The Italian Millionaire's Virgin Wife

Now, as the statuesque blonde escorted a tall, graceful, fine-featured brunette—probably with a whole pile of qualifications tucked up in her smart leather shoulder purse—over to the front door, telling her, ‘You will be contacted within the next day or two to let you know whether you are on the short list,’ Mercy’s spirits dropped through the soles of her brown lace-ups. She felt totally out of place.

And if that with-it, confident-looking woman might not even make a short list, what hope had she? And had been left for a further ten minutes to stew, torn between the desire to slope away, advertise for someone prepared to share the tiny flat when Carly moved out at the end of the week and carry on as before, scratching to save every penny she could, and the need to tough it out, give it her best shot. After all, she had nothing to lose except the tube fare.

Still dithering, the decision to flee or fight was taken out of her hands when the blonde bombshell beckoned from the doorway of the room she’d previously entered on the far side of the vast vestibule.

Heart thumping at the base of her throat, Mercy rose to her feet, wishing she’d at least had something more impressive to wear than the sober and sensible suit that had been bought for her father’s funeral all those years ago.

But then she heartened herself by deciding that ‘sensible’ would be a quality any employer would look for in a housekeeper, so sensible and practical was the way she would pitch it. A girl didn’t have to be a vision of loveliness to wash dishes and polish floors, did she?

And the legendary, super well-heeled Signor Pascali was only a human being, just as she was, wasn’t he?

But there were human beings and human beings was her first insane thought when the too-handsome-by-a-country-mile specimen viewed her dumpy personage across the cluttered expanse of his desk.

His lean, strong face was taut with barely concealed impatience and there was an aura of predatory stillness about the honed, whiplash tight, power-packed frame that suggested a tendency to leap on anyone who stepped out of line and tear them apart limb from limb.

The dark grey eyes continued to assess her until she felt like squirming through the floorboards. His eyes spoke of a vital volatility, though, and that eased her somewhat because if he really was a creative genius then he probably wasn’t noticing the toffee-coloured corkscrew curls that made her look as if she’d been in a wind tunnel for hours no matter how hard she tried to tame them, or her plain face. He was probably miles away on some fantastically creative plane or other.

But the comforting illusion was shattered when those eyes finally got down as far as her clumpy shoes. A terse hand movement gestured her to take the hot seat opposite him and he simultaneously turned to his hovering blonde ‘friend’.

‘I need coffee, Trisha. Now.’ He would conduct this final interview on his own, without annoying twittered interruptions regarding qualifications, experience, references. He’d wasted too much time already.

Sensing a reluctance, he added, ‘And a cup for—’ he consulted a sheet of paper ‘—Ms Mercy Howard.’

The command, delivered in that slightly accented rough velvet voice had the blonde—Trisha—scurrying away, Mercy noted, an odd squirmy feeling starting up inside her as her eyes homed in on his wide, sensual mouth. Never having thought of any part of any male before in those terms, it gave her a decidedly peculiar feeling.

With his about to be ex-lover out of the way, Andreo lounged back in his chair and regarded the final applicant from beneath lowered lids, not prepared to waste a moment more of his valuable time. He had two options. Contact either one of the two earlier candidates and offer the job or hire this one.

His smoky eyes narrowed further. He took advice from no one, but in this case maybe Trisha did have a point, he reluctantly conceded. Both of the other two women had been lookers, beautifully turned out and groomed, self-assured and confident in themselves. Hire one of them and wait to see how long it would take for her to persuade some poor sucker to slip a plain gold band on her wedding finger.

Then he’d have to go through this whole charade again.

With this one he wouldn’t run nearly the same risk, he decided. A plump no-nonsense—apart from her weird hair—little personage, the only sign of discomfiture showing in her rapidly pinkening unremarkable face.

The job was hers.

‘Experience of running a household?’ he barked out. Better go through some of the motions. Unless some serious flaw was unearthed, he had another housekeeper after two irritating weeks without one. His life would go on as before, letting him concentrate on what was important without having to bother about tiresome domestic matters like finding clean socks and figuring out how to make a decent cup of coffee.

Mercy breathed a short sigh of relief. The way he’d been looking at her, as if she were a previously undiscovered life form, had seriously unnerved her. Clasping her hands together, she answered in a rush. ‘I ran my mother’s household for four years, plus holding down several part-time jobs. And I began studying catering and housecraft at night school, but had to—’ About to explain the circumstances that had led to her abandoning the course, namely her mother’s deteriorating health, she found herself robbed of speech when Signor Pascali slotted in, ‘Boyfriends?’

