Confessions of His Christmas Housekeeper by Sharon Kendrick
CHAPTER THREE
LOUISE’SMOUTHWASdry as she drove her little car towards the vast gates of Giacomo’s estate, fear and longing pulsing around her veins in equal and very confusing measures.
At least she had made it here under her own steam. Giacomo had tried sending a chauffeur-driven car for her but she had refused. She didn’t want a fancy limo turning up and causing speculation among the neighbours and she didn’t want anything which would drag her back into his world and make her feel she was still a part of it, because she wasn’t. Her place here was only temporary and she would be a fool to forget that. More than that, she didn’t want to be trapped here without the means of getting away. He had clearly been displeased by her refusal to accompany him to Italy and “pretend” to be his wife, which was probably why he’d been so dismissive when she’d asked him what she should bring to the house. Nothing, had been the answer. His permanent staff would leave the place well stocked with food and drink before their departure.
‘Just make sure you arrive by midday!’ had been his terse departing words.
Louise pulled a face as she passed through the ornate, wrought-iron gates because unfortunately, it was already several hours after the prescribed time.
Ahead lay the long drive leading to the amazing house where they’d spent their one and only Christmas and on either side loomed the leafless trees which dominated the rolling parkland. And over there was the lake, gleaming in the fading afternoon light, which she’d walked around as a newly-wed, watching the sweet little golden-eyed ducks as they bobbed around on the water.
Stop it,she told herself fiercely. Stop romanticising the past.
Her gloved hands gripped the steering wheel but now she wished she hadn’t worn them because inside her palms were hot and clammy. She was dressed warmly and sensibly and hoped she looked professional and efficient, because that was the image she wanted to convey. But inside she was churned up with a mass of conflicting emotions as she considered what she was about to do.
To any sane person, the offer her estranged husband had made her was crazy. So did that make her equally crazy to have accepted? To have told him she would be his temporary housekeeper over Christmas. To cook and serve and clean up after him—as if she had not once worn his wedding ring and been his wife. All this because he wanted to use her as a prompt for his lost memory—a bit like a stage magician’s assistant holding up flash cards to give him clues. And at the end of it all, he had promised her a seamless divorce.
Oh, the romance!
Her eventual agreement had been fuelled by a gut feeling that if she didn’t agree to his suggestion—if she turned him down—then she would spend the rest of her life regretting it. Their marriage had ended unsatisfactorily—she guessed there was no other way for a marriage to end—but mightn’t a few days’ exposure to him finally lay his ghost to rest and convince her that it had been the right thing to do? It might help her, as well as helping Giacomo’s memory return. And she wanted that for him, though she couldn’t have said why. Did it come from the same place as the fierce pain she’d felt when she had seen the scar on his face? Were the fervent vows she’d made on the day she’d married him harder to forget than she imagined?
She peered up at the sky and at the heavy clouds, which were curdling like sour milk poured into a cup of tea. The pundits were predicting snow and the bookies were taking bets on whether it was going to be a white Christmas. She sincerely hoped it wouldn’t. She didn’t know if she could cope with the fake romance of snow on top of everything else. With the world looking magical on the outside, while inside she and Giacomo would be circling round each other with the wariness of two natural enemies who had been stuck in a gilded cage together.
Most of all she was worried about whether she would be able to remain immune to him, because the shocking thing was how much she still fancied him. Sexual desire had been missing from her life since she’d last seen him. She had wondered if her body would ever feel anything again. Yet her stomach had turned to mush when she’d walked into the office and seen him, and she’d undergone a visceral reaction to his dark and brooding presence. Even when they’d been sitting in the pub, it had hurt to look at him and know that once he had been hers. To realise that she was still capable of being in thrall to him and all that magnetic vibrancy he exuded without even trying.
But he had never really been hers, had he? Their marriage had been born of nothing but expedience. He would have been out of her life like a shot if she hadn’t been carrying his baby, and until she divorced him she would never be free.
