Housekeeper at His Beck and Call. Susan Stephens

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СКАЧАТЬ ad for a replacement. The reporter said his reputation must have frightened everyone away. That and his appearance, he guessed, judging by the way the camera crew had stared at his scars. He suspected they would have liked more close-ups to shock the viewers. Fingering his stubble, he glanced in the mirror. He couldn’t blame them.

      And he hardly had the temperament of a saint, Cade registered grimly, cursing a second time when he scalded his wounded hand trying to rescue a second piece of shattered pottery from the sink. He was in a foul mood now.

      Hearing a knock on the door ratcheted it up a notch or two. He might have known someone from the film crew would forget something.

      ‘Yes?’ He flung the door wide. And was forced to adjust his eye line radically down to where a small bedraggled wretch stood on his doorstep wearing some type of fancy dress.

      ‘Can I come in?’ she said.

      He took everything in at a glance. Something inside him stirred, which required stamping on, plus a stern reminder that appearances could be deceptive. The girl was young with honey-coloured hair hanging in drenched straggles around a heart-shaped face. She wore a tiara, tilted at a precarious angle on her head, and her silk shoes were ruined. What appeared to be a bridal gown and veil were ripped and streaked with mud…and now he could see she’d been crying—whether from relief or grief, he couldn’t know. But one thing he did know—this was not fancy dress. ‘What do you want?’ he asked suspiciously.

      ‘The job you advertised… The notice on the gate?’

      Standing back, he thumbed his stubble. He needed someone, and quickly. But first he had to make sure he’d got this right. He raised his brow as he looked the girl over a second time. ‘You are applying for the job as my housekeeper?’

      ‘I know this doesn’t look good,’ she said, mashing her lips together as she struggled to convince him. ‘And of course I would have preferred to make a proper application wearing a suit—’

      ‘But?’

      ‘But events overtook me.’

      Talk about understatement. But she held his gaze steadily enough, and this was hardly a high-risk situation. ‘Okay, you can come in.’

      ‘Do you mind if I get warm?’ she said, walking straight past him to hold her hands in front of the blazing log fire.

      ‘Go right ahead.’ It was a reasonable request, and she was shaking—with cold or shock, he couldn’t tell. He closed the door and turned back to find her unpinning her veil. Her pale arms glowed pink in the firelight, adding to her air of vulnerability. Where there had been anger and impatience and frustration in his head, now there was only curiosity and more than a flicker of inconvenient desire.

      Between the flight from her wedding and her arrival here, in the kitchen at Featherstone Hall, everything was a horrible blur—up to now when it had snapped into sharp focus. Her senses were on full alert. And it was all thanks to the man resting against the door with his arms folded and his head tipped back, weighing her up. The power of his gaze, the spread of his shoulders, even his stillness, were arresting. When she had stumbled off the bus and found the notice on the gates advertising the post of housekeeper she had pictured some elderly retainer conducting the interview—not a hunk in jeans and a snug-fitting top with dog tags swinging round his neck. This man was as different from poor Horace—the almost-husband she had left at the altar—as it was possible to be. Stifling a guilty sob as she thought about the look on Horace’s face when she had bolted, Liv started to tug at the wedding dress she didn’t deserve to wear.

      ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

      ‘Taking it off…’ The man’s voice was low and husky, and had done things to her insides that should be forbidden by law; things that stirred the guilt inside her to the point where she had to confess. ‘I’ve done something terrible.’

      ‘Robbed a bank? Killed someone?’

      ‘Worse.’

      ‘Worse?’

      ‘Really, I have… And now I can’t go back.’

      ‘That bad?’ He thumbed his stubble once again.

      ‘Can I stay here?’

      As her lips trembled and her eyes filled with tears he knew he had to forget the attraction element and concentrate on getting to the bottom of this. ‘I think we’d better start with introductions, don’t you?’

      ‘Liv Tate,’ she mumbled. After some hesitation she gathered herself enough to extend a soft, perfectly manicured hand and add, ‘My first name is Olivia, but my friends call me Liv.’

      He went into the handshake with his unwounded right hand. Considering her obvious distress, the strength in Liv’s grip surprised him. He released her before any more concerning sensations could get a hold of him.

      ‘I’ve told you my name,’ she reminded him, ‘but as yet I don’t know yours…’

      ‘My apologies for the omission.’ He made her a slight bow. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Cade Grant… But you can call me Cade.’

      ‘Cade…’

      When their hands connected he felt a jolt, an unwelcome jolt that reminded him why he stayed away from people—and women like this one, especially. He shunned feelings. All feelings. All the time. ‘Something wrong?’ he demanded when she continued to stare at him.

      ‘My turn to apologise. I was just surprised to hear your name. I didn’t connect it when I saw the family crest on the top of your notice because that said Grant Featherstone Carew.’

      ‘Just imagine signing for a parcel.’

      The look of irony in his eyes made her laugh. It also jolted a primitive urge inside her that made her gasp when she recognised it as instant, potent, dazzling lust. And now she couldn’t have been angrier with herself for the lapse in concentration. She recovered herself to say primly, ‘Yes, I can see why you might shorten it.’

      Lieutenant Colonel Cade Grant, local war hero? How slow was she? Bolting from her own wedding must have scrambled her brain. You could hardly pick up a newspaper or switch on the television without there being some report about Cade Grant’s bravery under fire. The reasons for his extended leave might have been vague, but no one questioned a hero’s right to some R and R. ‘Of course I’ve heard of you—who hasn’t? And I know I shouldn’t stare—’

      ‘At what?’ he demanded. ‘The scars?’ His mood took a dive as he fingered his face.

      ‘Scars?’ Her brow puckered and then her eyes cleared as she focused on them. ‘Sorry again, I hadn’t noticed them. I was just thinking how much better looking you are in the flesh than on the television—’ She gulped, went bright red and pressed her lips together as if she didn’t trust herself to speak another word.

      Surprising himself, he badly wanted to smile.

      Starting to fumble with the tiny buttons on the back of her dress, she angled her back towards him. ‘Could you help me with this, please?’

      He hesitated, and then thought, Why not?

      She felt Cade move behind her СКАЧАТЬ