At His Service: Cinderella Housekeeper. Fiona Harper

little bit of peace and quiet so she could concentrate. She mentally thanked Charlie again for organising things so she could have a week here on her own before her boss arrived back from wherever that red carpet was. Had Charlie mentioned New York …?

      As she wandered round, she was pleased to find that the inside of Larkford Place was as lovely as its exterior. It oozed character. No steel and glass ground-breaking interior design here, thank goodness. Just ornate fireplaces and plasterwork, high ceilings and ancient leaded windows.

      Ellie’s jaw clicked as she let out a giant yawn. Fatigue was a normal part of her condition—due to the fact she had to concentrate on things most people did automatically. And today had been a day that had required an awful lot of mental and emotional energy. No wonder she was ready to drop. It was time to check out the housekeeper’s apartment above the old stables, so she could crash into bed and become blissfully unconscious.

      She pulled a couple of bags out of the boot of her car as she passed it, and made her way up the stairs to her new home. But when she opened the door, the smell of damp carpet clogged her nostrils. And it wasn’t hard to see why. Water was dripping through a sagging bulge in the ceiling, and the living room floor was on its way to becoming a decent-sized duck pond. There was no way she could sleep in here tonight.

      So she dragged her bags back to the main house, up the stairs and into one of the guest rooms on the first floor. By the time she’d left a message with a local plumber and placed some kitchen pans underneath the damaged ceiling to catch the worst of the dripping water, the yawns were coming every five seconds. She only made it through half of her unpacking before she decided it was time to stop what she was doing and tootle down the hallway to the bathroom she’d spotted earlier before falling into bed.

      But as she lay there in the dark, with only the creakings of the old house for company, she found she could close her eyelids but sleep was playing hide-and-seek. Running away from home had seemed such a good idea a few weeks ago, but now she was second-guessing her impulse.

      What if she proved Charlie’s unspoken fears to be right? What if she wasn’t up to the job?

      And she needed to be up to this job, she really did—for so many reasons.

      She’d just about come to terms with the fact that the accident had not only destroyed her perfect family, it had also altered her brain permanently. She would never be the same person she’d been before that day, never be the Ellie she knew herself to be.

      Sometimes it felt as if she were inhabiting the body of a stranger, and she could feel her old self staring over her shoulder, noticing the things she couldn’t do any more, raising her eyebrows at the mood swings and the clumsiness.

      She rolled over and tried another position. Was it possible to haunt yourself? She certainly hoped not. She had enough ghosts to outrun as it was.

      She sighed and clutched the duvet a little closer to her chest.

      Maybe she’d never be that person again, but this job was her lifeline, her chance to prove to herself and everyone else that she wasn’t a waste of space. This was her chance to be normal again, away from the judging eyes and the sympathetic glances. She was just going to have to be the best darn housekeeper that Mr Mark Wilder had ever had.

      As the awards ceremony dragged on Mark was proved right. It had been an incredibly long night.

      Melodie was irritating him. The package was pretty, but there wasn’t much inside to interest him. He had tried to engage her in talk about the music industry, but even though she was trying to veer her career in that direction she seemed superbly uninformed about the business.

      The show was good, but he had the feeling he’d seen it all before—the pseudo-feuds between cool, young indie bands, the grandpa rockers behaving badly as they presented awards and the hip-grinding dance routines by girls wearing little more than scarves. Well, maybe he didn’t object to the skimpy dresses that much, he thought with a chuckle. He was tired, not dead.

      The only highlight of the evening had been Kat’s victory in the ‘Best Newcomer’ category. Nobody else might have noticed the way her hands shook as she held the supposedly funky-looking trophy, but Mark had. She’d accepted her award with simple thanks, then performed her latest single, sitting alone on the stage except for her guitar and a spotlight. The whole audience had been silent as her husky voice had permeated the sweaty atmosphere. When she’d finished, even the most jaded in the crowd of musicians and industry professionals had given her an ovation.

      The remainder of the ceremony was a blur as Mark tried to keep his eyes open. He began to regret the two glasses of champagne he’d drunk. He hadn’t eaten since the flight this morning, and the alcohol was having a less than pleasant effect on him. Instead of mellowing him out, everything jarred. All he wanted to do was get home and sleep for a week solid.

      The ceremony drew to a close and Kat leaned over to Mark. ‘Are you coming to the after-show party?’

      Melodie, who was eavesdropping, looked hopeful.

      Mark shook his head. ‘I’m tired and jet-lagged. I’m going home to bed.’

      Melodie looked even more hopeful.

      Erm … I don’t think so, sweetheart.

      It was time to ease himself out of the situation. Melodie would probably be happier at the party, mixing with the boy bands, anyway. He gave her a non-commital, nice-to-have-met-you kiss on the cheek. ‘I know I’m being boring, but why don’t you join the others at the party? I’m sure Kat and … er …’

      ‘Razor,’ said Kat helpfully.

      ‘Razor will look after you.’

      Melodie weighed her options up for a second, and decided the offer wasn’t too shabby after all. ‘That’s cool,’ she said in her little-girl voice and flicked her hair extensions.

      Mark slipped away, leaving the theatre by the back exit, happy to distance himself from the muffled roar of the paparazzi as the stars emerged onto the red carpet out front. He fished his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket and called a cab, telling the driver to meet him in a backstreet close by, then ran a hand through his unruly mop of dark hair and made his way down an alley. Only when he had emerged from the shadow of the theatre did he loosen the top button of his shirt and breathe in a luxurious lungful of cool night air.

      CHAPTER THREE

      SO MUCH for sleeping for a week solid. Someone was making a racket on the landing. How inconsiderate could you get?

      Mark sat up in bed, cold reality only just intruding on his nice, warm sleep haze.

      After the awards ceremony he’d had the urge to get right out of the city, so instead of asking the cab driver to make the short trip to his flat on the river, Mark had made him very happy and told him the destination was Sussex.

      There was another noise from the landing. Nothing loud, but someone was definitely out there. He hadn’t dreamt it. There was only one explanation. It was after two in the morning and someone was in his house. Someone he hadn’t invited because he was supposed to be here on his own. That wasn’t good.

      Mark jumped out of bed, wondering what he might have to hand in his bedroom that would help in a situation like this, but it was pitch-dark and he didn’t have a clue where to start fumbling. He knew his squash racket was in the house somewhere …

      But he didn’t have time even to reach for the lamp by his bed. Just then the door slammed open. Mark tensed, unable to see who or what had just invaded his bedroom. A split-second later something—someone—barrelled into him.

      He didn’t have time to think, just reached out and grabbed him. There was no way some snotty youth from the village was going to swipe his silver, or his high-tech audio gear, or whatever it was he was after.

      A struggle ensued and he finally got the lad pinned down on the floor. Now what? How was he going to call the police without—?

      ‘Ow!’