The Italian Millionaire's Virgin Wife. Diana Hamilton

had seen him only briefly as she’d arrived yesterday morning. He’d let her in, shooting a penetrating look at his watch, not seeming to actually see her as he’d stated, ‘Punctual. Good. I’ll be out all day, Howard. I won’t need a meal this evening. Settle yourself in and make the laundry your priority.’

      Watching him stride away, hailing the taxi that seemed to appear by magic, she had marvelled, wide-eyed, at the excess of vitality that emanated from that tall frame, the sober, exquisitely tailored business suit at odds with all that barely leashed raw physical energy. Then she’d dragged her gaze away and had turned to begin her first day in his employ.

      She’d really enjoyed it too, Mercy reflected as she rolled out of bed and headed for the en suite bathroom. She’d had the fantastic place to herself—not a sign of the blonde bombshell—and had hustled around really making herself useful.

      Mildly tutting as she’d collected the garments strewn all over the bedroom and bathroom he occupied on the floor below hers, sorting the coloureds from the whites in the laundry room, her face had grown hot at the intimacy.

      Too silly.

      While they’d been at home together she’d done James’s laundry, so she was well acquainted with male underwear. Though her brother’s things hadn’t sported labels bearing the names of top designers. So no need for her to get all hot under the collar, was there?

      Shelving that recollection, she hoped he’d noticed the shirts hanging in pristine perfection in his vast wardrobe, the fact that his bedlinen had been changed, his bedroom dusted and vacuumed to within an inch of its life, and buttoned herself into one of the pale grey overalls she’d found lying on her bed, still in cellophane wrappers awaiting her arrival. She hoped so. She really did need to impress him with her quiet efficiency. She had to hang on to this job. She had spent the fifteen minutes she’d allowed herself for a lunch break yesterday working out just how much more she would be able to pay into her brother’s bank account.

      The resulting sum had made her hug herself with glee.

      Tying her unruly, crinkly hair out of the way into two bunches—it was so thick and wild that one ponytail bunch wouldn’t cut it—she decided that whoever had ordered her overalls must have had a grossly inflated idea of her size, then dismissed the thought as vanity because what she looked like—the side of a house—didn’t matter one iota. All that mattered was that she impress her boss with her housekeeping skills.

      By the time she heard the whirlwind that heralded his return from his morning run and his entry into the shower room off the entrance vestibule she had laid a single place setting at the starkly modern dining table that would seat twenty with comfort and was mentally setting aside something from her more than generous wages for the purchase of flowers to soften the severely masculine ambience of smoothly polished wooden floors and austere white walls which were adorned with a couple of oil paintings she couldn’t make head nor tail of.

      Fifteen minutes to eight. Shooting through to the state of the art kitchen, she had breakfast ready by eight on the dot and tracked him down to the room where she’d been interviewed. Standing just inside the door while he finished his call, which consisted of him telling someone he wouldn’t reconsider and that was final, she was wondering if the correct procedure would be to smartly absent herself when Andreo ended the call, dropped his mobile into the clutter on his desk and, his face a picture of aggravation, demanded, ‘Well?’

      ‘Breakfast is ready, sir,’ Mercy announced dispassionately. On what he was paying her she could afford to overlook snippy behaviour. Obviously, whoever he’d been talking to had rattled his cage and she just happened to be on the receiving end of the fallout.

      Spectacular dark eyes dropped to her empty hands. ‘I don’t see it.’

      Momentarily distracted by the way the morning light touched the gleaming luxuriance of his dark hair and emphasised the heart-stopping planes and hollows of his amazing Latin looks, Mercy could only stare, her soft mouth dropping open until she remembered that rudely gawping wasn’t exactly the on-the-ball behaviour expected of a super-efficient employee.

      ‘The dining room, sir,’ she put in rapidly, at pains now to project effortless competence to make up for that dismaying lapse, essayed a slight smile, opened the door and stood aside for her boss to precede her.

      Only he didn’t.

      ‘I take it in here,’ was his quelling rejoinder. Then that knock-’em-dead smile had her melting all over as he amended, ‘Sorry, Howard. You weren’t to know that, were you? Knox should have left you precise instructions—’ Then, his smile fading at the speed of light, he reached for his trilling mobile, snatched it up and spoke in a voice like ice daggers. ‘I don’t do patience; you should know that. If you call this number one more time I shall have you prosecuted for harassment.’

      Mercy scurried, her face pink. How awful! If he talked to her like he’d spoken to the unfortunate on the other end of the phone she would curl up and die! Or, more likely, ask him who he thought he was talking to and get the sack! He obviously had no inhibitions about bawling out anyone who displeased him. She would have to watch her step and then some or she might find herself and her meagre belongings ejected straight out of the front door.

      Finding the largest tray the kitchen had to offer, she loaded it with Andreo’s breakfast things and tottered back to his study. She would have to clear a space on that immense cluttered desk. Really, she thought, out of breath with her exertions as she thrust the study door open with her hip, it would be far more convenient if he ate in the dining room. But it wasn’t her place to tell him so. He paid her wages; he was, she supposed, entitled to call the tune.

      He was intent on what he was doing, keying text into a computer housed on a work station at the far end of the room. Mercy placed the loaded tray on the floor while she cleared a space on his desk, hefted it into position and announced briskly, ‘Your breakfast, sir.’

      ‘So?’ He sounded abstracted, on another planet. Then exasperation crept in. ‘Bring it here, woman.’

      Mercy ground her teeth together. Give me strength! was the plea that sprang to her lips, successfully smothered by her almost level, ‘There isn’t enough room on that bench, sir.’

      She saw the wide shoulders stiffen beneath the crisp pale blue shirt he was wearing tucked into immaculately tailored narrow fitting dark grey trousers. ‘Not room?’ He turned to glare at her disbelievingly, then got to his feet in one fluid movement, his magnificent eyes landing on a plate of eggs sunny side up, grilled bacon and tomatoes, a rack of toast, butter dish, honey, the teapot and accessories.

      Andreo felt his face go blank as he briefly closed his eyes and swallowed the impulse to shout, You’re fired! Knox plainly hadn’t done as he’d instructed and made a list of all his requirements to leave for her successor.

      His voice gritty with the determination to be evenhanded, he stated, ‘There are things you should know, Howard. I’m busy and about to get busier. I don’t have time to eat my way through enough to feed a small army. I simply require a cup of strong, unsweetened black coffee—nothing else—on the dot of eight before I leave for my place of work at eight-ten.’ Making a huge production of it, he consulted the wafer-thin platinum watch on his wrist and pointed out drily, ‘It is already eight-fifteen. And I do not need or want a heart attack on a plate. Take it away!’

      Mercy drew herself up to her unimpressive full height and shot him a look of mild disapproval. During her odd job days when her mother had been alive, she had often looked after Mrs Fletcher’s two-year-old strong willed son and could recognise the onset of a temper tantrum with the best of them.

      Sure of her ground, she pointed out with the breezy firmness tantrums demanded, ‘It is good wholesome food. Bacon and eggs once in a while did no one any harm. Having just black coffee to start the day on—’ she made a tutting noise ‘—won’t do at all. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, and while I’m employed to look after you and your home a decent breakfast is what you’ll get. Eat it before it goes cold.’

      Then, belatedly reminding