The Nanny and the Millionaire: Promoted: Nanny to Wife / The Italian Tycoon and the Nanny / The Millionaire's Nanny Arrangement

Panic shot through her at the thought of renewed contact.

How stupid am I?

But he released her quickly.

She gave herself another moment to be sure her voice wouldn’t betray her. ‘Thank you for rescuing me,’ she said, ‘although I think I could have walked to your camp.’

He frowned. ‘I’d prefer you not to do that when I’m not around.’ It was definitely an order, even if it was fairly gently couched.

‘Whatever you say.’ As they walked up the grassy slope, she began to laugh softly. ‘Did you really think I was acting wildly?’ She mightn’t be the best driver in the world but she was careful, considerate, not given to manic bursts.

‘I have to say I was surprised,’ he admitted, further seduced by the sound of her laughter.

‘And Georgy? I have the go-ahead?’

‘To do what?’ He stopped abruptly, staring down at her. She had to know how desirable she was, the effect she had on men.

The hard note in his voice utterly confused her. His eyes were as black as night, brilliant but fathomless. It was one of those moments that seemed to go on forever. ‘Why, shift her things to the west wing!’ she explained. Every nerve in her body felt wired.

He nodded curtly and walked on. ‘If that’s what she wants.’

‘You love your daughter?’

He broke his stride. ‘Excuse me, Ms Devlin? You ask me that and think you can get away with it?’

Had she cast off all common sense like a rope? ‘Forgive me,’ she apologised, ‘of course you do. It’s just … sometimes you sound a little remote.’

‘You’ve really been studying me, haven’t you?’ he asked.

Why was that strange? He had been studying her.

‘I like to get a picture of people,’ she said.

‘So do I. To help you out, I’m tough on the outside, Ms Devlin. Any other questions?’

She was quiet for a moment. ‘Do you mind if I do something to brighten up the schoolroom?’ She was jogging now just to keep up with him. He had work to do. He wanted to be rid of her.

‘What do you have in mind, posters, billowing sails, bunting?’

‘What about a lick of paint?’ she countered. ‘It wouldn’t cost you too much.’

Her little show of bravado dissolved as he turned to face her, so tall she felt pint-sized when she wasn’t. ‘Just see you don’t,’ he said, sounding dead set serious.

‘I beg your pardon?’ She could feel herself flush.

‘Don’t you cost me any trouble,’ he said.

For a moment she felt as though her mind had seized up. ‘I hardly know what you mean.’ Not true. She knew they had connected day one.

He shook his head. ‘I think you do.’

She deemed it best to remain silent. Better silent than try to grapple with the fact they had made that connection. Made it on sight. It really did cloud things when she needed everything to be perfectly clear.

How many men has she slept with? Holt thought as he drove her back to the homestead. How many have touched her flawless white skin with insolent hands, intent on their own pleasure. Who was the man or boy who had seduced her?

He felt an impotent anger that shocked him. It wasn’t often he was disturbed by his own behaviour, but he was now. He had to question exactly why he had hired her, sympathy for her situation, liking for the boy? Or was it because of the beauty of her, the unexpectedness of her, like a white rose growing on a sand dune. Already she had alienated Lois who was certain to report to Tara. Not that he gave a damn about that, but it could bring Tara back to Wungalla—the last thing he wanted. There had been the small matter of finding a governess for Georgy, of course, but an agency could have sent him a competent young woman who didn’t attract attention to herself unlike the blossoming Ms Devlin.

His mind continued to wander. She had fallen pregnant at age what, fifteen? Scarcely more than a child. He was ready to believe it had been against her will. She was so innocent looking, yet despite that so powerfully alluring, there were bound to have been men following her with hot, desirous eyes. Hadn’t he threatened Pearson with instant dismissal if he even so much as glanced again in her direction? He imagined what life would have been like for her, a young girl, saddled with a child. What had happened to her lover after he had so callously dishonoured her? What of her family, the father she spoke of? She was well spoken, well educated, with the unmistakable look of good blood. Was her story much worse than his imaginings? What was she doing out here really? Trying to lose herself and the boy, on the run from some man? It was the kind of nightmare many women and children faced. Any such predator would be a fool to venture into his world after them. On Wungalla they were safe.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARISSA had only just arrived back at the homestead when Olly bustled into the entrance hall to tell her Mrs McMaster was feeling much better today and would like to meet her.

