“How is that possible?” Francesca said slowly.
He turned to Isabelle, who had listened to this last exchange in stiff-backed silence. Her eyes were huge in a face as pale as her sister’s. “Are your passports up-to-date?” he asked. “You are going to need them.”
Six
Isabelle started shaking her head before he finished speaking. “We can’t just up and go to England. It’s impossible.”
“You don’t have current passports?”
“We do,” Chessie supplied helpfully. “We needed them for Bali last year.”
“Then what is the problem?” Cristo asked. “Is money an issue?”
“It’s always an issue and even more so now.”
“It doesn’t have to be.” Despite Chessie’s responses, he spoke directly to Isabelle. “I will fly you to London. You will stay in my home. All your expenses will be covered.”
His hooded gaze fixed on hers with steadfast purpose, and Isabelle felt a trill of alarm. This was a man used to taking control, to getting his way. If she didn’t stand her ground, then her impulsive sister would be swept along on the tide of his will.
She straightened her shoulders. “It’s not only the costs involved. I have a job.”
“It is my understanding that you are engaged by me for the remainder of this week.”
“You still want me?” she blurted unthinkingly.
Something flared in his eyes, a slow note of danger. “Why should I not? I have a contract for your services, one week, paid in advance.”
“But you can’t want a housekeeper when you’re returning to England. I imagine you have staff coming out of the rafters.”
“Not quite,” he said smoothly, but that banked fire still smouldered in his eyes. “I prefer my staff to be more discreet.”
For a long moment Isabelle floundered in the treacherous undercurrents of the exchange, in wanting and services and discretion. She needed to keep paddling to stay on top of this conversation. “You don’t need a housekeeper,” she repeated with more force.
“Probably not, but I am attempting to make this easy for you.”
Easy? She might have laughed if this subject weren’t so deadly difficult.
“You implied that your job may prevent you accompanying your sister to London,” he continued, “but your job is in my employment.”
“For one week.”
“Which I will extend, on the same terms. Let’s say an extra two weeks—” he spread his hands in a gesture of appeasement, probably because Isabelle’s eyes had goggled with a combination of shock and suspicion “—to make up for any inconvenience.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not? Your next job for Miriam doesn’t start for weeks yet,” Chessie pointed out. Isabelle gave her a withering look. A traitor at her side was not helpful.
“Your sister raises a valid point. Why not?”
“Because you admitted that you have plenty of staff. You can’t possibly need me.”
“But I do.” Chessie exhaled with audible impatience. “Why are you being so stubborn? Why can’t you just accept Cristo’s offer? It sounds enormously generous. What have you got to lose?”
Chessie spoke the words. It was Chessie’s blue-green eyes that reproached hers. But in her mind’s eye she saw determined onyx, heard those same words in a dark baritone, felt a shiver of alarm and mistrust and, God help her, wanton excitement.
What did she have to lose? Oh, just her pride and any semblance of control over her unruly hormones.
“We have to think this over,” she cautioned. Focusing on her sister, she shut out those watchful black eyes through sheer bloody-minded willpower and lowered her voice. “Don’t be steamrolled into doing what’s most convenient for anyone else. Have you thought about what’s best for you and the baby?”
“You know I have, and this is exactly what I would have done myself if I could have afforded the airfare.”
It was true. They’d been over this territory twice before, when Chessie first learned of her pregnancy and again little more than a week ago when, with her first trimester safely behind her, she’d decided to contact the father. Isabelle hadn’t been able to talk her out of making that phone call, and now she felt a fatalistic sense of déjà vu.
When had Francesca Ava Browne ever done a proper risk evaluation before plunging into the unknown? From the first time she launched herself on chubby toddler’s legs she had been unstoppable—not that this had ever stopped Isabelle from trying. “That’s the point,” she persisted. “You can’t afford it. What if something goes wrong? You’ll be stranded on the other side of the world with no money and no support.”
“And if I don’t go, I will be stuck here relying on you for support you can’t afford to give.” When Isabelle opened her mouth to object—she had always found money for Chessie; she always would!—her baby sister held up a hand. Suddenly she looked and sounded very grown-up. Isabelle felt the sand shifting beneath her feet. “I need to do this, for me and for the baby. I’m going, Belle. Whether you do or not is up to you.”
They arrived in England on Wednesday evening and were whisked to the heart of London in a chauffeur-driven car. Settling into the luxurious leather-upholstered rear seat, Chessie elbowed Isabelle for at least the hundredth time since they’d left Melbourne, mouthing “Wow!”
That enthusiasm had become old somewhere over the centre of Australia, and Isabelle used her last remaining energy to grit her teeth. She’d snapped once already, at a refuelling stop in Dubai. Chessie asked Cristo if they were staying long enough for a look around, and Isabelle, tired and anxious and edgy, had snipped, “For Pete’s sake, Chessie, this is not a holiday jaunt.”
“I’m well aware of what this trip is about,” her sister had responded calmly, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the fringe benefits.”
