Confessions of His Christmas Housekeeper by Sharon Kendrick

CHAPTER FOUR

AFTER GIACOMOHADGONE, Louise sat down heavily on the narrow bed. Her legs were so wobbly they could barely support her and she felt weird. Well, who wouldn’t? Not just because suddenly she found herself occupying a small corner of the house she’d once been mistress of, but because for a moment back then she had thought that her estranged husband was going to kiss her.

And hadn’t she wanted that? For a few insane seconds, hadn’t she prayed like mad for Giacomo to act on the hunger which had blazed in his eyes like a dark, burning flame and for him to take her in his arms? To crush her against a body which was taut and tight with sexual tension, just as her own had been. She’d even fantasised about him pushing her down on this narrow bed and peeling off her clothes with the impatient dexterity she remembered so well. Wouldn’t it help ease the terrible aching deep inside her, if he filled her with his hardness once more and thrust into her until she was shuddering out his name?

But that would be dangerous on so many levels—and not just emotionally. Sex...frightened her, or, rather, the possible repercussions of sex did. She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it, or what it could do to her. She could never bear to live through that kind of experience again.

Drawing in a shaky breath, she unzipped her boots, before putting them neatly into the bottom of the small wardrobe. No, on balance it was a good thing Giacomo had left the room so abruptly with that remote, hard expression on his face. It had prevented the possibility of anything happening. But that didn’t stop her having to blink back the stupid tears which were suddenly so close to the surface, though maybe that wasn’t so surprising in view of what she had learnt.

Because Giacomo hadn’t remembered her, or the wedding—and obviously he didn’t have a clue about her unplanned pregnancy. How could she possibly tell him about the miscarriage she had endured all alone, while he was on the other side of the world, not even caring enough to pick up the phone to speak to her? What words could she use to tell him, which wouldn’t sound like blame, or bitterness? And how could she go through that terrible pain herself, all over again?

You don’t have to tell him about that, she reminded herself fiercely. He had told her very clearly what he did and didn’t want. He was the one who was driving this agenda and asking the questions, and therefore he was the one setting the boundaries. He told her that he wanted to discover his past organically—so she should take him at his word and protect herself in the process.

But the thought sat uncomfortably with her as she washed and changed into her Posh Catering uniform, twisted her hair into an updo, then went downstairs to explore the possibilities of what she could make for dinner.

At least some things didn’t change. The kitchen was exactly as she remembered it—a perfect central-casting creation of old-meets-new, all constructed in the best possible taste, as befitted its billionaire owner. There was a vast dresser filled with exquisite Italian pottery, a weathered old table and two very old-fashioned sinks, reclaimed from a rural farmhouse. At one end was a large leather sofa on which were scattered soft cushions embroidered with strawberries and fronds of leaves, which added an element of comfort to this most functional of rooms. Every appliance was top of the range, designed to blend in as much as possible with a house which had been built when the idea of hot and cold running water would have sounded like sorcery.

And fortunately, Louise knew how everything worked. She had insisted on no staff being present when her Italian groom had carried her over the threshold, with flakes of snow melting in his hair—even though technically they hadn’t been on their honeymoon. She had explained with a certain fervour that she wanted to cook for him, like a ‘real’ wife, and that had made him laugh indulgently. Even now she could recall the glow of pleasure and triumph which had rippled through her as he had agreed to her unexpected request. She’d thought back then that she could be an influence within their marriage. That she could make his glittering world seem more normal—an illusion quickly destroyed once they’d settled into married life. Because she had quickly learned that Giacomo was the one who made all the decisions.

But hadn’t she contributed to that dynamic? So dazed and blown away by the fact that someone like him had actually made her his wife, she had allowed herself to be swamped by the sheer force of his powerful personality. Sometimes it had felt like standing on the end of a pier in the face of a wind blowing in from the sea, which had threatened to flatten her.

She hunted through the fridges and store cupboards to find them as well stocked as Giacomo had told her they would be, knowing she could have created a feast, if not fit for a king, then certainly one which would be well received in any top-class restaurant. But she wasn’t going to do that. She wanted to give the man she had married something she’d observed rich men rarely got. Something simple, which might remind him of the past he so desperately wanted to claw back.

She would make him fresh pasta.

