Housekeeper in the Headlines

by Chantelle Shaw

Why fight him when this was what she craved?

  His mouth was creating havoc on her body. He released her hands and she sank them into his hair as he moved across to her other breast and sucked the hot, tight peak. Pleasure arced down to her feminine core and she felt the slippery wetness of her arousal.

  Carlos trailed his lips over her abdomen and at the same time shoved her denim skirt up to her waist. He drew lazy patterns on her inner thighs with his fingers, but to her frustration he held back from touching her where she longed to feel him.

  His eyes gleamed hard and bright as he trapped her gaze. ‘Have you had enough of my attention yet, mi bella esposa?’

  ‘Not nearly enough.’ The words burst from her, urgent and needy. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t pretend that he did not affect her. The fire inside her only burned this hot for him.

  His mouth twisted, but there was no triumph in his smile, rather a tenderness that she understood would be her downfall. Her thoughts scattered as he stared at the scrap of pink lace that covered her femininity. His smile became wicked as he ran his finger over the damp panel between her legs. And then he simply pulled her panties off and pushed her legs apart.

  There was something shockingly intimate about lying splayed open to his hungry gaze. But she did not feel vulnerable. She felt empowered when Carlos groaned, and she knew—she knew—that he was at the mercy of their tumultuous desire just as she was.

  He moved down the bed so that his shoulders were between her thighs, and she gave a start as she realised what he intended to do. Her protest died on her lips when he ran his tongue along her inner thigh, higher and higher, until he was there where she was hottest and neediest. Betsy gave a low cry when he put his mouth on her and bestowed upon her the most intimate caress of all.

  It was too much...not enough. She wanted more.

  Her hips bucked and she gasped as he explored her with his tongue and simultaneously pressed his thumb against the tight nub of her clitoris.

  The effect was cataclysmic. Pleasure that was indescribable, so intense she could hardly bear it, rolled through her in wave after rippling wave as her internal muscles clenched and released in the sweetest rhythm.

  She remembered that first time two years ago, when he had brought her to orgasm with his fingers. While she had still been in the throes of her climax he’d pressed forward and eased his erection into her.

  Now, as then, the beauty of his lovemaking brought tears to her eyes. She tried to blink them away as Carlos sat back on his haunches and surveyed the evidence of her complete capitulation: her skirt rucked up around her waist and her thighs spread wide open.

  Betsy quickly brushed her hand over her eyes before she reached for Carlos’s belt buckle. She could tell from the rigid set of his jaw that he was holding himself back, but she wanted everything he could give her and she wanted to give him pleasure in return.

  He caught the errant tear on her cheek with his thumb and swore. ‘I lost my temper.’ His voice was harsh with self-recrimination.

  She recalled their argument after he’d followed her into the bedroom. They had both been angry, but it had been an anger born of frustration that had quickly turned into desire.

  ‘Carlos...’

  But her hands dropped away from him as he leapt off the bed and stared at her. He swore again, and tugged her skirt into place so that it covered her nakedness.

  ‘I never, ever allow myself to lose my temper,’ he said tightly. ‘But when I watched you laughing with another man I saw red. I wanted to kill him.’ Carlos raked both his hands through his hair. ‘I was furious. I couldn’t control my anger.’

  ‘If I had seen you with another woman I would probably have reacted the same way,’ Betsy murmured. ‘Nothing happened just now that I didn’t want to happen. I wanted you.’ She flushed. ‘I still do.’

  He finished buttoning his shirt. ‘Don’t make excuses for me. That makes it worse,’ he grated. ‘When I’m with you I lose control.’

  He said it as if it was a bad thing. As if he bitterly regretted the passion that had exploded between them.

  He strode over to the door and paused on his way out of the room to look back at Betsy. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he told her savagely, and then he was gone.

  * * *

  Carlos could not forget Betsy’s stricken expression, nor forgive himself. The shimmer of tears in her eyes and her attempt to hide her distress as she’d brushed her hand over her face had jolted him to his senses. He knew he should not have followed her up to the bedroom. It would have been safer if he’d gone to his study and brought his anger under control before going to find her. Perhaps if he had they would have had a calm discussion about the problems with their marriage.