‘Why the bare feet, love?’ Olly asked, staring down at Marissa’s feet in amazement.

‘My shoes are wet. I left them out on the verandah. It’s a long story, Olly. I’ll tell you later. Meanwhile I’d better change these trousers for a skirt. They’re damp around the hem.’

Olly lifted her brows. ‘You found Holt?’

‘He found me,‘ Marissa started to run up the staircase to hide her blushes. Besides, the last thing she wanted to do was keep Mrs McMaster waiting. ‘It’s okay for Georgy to shift down to our wing,’ she called over her shoulder.

‘I’ll get right on it,’ Olly said, ‘after I take you along to Mrs McMaster. Georgy will be pleased. They’ve been as good as gold while you’ve been away. All Georgy wants to do is please Riley. He’s an enormous improvement on Zoltan.’

Here’s hoping it stays that way!

Catherine McMaster, Holt’s paternal grandmother, was a diminutive, almost doll-like, old lady with abundant silvery-white hair, and hazel eyes that seemed to glow in her small, fine boned face. Her skin was relatively unlined, but paper thin, almost transparent. It was easy enough to see she must once have been a great beauty. At eighty-two she still possessed beauty, in one of its other forms. She was very lightly, but perfectly made up. She wore a lovely blue silk embroidered caftan over narrow white linen trousers, little white flatties, like ballet shoes on her feet. Her voice when she spoke was surprisingly strong and clear.

‘Come over here, child. I want to look at you,’ she ordered gently. Outback royalty she might be, but her manner was kind and friendly. Something for which Marissa was instantly grateful.

‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs McMaster,’ Marissa said, doing as she was bid.

‘And I to meet you.’ The old lady remained standing near the open French doors, with brilliant sunlight spilling across the broad rear verandah. She put out her hand.

Marissa took it with great care. She feared crushing the thin, arthritic fingers and causing pain. ‘Holt told me you were pretty but he didn’t do you justice!’ Catherine gave a dry chuckle. ‘Deliberately, I think.’ Her whole manner appeared brimming with interest.

Marissa smiled, but made no response. She had learned to take comments on her looks with a smile and a minimum of embarrassment. Her looks were so much a part of her it was difficult to feel self-conscious about them. But there was a downside. Sometimes those very looks caused her trouble, like Wade Pearson for instance. She’d had to avoid many a Wade in her time.

‘Let’s sit, shall we?’ Catherine McMaster invited most winningly, still holding Marissa’s hand. Marissa, in turn, guided the old lady to the comfortable looking day bed drawn up near the French doors. Catherine settled herself gingerly, a clear indication her bones ached. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ She still spoke with a pronounced English accent for all her many long years in Australia. Her grandson’s voice had the same precision, Marissa thought. ‘I tire easily these days. Just another one of the set-backs of old age. There’s very little to recommend it.’

‘I’m sorry if you’re in pain,’ Marissa said.

‘One learns to live with it. It all comes down to acceptance.’ Catherine gestured Marissa into the armchair nearby.

It was a beautiful, large, light filled room they were in, all white, the walls, the sheer curtains, the lovely bed coverings on the antique iron and bronze bed, the silk upholstery on the armchairs and Catherine’s chaise longue. Colour came from silk cushions in an exquisite shade of blue, a collection of beautiful flower paintings in gold frames, and another fine collection of blue and white Chinese porcelain housed in a tall white cabinet. Nothing had a hard edge. It was all soft and dreamy. Marissa loved it.

Catherine noticed. She smiled, ‘You like my room?’

‘I love it!’ There was no mistaking Marissa’s sincerity. ‘There’s an absolute peace about it. It’s a beautiful retreat.’