She found a clean apron, tipped flour onto a board and then added the eggs one by one, mixing first with a fork and then with her fingers. She hadn’t done this in a long time. Deliberately? Probably. It had been something she’d insisted on learning once she’d known that she was going to marry an Italian. She’d wanted to be his perfect wife but now she wondered if there was any such thing.

The movement of her fingers was rhythmic. It felt soothing and vaguely comforting—as if she were one of a long line connected to the different generations of women who had made this dish in his homeland.

She concocted a simple tomato sauce, made an accompanying fennel salad, grated some parmesan into a small dish and, shortly before eight, went into the smaller of the mansion’s two dining rooms and lit the candles.

She could hear the howl of the wind outside and wandered over to one of the mullioned windows which overlooked the extensive parkland. It was so stark and wintry out there—the leafless trees only just visible, like silent sentries which loomed on the horizon. The sky appeared more swollen than it had done earlier but there was still no sign of snow. Please don’t let it snow, she prayed, knowing that a white Christmas would be just one layer of poignancy too many. She thought how cold it must be out there and what a long way she was from anything or anyone. Just her and the man she had married, alone in this vast mansion.

But at least in here it was warm. Someone—presumably Giacomo—had lit the fire so that the spluttering logs splashed golden and crimson light over the oil paintings which adorned the walls. She laid the table, enjoying the gleam of crystal and antique silver on the polished table—giving the room a sense of history and of continuity which contrasted so sharply with her own rather wobbly emotional state.

‘Louise?’

She must have been too deep in her thoughts to hear him, because the soft use of her name startled Louise out of her introspection and the knife she was holding clattered out of her hand onto the table as she turned to see Giacomo entering the room. Her body tightened with instinctive pleasure and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it.

He wore a linen shirt the colour of cappuccino, which was open at the neck, revealing a tantalising glimpse of silken olive flesh. The faded jeans had been replaced by a pair of exquisitely cut dark trousers, which hugged his narrow hips and emphasised the powerful shafts of his muscular legs. Even from this distance she could detect his soap—not aftershave. He never wore aftershave. And her throat dried with hunger, for his hair was still damp from the shower and that made her think about things she most definitely shouldn’t be thinking about. Like the two of them standing in a steaming cubicle with a stream of water gushing over her breasts. The slick of his fingers between her legs, while she gasped out his name against his wet shoulder.

‘You’ve changed,’ she said, realising too late that the remark was way too informal for a housekeeper to make.

‘So have you,’ he commented softly, his gaze taking in her black trousers and fitted pink Posh Catering shirt, with the elaborate PC logo embroidered above one breast. ‘Though you seem to have taken the concept of dressing for dinner rather less literally.’

‘I’m serving it, Giacomo—not eating it.’

‘Of course you’re eating it. You will be joining me.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong.’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t.’

‘Why not?’ he questioned as he sat down at one end of the table.

The candlelight danced shadows over his face, the flickering flames highlighting the jagged scar and drawing her attention to the fact that his once-perfect face was now flawed. Yet the crazy thing was that Louise thought she’d never seen him looking more sexy, or more vital. Was that because he had survived, or because his buccaneer presence was making her ache for the physical intimacy she’d been without for so long?

With an effort she dragged her mind back to his question, though it was proving very difficult to concentrate. ‘Because you’ve employed me as your housekeeper, not your dinner guest,’ she gritted out, feeling her nipples pushing against her uniform shirt and hoping he hadn’t noticed. ‘And believe it or not, I don’t usually eat with my clients when I’m working for them.’

‘But you are here for other reasons than simply working for me. I employed you for a specific purpose and there are questions I need to ask,’ he reminded her coolly. ‘How is that supposed to work? Am I supposed to grab moments to quiz you between courses, while you make do with a hurried sandwich in the kitchen?’

‘I’m afraid there are only two courses,’ she returned sweetly. ‘So don’t get your hopes up.’

‘Then why don’t you lay another place for yourself, before bringing in the first one?’ he suggested.

‘It’s that old question-as-command again,’ she observed. ‘Do I have a choice, Giacomo?’

‘You know something, Louise?’ he countered. ‘I don’t believe you do.’

