Mistress To A Millionaire

‘My name is Slade. This “Mr Eastwood” makes me feel sixty-four instead of thirty-four,’ he murmured with dark amusement.

And then he smiled, really smiled, and the cold, autocratic face turned into someone else—someone much younger, someone who could be tender, someone who was so breathtakingly attractive that it was mind-blowing…and someone who scared her to death.

CHAPTER THREE

DAISY flew out to South Tyrol in northern Italy straight from the hospital a few days later once the doctors were satisfied that the concussion, which had proved more of a problem than her fractured ribs, was gone. She collected her clothes and other personal items en route to the airport, her passport being up to date.

She had advised Stephanie against visiting her at the hospital the same night she had accepted Slade’s offer of employment, and her friend had understood perfectly. Stephanie, too, was under no illusion now as to Ronald’s true nature, and neither woman would have been surprised if he had tried to follow Stephanie or use her in some way to reach Daisy.

The flight was short and uneventful but very comfortable—courtesy of the first-class ticket Slade had insisted on buying for her—and Slade had promised she would be met at Verona airport and driven to Merano in South Tyrol, a distance of some 175 kilometres, by his housekeeper’s husband who acted as gardener and chauffeur.

Only it wasn’t Mario who greeted her once she was through Customs, much to Daisy’s consternation.

‘Daisy.’ Slade’s voice was deep and warm and his big body—clothed in an open-necked pale gold shirt which showed the shadow of curly black hair at the top of his chest, and black denim jeans, tight across the hips—perfectly relaxed. He looked cool and controlled and utterly at ease with himself, she noted desperately, whereas she—she was hot all over. Which was stupid, ridiculous, she admonished herself savagely. She was here as one of his employees—no more and no less, and she was not physically attracted to this man. She would never let herself be attracted to a man again—or certainly not a good-looking, sensual type anyway. Ronald had been like that.

‘Hello, Slade.’ It was easier than she had thought to call him by his Christian name and she even managed a cool smile in spite of her churning stomach and weak knees.

‘How was your flight?’

He had taken her arm as he’d spoken and after her, ‘It was fine,’ he smiled before turning to the porter who had all her luggage stacked on his trolley and speaking in rapid Italian.

And then he turned back to her, giving her another swift, all-consuming glance before saying, ‘Come this way.’

She noticed he matched his long legs to her shorter strides as he led her out of the airport building, but she was concentrating very hard on acting like a sensible, down-to-earth prospective nanny and forced her eyes and her thoughts from the hard, lean body at the side of her.

‘I thought Mario was meeting me?’ she asked with careful aplomb.

They had reached his car, and as the porter loaded her cases into the back of the magnificent and very stately Bentley Turbo Slade glanced at her, his ebony eyes narrowed against the white sunlight which, although bright, was without real heat. ‘Disappointed?’ he asked lazily.

‘No, of course not,’ she said a trifle stiffly, flushing slightly.

‘I’m not convinced.’ He folded his arms over his chest and looked at her intently and she looked back. ‘You need a few good platefuls of Isabella’s pasta,’ he said consideringly.

‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t believe her ears.

‘You’re too slender, and it’s not just because of the accident, is it? You haven’t been eating properly for months,’ he accused calmly. ‘You are far too fragile.’

How dared he? How dared he? Daisy’s expression revealed just how she welcomed his observation but he was quite unrepentant, his black eyes very direct as he added, ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’

‘I’m sorry, but what I eat or don’t eat is absolutely nothing to do with—with anyone but me,’ she snapped hotly.

He was quite aware of what she had been about to say; his crooked grin confirmed it. ‘Daisy, in a few weeks’ time you will assume the responsibility for my son,’ he said mildly, ‘and that gives me the right to make sure you are eating properly. And sleeping properly. And anything else beneficial for your ultimate well-being.’ He eyed her angry face impassively.

‘I don’t think so!’ She couldn’t believe his arrogance.

‘I know so,’ he said steadily.

He had terribly thick lashes for a man. The observation—coming out of nowhere as it did—was shocking, and caused her lips to tighten. ‘I am more than able to fulfil your requirements,’ she said coolly, and then, as the thick black eyebrows rose and his eyes assumed a wickedly mocking glint, the colour flooded her face. ‘What I meant was—’

‘I know what you meant, Daisy.’ His voice was soothing but there was laughter at the back of it.

He was laughing at her! She was surprised at how much it mattered, but then, in the next instant, he had opened the door of the car and was ushering her into its luxurious interior.