Of course Cristo overheard the exchange, and she’d felt his silent judgement slap her right through her travel-lagged irritability. She was supposed to be the serene, sensible sister. Somewhere around her twelfth birthday, Gran had first referred to her as Capability Browne and she’d hugged that reference close, unconsciously adopting the label as the person she wanted to be. Calm, composed, capable.
But these past days—ever since Cristiano Verón had stormed into her life—she’d become someone else entirely. Angry, argumentative, anxious. She’d blamed him and his unpredictability, she’d blamed the worry of Chessie’s situation, but now it was time to put on her big-girl’s blouse and take responsibility.
She was here to support Chessie, to ensure that her needs weren’t overlooked in deference to Cristo’s sister. She needed to be alert and on her game. She needed to forget her personal disappointment over how he’d deceived her, feigning interest in her life and her family and her dreams all in the guise of uncovering “her” pregnancy.
That didn’t matter now. Protecting Chessie did.
As the big sedan glided to a halt outside a row of elegant town houses, she forced herself to relax the tension in her jaw and her shoulders. And when she glanced across, she saw the same tension etched in Chessie’s face. She reached—and it was quite a reach across the width of the backseat—for her sister’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.
Chessie’s fingers gripped hers for a second. They were ice-cold, but her smile was warm. It only trembled a little around the edges. “I’m so glad you came.”
Isabelle smiled back. “So am I.”
From the pavement outside, Cristo’s home looked like all the others in the immaculately presented rows that lined each side of Wentworth Square. Isabelle blinked in surprise at the traditional facade. She’d expected something more unique, flashy, exotic.
Then she reminded herself that this was Cristiano Verón. Mr. Unpredictable himself.
Inside, she had to remind herself several times more.
Through her job, she was used to grand homes decorated to within an inch of their stylish lives. Most had graced the pages
of at least one glossy design magazine. This place transcended anything she’d seen by, oh, about a thousand percent. And, she guessed, several million pounds.
As they trailed through room after room of Georgian splendour, even Chessie was reduced to gaping, wide-eyed silence by the exquisite detail of the cornice work and the marble fireplaces and the antique furniture. Not to mention the staircase that rose through the centre of the building, with galleried landings on each of the three upper storeys. All were lined with ornately crafted railings.
And then there was their guide on this tour of the house. Cristo had introduced him simply as Crash. No further explanation as to his position in the household or whether that was his first or last name. Isabelle had wondered if perhaps he was Krasch or Craczj or some other obscure foreign spelling, until he spoke in a voice that could have played all-England. He’d relayed a series of messages to Cristo, who soon after disappeared to his rooms on the first floor, and she’d pegged him as the butler. Although his unorthodox black jeans and T-shirt, shaggy haircut and unshaven jaw belied such a tame label.
Whatever his position, he showed immense pride in the house. “Cristo bought it three years ago,” he told them as he showed them to their rooms…correction, their suite of rooms. “Previous owner had a rubbish eye for decorating. We only finished the refit late last year.”
Isabelle paused in the centre of the sitting room that separated their bedrooms. “You did the whole place out? That must have been a challenge.”
“The challenge was retaining the original design elements while making it liveable.”
Chessie raised her eyebrows at that description. She almost touched the floor-to-ceiling drop of voile curtaining before withdrawing her hand. “Are we allowed to touch?” she asked.
“Everything,” Crash replied dryly, “except the Renoir.”
“You’re kidding me.” Chessie peered at the painting over the fireplace, then made a strangled sound. “You’re not! Far out.” She whirled around. “And those pictures in the drawing room…They’re originals, aren’t they?”
“You want to take a closer look?”
Chessie’s eyes boggled, and Isabelle waved them off. Not that she wasn’t interested in art, just not as passionately engrossed as her sister. And she was keen on talking to Cristo before he left for his country estate. He’d mentioned that to Crash earlier; he had to check that his beloved horse was recovering as well as his staff had promised. But despite this impatience, he’d noticed her worried frown and invited her to track him down after she had settled in.
Crash had pointed out his rooms on the first floor, and on her way down Isabelle chewed over the notion of ever settling in at this house. Artwork by the masters hung on every wall. The thick carpet runners that muffled her footsteps were works of art in themselves.
This world of million-dollar decorating makeovers and chauffeured limousines and private jets he copiloted…this was the world of Cristiano Verón and, she imagined, Hugh Harrington.
It was a world the Browne sisters worked in, not a world they lived in.
The only way she could pretend to settle in was as a working employee—not a token one—and only after she knew when Cristo planned to approach Harrington. She’d not had a chance to broach the question since that night in Melbourne. Caught up in the logistics of packing and leaving so swiftly, then in the travel with Chessie at her side, she’d not had a minute alone with Cristo. Now she would.
Hand fisted to knock, she hesitated just long enough to pray that she’d chosen the right door. Sitting room, not bedroom. The knock-knock of her heart resonated as loudly as her knuckles on the thick timber door.
It opened immediately, as if she’d caught him on his way out. Except he couldn’t be—not unless he’d chosen to go out on a chilly London evening wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and the phone pressed to his ear. Beyond the impressive breadth of his bare-skinned shoulders, beneath the thickly muscled arm with which he held the door ajar, she could see a bed.