Giacomo watched as she frowned before turning away—her irritation replacing the hunger which had been darkening her eyes just moments before and presumably the reason why her nipples had started tightening so alluringly beneath her shirt. And hadn’t her very obvious desire been reciprocated in him, a hundred times over? He had stared at her—this unknown woman with the blue eyes and dark hair—and his groin had grown exquisitely hard.

Had he ever ached as much as this before? he wondered distractedly. Because he was quickly realising that rediscovered lust had a potency all of its own. What else could explain the inexplicable hunger he felt towards Louise? He had started to fantasise about what he might like to do to her and she to him, and his fantasies had been unbearably erotic and vivid. He wondered what kind of panties she was wearing and what sound she made when she came, even though on one level he knew that all this information was buried deep in his mind.

Should he have felt guilty about entertaining such lustful thoughts? Probably. Yet as she left the room he felt curiously devoid of any such sentiment. Surely it was no sin to desire your own wife, even if you couldn’t actually recall marrying her.

He watched firelight dancing golden patterns over the ancient walls, although for once he felt no desire to pull out his phone to check the state of the international money markets. Had his near-death experience taught him that it was unnecessary to discover how many thousands of dollars he had accrued overnight? It must have done, for suddenly no thought preoccupied him as much as contemplating the shapely body of his housekeeper.

She returned a few moments later, busying herself with unloading dishes from the tray she carried, her movements swift and efficient, as if she couldn’t wait to get the meal eaten and the evening over and done with. That, too, was a little unflattering, but all it did was heat the growing fever in his blood.

‘Would you like wine as well as water?’ she questioned.

He shook his head. His doctor had advised him to avoid alcohol, fearing it might impact the possible return of his memory. But that hadn’t been a big ask. Never much of a drinker anyway, Giacomo hadn’t been able to face the thought of losing any more control than he already had. He gestured towards the tumbler in front of him. ‘Just water,’ he growled.

She laid a place for herself and filled their glasses before sitting down and pushing the food towards him, and Giacomo stilled as a scent of something evocative transported him from this ancient English dining room to the Italian city where he had made his first fortune. It provided the one thing which his massive wealth had all but obliterated—simplicity—and it was the most perfect meal imaginable. He ate with enjoyment before looking up and noticing she wasn’t eating herself, but was watching him closely. Her blue eyes were narrowed, making the naturally thick black fringe of her lashes appear even more dramatic, and once again he realised she wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up.

And something stirred at the edges of his mind. A drift of memory as elusive as a feather on the breeze. He tried to reach out and capture it but the more he concentrated, the more it evaded him and in the end he gave up. Instead, he put his fork down and looked at her.

‘This is good,’ he said. ‘Where did you learn to make pasta like this?’

‘You can tell it’s home-made?’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m Italian, Louise. Of course I can tell.’

‘I’m self-taught,’ she explained. ‘Everything I’ve learned has been from books and online tutorials.’ She took a sip of water. ‘You probably don’t need to know all the detail—’

‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ he questioned coolly. ‘How did you get started?’

‘Do you ask all your housekeepers that question?’

‘Please don’t test my patience,’ he instructed silkily.

‘It’s probably not the most exciting CV in the world.’ She shrugged her shoulders a little awkwardly. ‘From the age of sixteen I worked in restaurants and hotels and then a couple of years later, I was offered a job cooking and waitressing for Posh Catering. And that’s where I’ve been ever since—except when I was married to you, of course.’ She met the question in his eyes. ‘You didn’t want me to work and you didn’t want me cooking. You said you had staff to do that.’

He winced as he registered the subtle barb. ‘That sounds unspeakably arrogant of me.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘And you say that’s how we met?’

She nodded. ‘I was hardly going to run across you at a film premiere, was I?’ she said drily.

‘Do you want to tell me about our first meeting?’

A look of something uncomfortable passed over her face. ‘Is that really necessary?’

‘I think so. You agreed to answer any questions I might ask you,’ he said, his cool tone disguising the fact that he hated the inequality of knowing she held information about him. About them. Information he was not privy to. It gave her a certain power and that did not sit comfortably with a man to whom personal power was the most precious thing on earth. ‘How else am I supposed to remember?’

There was silence for a moment or two. ‘I was waitressing in a private dining room in central London.’