And if his memory returned, what then?
She eased her foot off the accelerator. Was she really going to be able to face talking about their lost baby?
She blinked back tears as her car came to a crunching halt outside the mansion which Giacomo had purchased lock, stock and barrel—with the carelessness of someone going out to buy a carton of milk. It was an exquisite dwelling—historically of great significance—and as different and as individually stunning as his Milanese apartment, his beach house in the Hamptons, or his magnificent house on the Amalfi coast. Throughout his adult life the billionaire tycoon had acquired and disposed of properties all around the world, at a breathtaking rate. He’d once told her, in a rare moment of confidence, that he was making up for having slept twenty-four to a room in his childhood orphanage.
His portfolio was undoubtedly impressive and envied by his peers, but he had a reputation for being a wealthy nomad. A man who moved between his costly residences without ever thinking of one in particular as home. They said that home was where the heart was, but Giacomo had no heart.
And that was what she needed to remember.
Tugging her suitcase from the boot, she made her way towards the entrance, but before she’d had a chance to knock the heavy door swung open and there was her estranged husband, standing silhouetted against the soft lighting of the panelled wooden hall, his powerful body dominating her line of vision and already doing crazy things to her pulse-rate. As he took a step back she could see him better, and the breath caught at the back of her throat. His black hair gleamed raven-blue in the soft light. His muscular forearm rested on the arching shape of the door frame. He looked like a study in virility and power as he stood there, his gaze unhurried as it surveyed her.
And Louise could do nothing about the sudden sweet clench of awareness low in her belly, or the instinctive tightening of her breasts—mercifully hidden by her anorak.
‘You’re late,’ he accused softly.
If this were any normal working relationship she might have made some comment about the packed Christmas traffic and icy roads. But there was nothing remotely normal about this relationship. She didn’t have to pretend or be super polite as she would to a brand-new, unknown client. It was really quite liberating. Maybe she needed to concentrate on that. ‘Did you think I wasn’t coming?’
He shrugged. ‘I thought you might have changed your mind.’
‘And would that have bothered you?’
Giacomo’s eyes narrowed as he acknowledged the faint challenge in her voice. He could easily have brushed off her question, with its implied suggestion that he was somehow relying on her, but the truth was that her no-show would have bothered him. And what was the point of putting himself through this bizarre exercise, if he was going to conceal the truth with subterfuge? She was a puzzle to him. An enigma. If he unlocked her—as a thief might unlock a safe—then surely it would set his mind free and bring back the missing months? And wasn’t that worth the minor inconvenience of being around a woman whom he found more than a little unsettling, for reasons he couldn’t quite work out? ‘I hate it if anyone reneges on a deal,’ he offered coldly.
‘Well, as you can see, I have stayed true to it. And it’s very chilly out here. Aren’t you going to ask me inside?’
‘Of course.’ Giacomo gritted her a smile as he opened the door wider. How strange that none of the usual conventions seemed to apply. He must have been more pleased to see her than he’d thought. He hadn’t even noticed that he was standing there in his shirt sleeves and that his skin had begun to ice with goosebumps, although he observed that she looked warm enough in the same bulky and extremely unflattering jacket she’d worn the other night in the pub. Surely she had more than one coat? He frowned. Her shiny hair was tied back in a ponytail and, once again, she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up. She certainly couldn’t be accused of making a big effort for his sake!
He stepped back to let her enter, unprepared for the sudden onslaught to his senses as she passed by. She was close enough to touch and he surprised himself by how much he wanted to. Because her scent was tantalising. Faint and almost imperceptible—it contained the hint of oranges and sunshine. It was the most subtle and most provocative thing he had encountered in way too long and he could feel the hard clench of desire at his groin.
When had he last had sex with a woman? he wondered. Had it been with her?
Shutting the door on the cold air, he watched as she stood very still in the centre of the wood-panelled hallway and looked around. The antique wall lights were subtle but they provided enough illumination for him to see the sudden consternation which flitted indigo shadows across her pale face. ‘You’ve been here before,’ he said suddenly.
