The Spaniard's Virgin Housekeeper. Diana Hamilton

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      At the sound of her employer’s voice Izzy let her tautly held spine relax just a little. Señor Garcia—or Miguel, as she must now get used to calling him—knew this person. The sensation of threat that had been present ever since the stranger had spoken dissipated just a little, too. Perhaps, being so impressive in every detectable department, this haughty creature found it normal to look at lesser beings as if they were beneath his lofty contempt.

      Her mouth softening with relief at having sorted out the less than flattering vibes winging in her direction from what had to be the most spectacularly handsome guy she’d ever seen, she moved closer to the old gentleman, as if for protection, as he proclaimed with enthusiasm, ‘It’s so good to see you—it’s been a long time! How long are you staying in Cadiz?’

      ‘Long enough to take you to lunch, Tio.’ Long enough to warn him of the type of creature he had taken into his home, to redouble his efforts to persuade him to move into the family country home, or at the very least to move into his luxurious apartment here in Cadiz.

      Studiously ignoring the new ‘housekeeper’, Cayo extended a lean, tanned hand. ‘Shall we go?’ To his amazed annoyance he received a decisive shake of his uncle’s head. Until now Tio Miguel had always pandered to his every request or suggestion—except, of course, over the vexed question of his lifestyle.

      ‘We shall lunch here,’ Miguel stated with firm good humour. ‘Izzy shall cook for us. We have pilchards, I’m told. And peaches.’ He smiled down at her and laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Izzy, may I introduce my workaholic nephew, Cayo?’

      His nephew! Not in the least impressed now, Izzy shot the poor old gentleman’s uncaring relative a withering glance. If he could afford to dress himself in designer gear and sport a watch that must have cost thousands—and she knew about that sort of stuff because her brilliant, well-heeled big brother always dressed in the best, proclaiming that his position demanded it and that quality always counted—then surely he could alleviate his uncle’s hand-to-mouth existence and visit more often to check on his welfare? As Miguel had said, it had been a long time.

      Barely registering Cayo’s response to the introduction, she drew herself up to her unspectacular height and stated, ‘I’ll start preparing lunch, Miguel.’

      She headed for the kitchen, hoping the pilchards would stretch to feed three and not much caring for the idea of cooking for someone who had looked at her as if she were dirt. And how had he known her name? She should have asked—would have done if his chilling look hadn’t frozen her vocal cords. It was an omission she would rectify over lunch. Unless he refused to share a table with a mere menial.

      Watching her go through narrowed eyes, Cayo recalled how Augustin del Amo had described her. A lush little package. Very apt indeed.

      The top of her silvery blond head might reach the top of his chest—or almost. And the descriptive ‘lush’ perfectly suited the ripe curves, full lips and eyes like bruised pansies. She found money an aphrodisiac and despite outward appearances she would know Miguel was rolling in the stuff. After all, she was already intimate enough to call Miguel by his given name!

      Reining back the fiery impulse to go after her, take her by the scruff of her neck and tip her into the gutter where she clearly belonged, he turned to his uncle. ‘I need to talk to you.’

      The sight of the tiny kitchen, with its old-fashioned iron range, arrays of gleaming copper pans hanging from hooks on roughly plastered walls, earthenware platters and bowls perched on shelves, and the chunky wooden table that served as the only work surface always cheered Izzy, and today went some way to smooth her ruffled feathers.

      Five weeks ago, when she’d walked in here for the first time to fetch the frail old gentleman a glass of water, she’d been horrified. Evidence of neglect had hit her from every side. Grease and dust had covered every surface, and the copper pans had been green with verdigris. Empty sherry bottles had been piled in one corner, and the heel of a mouldy loaf had rested in a bucket beneath the grimy stone sink.

      ‘You live alone?’ she’d asked as she’d watched him drink the water and set the mug aside, on top of a cluttered desk.

      ‘Since my housekeeper left two days ago,’ he supplied with a weak smile. ‘I thought I should make myself something to eat, and I got the range going, but there was nothing to cook. I was on my way to market when I became light-headed. And I thank you,’ he added with courtesy, ‘for assisting me to my home.’

      Definitely not ready to bow out with a Think nothing of it, Izzy asked, ‘Do you have family I could contact for you?’

      ‘Just a nephew, who I think at the moment is in Britain.’ He spread his thin, fine-boned hands. ‘In any case, it is not necessary to trouble anyone. Already I am recovered from my giddiness and feel better.’

      He certainly didn’t look it. Remembering that he’d been on his way to market to buy food, she asked, ‘When did you last eat?’

      ‘I don’t recall.’ He looked as if the question really puzzled him, and explained earnestly, with a frail hand indicating the mass of books and papers on the desk, ‘When I’m working I forget time.’

      ‘Then how about I save you the trouble and pop out for some food?’ Izzy was back on her tortured feet, not prepared to leave this poor old man to his own ineffectual devices—at least not until he’d been fed and persuaded to give her the name and address of his doctor.

      Heading for the nearest shop, she had found her outraged thoughts kept her from dwelling on her burningly painful feet. Deserted by a housekeeper who, from what she’d seen, hadn’t been too keen on doing any work, with his only relative obviously not keeping in touch because the old gentleman wasn’t sure where he was. She was already feeling anxious and even slightly cross on his behalf.

      Raiding her precious euros, she bought eggs, oil and crusty rolls and tottered back. Half an hour later, watching the colour return to his ashen cheeks as he ate the scrambled eggs and one of the rolls, she chatted away. She was concerned that he absolutely refused to see his doctor, but happy to answer his questions because his curiosity must surely mean he was feeling more himself. So she told him exactly how she’d landed up in Spain, and regaled him with her family history. She glossed over the humiliation she’d suffered at Marcus’s hands, and when she came to her present unenviable jobless and homeless situation she gave the half-truth that being a mother’s help hadn’t suited.

      ‘So what will you do now?’ Miguel asked.

      Izzy twisted her hands together in her lap, her huge eyes clouding. Since helping the old gentleman to his feet she’d actually forgotten her own misery. Deflatedly, she confessed, ‘I don’t know. I hoped I would find something here in Cadiz to tide me over. But so far—nothing.’

      ‘Couldn’t your parents help?’

      Izzy shuddered. And then, because his interest was obviously kindly, she admitted, ‘They could—and they would. But I can’t face telling them I’ve failed again. When I left school my dad—like I told you, he was a solicitor—sort of made a job for me in his practice. Being senior partner, he swung it. Then when he retired my parents went out to New Zealand to be with James—my brother. They wanted me to go with them but I wouldn’t,’ she confided earnestly.

      She was relieved to be unburdening herself because usually her family and the people she worked with didn’t think she had anything worth listening to, and this old gentleman was hanging on every word she said.

      ‘James СКАЧАТЬ