Confessions of His Christmas Housekeeper by Sharon Kendrick

CHAPTER SIX

THELASTOFthe daylight had leeched from the sky and the clouds looked swollen as Giacomo made his way up the drive towards the house, through the pale swirl of snow which had just started to come down and was getting heavier by the second. In the distance he could see lights in the windows and spirals of smoke swirling from several of the ancient chimneys and his footsteps slowed as something unknown stabbed at his heart. Was his imagination playing tricks with him? Because from here it looked like a real house, not just a fancy shell or some plush illustration from an interiors magazine—which was how most of his homes had been described.

But none of them had ever felt like home.

His body tensed.

Except maybe once. He felt the flicker of something vaguely comforting. Had it been here, with Louise? He scowled as that elusive tug of memory taunted him yet again. Or was he just recalling some drug-induced hallucination after the accident when they’d pumped him full of morphine? He had despised that feeling. Had insisted on radically reducing his analgesia, to the astonishment of his medical team. But he had preferred the bite of pain to the sense of being out of control, because control was his old friend. It had driven him and protected him all his life.

And he wanted that feeling back again.

He reached the house and unlocked the front door and as he stepped into the panelled hallway and began to unbutton his overcoat, his senses were overloaded by the unfamiliar. It was warm in here—deliciously warm—and on some level he could detect the subtle fragrance of currants and spice scenting the air. Through the open door of the sitting room he could see the flickering glow and hear the crackle of the fire.

Suddenly Louise appeared at the doorway, looking a little flustered. She was still wearing that infernal uniform but behind the low bib of her flour-covered apron, she had undone a couple of shirt buttons—inexorably drawing his attention to the fecund swell of her breasts.

‘I didn’t hear the taxi,’ she said.

‘That’s because I walked from the station.’

She was staring at his head, where he could feel the melt of snow, cold against his hair.

‘It’s bitter out there,’ she said. ‘You could have asked me to come and collect you.’

‘I’m not sure I’d be able to fit my legs into that ridiculously small car of yours,’ he drawled.

She smiled at this. Madonna mia, but it was a beautiful smile. How could he have forgotten that?

‘And how did you get on? At the doctor’s.’

From anyone else this would have been an impertinent query, but Giacomo was coming to realise that some of his old prejudices might impede his progress if he wasn’t careful. He couldn’t keep everything locked away if he wanted to liberate his mind—and surely if there was one person he could confide in, it was the woman he’d married.

‘There was no silver bullet,’ he admitted gruffly. ‘The doctor put me through a series of fairly gruelling tests.’

‘Don’t tell me—you passed them all with flying colours?’

He acknowledged the mockery in her tone with the brief inclination of his head. ‘The physical ones, yes. Of course.’ But he remembered the latter part of the consultation, when he had demanded to know when he was going to get the missing year back.

‘Still no progress there?’ the medic had questioned, glancing up from his notes.

Giacomo had been about to say no when suddenly, in that Harley Street clinic, he had recalled the shimmer of Louise’s eyes last night, and another image had pushed its way into the forefront of his mind. Of his wife getting up from the table of their Milanese apartment, with tears streaming down her face. It had been an unexpectedly real and disturbing recall. It had shaken him then and it was doing the same thing now.

And suddenly, it was as though a veil had been lifted from his vision and Giacomo narrowed his eyes. It was like one of those sped-up films of an artist drawing a face. Spare pencil strokes building into shadowed features. A curved line becoming a soft mouth he recognised all too well because he had kissed it before—many times. A tumble of dark, glossy hair which had once trickled like silk between his fingers.

‘What is it?’ she whispered. ‘Why are you looking at me that way?’

For a moment he hesitated, instinctively knowing that in the past he might have kept this nugget of information to himself, because knowledge was power and power was what drove him. But he found himself wanting to tell her because it felt like a small, sweet victory.

‘I’ve remembered,’ he said slowly.

‘How...how much?’

‘Your face.’

There was a pause. ‘And that’s it?’

‘Unfortunately, sì.’

He didn’t think it would be appropriate if he added that he hoped some vivid recall of her body would soon follow.

Was that disappointment which crumpled her features? He didn’t know but he was damned if he was going to discuss it now when he was standing in the hallway, all damp and covered in melting snow. His sudden recollection had left him feeling strangely exposed and that was something which didn’t sit easily with him.

‘I’m going upstairs to take a shower,’ he growled.