‘When would this have been?’

‘The end of August, year before last. I was serving caviar to you and several other high-powered businessmen and terrified you’d notice the little stain which I’d spilled on my uniform shirt and not quite managed to remove.’ She gave a slightly nervous laugh. ‘Funny how it’s always the inconsequential details you can remember, isn’t it?’

‘What else?’ he probed, ignoring her obvious attempt to change the subject. ‘How did it begin?’

‘You looked at me.’

‘I looked at you,’ he repeated slowly, raising his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘And?’

‘And I looked at you.’

To his astonishment, he found a smile nudging the edges of his lips. ‘This all sounds very promising, Louise—but at some point you really do need to give me more detail than that.’

Louise dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands as she registered his sardonic tone. Would it sound credible to explain that something powerful and irresistible had sizzled between such an unlikely couple as them? It had been unbelievable, really—hence her reluctance to recount it. She had never experienced anything like it. Not before and certainly not since. Looking at him now it was difficult to believe that this gorgeous man had been so enthralled by her, or that he’d spent so many nights in her miniature apartment, which was only slightly bigger than one of the bathrooms in his Milanese apartment. Sometimes she’d thought he seemed more relaxed in that humble environment of hers than in whichever vast London hotel suite he happened to be staying in, and where he sometimes took her. Though when she’d found out about his childhood years in the orphanage, his attitude sort of made sense.

‘We couldn’t seem to stop looking at each other,’ she continued. ‘Even though I was obviously trying not to stare because I was supposed to be working. One of your companions even remarked on your wavering attention and you said that it was an insult to a beautiful woman not to look at her.’ Nobody had ever called her beautiful before. Had that careless flattery made her over-susceptible to his charm? ‘When I finished, you were sitting outside waiting for me in a chauffeur-driven car. You offered me a lift home—’

‘Which presumably you accepted.’ He sat back in the chair. ‘Did we have sex that night?’

She blushed, then hated herself for blushing. Why should she feel ashamed about what had felt almost preordained—and so inevitable that she honestly hadn’t been able to contemplate the thought of turning him down? She wished he hadn’t said it so baldly. He’d made it sound almost biological. But he was just speaking the truth, wasn’t he? And it probably had been like that. For him, anyway. Men took what they could, didn’t they? That was what her aunt had always taught her. ‘Yes,’ she said reluctantly. ‘We did.’

‘And was that usual?’

‘What do you mean, was it usual?’

‘I think you know what I mean, Louise.’ His dark brows were raised in arrogant query. ‘Did you make a habit of accepting lifts home from your clients?’

Louise slammed her glass down so hard that water slopped over the side, but she didn’t care about possible damage to the antique table because his implication was deeply insulting. But at least it reminded her of how haughty and arrogant and proud he could be.

‘Of course, I’d forgotten that in the mind of someone like you—who would have been happier living in the Stone Age—there’s one rule for men and another for women! Were you in the habit of copping off with waitresses whenever you went to a restaurant? If you must know, I had never done anything remotely like that before. It was totally out of character for me to fall straight into bed with a man.’ She nearly confided that he had been the only man she’d ever been intimate with, but why tell him stuff it wasn’t his business to know? Why feed his insufferable ego? Hadn’t she told him too much already?

‘Then...why?’ He looked taken aback. ‘Why me?’

Was this fake modesty? she wondered bitterly. ‘Why do you think, Giacomo? It can’t have been a novel experience for a man like you. You’re a very attractive man, as I’m sure you know. Plus, you’re a great kisser and I got carried away. I couldn’t resist you.’

‘You’re saying I took advantage of you?’ he questioned furiously.

‘No!’She shook her head. ‘That’s not how it was. We were equals. Or at least, that’s how it felt at the time.’

Not afterwards, of course. Afterwards she’d realised just how unequal they really were and not just because she’d been an innocent and he a deliciously experienced lover. He was also one of the richest men in the world. She had quickly learnt that the waitress who had been plucked from obscurity and catapulted into the billionaire’s super-privileged world would be expected to behave in a certain way. Namely, that she was simply supposed to slot into his life and not make any waves. That she was a fairly insignificant little cog in the very complex operation which maintained Giacomo Volterra’s impossibly busy schedule. From being the object of his lust and adoration, she had gone to feeling practically invisible. Why else had he insisted on such a quiet wedding, and then such a low-key life when they’d moved to Milan?