  But a wild fury had overwhelmed him as he’d remembered how happy and relaxed Betsy had been with that guy at the art shop. If he hadn’t known better he might have thought the corrosive sensation in his gut was jealousy. But nothing excused the fact that he had kissed her in anger. Had he learned nothing from the past, when his temper had caused such devastation?

  He had promised himself that he would wait until Betsy was ready to consummate their marriage. Yes, she had asked for his attention, but instead of talking to her he had seduced her.

  Full of self-loathing, he strode down to the gym in the basement of the house, changed into sports gear and jumped onto the treadmill. Since he was fourteen, physical exercise had been his method of temporarily blocking out the voices of his demons, who never allowed him to forget his guilt. His superb athleticism had made him a tennis world champion, but training for hours and pushing his body to its limits also gave him control over his emotions.

  For two hours he ran, lifted weights and slammed his fists into a punchbag. But nothing silenced the recriminations in his head when he remembered that Betsy had said she’d felt lonely since he had brought her to Spain.

  Before leaving Dorset they had gone to the pub in Fraddlington, so that she could say goodbye to her friend Sarah. The pub had been damaged in the flood, but many of the villagers had come to help clean up the mess and everyone there had known Betsy by name. Carlos realised that she missed the close-knit community she had left behind.

  He had done little to help her settle into her new home, he thought guiltily. He’d introduced her to his friends, but Betsy was shy and there was the language barrier. It was no wonder that she had become friendly with this tattooed guy who spoke English and shared her interest in art.

  Breathing hard from physical exertion, he threw off his boxing gloves and picked up his phone to look on the internet. Betsy had said that her pet portrait business was doing well, and when he typed in her name he was directed to her website.

  Carlos knew a little about art, and nothing about domestic pets, but it was apparent from Betsy’s online portfolio and her many glowing reviews that she was a talented artist and her clientele list was growing.

  She hadn’t told him about her work—but he’d never asked her about it, he thought guiltily. He had been so intent on fighting his desire for her that he’d missed his chances to understand the fascinating woman he had married.

  After he’d showered, Carlos went to the nursery and found Betsy playing with Sebastian. She blushed when he walked into the room, and avoided his gaze as she scooped the toddler up.

  ‘Look, poppet, your papà has come to play with you,’ she said to Sebastian in a fiercely bright voice. ‘You can take over for a while,’ she told Carlos as she handed him his son. ‘He might be persuaded to sit in his buggy—you could take him for a walk in the olive groves, where there’s some shade under the trees.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ he murmured as she walked over to the door.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘Because that went so well the last time we tried it.’

  His jaw clenched. ‘Betsy...’

  ‘Did I do something wrong?’ she aske
d huskily. ‘Is that why you had a face like thunder when you walked out? You are the only man I’ve been with...maybe you find my lack of experience a turn-off?’

  ‘Dios, no.’ Once again he realised how vulnerable she was. ‘It wasn’t you. It’s me.’

  She gave him a wry look. ‘Those words are usually a prelude to “We’ll be better off apart”.’

  ‘I don’t think that.’ His stomach hollowed. ‘Do you?’

  ‘The truth is, I don’t know,’ she choked.

  * * *

  Later, after Carlos had taken Sebastian for a walk and fed him his tea, Ginette offered to give the little boy his bath. Carlos knocked on the door of the room adjoining the nursery, which had been Betsy’s bedroom before their marriage.

  Her smile faded when she saw him. ‘I thought you were Ginette.’ She glanced down at her paint-spattered shirt. ‘I’ll just get cleaned up before I come and see to Sebastian’s bedtime routine.’

  ‘Ginette is bathing him. Can I come in?’

  She shrugged and stepped aside for him to enter the room. ‘It’s a bit of a mess. I’m trying to finish a portrait that a client commissioned as a wedding anniversary present for her husband.’

