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

enough money to get her to the nearest busy holiday resort, where the language barrier wouldn’t be such a problem, and where there would be plenty of bars and hotels looking for staff at the height of the season.

      She wasn’t going to break into her pitifully few euros to phone her parents in New Zealand, where they’d moved to be with her brother on her father’s retirement, and ask to be rescued. To have to admit to yet another failure would be the final straw.

      Her small chin firming, Izzy gathered her suitcase and slung her rucksack over her shoulders. Something would turn up. Maybe someone in the dockland area wanted someone to clean offices. It was worth consulting her phrasebook and asking, wasn’t it?

      An hour later—still jobless, her feet killing her—Izzy left the fascinating commercial docks with their huge cargo vessels, busy tugs, gleaming cruise liners and little fishing boats behind her and headed towards the old town. She wandered through the maze of narrow shade-darkened streets, where projecting balconies almost met overhead, giving respite from the blazing heat, seeking a café where the price of a cold drink would be much lower than she could hope to find in the smarter, newer part of town.

      The irritating mass of her hair was dragging in her eyes, and her cotton T-shirt and skirt were sticking to her overheated body. She wondered if she took her shoes off to give her poor feet a rest she’d ever get them back on again.

      But her self-pity vanished as the only other occupant of the narrow street—a frail, shabbily dressed old man—tottered and collapsed. Concern tightening her soft mouth, Izzy dropped her luggage, ignored her protesting feet and sprinted forward to help.

      His tough jaw set at a pugnacious angle, Cayo Angel Garcia descended from the penthouse suite he occupied when business demanded he spent time in Cadiz and exited the lift on the ground floor, instead of going down to the underground residents’ car park and collecting the Merc.

      He would walk—burn off some of his anger.

      Impatiently he ran long tanned fingers through his short, expertly cut midnight hair and lengthened his stride, his dark eyes narrowed against the white light of the morning sun.

      Returning briefly to the castillo after two months out of the country on business, he’d found amongst his personal post a letter from Tio Miguel. Skimming it, he’d felt the usual mixture of deep affection and exasperation. The old guy was the nearest thing to a real father he’d ever had. Cayo’s own father, Roman, had wanted little to do with him, blaming him for the untimely death of his adored wife when his baby son had been barely two months old.

      It had been Miguel who had shown him the only familial affection he had known—who had spent time with him, advised him. But when it came to taking advice Miguel closed his ears!

      The elder of the two brothers, Miguel had inherited the vast family estates, while Roman had inherited the family-founded export empire—an empire Cayo had then inherited on his father’s death five years ago.

      Cutting across the busy Avenida del Puerto, he entered the narrow, warren-like streets of the old city. He blamed himself for not putting his foot down. Firmly. His uncle, a lovable old eccentric, owned vast wealth, but he insisted on living like a pauper in a mean dwelling, uninterested in what he wore or the food he ate—if he remembered to eat. His whole life revolved around his books. Cayo loved the old man dearly, but his unnecessarily austere lifestyle exasperated and worried him. He should have had him removed—forcibly, if necessary—to the castillo, where he would be looked after properly.

      But, believing that a man had the right to live his life as he saw fit, providing he did no harm—and no man was more harmless and gentle than his uncle—Cayo had done nothing.

      And look what had happened! Strong white teeth ground together in an excess of self-castigation.

      The letter that had been waiting for him hadn’t rung alarm bells. In fact he’d been pleased to learn that Tio Miguel had finally employed a new housekeeper. A young English girl, Izzy Makepeace, to take the place of the old crone who, it had always appeared to Cayo, had done little more than shuffle around the kitchen. And even there, he strongly suspected, she’d done nothing more energetic than lift a glass or six of manzanilla and spend time gossiping with the neighbours on the doorstep.

      When Cayo had voiced a strong suggestion that the crone be given her marching orders it had brought the inevitable mild response. ‘Like me, Benita is old. She can’t be expected to leap around like a teenager. We manage well enough. Besides, she relies on me for a roof over her head.’

      Therefore Cayo had been gratified to read that the crone had left, to be a burden on her probably unsuspecting grandson and his young wife, and that his uncle had managed to find a young woman to take over her duties.

      Skipping over the neat copperplate paean praising the new paragon’s general excellence, Cayo had thankfully said goodbye to his growing unease over his uncle’s domestic arrangements.

      Until.

      Until last night.

      Cayo had combined a visit to his offices in the commercial docks here in Cadiz with a tedious but necessary dinner with business associates, and had planned a long overdue and pleasurable visit to his uncle the following day.

      He had sat through the dinner last night, hosted by the banker Augustin del Amo and his wife Carmela, wondering which of the city’s fine restaurants would be most to his uncle’s liking when he took him to lunch the following day—after Cayo had given the new housekeeper the once-over and made sure she knew her duties. First among these was the need to make sure the old gentleman ate regularly and well, of course. And then something said by the regrettably detestable Carmela del Amo had gained his full and riveted attention.

      ‘It is impossible to get decent domestic help—my poor children have been without a nanny for over a month now, ever since we had to tell the last one to leave. Izzy Makepeace—an English girl. Such a mistake to hire her in the first place!’ She had rolled her hard black eyes dramatically, managing to look martyred, and announced, ‘I overlooked her slovenly laziness. I am a realist, and one cannot expect perfection no matter how much one pays. But when it comes to contaminating my dear, innocent girls I draw the line. The creature was little better than a puta.’ Preening in the undivided attention of her guests, she had tipped her expertly coiffured head in her husband’s direction. ‘You know better than I, Augustin.’

      The banker had looked smug as he’d leaned back in his chair, lifting his wine glass. ‘You know how it is. Money is an aphrodisiac. I didn’t dare be alone with her for one second—offered herself on a plate. For a financial consideration, naturally. If I’d been the type to take a mistress then I might have been tempted. A lush little package if ever I saw one!’

      In receipt of a look that would have wilted an oak in the prime of life, he had added quickly, ‘But, as I’m a faithful family man, I—we—told her to pack her bags and leave.’

      The anger that had been building ever since he’d received that unwelcome information made Cayo feel as if he were about to explode. The smallest amount of research would have given his uncle’s new housekeeper the information that Miguel Garcia—scholar and local eccentric—was, to use her probable terminology, filthy rotten rich.

      Izzy Makepeace, with the morals of an alley cat, had successfully got her greedy claws in one of the kindest, most innocent old gentlemen ever to inhabit the planet. But he, Cayo Angel Garcia, was about to ensure that this situation was sorted out immediately!

      Izzy Makepeace.

      Make war was more like it!

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘I’M BACK from market, señor,’ Izzy announced cheerfully as she entered the cramped ground-floor room her new employer used as his study. A wayward strand of silky blond hair had escaped from the ribbon she’d used to anchor the unruly mass on top of her head, and she pushed it out of her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘We have fresh-caught pilchards for lunch, and green beans.’

      Cheap,