Hired: The Italian's Convenient Mistress

‘Ainslie—it’s Angus. Gemma just told me what happened.I don’t know what to say. Look—I don’t like that you’re out there with no money or references—I hope you’re at a friend’s. If you needed money…we could have sorted something out. I’m working till late, but I’ll ring tomorrow…’

Clearly Angus was finding the situation difficult, because his voice trailed off then, and Ainslie felt tears tumble out of her eyes for the first time since it had happened. Sadly she realised that he believed her to be guilty. She could hear the disappointment in his kind voice.

Well, of course he believed Gemma—she was his wife! A wife who had told her husband that things had been going missing since Ainslie had started. A wife who had told him she had caught the nanny red-handed, having found her ring and necklace in Ainslie’s bedroom drawer. Better that than admitting that it was the nanny who had actually caught her red-handed.

Or rather red-faced, beneath her lover, when Ainslie had brought the children home unexpectedly early.

Slumped against the wall on the busy platform, Ainslie began crying her eyes out—not loud tears, just shivering gulps as she gave in and wept. She’d been counting on her Christmas bonus—had needed the money desperately, thanks to Nick and the mess that was unfolding back home. It was the first time she’d actually cried since she’d picked up her mail two weeks ago and found out that her exboyfriend had, unbeknownst to her, taken out a joint loan while they were together. The deceit had been almost more upsetting than the financial ramifications, and the tears she had held back spilled out now, as she faced the bleakest of Christmases. Not that anyone noticed. Not that anyone even gave her a second glance. Surrounded by people in one of the busiest cities in the world, never had Ainslie felt more alone.

She could hear the baby crying again too, and his loud sobs matched how she felt…

Guido.

The fraught cries snapped Ainslie out of her own introspection, her eyes scanning the platform until she found him.

He wasn’t a baby, more a toddler—eighteen months old, perhaps. He was standing—no, sitting. No, now he was lying on the platform floor and kicking his legs, throwing a spectacular tantrum. His less than impressed father was half kneeling, a laptop and briefcase discarded on the platform beside him, holding his child with one hand as with the other he attempted to open a pushchair with all the skill of someone who’d never opened a pushchair in his life—and certainly not while trying to hold onto a frantic toddler.

And just as the crowd had ignored her tears, so too did they ignore this man’s plight. Heads down, they just hurried past, and either didn’t see or pretended not to notice; everyone was too busy to offer help.

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, Ainslie walked over. ‘Can I help?’

She watched him stiffen momentarily. His head was almost automatically shaking in refusal, highlighting that this was clearly a man who wasn’t used to accepting help. Then in almost the same instant he let out a reluctant breath and conceded, picking up the little boy and standing to his impressive height.

‘Can you open this pushchair?’

‘Of course.’

‘Please,’ he added as a very late afterthought, as with two easy motions Ainslie did just that.

‘Thank you.’ He dismissed her then, and really she should have turned and gone. But Ainslie knew that an open pushchair was only half the battle. She watched and wondered with vague amusement how he’d manage to get this stiff, angry child into the chair.

With great difficulty he tried to buckle Guido in. Failing on the first effort, he undid his coat, and Ainslie was treated to a glimpse of impressive suit, a shirt unbuttoned at the neck. Even Ainslie could tell that suits and coats as exquisite as the one this man was wearing didn’t often belong to a daddy who spent a lot of time at home.

This daddy, Ainslie guessed as Guido’s shrieks trebled, must have spent so much time in the office that his son hardly recognised him. There were no easy motions, no practised ease, as he tried to get the unwilling, resisting arms of the child into the straps of the pushchair.

‘I can manage!’ he growled as she hovered.

But he couldn’t. The angry little bundle continued kicking and thumping.

Just as Ainslie had decided to let him do just that and deal with her own problems, Guido caught them both by surprise…

Staring at his father, his screams stopped for a second, a second that allowed him to draw breath, and Ainslie stood open mouthed as the little boy, very deliberately, very angrily and very directly, spat in the face of his father.

‘Puh!’

It was no accident—he even added sound—and Ainslie’s eyes widened in horror, staring at the shocked expression of the man, who didn’t look as if he’d take too well to being spat on. Then he did the most unexpected thing and grinned; that crabby, exhausted, haughty face was actually breaking into a laugh, and it caught the little boy by surprise, because he relaxed just long enough for the pushchair strap to be clicked into place.

The man stood up and, still grinning, pulled out a very smart navy silk handkerchief and wiped his face.

‘Little gypsy tramp—just like his father!’

Which wasn’t the best of introductions!

‘Oh…’ Ainslie nodded.

The last remnants of his smile were fading, and, after wrapping the child in a blanket, he took off his coat and wrapped that around the little boy too. But even though it was freezing outside, it was way, way too much for a little boy who was boiling up.

Ainslie couldn’t help herself. ‘He has a fever!’

‘So I keep him warm.’

‘No…’ Ainslie shook her head in exasperation. ‘I work with children, and what he needs is to cool down…’ She looked at his bemused expression and knew he didn’t have a clue. ‘He’s very hot.’ When still he didn’t seem to understand, she spoke more loudly, more slowly. ‘He might fit…have a convulsion…’ she explained.

‘I am neither deaf nor stupid! You do not have to speak pigeon English.’

‘Sorry…’ Ainslie blushed.

‘I have just seen a doctor with him, and he has been prescribed some medicine.’ He pulled a rather scruffy bag from his pocket, along with a rolled-up tie. ‘When I get him home I will give it.’

‘But they’re antibiotics—what he needs…’ Oh, what was the point? Turning on her heel, she gave a shrug. The sooner this arrogant know it all got home to his wife the sooner his boiling, ill-mannered baby could get some paracetamol in him and hopefully cool down.

‘He needs what?’

A hand grabbed her arm, and Ainslie felt her throat tighten. He had just sooo done the wrong thing. Only he didn’t let go, and even though she had a jacket on the inappropriate touch burned through the thick material, just a trickle of fear invading. But she was on a busy tube station, Ainslie reminded herself, and turned around to confront him.

‘What is it he needs?’

‘Could you remove your hand?’ Angry green eyes met his, watched as he blinked and stared down at his hand as if it didn’t even belong to him.

‘I am sorry!’ Instantly he let go—his apology absolutely genuine. ‘I am worried about him—and I don’t know what to do.’

‘Get him home…’ Ainslie’s voice was softer. ‘He needs some paracetamol. Once he’s had that he’ll settle…’

‘Paracetamol?’ He checked, and Ainslie nodded.

‘And he needs his mum.’

This time she really was going. This time she knew he wouldn’t grab her. Only he didn’t have to. His voice stilled her as she started walking, his words halting her before she disappeared for ever into the heavy crowd.

‘She died this afternoon.’

CHAPTER TWO

HIS words seared into her. Aghast, she swung around, looked from father to son and back to the father, at the identical blue eyes that stared back at her.

And it was horrible.

That no one knew. That all those strangers had stood on that tube, had tutted at the baby, at the pushchair, had walked past as he’d struggled on the platform—and not a single one knew the misery that was taking place.