  Carlos saw the canvas propped against the back of a chair next to the window. The dressing table was covered with paints and brushes. To his inexpert eye, the painting of a German Shepherd looked to be completed.

  ‘The light is no good in here in the afternoon.’ Betsy frowned as she stared at the painting. ‘I can’t get Ludo’s eyes right...’ She sifted through several photos of the dog.

  ‘I’ve wondered how you persuade your subjects to sit still while you paint them,’ Carlos said, aware of Betsy’s surprise that he was showing an interest in her work. ‘I checked out your website. Your paintings are amazing.’

  She flushed. ‘Thank you. I ask clients to take high-resolution photos of their pet so that I can create the best likeness.’ She picked up a brush and focused her attention back on the German Shepherd.

  ‘Why do you paint animal portraits? Do you never have people as your subjects?’

  ‘I prefer to paint animals—especially dogs—because they’re so honest and uncomplicated. When you look into a dog’s eyes you can see its soul, and the love they can give is unconditional.’ She sighed. ‘When I was a child, we had a dog. He was a miniature white poodle that my father had bought for my mother. She named him Theodore and made a huge fuss of him for a week. But he went out of favour after he chewed one of her shoes and I was allowed to have his basket in my bedroom. I called him Teddy and I adored him.’

  Carlos frowned. ‘I sense that this story doesn’t have a happy ending?’

  ‘In the divorce my father insisted that he had paid for the dog and so should be allowed to keep him. He didn’t really want Teddy—he did it to annoy my mother. Then Dad moved to Canada and took the dog with him. When I went there to visit, I couldn’t wait to see Teddy, but my father said he had escaped from the garden and been killed. He ran into the road and was hit by a car.’

  Betsy’s voice was carefully controlled as she recounted this story from her childhood. Her parents had no idea how much damage they had done to their daughter, Carlos brooded as he watched her pick up a brush and continue to work on the painting.

  She stepped back and surveyed what she had done. ‘That’s better. He looks like Ludo now.’

  Carlos studied the portrait. With a few brushstrokes Betsy had captured the German Shepherd’s expression perfectly.

  ‘Your parents’ relationship has understandably made you wary,’ he said. ‘But our marriage is not the same as theirs.’

  ‘At least they liked each other to start with...’

  He heard the catch in her voice and his heart clenched. ‘I like you, querida.’

  ‘That’s not the impression you gave this afternoon.’

  He looked at her stiff shoulders and sensed her hurt pride. ‘I would like us to go away together—just the two of us. It’s traditional for newlyweds to have a honeymoon,’ he murmured when she stared at him.

  ‘What about Sebastian?’

  ‘Ginette is happy to look after him. And my sister has agreed to bring Miguel and come and stay at the house while we are away. Graciela loves Sebastian, and the two boys enjoy each other’s company.’

  Betsy stared at him. ‘You really want us to have a honeymoon? When would we go?’

  Carlos discovered that he had been holding his breath while he waited for her response. He exhaled slowly. ‘We’re leaving in ten minutes. A maid has packed a bag for you.’ He forestalled the protest he could see she was about to make. ‘It’s only a short flight to Palma and we’ll arrive before sunset.’

  * * *

  The sun was sliding into the sea when Carlos drove into a small fishing village on Mallorca. Betsy glanced at him and her heart gave a familiar pang. He’d opened the sunroof and his dark hair was tousled by the breeze. His aviator sunglasses were the epitome of style, and his pale denim shirt was open at the throat. He was so sexy it hurt her to look at him, so she turned her attention to the island’s stunning scenery.

  They passed through the village and a few minutes later he drove up a narrow lane and stopped the car outside a pretty stone cottage with cream shutters at the windows and ivy growing over the walls.

  ‘Our honeymoon destination—Casita Viola,’ he said.

  He sounded relaxed and his wide smile stole Betsy’s breath.

  ‘I was expecting a glamorous five-star hotel,’ she murmured.

  He tensed and looked away from her. ‘You’re disappointed? We can go to a hotel if you like.’

