the start of creation was perfectly natural. It was. Perfectly natural. And as such nothing to worry about.