Modern Romance November Books 1-4. Sharon Kendrick

were wasted on Molly. She felt like an outsider. Like the spectre who had arrived at the feast bearing a terrible secret nobody would want to hear. She felt like curling up in a ball and howling, but what was the point of that? Instead she forced herself to walk around the house to get her bearings, just as she would with any new job.

      A quick tour reassured her that the cupboards and fridge were well stocked with everything she could possibly need, the beds all made up with fresh linen and the fires laid. She lit the fires, washed her hands and started working her way through the to-do list. Barring bad weather cancellations, twenty-five guests would be arriving at seven. Gina had informed her that there were plenty of bedrooms if bad weather prevented some of the city guests getting back to London, but Salvio would prefer it if they left.

      ‘He’s a man who likes his own company,’ she’d said.

      ‘Does he?’ Molly had questioned nervously, as an image shot into her head of a crying baby. How would he ever be able to deal with that?

      Maybe he wouldn’t want to.

      Maybe he would tell her that he had no desire for an unplanned baby in his life. Had she thought about that?

      A local catering company were providing a hot-buffet supper at around nine and wine waiters would take care of the drinks. All Molly had to do was make sure everything ran smoothly and supervise the local waitresses who were being ferried in from the nearby village. How difficult could it be? Her gaze scanned down to the bottom of the list.

       And please don’t forget to decorate the Christmas tree!

      Molly had seen the tree the moment she’d walked in—a giant beast of a conifer whose tip almost touched the tall ceiling, beside which were stacked piles of cardboard boxes. Opening one, she discovered neat rows of glittering baubles—brand-new and obviously very expensive. And suddenly she found herself thinking about Christmases past. About the little pine tree she and Robbie used to drag in from the garden every year, and the hand-made decorations which their mother had knitted before the cruel illness robbed her of the ability to do even that. It had been hard for all of them to watch her fading away but especially tough for her little brother, who had refused to believe his beloved mother was going to die. And Molly hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it, had she? It had been her first lesson in powerlessness. Of realising that sometimes you had to sit back and watch awful things happen—and that for once she couldn’t protect the little boy she’d spent her life protecting.

      Didn’t she feel that same sense of powerlessness now as she thought of the cells multiplying in her womb? Knowing that outwardly she looked exactly the same as before, while inside she was carrying the Neapolitan’s baby.

      Her fingers were trembling as she draped the tree with fairy lights and hung the first bauble—watching it spin in the fractured light from the mullioned window. And then it happened—right out of nowhere, although if she’d thought about it she should have been expecting it. If she hadn’t been singing ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ at the top of her voice she might have heard the front door slam, or registered the momentary pause which followed. But she wasn’t aware of anything until something alerted her to the fact that someone else was in the room. Slowly she turned her head to see Salvio standing there.

      Her heart clenched tightly and then began to pound. He was wearing a dark cashmere overcoat over faded jeans and snowflakes were melting in the luxuriant blackness of his hair. She thought how tall and how powerful he looked. How his muscular physique dominated the space around him. All these thoughts registered in the back of her mind but the one which was at the forefront was the expression of disbelief darkening his olive-skinned features.

      ‘You,’ he said, staring at her from between narrowed eyes.

      Molly wondered if the shock of seeing her had made him forget her name, or whether he had forgotten it anyway. In either case, he needed reminding—or this situation could prove even more embarrassing than it was already threatening to be. ‘Yes, me,’ she echoed, her throat dry with nerves. ‘Molly. Molly Miller.’

      ‘I know your name!’ he snapped, in a way which made her wonder if perhaps he was protesting too much. ‘What I want to know is what the hell you’re doing here.’

      His face had hardened with suspicion. It certainly wasn’t the ecstatic greeting Molly might have hoped for—if she’d dared to hope for anything. But hope was a waste of time—she’d learnt that a long time ago. And at least a life spent working as a servant and having to keep her emotions hidden meant she was able to present a face which was perfectly calm. The only outward sign of her embarrassment was the hot colour which came rushing into her cheeks, making her think how unattractive she must look with her apron digging into her waist and her hair spilling untidily out of its ponytail. ‘I’m just decorating the Christmas tree—’

      ‘I can see that for myself,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘I want to know why. What are you doing here, Molly?’

      The accusation which had made his mouth twist with anger was unmistakable and Molly stiffened. Did he think she was stalking him, like one of those crazed ex-lovers who sometimes featured in the tabloids? Women who had, against all the odds, come into contact with a wealthy man and then been reluctant to let him—or the lifestyle—go.

      ‘You gave me your assistant’s card, remember?’ she reminded him. ‘And told me to ring her if I needed to find work.’

      ‘But you already have a job,’ he pointed out. ‘You work for the Averys.’

      Molly shook her head and found herself wishing she didn’t have to say this. Because wasn’t it a humiliating thing to have to admit—that she had been kicked out of her job just before Christmas? ‘Not any more, I don’t,’ she said. She met the question which was glittering from his black eyes. ‘Lady Avery caught me leaving your bedroom.’

      His eyes narrowed. ‘And she sacked you because of that?’

      Molly’s colour increased. ‘I’m afraid so.’

      Beneath his breath, Salvio uttered some of the words he’d learnt in the backstreets of Naples during his poverty-stricken childhood. Words he hadn’t spoken in a long time but which seemed appropriate now as remorse clawed at his gut. It was his fault. Of course it was. Was that why she was looking at him with those big grey eyes, like some wounded animal you discovered hiding in the woods? Because she blamed him and held him responsible for what had happened? And it never should have happened, he told himself bitterly. He should never have invited her into his room for a drink, despite the fact that she’d been crying. He’d tried very hard to justify his actions. He’d told himself he’d been motivated by compassion rather than lust, but perhaps he had been deluding himself. Because ultimately he was a man and she was a woman and the chemistry between them had been as powerful as anything he’d ever experienced. Surely he wasn’t going to deny that.

      His eyes narrowed as he studied her. Despite her initial innocence, had she subsequently recognised the sexual power she had wielded over him? It wasn’t inconceivable that her sacking had come about as a result of her own ego. She might easily have made a big show of leaving his room, with that dreamy look of sexual satisfaction which made a woman look more beautiful than fancy clothes ever could. And mightn’t that have provoked Sarah Avery, whose advances he had most definitely rejected?

      Suddenly he felt as if he was back on familiar territory, as he recalled the behaviour of women during his playing days, and one woman in particular. He remembered the dollar signs which had lit up in their eyes when they’d realised how much his contract had been worth. These days he might no longer be one of Italy’s best-paid sportsmen, but in reality he was even wealthier. Was that why Molly Miller was here—prettily decorating his tree—just waiting to hit him with some kind of clumsy demand for recompense?

      ‘So why exactly did Gina offer you this job?’ he questioned.

      She bit her lip. ‘Because the woman who was supposed to be doing it had to suddenly go and look after her mother. And I didn’t let on that I...’ Her words faltered. ‘That I knew