Louise nodded because suddenly she could barely speak, the lump in her throat making her feel as though she couldn’t breathe. Had she really thought that she would be immune to the power of the past and the dangerous weave of her memories? ‘Once,’ she said.
‘Was it for anything in particular?’
She kept her expression as neutral as possible. ‘We came here not long after we were married. We spent our first Christmas here. Our only Christmas.’
‘Ah.’
Breathlessly she waited for a flicker of recall or at least some acknowledgement that she had said something significant. But if she was hoping for some kind of profound reaction, then she was about to be disappointed.
‘Does it look very different?’ he questioned, as if he were an estate agent eliciting her opinion on some renovation work which had been done in her absence.
Louise attempted to answer with that same air of indifference. They’d spent barely any time here—a few days at most—but surely it was the same with any place. It wasn’t the exterior and the trappings you remembered, but the things which had happened within those walls. It wasn’t the structure or the costly contents, it was the associations.
And wasn’t it inevitable that she should remember the moment she had married him, when the happy marriage she had hoped for had felt achievable? When she had vowed to love her handsome though often forbidding groom for the rest of her life and the prospect of that had shimmered before her, precious as gold. She, who had never really experienced love or a real home, had hoped that now she had both. Yet it hadn’t happened, had it? Giacomo hadn’t been able to commit to their relationship as she had thought a husband should, and had never let her get close enough for her to discover why. Her questions had been unwanted and unanswered. She had felt gauche for even asking them—as if she had stepped above and beyond the role which had been assigned to her.
‘You don’t remember our wedding?’ she said.
‘No.’
There was something so unequivocal about his reply that Louise grew very still, horrified comprehension dawning on her as she recalled the way he had looked at her when he’d been waiting in the office. The way he was looking at her now. With a look which was blank and stony. But suddenly she realised that his expression wasn’t anger or judgement, as she’d initially thought. The reason was much simpler. And more than a little scary.
‘You don’t remember me either, do you?’
He dragged in a deep breath, then shook his head. ‘No.’
A shudder ran through her body. ‘Nothing at all?’
His black eyes were very intense. ‘You want me to be honest?’
‘Why else am I here, Giacomo? Is there any point in being anything but honest?’
‘I guess not.’ He expelled a long breath of air. ‘You look like a stranger to me, Louise. When you walked into your office the other day, it was as if I’d never laid eyes on you before. You weren’t...’
‘Weren’t...what?’ she quizzed unsteadily as his words tailed off.
‘Well, let’s just say you weren’t what I was expecting. You aren’t the type of woman I usually go for.’
The sharp spear of pain which followed this entirely truthful remark warned Louise that she ought to be careful about asking questions if she couldn’t bear to hear the answers. She wondered if that was mockery she could hear in his voice and if he intended her to feel less than. But he could only make her feel a certain way if she let him. So don’t. ‘How do you know that?’ she questioned carefully.
‘There are plenty of photos out there on the Internet. Paparazzi shots, mostly.’ He paused, his shadowed gaze questioning. ‘Though none of you. Not one. Not even on our wedding day.’
Louise hesitated. She had one on her phone, which she couldn’t bear to delete. There were two, actually—although the second was a bit blurred. It should have been easy to pull it from her pocket and offer to show them to him but something stopped her, and that something was her own vulnerability.
He didn’t remember her.Her face was a mystery to him. He’d even sounded as if he was comparing her unfavourably to all those amazing supermodels he used to date before she had fallen so easily into bed with him.
She guessed she would have to show him the photo—but not yet. And not here. Not when she was standing with her scruffy little suitcase feeling a sense of hurt she had no right to feel. ‘It was a very low-key affair,’ she said and then looked at him with sudden appeal in her eyes. ‘How the hell is this going to work, Giacomo? I mean, I know all these things that happened—am I supposed to just come out straight out and tell you about them?’