‘Then what? Are you trying to say we fell in love?’ he said, sounding as if he were reading from a script.

The disbelief in his voice said it all. As if he doubted the existence of love. Which he did—he’d told her that, too—and maybe that was understandable. The few times when he’d reluctantly referred to his upbringing had made Louise’s heart want to break for him. He’d certainly never told her he loved her—and, on the few occasions when she’d blurted it out to him, he had winced slightly, as if she had committed some dreadful faux pas.

She stared down at her barely touched food, tempted to tell him about the baby, but something stopped her and that something was her own deep sense of hurt. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it at the time, had he? He had offered no comfort nor brought her any solace. She hadn’t been able to reach him on the phone and by the time she had done it had been too late and she had already left the hospital. She’d been recuperating at his Milanese apartment—she’d never thought of it as hers—when he’d arrived back from New York in time for dinner and had surveyed her across the space of their dining-room table. A space which had suddenly felt as big as an airfield.

And she remembered exactly what he had said to her.

She pushed her plate away, her throat thick with dread and hurt and pain, but she forced herself to cling on to the positive—even though it was only the most fragile of threads. Because there had definitely been something else between them, especially at first. And Giacomo must have made her his wife for other reasons than an unplanned pregnancy, or because he’d never had a father of his own. Powerful billionaires must often find themselves in the position of becoming unexpected fathers, but these days they didn’t necessarily have to commit themselves to marriage. She had told herself this many times before in the past—though, with the best will in the world, she didn’t really believe it.

‘There was definitely a spark between us. You said I made you laugh, which was rare,’ she said. ‘Though you told me a few days later that it was never intended to be anything more than one night—’

‘Did I?’ His stony black eyes narrowed. ‘That was fairly brutal.’

‘Oh, that was nothing!’

He’d also confided that the sex had been surprisingly good, despite her innocence. And had explained—quite kindly, she’d thought at the time, though in retrospect it had definitely been patronising—that he wasn’t looking for commitment.

‘You said you never gave a woman false hope and that you definitely weren’t husband material.’ She shrugged awkwardly. ‘But you kept coming back.’

‘For more?’

She flushed at his candour. ‘I suppose so. You said I was a hunger you couldn’t seem to satisfy. And then one day you said: “Maybe marriage will be good for me.”’ Her laugh sounded high. Forced. ‘It sounded like an experience you had yet to tick off the list. You said you liked talking to me—so perhaps deep down you wanted me to play some sort of therapy role. But the trouble with that is that you’re supposed to talk about deep stuff with your therapist, which you never did.’

‘No,’ he said, his voice flat, as if this didn’t surprise him.

‘Anyway...’ She stood up, aware that if she wasn’t careful he might notice the faint tremble of her fingers. ‘I think that’s enough for one night, don’t you? There are things I need to do in the kitchen.’

‘Louise, please sit down.’

Did he think she could just confide in him and lay out everything from their painful past and not be affected by it? That she would jump to attention whenever he snapped his fingers? ‘No,’ she said vehemently. ‘I don’t want to sit down. You can’t turn me on and off like a tap, Giacomo. Yes, I’ve agreed to help you, but I think we might need to ration these sessions. You might not be fazed by talking about this stuff but I’m finding it, well...difficult.’

She didn’t wait for an answer, just grabbed the congealing dish of pasta and hurried towards the welcoming warmth of the kitchen where she viciously scraped the leftovers into the bin. She blinked the sting of tears from her eyes as she stood at the sink, seeking comfort from plunging her hands into the hot, soapy water, but comfort seemed in short supply.

And then she sensed rather than felt him behind her and felt her body stiffen. She hadn’t heard him enter the kitchen and she didn’t want him there.

Yes, you do. You know you do.

‘Louise.’

She didn’t want him to sound gentle like that either, because that was a total misrepresentation. He’d rarely been gentle towards her before. She didn’t need to be reminded of all the different ways he could make her feel. Helpless. Strong. Amazing. She closed her eyes and prayed that all traces of her tears had disappeared. ‘Go away,’ she whispered.

