Powerful Greek, Housekeeper Wife. Robyn Donald

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      ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon she felt she’d arrived home. She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.

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      Chapter One

      IONA GUTHRIE bit back an unladylike expletive and tore off her wet smock, wrinkling her nose at the disgusting stickiness of the liquid that oozed down her front and soaked her to the skin.

      ‘Now what?’ she demanded of the universe, heading for the elegant little powder room close by the entrance of the penthouse. ‘First the vacuum system dies, then the laundry loses the special linen, probably produced by diamond-decorated silkworms. Now this—ugh! I’m beginning to believe this penthouse is haunted by a demon. So what’s next? An earthquake? A waterspout?’

      She pushed back the thick strand of straight ash-blonde hair that had come adrift from her businesslike ponytail, and opened the door. Grimacing, she slung the smock over a towel rail and began to wriggle free of her bra. The scent of the roses in the exquisitely arranged vase permeated the luxurious little room, calming her down a little.

      How the other half—no, make that the upper point zero zero zero one per cent—live, she thought, glancing at the flowers.

      Fortunately the billionaire businessman for whom the penthouse had been prepared wasn’t due to arrive for several hours yet.

      And she’d almost finished the checklist. Iona made a mental note to tell the manager of the apartment complex that the maid needed supervision; one of the hand basins in the master bedroom suite had had a hair in it. She’d picked up the detergent bottle to clean it, only to discover that the lid hadn’t been put on properly.

      The view from the window was enough to soothe anyone, even a detergent-soaked lifestyle organiser. Relaxing into the promise of a sunny weekend, Auckland city hummed peacefully below. A warm spring sun beamed down, highlighting the white wakes of pleasure boats on the harbour and gilding islands that faded into the distance.

      Iona expelled another long breath and finally managed to shrug free of the loathsomely sticky bra, glancing at her watch when a muted ting from the communications system warned her that the private lift was on its way up.

      Good for you, Angie. Dead on time. Her cousin, who was also her boss, was collecting her for the next job, a barbecue one of her clients had suddenly decided to hold that evening.

      Her bra landed on the towel rail next to her soggy smock. Pulling a face at her half-naked reflection, she extracted a handful of tissues from her bag before turning on the elegant Italian tap.

      She heard the big outer doors slide back, and called out, ‘Come on in,’ as she began to mop the residue of the detergent from her skin.

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