‘No,’ he said forcefully, his black eyes glittering. ‘That’s exactly what I don’t want. Don’t you think I could have pieced together all the events of the past for myself? That I don’t have the wherewithal to employ someone to discover my movements and actions over the missing year and provide me with a detailed report? But I deliberately haven’t done that. I’ve avoided an information dump which could overload my brain. I want to discover what happened for myself...organically. All I need is for you to answer my questions—as truthfully and as objectively as possible.’
So did that mean she was banned from saying that she thought he’d been a neglectful and inconsiderate bastard at times during their marriage? Would that sort of view be considered too subjective?
‘Does that mean you’ll answer mine in return?’ she said. ‘Isn’t that only fair?’
His black eyes gleamed. ‘Is that what you want?’
‘I...think so. It could give me my own sense of closure.’
‘And is closure what you seek?’
She swallowed. ‘Of course it is.’
She glanced behind him, as if suddenly becoming aware of the loud tick of the grandfather clock and the faint crackle and splutter of a fire coming from a distant room. She shook her head like someone emerging from a long sleep as she attempted to confront this strange new reality. ‘And in the meantime, you’d better tell me where I’ll be sleeping.’
His body tensed. It was only the most fractional of movements but enough for Louise to notice. Perhaps he wasn’t quite as indifferent to her as she had imagined, before dismissing the thought—because what good would it do her if she started thinking about sex?
‘It seemed unnecessary to put you in one of the servants’ rooms, under the circumstances.’ His smile was bland. ‘You can have the blue guest suite.’
Louise looked at him askance. There were plenty of other guest rooms he could have offered. Did he really expect her to sleep in the blue suite—while he lay next door, in the vast master bedroom they’d once shared? Did he really think she wouldn’t care? She might have blamed his insensitivity on his accident until she reminded herself that this kind of behaviour was hardly new. He didn’t even realise he was doing it. He was callous and unfeeling.
‘Actually, it’s probably best to stick to our delineated roles as much as possible,’ she said smoothly. ‘Less confusing that way. I’d prefer to sleep in one of the unoccupied servants’ rooms.’ She tilted her chin. ‘So which one?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Louise. Taking that kind of proud, posturing stance is completely unnecessary,’ he snapped.
‘Let me be the judge of that. Which one?’ she repeated calmly.
She saw the frustration which burned in his black eyes.
‘I’ll show you,’ he bit out eventually.
‘There’s no need. Honestly. I can find it perfectly well by myself if you give me directions. Is it on the second floor, or the third?’
‘No, Louise,’ he said, with a steely determination she recognised of old. ‘On this, I must insist.’ He picked up her suitcase and walked out of the hall, obviously expecting her to follow and, with little other choice, she did.
Giacomo could feel the shimmer of anger and exasperation, and was aware of a sudden sense of disconnect as he led her up the sweeping staircase towards the very top of the house and one of the unused servants’ rooms. It felt wrong to put her up here, but she was only taking him at his word, wasn’t she? He had employed her as a housekeeper and she was behaving like one. But, oh, had she always been this stubborn?
He pushed open the door and looked around, acknowledging the rustic simplicity of the small room. A single washbasin stood in one corner and there was a compact desk in the other. A chair and a single bed were the only other furniture and the walls were plain and unadorned. He heard her suck in a breath, before walking over to the window to stare at the darkening landscape at the back of the house.
‘Changed your mind now you’ve seen it?’ he questioned mockingly.
She sounded as if she was speaking from between gritted teeth.
‘Honestly, Giacomo—it really isn’t important. I don’t particularly care where I sleep. I’m only going to be here for a few days.’
But then she turned round to face him and all his frustrations trickled away, their battle of wills temporarily eclipsed by a very different type of frustration. Suddenly Giacomo was struck by how confined this space felt with two people in it, and how close she was. And once again something about her faint scent stirred his senses in a way which was unexpectedly potent.