She was still bristling when he joined her in the Bentley and she was very much on the defensive, but then he took her aback when he turned to her, his dark, handsome face suddenly very serious as he said, ‘I’m glad you’ve come, Daisy.’

Her immediate reaction was withdrawal and he noticed this, his voice purposely steady and without expression as he added, ‘Francesco needs the stability you can give him.’

Francesco? She stared at him as her guilty mind reprimanded her for the terribly presumptuous nature of her thoughts. He had been talking about her role as mother figure to his son—of course he had—and she had assumed… She blushed to think of what she had assumed. Why would a man like Slade Eastwood be interested in the nanny? she asked herself caustically. He could have any woman he wanted with a lift of his little finger.

‘Of course you won’t be taking a major role while those ribs heal, I know that,’ he continued smoothly, starting the powerful engine as he spoke. ‘But it will be good for Francesco to get to know you gradually, without any pressure. All in all, I think this has worked out very well.’

Daisy, still coping with her dreadfully carnal mind, could only nod weakly.

‘It will take us a couple of hours to reach Merano,’ Slade said gravely, slanting a look at her red face, ‘and I’m sure you must be starving. I thought we’d stop for a meal at a little inn I know. The food is excellent and the atmosphere convivial.’

She could smell that delicious aftershave he used and she was terribly conscious of the hard, aggressive power in the big male frame so close to her—it was causing all sorts of feelings she could well have done without.

Animal magnetism. She almost nodded at the thought and stopped herself just in time. It didn’t mean a thing, not really—any woman would probably react the way she was doing. He was a virile, strong male in the prime of life and the instinctive biological urge that had kept the human race going from the start of creation was perfectly natural. It was. Perfectly natural. And as such nothing to worry about.

‘I’m quite happy to go on to Festina Lente if it’s easier.’ She had become aware he was waiting for a reply and now her voice was rushed. ‘I did eat on the plane.’

‘Cardboard rubbish.’ He dismissed the truly delicious meal she had enjoyed in the opulent surroundings of the first-class luxury with a disparaging flick of one hand. ‘Besides which I haven’t had lunch and I’m peckish. That is a wonderful English word, yes? Peckish? Like kicking the bucket and coming a cropper? I have found it difficult to translate such words and phrases into Italian.’

He was trying to put her at her ease. Daisy knew it but it actually made her all the more tense. She opened her mouth to make some sort of response but he continued seamlessly, ‘I want Francesco to have an understanding of such things. You will find he speaks very good English and he likes the language, which is a bonus, but it is the little things—the colloquialisms—that are so important. I do not want textbook correctness.’

‘Right.’ Daisy nodded in what she hoped was a brisk fashion.

‘Your name—where did Daisy come from?’ he asked suddenly.

‘What?’ He had startled her.

‘I said, why Daisy? Isn’t that an unusual name these days?’ Slade asked quietly, his eyes on the road ahead.

‘I suppose so.’ She didn’t want to discuss her name with him; she didn’t want anything of even a remotely personal nature between herself and this big, dark frighteningly attractive man, but in the circumstances maybe that was a little ridiculous, Daisy acknowledged weakly as she forced herself to continue. ‘My mother’s name is Lily and when she had me my father thought it would be fun to have another flower name.’

She had never liked her name and something in her voice indicated this as she continued, ‘And then my sister was born four years later—she’s Rose—and then Violet arrived two years after that. My father—’ She stopped abruptly and then forced herself to go on. ‘My father used to call us his precious bunch of flowers,’ she finished tightly.

‘Used to?’ He glanced at her quickly for a moment.

‘He died just over sixteen months ago.’ Exactly twenty-four hours after the miscarriage.

‘I’m sorry.’ And somehow he sounded as though he was.

Daisy swallowed hard and then shrugged quickly. ‘These things happen.’ But it didn’t make them fair, she added silently. She had been ill after losing the baby—a nasty post-natal haemorrhage which had been followed by further complications and an infection—and she had been unable to make the journey to America for her father’s funeral. And because of her father dying so unexpectedly from a massive heart attack her mother and sisters had been tied to their home base when she had needed her mother most. Two separate tragedies intrinsically linked, the after-effects of which had rippled on in an ever increasing circle.

Even now she sometimes woke in the middle of the night after a bad dream unable to believe her father was really gone. If she could have seen him—attended the funeral—shared the outward display of grief—something—it would have been a means of coming to terms with her loss—or so the doctor had said. But then doctors didn’t know everything…