As he pulled his luggage from the car, he sensed her scrutiny from an upstairs window. And he couldn’t help wondering if she’d subjected Hugh to the same covert once-over. If she’d sized him up as potential prey for a pregnancy trap.
When he turned toward the house, he couldn’t resist lifting his gaze to the window. He could no longer see her, but he knew she was there, watching him from behind the window’s heavy frame of curtains. The hum of anticipation in his blood changed tenor, sharpening with a new intent.
Perhaps a more active approach would better serve his purpose. Patience, to his way of thinking, was an overrated virtue.
“Perhaps, Ms. Isabelle Browne—” his narrowed gaze raked the window one last time, and a faint smile ghosted across his lips as he strode toward the portico “—you are about to get more than you bargained for.”
Two
At the airfield, Cristo had collected keys, car, directions and a large helping of flattery from the At Your Service manager. He’d wasted enough time deflecting that; he didn’t intend wasting any more standing around beneath the portico. When his first press of the doorbell went unanswered, he used the supplied key. The heavy door swung open smoothly and silently, and he stepped into the foyer.
A woman—Isabelle Browne, he presumed—stood at the foot of the stairs. Poised on one leg, one hand on the banister for balance, she appeared to be midway through changing her shoes. That seemed the logical explanation for the mismatched pairing of one utilitarian lace-up and one sheepskin slipper.
The second shoe, in her hand, disappeared behind her back as she straightened. Standing on the short side of average, that did not take her long. Cristo allowed himself significantly longer to take her all in.
She was pretty in a wholesome, girl-next-door way. Sandy blond hair scraped back from her face revealed a high, smooth forehead and wide, startled eyes. Cheeks flushed, lips parted on a note of surprise, no makeup as far as he could tell. As for her body…he could tell even less. She wore an unflattering housekeeper’s uniform, complete with starched apron.
She did not look like a temptress.
She did not look like Hugh Harrington’s type at all.
When his gaze returned to her face, Cristo noted the hint of annoyance now glimmering in her eyes. Because of his long, leisurely perusal? Or because he’d caught her out?
“Welcome to Pelican Point, Mr. Verón,” she said, releasing her grip on the banister and dipping into an awkward bob. The hand holding the shoe remained out of sight. “I am so sorry I wasn’t downstairs to greet you at the door.”
Professional obsequiousness, Cristo decided, did not suit a woman wearing mismatched shoes and an expression of barely disguised irritation.
“There’s no need to apologise. As you can see, I am quite capable of opening—” he paused to kick the door shut behind him “—and closing the door.”
“Of course, but one of my duties is to greet guests.”
“I am happy for you to greet me here.” Cristo closed the space between them in half a dozen unhurried strides. He extended his free hand along with a winning smile. “I am Cristo Verón.”
Ignoring both his proffered hand and the smile, she ducked her head in acknowledgement. “May I take your bag, Mr. Verón?”
When she made a move toward his suitcase, he angled his body to block her path. Her hand grazed his flank, and she snatched it away. Her face pinkened into an unmistakable blush.
Had she felt that crackle of contact, too? Interesting.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Ver—”
“Please, call me Cristo,” he interrupted, putting down his bag. Belatedly he wondered if there’d been a last-minute reassignment of staff. If Ms. Browne had changed her mind, or if her delicate condition meant she’d needed to pass up the sweet deal he’d offered for her services. “And you are Isabelle?”
“Ms. Browne.”
So, no mistake. No changed arrangement. A pity, Cristo decided, because Ms. Browne wasn’t anything like the woman he’d expected.
“Isn’t that a little formal?” he asked.
“At Your Service prefers formality,” she replied, as prim and starched as her attire.
“But what about you, Isabelle? Do you prefer this formality?” He gestured at the unfortunate grey uniform as he slowly circled her still, straight-backed form. Idly he recalled his impression of her dancing past the window, the swing of an arm and the bump of her hips. Then he leaned down to retrieve the discarded slipper from the bottom step. “Or is this more to your liking?”
“It doesn’t matter whether I like the uniform,” she replied, a bite of pique in both her voice and her eyes, “but I do have to wear it.”
“What if I prefer a more casual dress code?”
What looked like suspicion flickered across her face before she looked down at the shapeless dress. “I would have to ask what is wrong with this. It is supplied and serviceable and…and…”
“Ugly?” he supplied helpfully when she struggled for description.
Surprise brought her head up, and their eyes met for a moment, hers warm with suppressed humour. The transformation was remarkable. Cristo couldn’t help but contemplate the effect of her full smile on an unsuspecting male.
“I was going to say comfortable,” she said.
“Even the footwear?”
Consternation chased the smile from her eyes. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting you so soon. I didn’t expect you would let yourself in. I—”
She pressed her lips together, shutting off the hurried defence. Her weight shifted from one mismatched foot to the other, and he could tell she was annoyed with herself for being drawn into an explanation. Probably contravened the rules of formality.
Cristo held out the slipper. “If these are more comfortable, wear them,” he said, leaning forward to smile confidingly as he captured her gaze. He dropped his voice a half note. “I won’t tell.”