A big, broad bed smothered in a deep chocolate spread. It looked like velvet. It looked like him.
Her gaze rocketed from the bed to his face. There was something in his hooded gaze, a glimmer of heat and of predatory satisfaction, an invitation to come into his lair and do more than talk. Suddenly she was no longer tired; she was wide awake, alive with the tingle of anticipation and the whisper of danger.
Wrong door, she reminded herself with a snap to attention. Wrong bed, wrong tingles and absolutely the wrong man.
Cristo was expecting her, but not this soon—he’d barely had time for a quick shower, let alone to finish dressing—and not at his bedroom door. Not that he minded. Any interruption from this phone call was welcome. When the interruption was Isabelle Browne with her hair a loose tumble of honeyed curls and her eyes wide and warm and taken aback, it was even more welcome.
“I will call you back,” he said into the phone, cutting off Vivi’s rant about the wedding caterer. “I have company.”
His company stood on the wrong side of the threshold, shaking her head and mouthing something about coming back later. Cristo held the door wider. “Are you coming in or not?”
“Not if I’m interrupting.”
“You can always help.” He lifted one unclothed shoulder to indicate his meaning.
For the briefest of moments, her gaze drifted with the notion, before she snapped to attention. “I meant the phone call.”
“That was only my mother,” he said dismissively. Then, when her eyes widened with disapproval, he elaborated. “She wanted to discuss a problem with the wedding arrangements.”
“When there may not be a wedding,” she murmured, picking up on his meaning.
“Indeed.”
Their gazes met in a moment of solemn accord, a reminder of what still sat between them. Her being here in his house, in his bedroom, was not about them or the fizz of physical attraction. Yet. The seriousness of the situation with Harrington and her sister lurked, dark as a thundercloud, on the horizon. But when he’d opened the door and found her standing there, when he felt the heat of her gaze taking him in and the lightning-bolt response low in his belly, he knew there would be a time for them.
He could be patient. Opening his bedroom door to a willing Isabelle would be worth the wait.
Leaving the door wide open, he retreated to an armoire and deposited the phone. In the wall mirror he saw her swallow her reservations, lift her chin and step into the room…not very far into the room, however. Barely over the threshold she paused, her unsettled gaze skating from the bed to his shirtless back and on around the room. She looked uncomfortable and out of sorts.
Because this was his bedroom, because he was only half-dressed, because she too felt the crackle of awareness and wanted to run from it. A pity this was the wrong time. He would have enjoyed the chase.
Suppressing that desire, he turned to the bed, sat and reached for his shoes and socks. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I am assuming that you didn’t come down here to watch me dress.”
“Have you spoken to Harrington?” she asked quickly, but he felt the warm glide of her gaze over his shoulders and back as he bent to pull on a shoe. He glanced up and caught her looking. He saw the involuntary flare of her nostrils, the softening of her bottom lip, the guilty flush of colour in her cheeks, and gave up the fight to suppress his elemental response.
She looked at him like that, his body responded. So be it.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t,” he said slowly in response to her question.
Her chin came up, her gaze sharpening on his. “Why ever not?”
“Because he isn’t answering his phone.”
“Does he know that you found Chessie? Did you leave a message?”
“With Amanda?” he asked dryly.
“What about at work,” she persisted. “Surely he has a secretary or an assistant.”
“That would be Amanda.”
“Oh.”
Cristo watche
d her chew at her bottom lip while the heat stirred in his belly and thighs and all points in between. “I may not hear from him for several days,” he warned, predicting her next question. “He is out of town.”
“Where?”
“Does it matter?”
For a second he thought she would question that, as well, but then she let go her indignation on a weighty sigh. Her shoulders slumped and that signal of defeat, small but definite, brought Cristo to his feet.
“This is not such a bad outcome,” he said. “You and Francesca can use a day to recover from the flight. Catch up on your sleep, relax, and when he does arrive you will be ready to deal with the meeting and the outcome.”
She did not look convinced. Worry creased between her brows as he closed down the space between them. He had no purpose in mind other than a need to be nearer, to ease that worry, to see her eyes spark once more. Through the open door he heard voices—Crash’s gruff murmur, Francesca’s response. He cocked his head, drawing Isabelle’s attention to the sound. “Your sister will appreciate the time to get her bearings, surely.”
“You’re right about Chessie,” she relented. Wary eyes followed him as he passed. She jumped a little as he closed the door, isolating them from the distraction of those voices.
“And what about you, Isabelle?” he asked, turning to meet her chary gaze. He could have smiled to ease the moment. He could have backed off and allowed her more space. Instead, he leaned forward and touched a thumb to the dark circle beneath one eye. “You didn’t sleep on my plane. I hope you will feel comfortable enough here to make up for that lack.”
“That depends.”
“On?”
Her chin came up, her eyes met his with resolute purpose. “My role in your household.”
“Guest doesn’t work for you?”
“Not when you are paying me, no.”
Cristo folded his arms over his chest and regarded her silently for a moment. It was a pretence. He’d known she would not let this go, that she would insist on taking up some form of paid employment. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.
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