Confessions of His Christmas Housekeeper by Sharon Kendrick
CHAPTER TWO
LOUISESTAREDATher estranged husband, aware that someone had started playing a Christmas song about mistletoe and wine and a couple of women were jigging around to it. Vaguely she could hear glasses chinking and hear people raucously joining in with the corny chorus, but all she could think about was Giacomo’s bizarre proposition as she sat opposite him in the village pub.
‘How on earth can I help you remember?’ she demanded, her voice a little unsteady. ‘We hardly knew one another, not the way most couples do. Our marriage lasted barely eight months, and for most of those you were out of the country “working”. Well...’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Allegedly.’
His face grew tight, as if he resented the implication behind her words, but she saw the precise moment when he decided not to pursue it, leaning forward with an expression in his coal-black eyes which she did recognise. For this was Giacomo when he wanted something and if she wasn’t careful he would end up getting it, whether she liked it or not.
‘Yes, I understand that our marriage was brief,’ he said. ‘But it was a big life event of which I have no recollection. And I want it. I want to remember.’
‘We can’t always get what we want, Giacomo. I believe someone once wrote a song about it.’
And in spite of the bizarre situation in which he found himself, Giacomo felt his lips curve into the flicker of a smile. Had she always had this sense of irreverent defiance, he wondered, and was that one of the things which had attracted him to her? He sat back in his chair and watched as she examined her fingernails, though he sensed she wasn’t really seeing them. The silence between them grew and he was tempted to break it and to seek an instant answer to his question, because he liked instant results. But he was a highly skilled negotiator and sensed that now was the time to allow her to think about what he had said, and to process it. In the meantime, he sipped his coffee and allowed his gaze to drift over her with unhurried scrutiny.
His doctors had advised that information overload could be counterproductive and so he had set about learning only the most basic and important facts about the missing year. His aide had informed him that he had been married to this woman and he had the documentation to record the event, as well as a brief letter he’d discovered screwed up in the back of his desk, telling him tersely that she was leaving. He admitted to having been surprised by that, because no woman had ever walked out on him before—in fact, he usually had trouble getting rid of them. But hot on the heels of that surprise had come the flicker of something dark. Something he didn’t recognise—but it had disappeared so quickly he might have simply imagined it.
He frowned. It was a mystery, particularly as there were no photos of any such wedding. The only photos he had been able to find of himself with women had come, inevitably, from the Internet. Snatched photos of a younger version of himself, taken outside famous hotels and red-carpet events in Cannes. The paparazzi had obviously gate-crashed many of his holidays, where there was invariably a scantily clad woman on his arm, nuzzling up close to him against backdrops of turquoise sea. He seemed to have a penchant for Scandinavian supermodels—stunning, rangy females who were almost tall enough to match his own six feet three. But this woman had not featured in any of those photos and did not match that template at all. She was rounded and dark and barely came up to his shoulders.
His frown deepened. Nevertheless, there was something very fresh and arresting about her, though that might have had something to do with the fact that she dressed like a student. She wore no make-up—which was rare in his experience—and her sweater had clearly been chosen for warmth rather than decoration. But although she was wholesome, there was something provocatively sensual about her which seemed to transcend all her shortcomings. Her body was curvy, her dark hair was glossy and her pale skin was almost translucent.
As for her eyes...
A fragment of recall whispered across the clouds in his mind. They were the most extraordinary eyes he had ever seen. The bleached blue colour of faded denim and fringed by startlingly dark lashes. A natural beauty, he thought suddenly. A pulse started to hammer at his temple and he could feel the sudden heat of his blood as his hungry body was stirred into life. Perhaps it was not, after all, so bizarre that he should have married such a woman.
She looked up at him. ‘No,’ she said.
His eyes narrowed, for he had been distracted. ‘No?’
‘I can’t do it, Giacomo,’ she said suddenly. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think you should even be asking me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not appropriate!’
‘You seem to be very concerned with what is appropriate and what is not. What exactly is your objection?’
Louise stared at him. She remembered him as being cold and emotionless most of the time—not in bed, of course—but surely he wasn’t so dense that he expected her to help him out as if they were old buddies? It didn’t help that she still found him devastatingly sexy. Or that erotic flashbacks were hovering in the back of her mind, threatening to derail her thoughts.
‘Let’s think about this carefully,’ she said. ‘We are separated, and married couples don’t go their separate ways without good reason. Yet you really expect me to take a trip down memory lane with you, in order to kick-start your memory? What exactly did you have in mind—dinner here in the village, trying to negotiate an emotional minefield over a prawn cocktail?’
‘No. A single dinner will not be long enough.’
‘Then what?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘Several excruciatingly difficult meetings with each other at the most stressful time of the year? Do me a favour!’
‘No, that’s not what I’m suggesting,’ he said.