For a long moment she didn’t do anything but blink, several slow sweeps of her silky dark lashes that failed to disguise the confusion in her hazel eyes. He really had thrown her. She really was nothing like he’d expected.
“All right.” Despite the husky uncertainty in her voice, she gave a businesslike nod and straightened her shoulders. “Would you like me to show you through the house now?”
“By all means,” Cristo said equitably. “Just as soon as you finish making your feet comfortable.”
Call-me-Cristo Verón was nothing like the usual At Your Service client, Isabelle thought gloomily as she scuttled downstairs thirty minutes later. The thing with her uniform and shoes was only the start. During their tour of the spacious house he’d been all polite attention, but she’d felt a significant proportion of that attention concentrated on her rather than the features and fixtures she pointed out.
She’d never been more acutely aware of a client in ten-plus years of housekeeping. She’d never been more aware of a man in all her twenty-eight years. From the instant he’d come through the front door and caught her balancing on one leg like some kind of demented flamingo, he’d kept her off-balance.
It was more than being caught out by his unheralded entry and more than her curiosity about why he’d requested her as his only domestic. More even than his outrageously good looks, because there, too, he’d gone and thrown her. Up close the bump of an old break marred the strong line of his nose and a scar cut through one eyebrow.
Small imperfections that balanced the sensual beauty of his perfectly formed mouth and the rich underbelly of his voice.
Small reminders that he was not a god but a man.
Not just any man, Isabelle reminded herself, but a client. She had no business getting in a lather over that dark-honey voice or the way he softened the s in her name. Even if he weren’t a client, she had no business. Her whole life was in flux at the moment. She’d taken time off work to sort out what next, but then she hadn’t been able to refuse the money attached to this job.
Sure she’d been wo
rried and wary, but she could not have anticipated this unlikely attraction. A heavy sigh escaped her lips. She’d been fine, relatively speaking, while he kept his distance. But then he would stand a little too near or look at her a little too long and her hormones would start dancing around in silly, look-at-me excitement. Reflexively she touched a hand to dance central, low in her belly. There’d been too many of those moments, when she’d forgotten her professional housekeeper’s spiel and stumbled over her words. Or her feet.
The last she’d done just now in her rush to exit his bedroom. He’d started to pull off his sweater en route to the bathroom and that glimpse of lithe muscles and olive skin and silky, dark chest hair was more than enough for her imagination. She didn’t need to view any more interesting facets of Cristo Verón, thank you very much!
The man was unpredictable…dangerously so.
“It will be okay,” she told herself, fanning her hot face with a rapidly flapping hand as she turned into the kitchen. Her sanctuary. Her centre. “He’s here for a week. Of business.”
Isabelle knew the corporate drill. Long meetings, restaurant meals; often she went days barely sighting her clients. She just needed a little time to get used to him and his overly familiar ways.
Was he flirting? Oh, yes. Isabelle had no doubts on that score, but Cristo Verón struck her as the type who flirted in his sleep. Just like she was going through the motions now, piping the mixture she’d prepared earlier into delicate petits fours. Sliding the perfectly aligned baking sheets into the oven.
Isabelle baked on autopilot; Cristo Verón flirted.
The insight cheered her. She set the timer and wiped the countertop until the quartz gleamed. In her kitchen, she was in control and all was right with the world. Now she’d acknowledged the attraction for what it was—she was female; how could she not respond?—she could handle Cristiano Verón and whatever he threw at her next…as long as that wasn’t another article of clothing.
Rattled by the possibility of a complete striptease, Isabelle had fled his bedroom suite without asking if he preferred coffee or tea. She made both. She set the table in the breakfast nook that offered a spectacular view over Port Phillip Bay, and by the time she heard his firm tread crossing the parlour, she’d laid out a spread of roast beef and cress sandwiches, almond biscotti and lemon shortbread. The Swiss cakes were cooling on the benchtop. Everything looked perfect.
She wiped her hands, straightened her apron and drew a deep breath. This time she would act like a poised professional if it killed her. No stuttering, no staring, no stumbling.
He came through the archway via the wet bar: appropriately, since his hair was still slick from the shower. Wet and dark and longer than she’d realised. The ends grazed his collar and the front still bore the marks of his comb.
There was something indefinably intimate about that glimpse into his grooming, about knowing that minutes earlier he’d stood naked beneath a shower jet. Now he wore harmless dark trousers and a pure white shirt, but her insides tightened impurely, ambushed by bare-and-wet-skinned images. To her credit, Isabelle didn’t stare, not at his freshly shaven jaw nor at the flare of his nostrils as he breathed in the scent of her baking. But then he picked up a petit four from the cooling tray and juggled it from one hand to the other as if judging the temperature, and that contrast of large, olive-skinned hands and tiny, delicate cake held her riveted.
Then he popped it in his mouth and murmured something low and indistinguishable and possibly foreign. Exact words didn’t matter. His meaning was clear in the warm glimmer of his eyes and in the little finger-kissing gesture that followed.
It was very European and immensely flattering, and the way her hormones danced around in giddy response sounded a loud, clanging alarm in Isabelle’s brain. She shook herself back into the real world, where the housekeeper didn’t stare at her employer’s hands and mouth and fantasise about that kiss on her skin.
