His Housekeeper Bride. Melissa James

have to know you’re a pretty woman.’ But the comment was so far removed from a compliment—almost an insult in the hardness of his voice—that she didn’t thank him.

      ‘Are the curls natural?’ he asked as he followed her to the door—he was actually coming with her. She wanted to rejoice. Yes, she’d intrigued him.

      ‘Yes, they are.’ The answer was rueful. She touched the tumbling dark auburn curls escaping from her attempt at a chignon and looked up at him…really up. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. ‘Any attempt to straighten them only makes them frizz. Combine that with freckles, being only five-one and size eight, and I have to put up with everyone thinking I’m sixteen.’

      She’d used the number deliberately, to see how he’d react. It was why she was here—why she’d come on this particular day—and she might as well start now.

      His mouth tightened, but he only nodded. Then he frowned again, as if the number had triggered something inside him. ‘Pardon me, Ms Browning, but I’m having the strangest sense of déjà-vu. Have we met?’

      He’d remembered! She nodded, with a grin that felt silly on her face. He remembered her…‘For years I’ve wanted to thank you for all you did for my family. You’ll never know what it meant to us—giving us the house, setting up the trust fund to send Simon to medical school, Joel to university, Drew to engineering college. When I found out this job was for you, it seemed a good chance to meet you again and thank you.’

      For the first time he looked in her eyes, and she saw the change as he took in the face, the curls, and emotion dawned in him—recognition. ‘Shirley Temple?’ With his low growl, it was as if deep winter broke, giving way to a reluctant spring, and the warm-hearted boy she’d known when she was a girl peeked at her from beneath the frozen heart of the famous man.

      ‘I go by Sylvie now.’ For the third time she put her hand out, hoping he’d take it. She needed to know if the illusion she’d held for so many years would crumble under the force of reality—if she’d shrink or find him as terrifying as every other man she’d met since she turned fifteen.

      ‘Sylvie?’ His voice was deeper, rougher than she remembered it, but a warm shiver still ran through her. ‘But your name’s Mary Brown.’

      ‘It’s Mary Sylvia, actually, and we—the boys and I—liked Browning better. It was less common—especially for me, with a name like Mary.’ Feeling embarrassed by the admission, she shrugged. ‘I changed my name by deed poll, and the boys did the same.’ She’d never tell him why she’d done it, or why the boys had followed her lead without hesitation. Although none of them had changed their first names, as well, as she had….

      ‘Then Joel must have changed his only a few months ago.’

      He knows how old we all are. He’s kept up with us. The knowledge that he cared enough to know them, even from a physical and emotional distance, made her feel—feel—

      Just feel. He hadn’t forgotten her—as she’d never forgotten him.

      Looking dazed, he put his hand in hers just as she was about to drop it. ‘Look at you. You’re all grown up.’

      ‘So are you.’ Her voice was breathless—but how could she help it? He was touching her again…and for the first time since she was fifteen a man’s touch didn’t repulse or terrify her. She felt warm and safe—and, given what her life had been, those feelings were as precious as gold to her.

      From the first time she’d seen him at the hospital, when she’d been only eight, the prince of her fairytale dreams had changed from blackhaired to dark blonde, from blue-eyed to golden-brown. Every time she’d met him after that, though months had passed, she’d felt the connection deepen, and when he’d held her in his arms and let her sleep the day her mother had died she’d known that, though it was the last day she’d see him for a very long time, no other boy would ever take his place.

      Quiet lightning still strikes once—and never in the same spot. But he had lovers in abundance—all far more beautiful than she’d ever be—and they didn’t come with her issues. Years ago she’d accepted that he was her impossible dream. That wasn’t why she was here.

      ‘So you really are twenty-eight?’ He shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

      ‘Yes.’ As the juxtaposed longings to reach out and touch his face and to jerk her hand out of his and run all but overwhelmed her, she had to force her hand to stay where it was. Though she’d never been to counselling, she’d learned to conquer her fear to a manageable degree, by dint of the simple need to eat. If an employer thought she was crazy, he wouldn’t employ her, and she couldn’t always work with women.

      His gaze swept her again. ‘Your hair grew darker.’

      ‘Red hair quite often does that.’

      He was still holding her hand. Looking at his expression as they touched, she sensed that it had been a long time since he’d truly touched anyone. ‘Strawberry blonde.’ He was smiling. ‘You looked like a china doll.’

      ‘According to some people I still do,’ she said, sighing. ‘Sometimes I’d give anything to be a few inches taller, if nothing else.’

      ‘People don’t take you seriously?’ His voice held sympathy.

      ‘You didn’t,’ she retorted, disliking the tone that seemed too close to pity, too close to how she’d been treated for so many years of her life. She pulled her hand from his.

      ‘You’re right.’ He was looking at the broken connection, a strange expression in those frozen dreamer’s eyes. ‘Why do you want this position—or did you only come to thank me?’

      His tone had lost the gentle warmth that made her glow. He wanted to be thanked even less than he’d appreciated her pointing out when he’d been in the wrong. By the look in his eyes, he also didn’t want to hear any personal reasons for her answering his advertisement, on this of all days.

      ‘I need the job,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m in the final year of my nursing degree. I need somewhere to live and I need to pay the bills.’

      ‘Why now?’

      The simple question drew her out—the not-quite-cynical tone, the weary implication of there must be a catch in this. She stiffened her spine. It was all she could do not to walk out—but even her unconquerable pride was less important than keeping her word. But, oh, if she’d known it would be so hard to come back into his life this way, to stand before him and ask, she would never have made that promise to Chloe.

      She heard the flat curtness in her voice as she finally answered. ‘My flatmate Scott’s getting married in a few weeks, and Sarah, his fiancée, wants to move her stuff in. I could live on campus, but I’d still need a job.’

      ‘You still have the house?’ It wasn’t quite a question, more of an interrogation.

      ‘Drew married his long-time girlfriend a while back—they had a baby boy five months after. They needed the house. He’s in his third year of mechanical engineering, and with his study workload he can only work long enough hours to keep the family. Simon, Joel and I can get out there and pay rent.’ She smiled at him, as if it was no big deal.

      ‘I see.’ And the tone, though restrained, told her he really did.

      Mark looked down at the face of memory, an echo of sweetness long submerged. He saw in the pretty face of Sylvie Browning the girl she’d been. She didn’t look as he’d expected except for her eyes—eyes still ancient in a young face—and her smile. The sweet, defiant smile of a girl who’d had to go to school while caring for her father and brothers, taking on a mother’s role long before her mother had died.

      Yes, he did understand her—too well. She’d accepted his money for her family. The one person he’d wanted to help through the years probably hadn’t taken a cent for herself.

      He