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

staff were crisscrossing the hall below, well within earshot.

      Partway up the soaring staircase, a corridor led off to the right, dimly lit, its stone walls hung with ancient and probably priceless tapestries. Ahead, the corridor branched in three directions. The whole place was an intimidating mystery.

      Izzy wished she’d never agreed to come here. She only had because she had thought then that it was the right thing to do for the sake of Miguel and his future wellbeing, believing as she had that he was existing on a mere pittance and it was time that his selfish, wealthy nephew took care of him.

      But it hadn’t been necessary. Miguel, had he been so minded, could have lived in luxury. She knew that now. Too late.

      A blinding flash of insight had her digging her heels into the cool marble flooring and accusing, ‘As you’re so fond of calling the shots, why didn’t you just go ahead and arrange for your uncle to have a properly paid, decent housekeeper years ago? You pretend to care for him, so you could have done that. It took me, a total stranger, about ten minutes to realise he’s so wrapped up in his work he can’t be bothered about taking proper care of himself!’

      She met his black gaze without flinching. She knew the answer—didn’t she just! He’d only muscled into his relative’s life now, taken over, because he believed—wrongly—that she was about to weasel her way into taking his inheritance. As if he weren’t already eye-wateringly wealthy in his own right! Greedy, or what?

      He lifted his proud head, centuries of Spanish high breeding carved into the unforgettably handsome features. ‘You will moderate your tone and keep your skewed opinions to yourself while you are a guest in my home,’ he advised, as smooth and cold as glass.

      He did not take personal attacks—especially not from a mouthy little madam who was no better than she should be. Seducing her away from her plans to get the naïve Miguel firmly in her clutches, the devious but necessary assignment he’d set himself, suddenly felt too far beneath his honourable nature to be contemplated. There had to be another way.

      Acidly polite, he stepped ahead and suggested, ‘Perhaps we may proceed?’

      Cringing at that put-down, Izzy followed, engulfed by frustration. He was really good at making out she was an ill-mannered boor—not fit to sully his splendid home, where he was insulated by fabulous wealth and had an army of servants to cater to his slightest whim. But then he was labouring under the misapprehension that she was some sleazy sort of career mistress—that, having failed with the oily banker, she’d set her sights on his uncle.

      Time to set the record straight. Convince him that she wasn’t what he thought she was. A huge smile wreathed her expressive features as she imagined his grovelling apology—which she would consider and finally accept with dignity, giving herself the high moral ground for once!

      On that cheering thought she pattered on, catching up with him as he flung open a door and stepped just inside the threshold of the loveliest room she’d ever set eyes on.

      ‘Wow!’ Her big eyes widened. Acres of luxurious white carpet, panelled walls painted a delicate misty primrose-yellow, tall windows with gauzy white drapes, a group of three comfy chairs upholstered in yellow silk placed around a low coffee table, bowls of beautifully arranged roses to perfume the air, and what looked like a fully stocked drinks cabinet.

      Cayo dug his hands into the pockets of stylish chinos and drawled, ‘Your sitting room. The bedroom is through that door, with en suite bathroom, of course. I’ll leave you to relax and will see you at dinner.’

      Her own bathroom. Of course—what else? The urge to explore was almost overwhelming, but the imperative to put Cayo Garcia straight was stronger. Smartly stepping in front of him, she folded her arms across her slender middle, lifting her face to his. ‘Hang on a tick. I have to say something. It’s really important.’

      ‘Sí?’ Strongly marked brows drew together as his eyes met hers. So deep a blue, with the almost childlike clarity of innocence. Deeply misleading. He sucked in a sharp breath. She had an exquisite face. Taken individually, her features were not perfect, but they added up to an exquisitely fascinating whole, framed by wayward strands of silver-gilt that looked as soft as silk.

      ’Tis a Pity She’s a Whore, he thought with mental dryness, then, inexplicably, felt his heart lurch with a spasm of sadness at the waste of all this luscious loveliness, packaging, as it did, a mercenary and immoral soul.

      ‘Listen—’ Izzy knew she sounded breathless. She was having difficulty stringing words together in her head, never mind getting them out of her mouth. It was the way he was looking at her that was so dreadfully unsettling. It made her tummy squirm, then tense, her mouth run dry.

      ‘Well?’ Cayo murmured without intonation, grimly amused as he pondered on what she was going to come up with—what was now so important. Something as twisted as her last outburst, at a guess.

      Izzy just stared, moistening her dry lips with the tip of her tongue, fighting the awful dart of heat in the pit of her tummy that looking into his dark eyes always produced. Eyes as beautiful as his commanding masculine features …

      Making a huge effort, she got out, ‘I know what you think of me, and I don’t blame you. I guess you’d always take the word of a big-wheel banker and his wife over a lowly domestic servant. But I promise you it wasn’t like that. I’m sorry to have to say this about your friend, a man you obviously respect, but Señor del Amo was the one trying it on, not the other way around.’

      Once she’d launched forth, the words just came tumbling out. ‘And I had no idea that Miguel wasn’t dirt-poor until he told me on the way here. Truly! He told me that he was born here, that the family wealth had been divided between him and your father. It was the first I knew of it—and you could have knocked me down with a feather!’

      Nice try. But not nearly good enough. Cayo’s eyes followed the movement as she brushed a silvery strand back from her forehead, pink with effort. His thick black lashes drifted down over sparkling jet eyes as he took in the taut expectancy of her voluptuous body. She was waiting for him to say he believed her, to treat her as if she was all sweetness and light, take the heat off and leave her free to wheedle her way even further into Miguel’s affections. Did she think he’d been born yesterday?

      ‘I see.’ He was almost purring now. ‘So let’s recap.’ His smile was devastatingly challenging. ‘You took pity on a poor old man, and agreed to keep house for him for the sort of miserable wages that would have had any normal working girl heading for the hills, out of the goodness of your heart?’

      Izzy shifted uncomfortably. From his point of view her decision would look suspect, she recognised sickly. It was up to her to make him understand. She squared her slim shoulders and said, with far more confidence than she felt, ‘I was in a fix, and so was he. He needed someone to keep house. I needed a job and a roof over my head. And, yes, the wages he offered were even less than I received from the del Amos—and, believe me, they were nothing to write home about. I was sorry for him, and anyway I only intended to stay until something could be arranged for his future care. You know how not with-it he is when it comes to noticing what goes on around him—remembering to eat—that sort of stuff.’

      ‘Indeed.’

      Izzy let out a huff of relief. He was beginning to believe her. She hated it when people thought badly of her—particularly him. Why him particularly? she wondered dazedly—and then the beginnings of exultation took a smart nose-dive.

      ‘Yet you are here. Still with him. Even though you know his future wellbeing is secure, and when you have already said you intended to leave as soon as that situation arose. I wonder why that is?’

      She could recognise the note of sarcasm when she heard it. Izzy felt her skin crawl with the heat of discomfiture. Believing that honesty was the only policy, she mumbled, ‘Well, I guess it might look odd. Only you did invite me. I told your uncle that as I was no longer needed I wouldn’t tag along. But he refused to come if I didn’t.’ She raised her head, her eyes very wide, willing him to understand. ‘You