Her mouth falling open as she swallowed her words, Mercy floundered. What had that to do with her ability to housekeep? ‘No,’ she finally answered when the impatient tightening of his mouth indicated that he’d waited too long for a response he’d expected to receive at the double.

‘Any family commitments?’ Then, as if the question needed elaboration, ‘Any children? Aged relatives with health or drink problems who will expect you to drop everything and deal with regular minor emergencies?’

Mercy stiffened, primming her innocent of make-up full lips. Despite his devastating looks, this man was a bully. Time to stand up for herself; she probably wouldn’t make the short list in any case.

‘Signor Pascali, my father was a man of the cloth. Apart from a sip of Communion wine, alcohol never crossed his lips. My mother was a gentle soul who never once made an unreasonable demand. Sadly, they are both gone. I do have a great-aunt in robust health and, as she lives in Cornwall, I’m hardly likely to rush to her side should she have the misfortune to suffer a head cold—not that she would dream of expecting me to. And, as for children, of course I don’t have any. I am unmarried.’

‘The unmarried state doesn’t necessarily indicate the absence of offspring, in my experience,’ he remarked in what she considered to be deep cynicism, but his sudden grin splintered her prickly mood, rendering him so handsome it made her eyes water. And he had laughing eyes, she noted, quite transfixed as he shot forward in his seat with an excess of energy, briefly consulting the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him, complacently reflecting that as a vicar’s daughter she would probably have old fashioned moral values and be unlikely to do drugs or throw wild parties during his occasional absences.

‘If you accept the position, Howard, you will have your own suite of rooms which you will keep to when off duty. You will manage all domestic matters unobtrusively. I do not wish to be informed or consulted on such trifles. For example, should a water pipe spring a leak you will contact a plumber and get it fixed without bothering me. You will deal with my laundry—I use two shirts a day. I rise at six-thirty and breakfast at eight after my usual run and shower. I rarely spend the evenings at home but when I intend to you will be notified and will prepare a meal for nine o’clock. On the occasions when I entertain, whether à deux or a dinner party for up to twenty you will contact the firm of caterers I always use and make all the necessary arrangements. And if I have an overnight guest then her requirements will be conveyed to you. Any questions?’

Mercy snatched in a ragged breath. Was it possible that he was about to offer her the job? It would be a life-saver! Her mind churning, her eyes widening as she struggled to come up with something both pertinent and sensible to ask him, not a single thing occurred to her except a disapproving need to know if the overnighting female guest was always the big blonde or whether he liked to ring the changes. And, as that would mark her down as being unbearably prissy, she was reduced to shaking her head and giving him a breathy ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Gathering herself and thankfully finding a competent tone from somewhere, she tacked on, ‘It seems quite straightforward.’

Plainly keen, Andreo decided. None of the usual questions about days off or holiday entitlement. His mind made up, he smiled into a pair of startlingly blue eyes. He leaned back, his indolent pose at odds with his driven inner need to be done with the whole business, see a housekeeper installed right now and wash his hands of the horrifying range of chores needed to ensure a smooth-running domestic life that had so unexpectedly loomed up since Knox had so inconveniently retired.

‘Welcome on board, Howard.’ He rose, his height and the intimidating breadth of his dark-shirted shoulders looming over her, a strong, finely made hand extended. ‘You take up your duties as of tomorrow.’

Mercy’s poleaxed gaze flicked up from that extended hand to lock with those dark pewter eyes. She’d got the peach of a job! Just like that! Her soft mouth dropped open then firmed decisively as she told him, ‘Thank you. However, I can’t possibly begin tomorrow.’

‘And why not?’ emerged on a bite as he dropped back into his seat at speed, his classic features hardening.

He was going to be a handful, Mercy labelled, refusing to quail beneath all that feature-darkening displeasure. Plainly he was used to getting all his own way. It was about time that someone taught him that life wasn’t like that. Despite her self-acknowledged unprepossessing mousy appearance and her willingness to bend over backwards to help everyone, she was capable of putting her foot down if circumstances warranted it.

Giving him a moment to stew, she told him firmly, ‘I am presently employed through a domestic agency. I am required to give a full week’s notice. Of course I could merely leave and sacrifice a week’s wages—which I would expect you to reimburse. But I never go back on a commitment. I would be happy to take up the position when I’ve served my notice,’ she enforced, desperately hoping that she hadn’t blown it.