‘Of course.’ She smoothed down her apron, as if silently acknowledging the resumption of their roles as employer and employee. ‘Dinner at eight,’ she responded formally.

Louise quickly turned away, not wanting to watch as Giacomo mounted the sweeping staircase. Things were changing and that was unsettling. She couldn’t deny that she had watched the slow dawning of recognition which had briefly transformed his cold features. She had known that some fragment of recall had occurred, even before he’d told her that he remembered her face, and she’d felt a stupid glimmer of hope. But what had she been expecting? That in a sudden light-bulb moment he would declare she had been the woman of his dreams? She sighed. She had only ever been a body to him. Someone he liked to have sex with, who he had inadvertently made pregnant along the way.

But he had hurt her. He had hurt her badly.

And she would never let a man get close enough to hurt her like that again.

She went into the kitchen to check on the food and then into the dining room, where everything was prepared and waiting, unable to shake off a clawing feeling of anxiety. She looked around the beautiful room—deeply satisfied with the results of her handiwork, even while doubts were beginning to creep over her. Would Giacomo be angry at what she had done? How would the self-confessed ‘no fan of Christmas’ respond to being confronted by something which looked as if it had fallen straight from the pages of a seasonal fairy tale?

Standing in the window, reflected against a backdrop of falling snow, the giant tree looked magnificent—the giant silver star which glimmered at its tip almost touching the high ceiling. From the branches hung a profusion of delicate baubles which shone and danced and glittered. There were shimmering globes studded with tiny red stars and filigree silver bells which actually rang. Tartan ribbons adorned the scented boughs, and lights like miniature candles were looped around the fragrant branches. There was even a miniature fluffy snowman with a carrot for a nose and a little Santa Claus with a bulging sack full of presents. She’d bought those two because she’d imagined a future when the chubby little hand of their son or daughter might help decorate the tree. How far away that dreamed-of future seemed now.

Louise’s throat tightened. The only thing she hadn’t included had been the exquisitely made nativity scene which she’d left unopened in its box, but now she wondered if she was being an emotional coward by refusing to include it. Did she really have the right to censor the past, just because she was terrified of the effect it might have on her? Mightn’t the sight of the little baby in a crib stir Giacomo’s sleeping memory?

She went upstairs and quietly made her way towards the guest bedroom, intending to retrieve it. But just as she was reaching the end of the corridor, with its ancient and slightly creaking floorboards, she heard the sound of a door opening followed by that richly accented voice.

‘Louise?’

It still sounded strange to have him call her that and yet it didn’t stop her skin from shivering with a sense of loss and longing. Louise turned around, her reluctance to face him intensifying when she saw what he was wearing.

Her breath dried in her throat.

Very little.

In fact, he was nearly naked—with just a small white towel slung low over his narrow hips to shield his manhood. He was clearly not long out of the shower, his olive skin gleaming like oiled silk, and the microscopic droplets of water which glittered in his hair made it look as if someone had sprinkled a handful of diamonds over his dark head.

And Louise was instantly transfixed by his semi-naked appearance. She couldn’t help herself. It was one thing knowing what you should do in circumstances like these—which was to hurry away—but quite another to put it into action when you were confronted by the reality.

Because the reality was that she was blown away by the sight of his magnificent body, with its underlying pulse of power. Her gaze roved over the long, muscular limbs. The toned torso. The honed abdomen and distracting line of dark hair which disappeared enticingly beneath the edge of the snowy towel. She seemed to have lost the ability to breathe or move. Her thoughts were scrambled as past and present fused into an erotic and confusing mixture and she felt her breasts prickle into delicious life as he subjected her to that lazy gaze which always used to turn her on so much.

‘So what’s this all about, Louise?’ he taunted softly. ‘I thought your preference was to avoid the guest rooms.’

‘I was looking for something.’

‘What?’ He slanted her a mocking look. ‘Me?’

In a way she was grateful for his arrogance. It shocked her out of her erotic reverie and brought her crashing back down to earth. So stop fantasising and get real, she told herself fiercely, suddenly reminded of a useful distraction and a question she needed to ask him. She looked at him steadily. ‘Why did you keep my clothes?’

‘What are you talking about?’ He frowned. ‘What clothes?’

‘The stuff I used to wear when we were...married. They’re still here. In one of the rooms along the corridor.’

