The Argentinian's Baby Of Scandal. Sharon Kendrick

salary increase in an attempt to get her to stay. He probably thought she’d spoken rashly when she’d told him she was leaving, which to some extent was true. But while she’d been getting ready—in a recently purchased and discounted dress, which was a lovely pale blue colour, even if it was a bit big on the bust—she’d decided she wasn’t going to let him change her mind. And that his patronising attitude towards her had been the jolt she needed to shake her out of her comfort zone. She needed to leave Lucas Conway’s employment and do something different with her life. To get out of the rut in which she found herself, even though it was a very comfortable rut. She couldn’t keep letting the past define her—making her too scared to do anything else. Because otherwise wouldn’t she run the risk of getting to the end of her days, only to realise she hadn’t lived at all? That she’d just followed a predictable path of service and duty?

      ‘What would you like to drink?’ she questioned. ‘They do a very good vodka here.’

      ‘Vodka?’ he echoed.

      ‘Why not? It’s a tradition. I only ever have one glass before dinner and then I switch to water. And it’s not as if you’re driving, is it?’ Not with his driver sitting in a nearby parking lot in that vast and shiny limousine, waiting for the signal that the billionaire was ready to leave.

      ‘Okay, Tara, you’ve sold it to me,’ he answered tonelessly. ‘Vodka it is.’

      Two doll-sized glasses filled with clear liquor were placed on the tablecloth in front of them and Tara raised hers to his—watching the tiny vessel gleam in the candlelight before lifting it to her lips. ‘Na zdrowie!’ she declared before tossing it back in one and Lucas gave a faint smile before drinking his own.

      ‘What do you think?’ she questioned, her eyes bright.

      ‘I think one is quite enough,’ he said. ‘And since you seem to know so much about Polish customs, why don’t you choose some food for us both?’

      ‘Really?’ she questioned.

      ‘Really,’ he agreed drily.

      Lucas watched as she scrolled through the menu. She seemed to be enjoying showing off her knowledge and he recognised it was in his best interests to keep her mood elevated. He wanted her as compliant as possible and so he ate a livid-coloured beetroot soup, which was surprisingly good, and it wasn’t until they were halfway through the main course that he put his fork down.

      ‘Do you like it?’ she questioned anxiously.

      He gave a shrug. ‘It’s interesting. I’ve never eaten stuffed cabbage leaves before.’

      ‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t have done.’ In the flickering light from the candle, her freckle-brushed face grew thoughtful. ‘It’s peasant food, really. And I suppose you’ve only ever had the best.’

      The best? Lucas only just managed to bite back a bitter laugh as he stared into her amber eyes. It was funny the assumptions people made. He’d certainly tried most of the fanciest foods the world had to offer—white pearl caviar from the Caspian Sea and matsutake mushrooms from Japan. He’d eaten highly prized duck in one of Paris’s most famous restaurants and been offered rare and costly moose cheese on one of his business trips to Sweden. Even at his expensive boarding school, the food had been good—he guessed when people were paying those kinds of fees, it didn’t dare be anything but good. But the best meals he’d ever eaten had been home-made and cooked by Tara, he realised suddenly.

      Which was why he was here, he reminded himself.

       The only reason he was here.

      So why were his thoughts full of other stuff? Dangerous stuff, which made him glad he’d only had a single vodka?

      He stared at her. Unusually, she’d left her hair loose so that it flowed down over her narrow shoulders and the candlelight had transformed the wild curls into bright spirals of orange flame. Tonight she seemed to have a particularly fragile air of femininity about her, which he’d never noticed before. Was that something to do with the fact that for once she was wearing a dress, instead of her habitual jeans or leggings? Not a particularly flattering dress, it was true—but a dress all the same. Pale blue and very simple, it suited her naturally slim figure, though it could have done with being a little more fitted. But the scooped neck showed a faint golden dusting of freckles on her skin and drew his attention to the neatness of her small breasts and, inexplicably, he found himself wondering what kind of nipples she had. Tiny beads of sweat prickled on his brow and, not for the first time, he wished that the impending storm would break. Or that this damned restaurant would run to a little air conditioning. With an effort he dragged his attention back to the matter in hand, gulping down some water to ease the sudden dryness in his throat.

      ‘The thing is,’ he said slowly, putting his glass down and leaning back in his seat, ‘that I don’t want you to leave.’

      ‘I appreciate that and it’s very nice of you to say so, but—’

      ‘No, wait.’ He cut through her words with customary impatience. ‘Before you start objecting, why don’t you at least listen to what I’m offering you first?’

      She trailed her fork through a small mound of rice on her plate so it created a narrow valley, before looking up at him, a frown creasing her brow. ‘You can’t just throw more money at the problem and hope that it’ll go away.’

      ‘So we have a problem, do we, Tara?’

      ‘I shouldn’t have said that. It’s nothing to do with you, not really. It’s me.’ She hesitated. ‘I need a change, that’s all.’

      ‘And a change is exactly what I’m offering you.’

      Her amber eyes became shuttered with suspicion. ‘What do you mean?’

      He took another sip of water. ‘What if I told you that I’m going to be leaving Dublin for a while, because I have to go to the States?’

      ‘You mean on business?’

      ‘Partly,’ he answered obliquely. ‘I’m thinking of investing in some property there. I need to spread my money around—at least, that’s what my financial advisors are telling me.’

      ‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with that letter, would it?’ she questioned curiously.

      He grew still. ‘What letter?’

      ‘The one...’ The words came out in a rush, as if she’d been waiting for a chance to say them. ‘The one which arrived from America last week.’

      Lucas wondered if she’d noticed his reaction at the time. If she’d seen the shock which had blindsided him. It suddenly occurred to him how much of his life she must have witnessed over the years—a silent observer of all the things which had happened to him. And wasn’t that another reason for keeping her onside? Bringing another stranger into his home would involve getting to know a new person and having to learn to trust them and that was something to be avoided, because he didn’t give his trust easily. His mouth hardened and his jaw firmed. And it wasn’t going to happen. No way. Not when there was a much simpler solution.

      ‘I’m planning a minimum six-month stay and I’m thinking of renting an apartment because the idea of spending that long living in a hotel isn’t what you’d call appealing.’ He slanted her his rare, slow smile. ‘And that’s where you come in, Tara.’

      ‘Where?’ she questioned blankly.

      ‘I want you to come to New York with me.’ He paused. ‘Be my housekeeper there and I’ll increase your salary—’

      ‘You pay me very generously at the moment.’

      He shook his head with a trace of impatience. Who in their right mind ever pointed out that kind of thing to their employer? ‘The cost of living is higher there,’ he said. ‘And this will give you the opportunity to try living in a brand-new city. This could be a win-win situation for both of us, Tara.’

      He