Andreo’s intimidating frown dissolved. The most glamorous, self-assured females around had been known to fall over backwards in their desire to comply with his slightest wishes, but now he’d been put in his place by a frumpy little glorified char-lady who should, by rights, have been willing to tie herself in knots in order to secure such a highly paid position. It was a novel experience and one which set his mouth twitching.

The twitch grew to a full blown grin as he shot to his feet. ‘Then I’ll expect you to take up your duties in one week, Howard. When the coffee finally arrives would you ask to be shown over the property?’ Long legs propelled him towards the door. At least she’d proved she had integrity, he excused his uncharacteristic acceptance of non-compliance to his dictates, his mind sharply dismissing her and homing in on the work awaiting him at the agency.

Still reeling from the effect of that devastating smile, plus her good fortune in landing the job, Mercy composed herself to wait. The legendary Andreo Pascali wasn’t as intimidating as she’d feared he would be.

Not if he was handled firmly.

CHAPTER TWO

THE alarm woke Mercy at six-thirty. She lay for a moment luxuriating in the blissful comfort of the huge double bed in the housekeeper’s suite on the top floor of the conversion, enjoying both the April dawn light as it filtered through the gauzy white curtains at the large windows and the squirmy, excited feeling which was occupying the pit of her tummy.

Her new boss rose at this hour and breakfasted at eight. She would show him what she was capable of. She had seen him only briefly as she’d arrived yesterday morning. He’d let her in, shooting a penetrating look at his watch, not seeming to actually see her as he’d stated, ‘Punctual. Good. I’ll be out all day, Howard. I won’t need a meal this evening. Settle yourself in and make the laundry your priority.’

Watching him stride away, hailing the taxi that seemed to appear by magic, she had marvelled, wide-eyed, at the excess of vitality that emanated from that tall frame, the sober, exquisitely tailored business suit at odds with all that barely leashed raw physical energy. Then she’d dragged her gaze away and had turned to begin her first day in his employ.

She’d really enjoyed it too, Mercy reflected as she rolled out of bed and headed for the en suite bathroom. She’d had the fantastic place to herself—not a sign of the blonde bombshell—and had hustled around really making herself useful.

Mildly tutting as she’d collected the garments strewn all over the bedroom and bathroom he occupied on the floor below hers, sorting the coloureds from the whites in the laundry room, her face had grown hot at the intimacy.

Too silly.

While they’d been at home together she’d done James’s laundry, so she was well acquainted with male underwear. Though her brother’s things hadn’t sported labels bearing the names of top designers. So no need for her to get all hot under the collar, was there?

Shelving that recollection, she hoped he’d noticed the shirts hanging in pristine perfection in his vast wardrobe, the fact that his bedlinen had been changed, his bedroom dusted and vacuumed to within an inch of its life, and buttoned herself into one of the pale grey overalls she’d found lying on her bed, still in cellophane wrappers awaiting her arrival. She hoped so. She really did need to impress him with her quiet efficiency. She had to hang on to this job. She had spent the fifteen minutes she’d allowed herself for a lunch break yesterday working out just how much more she would be able to pay into her brother’s bank account.

The resulting sum had made her hug herself with glee.

Tying her unruly, crinkly hair out of the way into two bunches—it was so thick and wild that one ponytail bunch wouldn’t cut it—she decided that whoever had ordered her overalls must have had a grossly inflated idea of her size, then dismissed the thought as vanity because what she looked like—the side of a house—didn’t matter one iota. All that mattered was that she impress her boss with her housekeeping skills.

By the time she heard the whirlwind that heralded his return from his morning run and his entry into the shower room off the entrance vestibule she had laid a single place setting at the starkly modern dining table that would seat twenty with comfort and was mentally setting aside something from her more than generous wages for the purchase of flowers to soften the severely masculine ambience of smoothly polished wooden floors and austere white walls which were adorned with a couple of oil paintings she couldn’t make head nor tail of.

Fifteen minutes to eight. Shooting through to the state of the art kitchen, she had breakfast ready by eight on the dot and tracked him down to the room where she’d been interviewed. Standing just inside the door while he finished his call, which consisted of him telling someone he wouldn’t reconsider and that was final, she was wondering if the correct procedure would be to smartly absent herself when Andreo ended the call, dropped his mobile into the clutter on his desk and, his face a picture of aggravation, demanded, ‘Well?’