  ‘No, it’s beautiful here.’ She climbed out of the car and turned to admire the view of a crystal-clear sea beyond the white cliffs.

  ‘Those steps lead down to a private beach,’ Carlos told her, pointing to some steps carved into the cliff.

  The sky was streaked with pink and gold from the setting sun, and the air was filled with the scents of lavender and frangipani which she could see grew in the garden. There was a sense of peace here, Betsy thought as she followed Carlos into the cottage.

  Inside, it was full of rustic charm, with exposed stone walls and tiled floors.

  ‘My mother grew up here,’ he told her. ‘She moved to Toledo when she married my father, but we used to visit my grandparents and spend holidays here.’

  Carlos rarely spoke about his mother. Betsy found she was holding her breath, hoping he would open up more. ‘What happened to her?’

  A shadow crossed his face. ‘She died suddenly from an undiagnosed medical condition. Both my grandparents outlived their daughter. Then the cottage was put up for sale by my uncle, who had inherited it, and I bought it to use as a bolthole.’

  ‘Another bachelor pad like your penthouse in Madrid?’ Betsy suggested.

  ‘Apart from my sister, you are the only woman I’ve ever brought here.’

  Carlos took off his sunglasses, and the gleam in his gold-flecked gaze made Betsy’s heart-rate quicken.

  ‘There’s just us here. No staff. A woman from the village keeps an eye on the place and stocks the fridge when I tell her I’m coming.’ He gave a disarming grin. ‘I’ll admit I can’t cook, but there are several good restaurants locally.’

  ‘I’m happy to cook. You used to like the meals I prepared for you when I was your housekeeper.’

  ‘It wasn’t just the meals you served that I liked, querida.’

  She felt herself blush. Carlos’s voice was like molten honey. ‘Are you flirting with me?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely. I’m flirting with my wife on our honeymoon.’ He picked up their bags, which he’d brought in from the car, and made for the stairs. ‘I’ll show you the rest of the house.’

  Upstairs there were three smallish bedrooms and a couple of bathrooms. Carlos pushed open the door
to the larger room. ‘This is the master suite, where I usually sleep.’ He set her bag down on the landing. ‘Like I said, we’re completely alone, and it’s not necessary for us to share a bedroom. You can decide which room you want,’ he said casually.

  She bit her lip. ‘This is our honeymoon...but you seem to be saying that we should sleep separately.’ Frustration and hurt made her voice ragged. ‘You blow hot and cold, and I don’t know what you want from me.’

  ‘I want you to feel you have choices, because so far I have given you none.’ His jaw clenched. ‘I forced you into marriage and into my bed.’ He held his finger lightly against her lips when she tried to say something. ‘I scared you. Why else would you have put that damn bolster between us? I would like you to be my wife in every sense. The truth is that I’ve kept away from you because I can’t trust myself. You are beautiful, and sexy, and you drive me insane,’ he said thickly. ‘But I will respect your wishes if you choose a separate room.’

  The band that had lashed around Betsy’s heart when Carlos had returned to Spain two years ago unravelled. If sex was all he would give her then she would accept. Passion without emotion was not perfect, but it was better than nothing. And Carlos wanted her as badly as she wanted him. She could see the restraint he was imposing on himself in the tense line of his jaw.

  She picked up her holdall and walked through the door he had opened. ‘I choose this room.’ There was a hint of challenge in the tilt of her chin, and she held his brilliant gaze when he followed her into the master bedroom and closed the door, leaning his back against it. ‘I choose you, Carlos.’

  ‘Come here and take me, then, mi belleza,’ he growled, in a voice so deep and dark it rolled through her.

  Gone was the careless playboy—a reputation he had deliberately cultivated, Betsy realised. Now hunger sharpened his features, so that his skin was drawn tightly over his sculpted cheekbones. She took a step towards him and he levered himself away from the door and moved to stand in front of her. He was so close that she could see the faint grooves on either side of his mouth and hear the unevenness of his breaths.