‘It’s nearly Christmas, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she continued, jerking a thumb in the direction of the flashing fir tree in the corner of the pub in case he had missed the visual clues.
‘Exactly. Which is why I am here.’ His gaze ran over her with narrow-eyed scrutiny. ‘You know that I have a place in the English countryside?’
Louise blinked at him in astonishment. Of course she knew he had a place there. His exquisite thirteenth-century estate in the glorious Chiltern hills had been where he’d taken her not long after their marriage! It had been the golden time in their relationship, when they had been happy together. Or, so she had thought.
Somehow, she remained calm. ‘Yes, of course I know that. Why?’
‘Then perhaps you are also aware that I’m no fan of Christmas and prefer to spend it in the relative peace of the English countryside, with nothing other than a skeleton staff to look after me. I have not been to Barton for two years—not since before my accident—and it seems inadvisable to hold on to such a large estate unless I actually use it from time to time, or so my financial advisor tells me. Which is why I am here.’
‘Fascinating though your property portfolio is, Giacomo, I don’t really see what any of this has to do with me.’
His eyes narrowed, as if her continuing opposition was surprising to him. ‘I have several appointments here in London which require my attention and, after Christmas, I shall be returning to Milan. I would like you to accompany me there.’ He paused. ‘As my wife.’
Louise stared at him, her throat growing so dry that she could hardly croak her next words out. ‘Run that past me again.’
‘You heard me perfectly well, Louise.’
‘As your wife? Is this...?’ She tried again. ‘Is this some clumsy attempt at reconciliation, Giacomo—or just a bad attempt at a joke?’
His smile became hard and determined. She remembered that smile of old.
‘It is neither of those things. Perhaps I phrased it badly,’ he continued silkily. ‘I want you there as my wife in name only. My quasi wife, if you like. We will share our old marital home and be seen together in public. To the outside world we will appear to be giving our marriage another go.’
She stilled. ‘But we won’t really be doing that?’
‘We will not,’ he agreed emphatically. ‘But it could prove to be a useful, three-pronged exercise—’
‘Wow, Giacomo—you’re making it sound like a military campaign,’ she said faintly, aware of the stupid hurt and disappointment which flooded through her as she listened to his emotionless words.
‘There are several things I am hoping it will achieve,’ he continued, unperturbed by her interjection. ‘Most importantly, the return of my memory. But it will also serve as a useful distraction to anyone who suspects I have been suffering from amnesia, because there is a high level of interest in me and my affairs,’ he continued. ‘There always has been.’
‘Isn’t that a rather arrogant supposition?’ she suggested.
‘Not really.’ He shrugged. ‘It comes with the territory when you achieve billionaire status, I’m afraid. But I am told that romantic reconciliations excite a good deal of interest and can divert attention. Not only that, but too many women have been pursuing me since I recovered my health. Perhaps they falsely think I am in need of someone to look after me.’ He slanted her a wolfish smile. ‘A fake marriage could be just the thing to discourage them.’
Louise felt a shaft of unwanted jealousy, unable to stop herself from imagining all the beautiful women vying for his attention. His callous disregard for her feelings was breathtaking, but surely that only reinforced her certainty that she was better off without him. ‘And what’s in all this for me?’ she questioned, somehow managing to keep her voice steady. ‘You don’t think I might find such subterfuge...difficult, or emotionally painful?’
His eyes narrowed and suddenly his black gaze was icy-cold again. ‘You were the one who walked out on the marriage, Louise. So presumably that was exactly what you wanted. As for what’s in it for you.’ He shrugged. ‘You have my assurance that I will facilitate a quick divorce after you return home.’
‘A divorce?’ she verified. ‘Let me be clear. You want me to pretend to be your wife, and you’re offering me a divorce in return?’
‘I am.’ His lips curved into a ruthless smile. ‘You want one, don’t you? I’m surprised you haven’t got round to instigating it before.’
She gave a lame smile. No need to tell him that she hadn’t been able to face going to see a lawyer. That the financial as well as the emotional implications of such a move had been enough to make her bury her head in the sand. ‘I’ve been busy.’
‘With work?’
‘That’s right.’ She stared at him, proud of the fact that she’d never gone running to her wealthy ex, looking for a handout. ‘I have to support myself.’
‘Admirable,’ he breathed. ‘But unnecessary. Let me be frank, Louise. I have never needed anyone but at this precise moment I need you, and I think you would be crazy to turn your back on such a favourable offer. A generous settlement at the end of our marriage could be the best present you’ve ever had. We live as a de facto couple for a short time and afterwards we don’t ever have to see each other again. You’ll be free—financially and emotionally. How does that sound?’ He picked up his cup and drained the last of his coffee. ‘Tempted?’
