Modern Romance November Books 1-4. Sharon Kendrick

He went back to the city which he avoided as much as possible because it was the home of his shattered dreams—and who liked to be reminded of those? For him, home would always be the place where he had been broken—and the man who had emerged from the debris of that time had been a different man. A man whose heart had been wiped clean of emotion. A man who was thankfully no longer at the mercy of his feelings.

      He increased his pace to a last-minute sprint as he thought about Naples and the inevitable litany of questions about why he hadn’t brought home a nice girl to marry, nor produced a clutch of bonny, black-haired babies for his mother to make a fuss of. He would be forced to meet the wistful question in her eyes and bite back the disclosure that he never intended to marry. Never. Why disillusion her?

      He slowed his pace as he reached the huge house, glad he had declined his hostess’s invitation to accompany her and her husband to the local village that afternoon, where a performance of Cinderella was taking place. Salvio’s lips curved into a cynical smile. Amateur dramatics in the company of a married woman with the hots for him? Not in this lifetime. Instead, he intending making the most of the unexpected respite by trying to relax. He would grab a glass of water and go to his room. Listen to the soothing soundtrack of the ocean lashing hard against the rocks and maybe read a book. More likely still, he would chase up that elusive site in New Mexico which he was itching to develop.

      But first he needed to dry off.

      * * *

      Sinking her teeth into a large and very moist slice of chocolate cake, Molly gave a small moan of pleasure as she got her first hit from the sugary treat. She was starving. Absolutely starving. She hadn’t eaten a thing since that bowl of porridge she’d grabbed on the run first thing. Unfortunately the porridge had been lumpy and disappointing, mainly because the unpredictable oven had started playing up halfway through making it. Not for the first time, she wondered why her bosses couldn’t just have the kind of oven you simply switched on, instead of a great beast of a thing which lurked in the corner like a brooding animal and was always going wrong. She’d been working like crazy all morning, cleaning the house with even more vigour than usual because Lady Avery had been in such a state about their overnight guest.

      ‘He’s Italian,’ her employer had bit out. ‘And you know how fussy they are about cleanliness.’

      Molly didn’t know, actually. But more worrying still was Lady Avery’s inference that she wasn’t working hard enough. Which was why Molly dusted the chandeliers with extra care and fastidiously vacuumed behind the heavy pieces of antique furniture. At one point she even got down on her hands and knees to scrub the back door porch—even if she did manage to make her hands red raw in the process. She’d put a big copper vase of scented eucalyptus and dark roses in the guest bedroom and had been baking biscuits and cakes all morning, so that the house smelt all homely and fragrant.

      The Averys rarely used their Cornish house—which was one of the reasons why Molly considered being their resident housekeeper the perfect job. It meant she could live on a limited budget and use the lion’s share of her wages to pay off her brother’s debt and the frightening amount of interest it seemed to accrue. It was the reason she endured the isolated location and demanding attitude of her employer, instead of spreading her wings and finding somewhere more lively.

      But the winter had made her isolation all the more noticeable and it was funny how the approach of Christmas always reminded you of the things you didn’t have. This year she was really missing her brother and trying not to worry about what he was doing in Australia. But deep down she knew she had to let go. She had to. For both their sakes. Robbie was probably having the time of his life on that great big sunny continent—and maybe she should count her blessings.

      She took another bite of chocolate cake and did exactly that, reminding herself that most people would revel in the fact that when the Averys were around, they entertained all kinds of amazing people. Guests Molly actually got to meet—even if it was only in the context of turning down their beds at night or offering them a home-made scone. Politicians who worked with Lord Avery in the Palace of Westminster, and famous actors who spouted Shakespearean sonnets from the stages of London’s theatres. There were business people, too—and sometimes even members of the royal family, whose bodyguards lurked around the kitchen and kept asking for cups of tea.

      But Molly had never heard Lady Avery make such a fuss about anyone as she’d done about the impending arrival of Salvio De Gennaro, who was apparently some hotshot property developer who lived mostly in London. Earlier that day she had been summoned into her boss’s office, where the walls were decked with misty photos of Lady Avery wearing pearls and a dreamy expression, in those far-off days before she’d decided to have a load of extensive work done on her face. A bad idea, in Molly’s opinion—though of course she would never have said so. Lady Avery’s plump lips had been coated in a startling shade of pink and her expression had been unnaturally smooth as she’d gazed at Molly. Only the hectic flicker in her pale eyes had hinted how excited she was by the impending visit of the Italian tycoon.

      ‘Everything is prepared for our guest’s arrival?’ The words were clipped out like tiny beads of crystal.

      ‘Yes, Lady Avery.’

      ‘Make sure that Signor De Gennaro’s bed linen is scented with lavender, will you?’ continued her boss. ‘And be sure to use the monogrammed sheets.’

      ‘Yes, Lady Avery.’

      ‘In fact...’ A thoughtful pause had followed. ‘Perhaps you’d better go into town and buy a new duvet.’

      ‘What, now, Your Ladyship?’

      ‘Yes. Right now.’ A varnished scarlet fingernail began tracing a circle on the sheet of blotting paper on the desk and an odd, trembling note had crept into her employer’s aristocratic voice. ‘We don’t want Signor De Gennaro complaining about the cold, do we?’

      ‘We certainly don’t, Lady Avery.’

      The last-minute purchase of the new duvet had been the reason why Molly hadn’t been on hand to greet the Italian tycoon when he’d arrived. And when she’d returned from her shopping expedition—gasping under the bulky dimensions of a high-tog goose-down duvet—there had been no sign of him. Only his open suitcase and a few clothes strewn around his room indicated he was somewhere in the vicinity, although he was nowhere to be seen in the house. Which at least meant Molly had been able to make up his bed in peace—though her heart had started racing when she’d spotted the faded denims slung carelessly over a stool. And when she’d picked up the dark sweater which lay crumpled beside it, she had been startled by the softness of the cashmere as she’d automatically started to fold it. Briefly, her fingertips had caressed the fine wool before she had taken herself downstairs for tea and some restorative cake and she was just on her third mouthful when the kitchen door opened then slammed shut with a rush of icy air and Molly looked up to see a man framed in the doorway who could only be the Italian billionaire.

      Her heart crashed against her ribcage.

      The most perfect man she could have imagined.

      Her mouth opened slightly but she clamped it shut and the chocolate fudge cake she’d been eating suddenly tasted like glue against the roof of her mouth.

      Mud-spattered and windswept, he was standing perfectly still—his singlet and shorts surely the craziest choice of clothes he could have selected for the bitter winter day, although a fleecy top was knotted around his narrow hips. His olive skin was silky-smooth and his body was... Molly tried not to shake her head in disbelief but it took some doing, because his body was sensational—and she was certainly not the kind of woman who spent her time analysing men’s bodies. In fact, her interest had never really been sparked by anyone.

      Until now.

      She swallowed, the cake she was holding suddenly forgotten. It took a lot for Molly to disregard the sugar craving which had always been the bane of her life, but she forgot it now. Because she’d never seen a man like this. Not someone with a rocky torso against which his wet top clung to every sinew, as if it had been painted on with a fine-tipped brush. Nor such