‘Is that what you want?’ he questioned.

She could have said yes. She definitely should have said yes, but his voice was like velvet whispering over gravel and suddenly all Louise could think about was how it felt to have him kiss her. To remember the way his lips had the power to wipe everything from her mind and leave in its place nothing but a blinding and incandescent pleasure. She wanted that now, but it would be wrong. She couldn’t justify it with the newness and wonder she’d felt when she first met him, or the sense of being hit by a gigantic thunderbolt which robbed you of all choice and reason. She couldn’t pretend that this would be anything other than a potentially dangerous sexual hunger, which would chew her up from the inside and then spit her out.

She huffed out a sigh. They had agreed to be truthful so how could she possibly tell him a lie—especially when desire must have been written all over her face? So get rid of it. Compose yourself. Think of what’s important.

And having Giacomo kiss you doesn’t even feature on that list.

‘You shouldn’t ask me what I want,’ she said, in a low voice, turning round so her back was against the sink. ‘It puts me at a disadvantage.’

‘Not just you,’ he said, inexplicably. He shook his head. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite so disadvantaged in my life. I’m trying to understand, Louise.’

‘Understand what, exactly?’ she breathed.

It was a challenge which Giacomo instinctively knew he would have quashed quite ruthlessly in the past. But somehow he recognised that he couldn’t move forward until he had looked back. And even though Louise was at times unable to disguise the attraction she still felt for him, she sounded angry, too. Almost bitter. It was true that some of the things she’d told him tonight had made him sound like an unreasonable, even prejudiced man—but he had never had any complaints from the opposite sex before. Quite the contrary. He’d practically had to fight them off.

And then he had met Louise and married her. He frowned. What had been so special about her?

He reached out and put his hand on her arm, which was still damp, and he could feel her tense. It was probably the most innocent touch of his adult life, yet he could feel a powerful wave of something indefinable flowing between them. ‘Everything,’ he said simply. ‘I want to understand everything.’

Louise couldn’t move. She was frozen to the spot, as vulnerable as the first time he’d touched her, though now it was nothing more than his fingers pressing lightly against her skin.

But none of that old chemistry had gone. It combusted the moment his flesh made contact with hers, despite the outward innocence of what he was doing. It felt like reassurance. Like comfort. Like all the things he’d never offered to her before—and, unsurprisingly, they were very potent. It made her want to take it further. To slide into his arms and stay there. Desire was wrapping itself around her, luring her irresistibly towards him with its subtle, silken snare and she could feel something shift and change in the atmosphere between them.

She could imagine what might happen if she gave in to it. He would pull her into his arms and kiss her, and that kiss would quickly get out of hand, the way it always did. He would unbutton her uniform shirt and incite her throbbing nipple through the constricting lace of a bra which suddenly felt too small for her. He might even push her against the weathered old table with a hungry growl, and sweep away all the debris from the meal before letting it smash to the floor. And then what? Would he lay her down on its hard surface and have sex with her, without further preliminary—with her eagerly urging him on? It wouldn’t be the first time it had happened.

At what precise moment did she realise that she was in danger of acting out her rampant thoughts? Was it as she shifted her weight to take an almost automatic step forward? And that was when her breath froze in her throat and her heart slammed hard against her ribcage. What was she doing? Had she lost her mind—or was she just programmed to react this way whenever this powerfully attractive man touched her? She had behaved impulsively the first time she’d met him and she was not going to repeat that behaviour. She was not going to be intimate with him.

Not now.

Not ever.

Not unless she wanted her emotions to become even more shredded.

Quickly, she moved to the other side of the kitchen and once she was safely away from the tantalising distraction of his proximity, she was able to conjure up a cool smile from somewhere. ‘Well, good luck with that,’ she said blandly, as if that wordless sensual interchange had never happened. ‘Understanding everything is a big ask, but I’m sure that if anyone can do it, it’s you, Giacomo.’

‘Your faith in me is touching, Louise.’

Their gazes clashed.

‘Would you...would you like coffee?’ she questioned awkwardly, as reality readjusted itself and she regarded him through the eyes of a housekeeper, rather than those of a hurt and aching spouse.

‘Please.’ His eyes glittered. ‘Perhaps you’d care to bring it to my office?’