Maid for Montero. KIM LAWRENCE

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      He smiled. It was usually possible to tell when a woman felt a reciprocal tug of attraction, and in this case it definitely was…She either wasn’t attempting to hide her reaction or she didn’t know how, not that she was trying to flirt with him, which was actually refreshing. Even a perfect vintage could become pedestrian if a man drank it for breakfast, lunch and dinner; he enjoyed flirtation to a point, but once you knew the moves of the modern mating ritual it could on occasion become painfully predictable.

      A sense of expectation buzzing through his veins, he bit into the grapes. They were sour, as predicted, but he smiled.

      The flash of white teeth and the intensity of the stranger’s hard dark eyes sent a shiver through Zoe’s body unravelling like a silken ribbon of desire. It was a relief when she finally discovered a flaw, which should have made him less attractive but had quite the reverse effect. The imperfection was relatively minor—a scar, a thin white line that began to the right of one eye and traced the curve of one chiselled cheekbone.

      Zoe swallowed and plucked at the neckline of her shirt as the palpable silence in the room stretched. Her tingling awareness of him was so strong that there was a delay for several seconds before her body responded to the desperate commands of her brain. She was close to applauding with sheer relief when she managed to gather up the shreds of her self-control and lower her gaze.

      ‘I’m afraid you shouldn’t be here, either.’ She pitched her tone at friendly but firm, it came out as breathy. Nonetheless, she was happy—breathy was a big step up from open-mouthed drooling!

      Isandro’s gaze lifted from the logo plastered across the T-shirt she was wearing—not that he had read a word of the inscription, but mingled in with the mental image of him peeling the shirt over her head an astonishing idea had occurred to him, making the pleasurable picture fuzz and fade.

      Surely not…She couldn’t be…could she?

      Had Tom lost his mind?

      If she was, he definitely had!

      Or had his normally super-reliable assistant been thinking with a different part of his anatomy when he appointed this woman to the post of housekeeper?

      No, she couldn’t be, he decided, clinging to his mental image of the perfect housekeeper—a woman of a certain age with an immovable iron-grey helmet of hair and a brisk manner. He didn’t expect the new housekeeper to possess all the attributes of her predecessor but this woman—girl!—couldn’t be…?

      ‘This part of the house isn’t open to the public, actually,’ she admitted, softening the gentle remonstrance with a smile.

      Madre di Dios, she was! Tom actually had lost his mind.

      ‘None of it is but people keep wandering…’ She heard the sharp note of anxiety that had crept into her own voice and closed her mouth, shaking her head as she smiled brightly and concluded in her best ‘fasten your seat belt’ tone, ‘So if you’d like to follow me…?’

      The irony of being asked to leave his own study was not lost on Isandro, but instead of putting this person in her place he found himself considering the question.

      Would he like to follow her…? Yes, up the sweeping staircase and into his bedroom, which was not possible as he didn’t date employees. It was a no-exception rule. But he was about to sack her, which would make her not his employee…?

      Maybe Tom had been having similar thoughts when he had decided this woman fulfilled the brief of experienced and efficient. Maybe she possessed both these qualities in the bedroom? Maybe his assistant already knew…?

      The possibility that his assistant had given his girlfriend a job she was patently unsuited to because of her skills in the bedroom sent a rush of rage through Isandro.

      Was he mad because Tom had broken the rules, or mad that Tom had broken them before Isandro had got the chance?

      Responding to the voice in his head with a heavy frown that drew his dark brows into a single disapproving line over the bridge of his nose, Isandro gave a frustrated grunt of tension.

      When the tall, unsmiling stranger with his film-star looks and smoky eyes didn’t react to her invitation to leave, Zoe felt the panic she had been struggling to keep at bay all day surface before she ruthlessly subdued it.

      She could panic when this day was over, even though right now it felt as if it never would be.

      How could anything that had started so innocently become this monster? she asked herself despairingly.

      The answer was quite simple: she’d lost the ability to say no…She’d agreed to so many things she’d forgotten or more likely blocked half of them; by this point if the Red Arrows did a fly past she wouldn’t have been surprised.

      CHAPTER TWO

      IT WAS A total nightmare. In the past five days, she had lied more—by omission, which amounted to the same thing—than she had done in her entire life!

      It was that first lie that had kicked it off and started the snowball effect, but the snowball was now the size of an apartment block.

      It had seemed so innocent and she had been so desperate to help when poor Chloe, her dead sister’s best friend—Chloe who always put on a brave face—had broken down in tears after inviting Zoe to a coffee morning.

      ‘Who am I kidding? A coffee morning!’ She shook her head in teary disgust. ‘Do you know how much Hannah’s operation costs?’

      Zoe shook her head, guessing that such ground-breaking medical care in the States did not come cheap.

      ‘And that’s without the cost of travel to America. And time’s running out, Zoe, while I’m organising coffee mornings and treasure. Baking isn’t going to get Hannah to that hospital—it’ll take a miracle!’ she sobbed. ‘In three months’ time the disease might have progressed too far and the treatment might not work…They might not even agree to try and she’ll be stuck in a wheelchair for life!’

      Her heart bleeding for the other woman, Zoe hugged her, feeling utterly helpless.

      ‘This isn’t you, Chloe. You’re a fighter. You’re tired, that’s all.’ And small wonder. God knew when she had had a break; she commuted almost daily for Hannah’s hospital appointments. ‘Everyone’s behind you, so involve us! We all want to help.’

      She shook her head, wishing she had more than platitudes to offer the other woman. Then it came—the inspired idea—and she didn’t pause to think it through, just blurted it out.

      ‘Have your coffee morning at the hall. You know what people are like—they’ll come just to have a nosy. We could put up some trestle tables in the garden and I’m sure Mrs Whittaker would bake some of her scones.’ She knew that the entire community were gagging to see the changes made by the enigmatic new owner of the hall almost as much as they were gagging to see the man himself!

      ‘Really?’ Chloe had taken the tissue Zoe offered and dried her eyes. ‘Won’t Mr Montero mind? I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. I know when we asked if we could use the cricket pavilion for the charity match we got the thumbs down, though he did provide a nice shiny new cup for the winners,’ she conceded with a sniff.

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