His scarred face was emotionless—with only the faint working of a nerve at his temple giving any indication that her disclosure might have ruffled him. ‘How should I know? I haven’t been here in two years,’ he said coolly. ‘I really don’t think the staff would take it upon themselves to start removing your stuff just because we’re no longer a couple, do you? Feel free to take any of it.’

Now why did that hurt so much? Why did his thoughtless comment make her want to rush up and strike him, or push him, or...or...?

‘Sì, I know,’ he said, very softly, a ragged kind of sigh leaving his lips as he nodded his damp head.

She blinked. ‘What do you know?’

He shrugged. ‘That the chemistry between us is off the scale.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘And maybe if we gave into it, it might help me to remember.’

Once again, his thoughtlessness meant she was able to match his careless tone. ‘In your dreams, Giacomo.’

His smile was dangerous. Wolfish. How could she have forgotten the deliciously predatory nature of that smile?

‘Funny you should say that,’ he murmured. ‘You had a starring role in them last night.’

And then, very deliberately, he turned his back on her and walked back towards the master bedroom and Louise very nearly gasped. Because now she could see that his back was scarred, too—only much more than his face. Ridged red lines criss-crossed over the oiled olive flesh, indicating just how badly he had been injured. Had he deliberately wanted her to see them?

And, oh, she had to stop herself from running towards him—but now she no longer wanted to strike him, or push him. She wanted to kiss every centimetre of that damaged skin and trace it with her fingertips and her tongue, reacquainting herself with this new version of her husband.

Who was not really her husband at all.

‘What’s going on?’

Giacomo’s voice was quiet and tight, and he saw Louise’s anxious look in response to his terse question.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ she questioned lightly. ‘It’s Christmas!’

A pulse pounded at his temple as he looked around the candlelit dining room, which was barely recognisable as the same place where he’d eaten dinner last night. Fairy lights twinkled and shimmered and hung from every available surface, so that the squashy velvet sofa looked as if a galaxy of stars had tumbled from the sky and surrounded it. Sprigs of holly festooned the top of every oil painting and some was massed in a giant centrepiece on the table, where yet more tall red candles flickered. Against the mullioned windows stood an absolute monster of a tree, hung with a profusion of decorations which even he would be forced to concede were unlikely to have originated from the local village shop. He felt the stir of something complicated and perplexing, but it felt too close to emotion for comfort and so he allowed the naturally logical side of his brain to swamp it.

‘Where did all this come from?’ he demanded.

‘We...’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Well, I bought all these decorations in London for our first Christmas here, not long after we were married. I was keen to do a traditional celebration and you were happy enough to let me. Actually, you gave me free rein. Told me to order whatever it was I wanted, so I did. I went looking for them on the off chance they might still be here, and they were. They’ve only been used once before and it seemed a pity to let them go to waste.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you...do you mind?’

His gaze switched from the decorations to her face and the way she was chewing her lip with obvious anxiety. He wanted to tell her that the room felt claustrophobic with all these unnecessary lights and baubles and glitter. That it was disconcerting to be reminded of a different Giacomo—a man who had tolerated Christmas and had obviously been feeling indulgent, possibly even tender towards his young bride. It was a difficult image to reconcile with the cold person he knew himself to be today but he bit back his automatic response, which was to tell her to get rid of them. It wasn’t going to help his case if he snapped at her, or told her that this sort of over-the-top festive display had not been on his agenda. She was obviously seeking his approval, so perhaps he should give it—and barter for a little something in return.

‘Let’s just say I might be prepared to live with it if you were to enter into the spirit of the occasion yourself,’ he said slowly.

She frowned. ‘I’m not quite with you.’

‘You talked about the clothes you found earlier?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why don’t you go and put on one of the dresses? It will certainly flatter you more than that—’ he lifted the palms of his hands ‘—that orribile uniform. Wear one, Louise. For me. For old times’ sake.’ He paused. ‘Can you think of a good reason why not?’

Her eyes narrowed in response to this, those thick black lashes fringing the extraordinary blue, and for a moment he observed the wariness which flickered in their depths and wondered what had put it there. What had happened between them?

‘I guess not,’ she said slowly.

He waited while she went upstairs to change, walking across the room to stare out of the window. The snow was coming down fast now and inevitably it made him think of the off-piste slope where he’d had his accident. It should have been an effortless ski run for a man of his sporting capability. But something had been playing on his mind that day. Something which had caused a split-second lapse of vital concentration. The tree had loomed up ahead seemingly without warning and then there had been nothing but the sickening smash of his body and stars exploding in his brain before everything went black.

