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

In any other domestic servant he would have put her current subdued mood down to being out of her depth. But with Izzy Makepeace he knew better. She would be mentally totting up the value of this prime property, multiplying it by many, adding it to his export empire and licking her lips and planning tactics!

His chiselled mouth twisted wryly. But his drawl was smooth and soft as silk as he advanced, ‘I don’t think Madame Fornier would appreciate if it I attempted to try on the clothes she’s laid aside in your stead.’

In dire danger of totally losing it, Izzy struggled to contain a sudden and alarmingly hysterical explosion of giggles at the picture that immediately presented itself—this ultra-masculine Spanish aristo trying to shoehorn himself into something several sizes too small, silky and slinky. Her eyes were sparkling with dancing laughter lights as she plucked her bulgy padded cotton handbag from the bed and slung it over her shoulder, stuffed her feet back into the spiky high heels she’d worn as a much-needed confidence booster, and announced, ‘Fine. Let’s go.’

Grab the first halfway suitable dress to wear to a ball she didn’t want to attend and her ordeal would be over. They could head back to the castle and Miguel’s easy, safe company. There was only so much of the magnificent Cayo Garcia’s undiluted, sexy presence she could take without turning into a gibbering wreck of raging hormones.

Standing aside as she preceded him through the door, Cayo’s eyes narrowed cynically as she swayed ahead of him at speed, on those ridiculously teetering heels. He deplored the way the enticing movement of her shapely backside awoke his most basic primal instincts, harshly reminding himself that the mention of a new wardrobe had got her moving as if she’d been shot from a cannon. Her big blue eyes had lit up like a Christmas tree at the thought of getting her hands on a whole bunch of freebies.

She couldn’t hide her greed, he thought with distaste—then promptly reminded himself that her greed was what he was working on. Cocoon her in luxury, shower her with gifts, demonstrate what it was like to live in the lap of luxury, totally spoiled and pampered, and she would switch her avaricious attention from his clueless uncle to him. Mission accomplished.

And then Miss Izzy Makepeace would receive one large and unpleasant surprise.

His wide, sensual mouth quirked with satisfaction as he caught up with her and laid a seemingly friendly arm across her narrow shoulders, guiding her towards the waiting car. ‘It’s not far. My driver will wait to take us on to the restaurant—we have a table booked for nine o’clock.’ He eased her into the rear seat. ‘He will then take your purchases back to the hotel.’

Leaning forward, he spoke rapidly in his own language to the driver, and as he settled himself beside her Izzy slid into the far corner. ‘I could eat back at the hotel—have something in my room,’ she objected.

She was already really, really nervous around him—terrified of the effect he had on her. Sharing dinner with him in some upmarket restaurant would be too much. Besides, dressed as she was, in a crumpled cotton skirt and one of her ordinary old T-shirts, she’d look horribly out of place. An excuse he’d understand, surely?

‘I’d rather—honestly. And in any case I’m not dressed to go any place fancy,’ she stressed as the car drew out into the early-evening traffic.

She stole a look at him from beneath long, fringing lashes and felt her heart stop, then flutter on. Angled from the corner, his eyes met hers. He was smiling. He was gorgeous! She felt dizzy.

‘Nonsense.’ His voice was like a slow, sexily warm caress. ‘It is your first time in Madrid, yes? I insist you enjoy our city, and you won’t do that by hiding in a hotel room.’

She had turned away from him now, her head downbent on the slender stalk of her neck, her glorious hair hiding her profile. But he wasn’t falling for the shrinking violet act—just as he hadn’t fallen for her story placing Augustin del Amo as the villain of the piece. It hadn’t rung true.

He had no liking for the man, but he didn’t need a degree in psychology to understand that as a highly respected banker—regardless of his alleged discreet extra-marital tendencies—he would have far too much sense to foul his own nest. And Izzy Makepeace had been working for him, living under his roof.

Del Amo might have described her—accurately—as a ‘lush little package’, but with his business and social standing, and his wife’s gimlet eyes on him, that would have been as far as it went. Del Amo might be many things he disliked, but he wasn’t a fool.

Cayo snapped out of his thoughts as the car came to a stop. Relieving his driver of the necessity, he strode round to hand the tricky little madam out, reflecting that she wouldn’t be able to hide her true colours when her greedy eyes fell on the delights Madame Fornier would have ready for approval.

His hand curved around her waist, urging her towards an arched doorway set in an elegant neo-classical building that looked nothing like any dress shop she had ever seen. Yet discreet gilded letters over the lintel announced ‘Fornier’ so she guessed, sinkingly, that it was some really fancy place where only the titled or extremely wealthy were admitted.

Izzy’s skin prickled. She wished he wouldn’t touch her. It made her feel quite dizzy! But at least, she comforted herself, he now believed her side of the del Amo story. He would still be being vile to her if he didn’t—not nice, friendly and courteous, treating her to this trip to Madrid, a night in his fancy hotel and a new dress. The fact that he now didn’t think the worst of her made her feel a little warmer inside. She was used to people finding fault—from her family to her past employers—so when someone was being nice to her she felt ridiculously like a tail-wagging, fawning dog!

And thinking of dogs—

Izzy dug her heels into the paving slabs. Not much more than a puppy. A miserable bundle of matted gingery hair and sticking-out ribs, cringing in the shadows of the archway, shivering in spite of the sultry evening heat.

‘Oh, you poor little thing!’ Izzy met the mournful brown eyes, registered the heart-rending whimper in response to her voice and was totally lost. Leaning forward, she scooped the pathetic little animal up. It wriggled ecstatically against her and nuzzled into the angle of her neck, its long, practically hairless tail furiously wagging.