The weird thing was that Louise was tempted, though not for the reasons her cold husband probably imagined. Because there had always been something unfinished about her relationship with the Italian tycoon. Didn’t he still occupy her thoughts way more than was probably healthy? She’d done her best to try to erase him from her mind, but she’d failed, and whenever she had tried to imagine a future without him, she had failed at that, too. It had been like running straight into a brick wall. It didn’t matter how many times she told herself that such a brief relationship shouldn’t merit such excessive despair, her stubborn heart refused to listen—and the reason was sitting right in front of her. Too strong and dark and sexy for his own good.
And hers.
He was offering her the chance to get rid of his lingering legacy, yes.
But not his way.
Hers.
‘Your idea is a non-starter, Giacomo. I’m not coming back to Milan with you.’ She gave a short laugh. ‘And I’m definitely not going to pretend to be your wife.’
‘So you are refusing?’ he said, his words edged with the frustration of a man who was used to getting exactly what he wanted.
‘Yes, I am refusing,’ she agreed, before drawing in a deep breath. ‘But I have an alternative idea.’
The glitter of his black eyes showed his displeasure. He didn’t like being thwarted, Louise remembered. He didn’t like anyone else taking control, or making counter-proposals.
‘Really?’ he clipped out, tapping his middle finger against the table in a familiar gesture of irritation. ‘And what idea is that?’
‘That I come to Barton for Christmas. But not as your wife.’ She paused, allowing time for her words to sink in. ‘As your housekeeper.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
She shrugged. ‘No more than I could accuse you of being. Think about it. It needs to be a contractual arrangement and I need to know where I stand. As a housekeeper, I do—as a pretend wife, I most certainly don’t. My catering background means I am perfectly qualified to take on such a role and it will certainly prevent any blurring of boundaries between us. And besides...’ She paused, her gaze searching his face, dipping a tentative metaphorical toe into the water. ‘You do realise I was a waitress when I met you?’
He went very still for a moment before shaking his dark head. ‘I remember nothing of our relationship,’ he said slowly.
It was the strangest sensation, realising that inside Giacomo’s head she simply didn’t exist. ‘Well, I was. And maybe revisiting those roles will help jog your memory.’
His tapping finger stilled, his irritation transferring itself to his tone. ‘While I can see the logic in your suggestion, you seem to forget that I already have staff in situ,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t need a housekeeper!’
‘Then improvise. Give them a few days off! Pay them double to go away and leave you alone. That’s usually what you do when you have a problem, isn’t it, Giacomo? You throw money at it.’
‘Do I?’
‘You sure do.’ She hesitated. ‘Whenever we had a row, you bought me a piece of jewellery.’
He frowned. ‘I thought all women liked jewellery.’
‘I think I would have preferred to have talked out the problem, rather than just papering over the cracks. But all that’s irrelevant. Water under the bridge, as we say over here.’ She glanced at her watch and rose to her feet. ‘Time’s up. You’ve had your half-hour. And you’re right. It was probably a crazy idea. Forget I ever suggested it.’
‘No. Wait.’ He clipped out the command, the expression on his beautiful scarred face growing thoughtful. ‘This is not what I envisaged, but I guess it could work,’ he said slowly. ‘If I were to agree, when could you start?’
Louise was just reaching for her anorak when what he was saying sank in. He had called her bluff! She met the question in his eyes. ‘I can start on Wednesday,’ she said slowly. ‘The day before Christmas Eve.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘You’re not busy over Christmas?’
She wasn’t going to tell him that although she had a standing invitation from her aunt, she had refused it, just as she’d done last year. She found Christmas too hard to handle. She found it hard not to think about Giacomo and the Christmas she had spent with him—and who wanted a guest who was moping around thinking about their ex?
‘No. I was planning to spend it quietly at home, but I can be flexible. We can arrange it officially through Posh Catering, so it’s all above board. I’ll give you three days of my time, Giacomo. Take it or leave it.’
He absorbed this in silence before standing up, his powerful body towering over her, seemingly oblivious to the women in the pub who were staring at him with open lust on their faces. ‘Since I have little choice, I’ll take it.’ He paused, his black eyes growing thoughtful. ‘But won’t you have a problem with your sudden change of status, Louise? Have you thought about that?’
‘What status?’
He shrugged. ‘Won’t it be a slight fall from grace—tumbling from the position of billionaire’s bride to lowly housekeeper?’
Louise clenched her fists, but, in a way, the insensitivity of his question was useful in reminding her what kind of man he really was. Didn’t he realise it would be far more upsetting to be his pretend wife, than an honest to goodness servant? Could he really not see that? No, of course he couldn’t. He only ever saw what he wanted to see. She slung her bag over her shoulder and shot him a deliberately careless look. ‘You might consider being a housekeeper a lowly position, Giacomo—but let me tell you I’ve always been very proud of my job!’