His mouth dried. He had grown up in appallingly cramped circumstances—the run-down orphanage had been dangerously overcrowded—yet never could he remember feeling quite as claustrophobic as he did right then. It felt as if the walls were closing in on them. It felt as if he had fallen into a trap, and yet instead of fighting his way out of it, which would be his natural instinct, he would be happy to let that happen. For their bodies to be sandwiched together in a sweet collision which would lead to only one thing—mostly involved with tumbling her down on that stupidly narrow bed and removing her clothes as quickly as possible. He stared at her parted lips, badly wanting to taste them and then to spread those slender thighs and lose himself deep inside her.
He pressed his thumb into his temple, trying to remember when he had last sought pleasure in a woman. When had he even wanted that? And how ironic that should be for the man whose libido had once been legendary—even if he had turned down most of the women who had regularly thrown themselves at him throughout his adult life. These days his body felt more like a machine. A cold and sexless machine. Dead from the waist down.
But he was lucky to be alive, wasn’t he? That was the mantra he had repeated to himself over and over again, even if sometimes it felt like scant consolation for the memory and the desire he had lost.
But now?
Now he was experiencing something very different. Desire was rushing through his body like a flood of water over a desert plain, obliterating everything else in its path and, oh, it was deliciously sweet.
She had removed her bulky anorak and as she hung it on the back of the door he was able to observe her more closely. Her simple sweater and knee-length skirt were a suitable choice of clothes for someone who was being employed as a housekeeper, although he had imagined feminine pride might have made her choose something more flattering. Yet the simple garments complemented the curve of her hips and the lush swell of her breasts. He realised he must have touched and kissed those breasts many times, but he couldn’t remember a thing about them—and that was more than a little distracting.
Her cheeks were lit with roses from the cold air outside and a couple of strands of dark hair had fallen down. And for some reason that natural disarray sparked his sexual hunger more than anything else. Had she been an abandoned lover? he wondered, though on some subliminal level he knew the answer to be yes. As she met his gaze her eyes darkened and her lips parted, as if she was silently acknowledging the almost tangible desire which was pulsing between them. He wondered how she would react if he pulled her against his rapidly hardening body and plundered those soft lips with his kiss.
He let out a ragged sigh. On one level he recognised that this development was a complication neither of them needed, yet wasn’t it gratifying to know his body was still capable of responding like this? That after all the deadness and pain of the past should come lust, hovering like a vibrant interloper on the edges of awareness and making him remember what it was like to be truly alive?
He had told her that he would ask the questions because he had wanted to be the one in control. But wasn’t this sudden surge of desire making him feel even more powerless? With an effort, he diverted his thoughts away from the clamour of his body, forcing himself to behave as if she really were his housekeeper. ‘Dinner at eight?’ he questioned coolly.
‘Funny how you always manage to make a question sound like a command, Giacomo. I’d forgotten that about you.’
‘But presumably you were turned on by a masterful man, or you wouldn’t have agreed to marry me?’ Unapologetically, he shrugged. ‘And surely it’s entirely appropriate, given your current status as my employee.’
He held her gaze again, but this time the darkening in her eyes looked like distress, not desire. And Giacomo found himself turning away as he felt a shaft of pain shooting through him. Not the kind of pain he’d willingly endured as the doctors had knitted together his shattered bones, but another kind. The kind he had avoided since a childhood he remembered all too well, no matter how much he tried to blot it out.
Emotional pain.
How much did she know about him? he wondered bitterly. How much had he told her when he had inexplicably asked her to be his bride? Had he revealed the darkness which had made him into the man he was?
Without speaking another word, he left the room, but as he stepped into the coolness of the corridor his skin felt flushed—as if he had suddenly acquired a fever. He began to run down the stairs, possessed by an urgent need to put distance between them, aware of the pounding sound of his footsteps as they echoed through the large house.
But far louder was the thunder of his heart.