Turning to Cayo, ignoring his frown, she stated, ‘I can feel all his bones—he’s starving!’

‘And likely to be crawling with fleas. Put it down. Madame Fornier would not appreciate—’

‘No.’ Izzy stood her ground, her chin lifting stubbornly. No way was he going to make her abandon the needy puppy. ‘I’m taking him back with me. He needs a bath and food. I can’t just leave him here—pretend I haven’t seen him. Even if you can!’

And then, because the Spaniard’s frown had deepened she added, less confrontationally, ‘Look, don’t think I’m not grateful for your offer of a new dress. I am. But I’m not bothered. I can live without a fancy dress, but this little thing won’t last long unless someone cares for it. Pop in and apologise to Madame Whatever. Then we can take this poor little scrap back to the hotel.’

She actually meant it.

Cayo’s spiralling perplexity deepened his frown still further. Had she been like this—five foot nothing of fierce protectiveness—when she’d stumbled across his uncle and the old man had collapsed? In that case she’d accepted a job at wages that were less than rock bottom in order to care for an old man she’d believed to be neglected and near destitute, caring for him when she’d thought that no one else did.

In this case she wasn’t ‘bothered’ about acquiring a whole new wardrobe of designer gear. The immediate care of a scruffy mutt was of more importance.

Nothing seemed as clear-cut as it formerly had. Had he been wrong about her? Had his famous sound judgement let him down badly?

Moving forward, he set one final test. ‘Does it have a collar or name tag?’ Receiving a decisive and negative shake of her tousled blond head, he opined, ‘Then I’m afraid it’s been abandoned. I’ll have my driver take it to a vet while we keep our appointment.’

As if the puppy had understood every word, it gave a piteous whimper and began licking Izzy’s face. Her hands tightened protectively around the scrawny body. She could feel its little heart beating frantically. ‘No!’ She could just imagine a huge white-coated man with a lethal injection bending over the poor little thing. ‘I can look after it!’

‘Bueno!’ Cayo’s mouth firmed decisively. ‘Wait in the car—and take that flea-ridden disaster with you.’

The last thing he needed in his life was a mangy puppy that would grow up into a mangy adult mongrel, but he knew when he was beaten and was practical enough to give way with good grace. Besides, for the first time in his adult life he felt as if he was on shaky ground, unsure of himself. He deplored the feeling.

Reaching into an inner pocket for his cellphone, he made three short, tersely specific calls with the utter confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted, to having others jump when he told them to. Then he strode towards the waiting car, his eyes glinting narrowly as he sought an answer to the question of whether he’d been catastrophically wrong about Izzy Makepeace.

He was never wrong!

And yet …

Izzy’s head was spinning and she couldn’t stop grinning. She and the puppy had been treated like royalty ever since they’d arrived back at the hotel.

The manager had been waiting for them. Obsequious and deferential, he had accompanied them up to her suite, barking out rapidfire orders to two of his staff, who had filled a plastic bath with warm water. To demonstrate how important he was, the manager had minutely inspected the bottle of baby shampoo before handing it to her.

Aware of all eyes on her, of Cayo sardonically distant in the background, Izzy had knelt and lowered the puppy into the water. Benji, as she’d already decided to name him, had taken immediate exception to the unfamiliar experience and scrabbled frantically to escape the unwanted dunking, soaking her and the bathroom floor, and venting cross baby yelps as she’d lathered and rinsed him, only subsiding when she had finally lifted him out and wrapped him in the big fluffy towel immediately handed to her.

Leaving his staff to empty and remove the bath, the manager had ushered her through to the opulent sitting room, where a low table had already been laid with a bone china plate of thinly sliced chicken breast meat and a silver bowl of water.

Now, oblivious to the cleaners, who had arrived to put the bathroom back to its former pristine state, Izzy watched the puppy wolf down the chicken with enormous satisfaction, too pleased with the frankly amazing and gratifying outcome of what she had believed would be a huge problem to worry as a vet and his assistant arrived, bowed down with packages.

As Spanish seemed the order of the day, Izzy left the vet and his helper to their examination, contenting herself with exploring the packages, bulky and small. Cayo had arranged for the delivery of everything to make a small puppy happy and comfortable. There was a comfy padded dog bed, a soft blanket, a pack of puppy kibbles, feeding bowls and a minute collar and lead of the softest leather imaginable.

When the vet had finally made his departure Cayo lobbed a look—part exasperated, part amused—at Izzy, as she knelt over the dog bed, where the animal had finally settled.

Smiling, Izzy rose from her knees, turned and faced him, her hands on her curvy hips. ‘You don’t fool me, Cayo Garcia! You’re nothing like as hard-hearted as you try to appear!’

Her huge eyes were glowing. They looked like priceless sapphires. The front of her T-shirt was soaked, moulding the thin fabric to every lethally voluptuous curve of her breasts.

His breath felt hot in his lungs. Whether or not she had mercenary intentions, whether she was a scheming, greedy gold-digger or a soft-hearted innocent in need of protection from her own headstrong, thoughtless altruism he had yet to discover. Only one thing was clear: she was a walking man-trap!

She was moving towards him, her luscious hips a swaying temptation, her smile wide and dazzling enough to make a man believe the sun had come out at darkest midnight. A small hand stretched out to him.

‘He’s really cute when he’s asleep. Come and look. His name’s Benji—’

‘I’ll pass.’