He was relieved to have his thoughts diverted by Louise’s reappearance, though wholly unprepared for her Cinderella-like transformation. The breath dried in his throat and he felt the urgent stab of desire at his groin. Her delicious curves were poured into a fitted dress of scarlet velvet, worn with a thin black belt which defined her narrow waist, making her look like an old-fashioned pin-up. A very sexy Mrs Santa. He felt a sudden urgent stab of lust. She was much taller in high black heels which showcased her shapely legs, and she had left her hair loose, so that it spilled like dark molasses over her narrow shoulders.

‘Is this what you had in mind?’ she questioned, in a strange voice.

Something flared in his mind. Something was missing.

‘Wait here,’ he said abruptly, ignoring her startled look—as if this wasn’t the reaction she had been expecting.

He hurried to the safe which was kept in his office and opened it, half wondering if his scrambled thoughts were playing tricks on him. But when he returned to the dining room, he found her standing exactly where he’d left her, her face pale and tense—as if she were regretting having fallen in with his wishes. He handed her the box and she took it blankly.

‘What’s this?’

‘Open it.’

Louise’s ears were roaring as she flipped open the box to see a necklace lying on a bed of indigo velvet. The most beautiful necklace she had ever seen and one she recognised instantly. A fine chain holding a delicate star pendant, studded with yellow diamonds, which sparkled like the Star of Bethlehem. It shouldn’t have been a shock and yet it was a shock. It made some nameless feeling coil like a snake at the base of her stomach as she looked at him, not speaking—not daring to speak—her expression seeking explanation.

‘You wore it with that dress once before,’ he said slowly, taking the box away from her and putting it down on a nearby table. ‘I bought it for you. For Christmas.’

‘Yes. Yes, you did.’ Suddenly she felt shaky, as if recognising that the return of his memory was probably going to be as poignant for her as it was for him. ‘You said it would be a crime not to wear it with this dress and so you gave me the present early. Two...two years ago tonight.’

He nodded, a strange new note in his voice. ‘Put it on.’

‘Giacomo—’

‘Put it on. Please. I want to see it. You will be joining me for dinner tonight, won’t you, Louise?’ His sensual lips curved into the mocking smile which had always blindsided her. ‘And surely diamonds are preferable to the entwined initials of your damned catering company staring at me from the other side of the table.’

It was an order Louise knew she shouldn’t refuse, no matter how much she questioned the wisdom of wearing his jewels again, but her hands were trembling too much to be able to deal efficiently with the catch and in the end Giacomo took over. It wasn’t a lengthy operation but it felt like a blissful for ever as his fingers lifted the heavy pile of hair and he brushed his fingertips over the shiver of her skin. Tension fizzed in the air as the silence between them grew more intense. Every pore of her ached for him as he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her round, so that her image was reflected back at her in the mirror, as was his.

From here she could hardly recognise herself. The red dress. The diamond necklace. The loose cascade of hair. And Giacomo standing behind her, tall and dark and indomitable, his hands still on her shoulders—a gesture which seemed like a parody of possessiveness. She didn’t look like the woman she had been before and yet she didn’t look like the woman she was now, either. So where did that leave her? Confused, yes—but aching, too. Filled with a need for him which went deeper than just sexual desire. He was close enough to touch and she wanted him to kiss her. On some level she needed him to kiss her, even though she knew she’d be fast-tracking her way to yet more hurt if he did.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t even try.

She wondered if that was deliberate and if he was simply playing games and demonstrating his power over her. Was he clever enough to realise that it was human nature to want what you were being denied? That you could start the fiercest fire from the smallest smoulder? She licked her suddenly dry lips. And, oh, she was smouldering now. Her breasts were pushing so hard against the soft red velvet that they felt as if they might explode.

So take back control, she told herself fiercely as she turned away from her candlelit reflection and the touch of his hands. She might have dressed up obediently because he’d demanded it, but that didn’t mean she had to start behaving like his tame puppy. And even though she was wearing velvet and diamonds—she was still nothing but his temporary housekeeper.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I have lots of things I need to do in the kitchen,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Of course,’ he answered. ‘I’ll be working in my office until dinner. Text me when it’s ready.’

His tone was as equable as hers—as if he were oblivious to the dark undercurrents which were flowing between them. But Louise could feel his gaze burning into her as she moved away from him and she only just resisted the urge to run from the room. Because she had run from him once before, and that was the reaction of a coward.