One Summer At The Lake. Susan Carlisle

to herself, she walked across the courtyard back to the big house and found him waiting outside the porticoed entrance.

      The sound of the fountain drowned out the noise her heels made on the cobbles, so she was able to study him unobserved for a few moments. He was wearing an open-necked shirt and dark tailored trousers. She was admiring the way he looked, hard not to, and reflecting that it was a shame that someone who had everything physically should be so lacking in the personality department when he turned suddenly, startling her enough to make her fall off the strappy wedge she was wearing.

      He was at her side supplying a steadying hand to her elbow with startling speed. Flustered, she lifted her face to his, the pupils of her dramatic cornflower-blue eyes dilating as they connected with his dark ebony burnished stare.

      She caught her breath sharply as a shimmy of sensation that slid down her spine made her shiver. The man had a sexual charisma that really was off the scale!

      ‘I’m not used to the heels.’ She pulled and his hand fell away from her elbow. ‘I’m afraid my car’s not very…’ Her voice faded as she picked her way with more care now across the cobbles.

      Isandro had been pierced by an arrow of sheer lust the moment he had seen her walking towards him. Walking behind her gave him the opportunity to admire her delicious bottom and the long elegant line of her seemingly endless legs, revealed rather than hidden by the long skirt that clung and flowed as she walked.

      ‘The seat belt’s a bit…’ She took the football he held and with a grimace slung it into the back seat on top of the motley collection of toys and turned the ignition. ‘It takes a few times before it…Sometimes…’

      ‘Will you stop apologising?’ He nodded towards the back seat. ‘Your nephew plays football?’ He spoke not out of any genuine interest but a desire to stop himself asking her if she had a boyfriend. It wouldn’t make a difference—she worked for him and some rules he did not break. Still, there was no rule against looking.

      ‘Harry?’ Zoe laughed and shook her head. ‘No, Harry hates sport. The ball is Georgie’s. Harry is…quieter.’ A man like Isandro Montero would never understand a sensitive boy like Harry. Her brow furrowed. Harry was a worry; he was such an easy child that he tended to be overlooked.

      She glanced towards her passenger, and her lips twitched at the thought of anyone overlooking the scorchingly handsome Spaniard. It should have been laughable to see him squashed into her Beetle, but Zoe was unable to raise even a smile. The fact they were virtually rubbing shoulders made her feel a lot less comfortable than he appeared to be.

      Being in this sort of enclosed space with him made Zoe want to crawl out of her own skin.

      ‘It’s not far.’ Thank God for small mercies.

      ‘I will sit back and admire the scenery,’ he said, studying her profile. He had thought she would scrub up well and he had been proved right—she was stunning.

      A few minutes later she crunched the gears and winced as she drew up outside the local convenience store.

      ‘Your friends live here?’

      ‘No, they live the other side of the village. I need to stop to get a bottle of wine.’

      ‘I thought you didn’t drink.’

      ‘I don’t, but other people do,’ she said shortly without looking at him.

      ‘You should have said. There’s plenty of wine in the cellar.’ Good wine was always a sound inflation-proof investment.

      A small choking sound left her lips as she thought of the vintage stuff stacked in the hall’s cellar being served from borrowed glasses and drunk by people who in her hostess’s case preferred her wine mixed with lemonade.

      ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll get this.’

      Inside the store she snatched two of the second-cheapest bottles off the shelves and took them to the checkout.

      ‘Nice stuff this, so they say,’ the man at the till approved, putting the bottles into a bag for her while she dug into her purse. It became embarrassingly clear pretty quickly that she was short of cash to pay and her plastic was at home in the drawer, which had seemed the safest way to avoid temptation while she adjusted to her new straitened circumstances.

      ‘Sorry, it’ll have to be the Spanish one—do you mind if I change them? Fifty pence short, I’m afraid.’ She nodded towards the stacked coins.

      ‘No problem, it’s very nice too, love.’

      Her hand had closed around the bottles on the counter when a big hand covered it. ‘Let me get those.’

      Looking from the warm hand covering her own to the face of the tall, sleek, exclusive-looking man who had moved to stand beside her, Zoe shook her head, struggling to recover her composure and painfully aware of the tingling pain in her peaked and aching nipples. She was shamed and embarrassed by her weakness.

      ‘No, really, I’m fine. I’m going to have the Spanish one…wine, that is…’ she corrected and promptly felt like a total idiot.

      ‘I hate to be disloyal, but take it from a Spaniard—that is not wine,’ he told her with a shudder.

      ‘It’s not a wine snob sort of party.’

      He was prepared to swallow the insult, but not the wine on the shelf. ‘No, I insist, the least I can do since you are being my taxi,’ he said, taking his wallet from his pocket and handing over the money.

      Short of having a fight right there in the shop, Zoe had no choice but to accept the offer with as much grace as possible.

      With his hand on the small of her back he guided her out of the shop and back towards the car. She didn’t enjoy the light physical contact—actually any contact at all with this man made her feel uncomfortable—but she could tell that the natural courtesy came as second nature to him.

      He held the door open for her, then went around to the other side of the car. The entire vehicle shook as she slammed the door closed. ‘Do you not drink out of choice or because you have a drink problem?’

      Her lips tightened. Was the man worried that his new housekeeper was an alcoholic? ‘Neither, sir.’ She emphasised the title before adding factually, ‘I simply can’t metabolise alcohol. I get drunk on the smell.’

      ‘I rather think it might be more appropriate if you do not call me sir tonight.’

      She shrugged and steered her car past the others parked along one side of the narrow lane. ‘Is that an order, Mr Montero?’

      ‘If you like, and try Isandro. It is my name. Relax,’ he recommended. ‘This is a party. I will not cramp your style…’

      ‘It’s not that sort of party and be careful there’s a…’ She stopped and hid a smile, adding as he surveyed his muddy shoe, ‘A bit of a ditch that side.’

      Zoe had been concerned for her friends’ feelings, but slowly let down her guard as she realised that, far from looking down his nose at her friends, he was charming them. She could relax and enjoy herself; why not? Against all her expectations he was not being aloof or even icily polite. From the moment they had arrived and he had been swept away by Chloe, who had wanted to show him off, he had given the appearance of enjoying himself.

      Watching Isandro talk easily with John and the local vet—who, according to Chloe, had not worn low-cut blouses before her divorce—it was Zoe who found herself feeling like an outsider. She felt her resentment rise as the red-headed divorcee threw back her head and laughed throatily at something Isandro had said, giving him an excellent view of her cleavage. Zoe’s teeth clenched—and he looked, of course; he was a man!

      How predictable. Shaking her head in a combination of contempt and cynical amusement, she felt embarrassed for the woman who was being so obvious. And he wasn’t doing anything to discourage her, she thought. Her eyes narrowed as the woman’s hand came to rest on his arm and stayed