When he reached for a second cake, she slid the tray out of reach.
“Is that silent chastisement?” he asked, smiling, unchastised. “Or is there a one-treat limit?”
She couldn’t look at that smile; it would tie her tongue in knots. With quick hands, she transferred the remaining cakes to a serving plate, then slid it across the countertop. “Go your hardest,” she invited.
One brow rose in a questioning arch. A wicked glint darkened his eyes. Isabelle gave herself a silent scolding. Obviously she needed to be on her mettle, to watch her tongue, to measure her words.
“They are all for you,” she said more carefully. “And those.” She gestured to the table at his back. “Would you prefer tea or coffee?”
Casting a quick eye over the offerings, he didn’t address the question. Instead he asked, “Did you make the biscotti, Isabelle?”
His mouth turned the words over like a slow caress, and Isabelle caught herself watching, fascinated, for a second too long. For distraction she turned to the teapot. Whether he wanted tea or not, the measured actions gave her something to concentrate on other than the illusive wisp of an accent in his voice. She longed to ask about that, told herself it was not hers to know.
“Yes,” she managed to answer. “They’re all homemade.” From the corner of her eye she saw him moving, not taking a seat at the table, but settling his hips against the countertop. His watchful silence was so unsettling that she found herself adding, “The biscotti is my gran’s recipe.”
“Did she teach you to bake?”
“She taught me everything.”
It was a simple statement but so full of truth that Isabelle regretted opening her mouth. Not talking about herself, being just another efficient but invisible tool in a well-stocked household, was one of the things she liked about this job. That and the cooking-in-fabulously-equipped-kitchens part. “Would now be a good time to discuss menus?” she asked.
“What do you need to know?” he responded, still watching her instead of the menus she fanned out on the countertop. Still taking up too much space, his direct, dark-eyed gaze made her feel all too visible.
“It will help my planning if I know your schedule,” Isabelle said. “I prefer notice on which meals you require me to cook, when you will be eating out, if you’re expecting guests.”
“Tonight I am eating out. I have a meeting in—” he shot a cuff and consulted an expensive-looking watch “—fifty minutes.”
“Where is your meeting?” she asked automatically. “At this time of day, it will take more than an hour to drive into the city.”
“Not the city. Brighton. It sounds as though you have a good local knowledge.”
“I am a local. Do you need directions? I have a street directory in—”
“Thank you, but not necessary. My car has sat nav.”
Of course it did. Isabelle gave herself a swift mental kick. She’d been too intent on the man, had barely noticed the car. No doubt it was as sleek, expensive and European as its driver.
“Would forty minutes be sufficient driving time?” he asked.
“I’d allow forty-five, minimum, to be sure.”
Somehow he’d managed to trap her gaze, to hold it with the steady strength of his. “Is that your way, Isabelle? Are you the careful type who always makes allowances for the unexpected?”
“I believe that is efficient,” she said carefully. “And sensible.”
“Like your sensible and efficient uniform?”
Not really, but she did not want to indulge whatever issue he had with formality. The shapeless grey dress might be ugly, but it suited Isabelle just fine. “About the menus. Could we look at your preferences?”
She slid the breakfast list forward; he gave it one perfunctory glance and slid it back. “Juice, orange. Eggs, poached. Bacon, crisp but not too crispy. Coffee, Colombian, black.”
So, he could address the question efficiently when he chose to. Praise be. “And lunch tomorrow?”
This time he didn’t even glance at the menu choices. “Let’s wing it.�
��
“Wing it?” She frowned. “You must have some requirements, some preferences.”
“Only one.” With fluid grace he straightened his negligent posture and touched her Peter Pan collar with the knuckles of one hand. “This has to go.”
“But I’m required to—”
“I would think that I am paying you enough to entitle me to dictate my own requirements, don’t you?”
Isabelle nodded stiffly, then swallowed. He was too close, in her space. An insidious warmth pooled in her belly and thickened her voice when she spoke. “What are your requirements, Mr. Verón?”
“For a start, I don’t stand on ceremony. There is no need to address me as Mr. Verón.”
“But—”
He silenced her objection with a finger to her lips. “My name is Cristo. Let us start with that and work our way up, shall we?”
Shocked by his unexpected touch, fighting the temptation to lean into it, to open her mouth, Isabelle stared up at him for a full second before she could process the request and voice any form of response. “I can try,” she said huskily.
“You strike me as very capable, Isabelle. I’m sure you will catch on.”
Isabelle wasn’t sure she wanted to catch on to something that involved the intimacy of first names and working their way up. But as he’d pointed out, he was the boss and paying her an obscenely generous wage, so she nodded in reluctant agreement. And focussed on the lesser of two evils. “What do you require me to wear instead of this uniform?”
“Whatever is comfortable,” he said after considering the question far longer than it warranted. “As long as it is not grey.”
Not grey Isabelle could do, but comfortable? No, she couldn’t imagine ever being comfortable with this man. Not when her body still simmered from that simple glancing touch to her lips. Not after his sleepy-lidded eyes had glimmered with wicked intent while he considered the question of her work attire.
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