The Italian Millionaire's Virgin Wife. Diana HamiltonЧитать онлайн книгу.
to waste a moment more of his valuable time. He had two options. Contact either one of the two earlier candidates and offer the job or hire this one.
His smoky eyes narrowed further. He took advice from no one, but in this case maybe Trisha did have a point, he reluctantly conceded. Both of the other two women had been lookers, beautifully turned out and groomed, self-assured and confident in themselves. Hire one of them and wait to see how long it would take for her to persuade some poor sucker to slip a plain gold band on her wedding finger.
Then he’d have to go through this whole charade again.
With this one he wouldn’t run nearly the same risk, he decided. A plump no-nonsense—apart from her weird hair—little personage, the only sign of discomfiture showing in her rapidly pinkening unremarkable face.
The job was hers.
‘Experience of running a household?’ he barked out. Better go through some of the motions. Unless some serious flaw was unearthed, he had another housekeeper after two irritating weeks without one. His life would go on as before, letting him concentrate on what was important without having to bother about tiresome domestic matters like finding clean socks and figuring out how to make a decent cup of coffee.
Mercy breathed a short sigh of relief. The way he’d been looking at her, as if she were a previously undiscovered life form, had seriously unnerved her. Clasping her hands together, she answered in a rush. ‘I ran my mother’s household for four years, plus holding down several part-time jobs. And I began studying catering and housecraft at night school, but had to—’ About to explain the circumstances that had led to her abandoning the course, namely her mother’s deteriorating health, she found herself robbed of speech when Signor Pascali slotted in, ‘Boyfriends?’
Her mouth falling open as she swallowed her words, Mercy floundered. What had that to do with her ability to housekeep? ‘No,’ she finally answered when the impatient tightening of his mouth indicated that he’d waited too long for a response he’d expected to receive at the double.
‘Any family commitments?’ Then, as if the question needed elaboration, ‘Any children? Aged relatives with health or drink problems who will expect you to drop everything and deal with regular minor emergencies?’
Mercy stiffened, primming her innocent of make-up full lips. Despite his devastating looks, this man was a bully. Time to stand up for herself; she probably wouldn’t make the short list in any case.
‘Signor Pascali, my father was a man of the cloth. Apart from a sip of Communion wine, alcohol never crossed his lips. My mother was a gentle soul who never once made an unreasonable demand. Sadly, they are both gone. I do have a great-aunt in robust health and, as she lives in Cornwall, I’m hardly likely to rush to her side should she have the misfortune to suffer a head cold—not that she would dream of expecting me to. And, as for children, of course I don’t have any. I am unmarried.’
‘The unmarried state doesn’t necessarily indicate the absence of offspring, in my experience,’ he remarked in what she considered to be deep cynicism, but his sudden grin splintered her prickly mood, rendering him so handsome it made her eyes water. And he had laughing eyes, she noted, quite transfixed as he shot forward in his seat with an excess of energy, briefly consulting the sheet of paper on the desk in front of him, complacently reflecting that as a vicar’s daughter she would probably have old fashioned moral values and be unlikely to do drugs or throw wild parties during his occasional absences.
‘If you accept the position, Howard, you will have your own suite of rooms which you will keep to when off duty. You will manage all domestic matters unobtrusively. I do not wish to be informed or consulted on such trifles. For example, should a water pipe spring a leak you will contact a plumber and get it fixed without bothering me. You will deal with my laundry—I use two shirts a day. I rise at six-thirty and breakfast at eight after my usual run and shower. I rarely spend the evenings at home but when I intend to you will be notified and will prepare a meal for nine o’clock. On the occasions when I entertain, whether à deux or a dinner party for up to twenty you will contact the firm of caterers I always use and make all the necessary arrangements. And if I have an overnight guest then her requirements will be conveyed to you. Any questions?’
Mercy snatched in a ragged breath. Was it possible that he was about to offer her the job? It would be a life-saver! Her mind churning, her eyes widening as she struggled to come up with something both pertinent and sensible to ask him, not a single thing occurred to her except a disapproving need to know if the overnighting female guest was always the big blonde or whether he liked to ring the changes. And, as that would mark her down as being unbearably prissy, she was reduced to shaking her head and giving him a breathy ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Gathering herself and thankfully finding a competent tone from somewhere, she tacked on, ‘It seems quite straightforward.’
Plainly keen, Andreo decided. None of the usual questions about days off or holiday entitlement. His mind made up, he smiled into a pair of startlingly blue eyes. He leaned back, his indolent pose at odds with his driven inner need to be done with the whole business, see a housekeeper installed right now and wash his hands of the horrifying range of chores needed to ensure a smooth-running domestic life that had so unexpectedly loomed up since Knox had so inconveniently retired.
‘Welcome on board, Howard.’ He rose, his height and the intimidating breadth of his dark-shirted shoulders looming over her, a strong, finely made hand extended. ‘You take up your duties as of tomorrow.’
Mercy’s poleaxed gaze flicked up from that extended hand to lock with those dark pewter eyes. She’d got the peach of a job! Just like that! Her soft mouth dropped open then firmed decisively as she told him, ‘Thank you. However, I can’t possibly begin tomorrow.’
‘And why not?’ emerged on a bite as he dropped back into his seat at speed, his classic features hardening.
He was going to be a handful, Mercy labelled, refusing to quail beneath all that feature-darkening displeasure. Plainly he was used to getting all his own way. It was about time that someone taught him that life wasn’t like that. Despite her self-acknowledged unprepossessing mousy appearance and her willingness to bend over backwards to help everyone, she was capable of putting her foot down if circumstances warranted it.
Giving him a moment to stew, she told him firmly, ‘I am presently employed through a domestic agency. I am required to give a full week’s notice. Of course I could merely leave and sacrifice a week’s wages—which I would expect you to reimburse. But I never go back on a commitment. I would be happy to take up the position when I’ve served my notice,’ she enforced, desperately hoping that she hadn’t blown it.
Andreo’s intimidating frown dissolved. The most glamorous, self-assured females around had been known to fall over backwards in their desire to comply with his slightest wishes, but now he’d been put in his place by a frumpy little glorified char-lady who should, by rights, have been willing to tie herself in knots in order to secure such a highly paid position. It was a novel experience and one which set his mouth twitching.
The twitch grew to a full blown grin as he shot to his feet. ‘Then I’ll expect you to take up your duties in one week, Howard. When the coffee finally arrives would you ask to be shown over the property?’ Long legs propelled him towards the door. At least she’d proved she had integrity, he excused his uncharacteristic acceptance of non-compliance to his dictates, his mind sharply dismissing her and homing in on the work awaiting him at the agency.
Still reeling from the effect of that devastating smile, plus her good fortune in landing the job, Mercy composed herself to wait. The legendary Andreo Pascali wasn’t as intimidating as she’d feared he would be.
Not if he was handled firmly.
CHAPTER TWO
THE alarm woke Mercy at six-thirty. She lay for a moment luxuriating in the blissful comfort of the huge double bed in the housekeeper’s suite on the top floor of the conversion, enjoying both the April dawn light as it filtered through the gauzy white curtains at the large windows and the squirmy, excited feeling which was occupying