Mistress to a Millionaire Page 10

  ‘I see.’ He raised himself on one elbow, raking back a lock of jet-black hair from his forehead, and Daisy felt a fresh riot in her stomach. ‘Well, be that as it may, my son is benefiting from having you in his life, Daisy Summers,’ Slade said softly, ‘and I have to say you understand him far better than I.’ And then the tone changed, becoming almost teasing as he added, ‘And you even dealt perfectly with the dragon who has tormented poor little Angelica’s days and nights.’

  He knew the Italian girl’s nickname for his mother-in-law? Daisy stared at him in surprise and the hard, firm lips twitched at her expression. ‘There is little which escapes me,’ he drawled mildly.

  Now that she could believe.

  Should he share with her what had happened in England before he’d left? Slade looked into the soft golden eyes and decided now was not the time. She didn’t trust him; moreover, she didn’t even like him, and her withdrawal at any contact with him—however slight—was noticeable. And yet that first day in the drawing room… He expelled a silent breath as his loins tightened at the memory. Whatever had gone on in the past, she wasn’t frigid. She was warm and soft and unbelievably lovely.

  ‘I…I think Francesco has been in the pool long enough.’ Daisy’s voice was prim now and Slade had to stop himself from smiling. She was such a mass of contradictions, this one. And wary, very wary. It was…enticing, this air of chaste reserved reticence—as enticing as it was provocative. It had been a long time since the urge to impress had been upon him, but when he was with her he found himself wanting to do something boldly impressive—swashbuckling even—to get her attention. Absurd. He didn’t like the direction in which his thoughts were travelling and now his introspection was derisive.

  It made his voice cool when he said, ‘By all means take him back to the house, Daisy. I shall stay a little longer out here, relaxing.’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ He was annoyed with her; she sensed it. Was it regarding the conversation about Claudia Morosini? Daisy asked herself silently as she walked down to the water’s edge and persuaded a reluctant Francesco out of the pool. But it was Slade who had mentioned his mother-in-law, not her, she comforted herself in the next moment. Perhaps it was her comments on how to deal with children? Yes, that would be it. He had thought she was having a dig at him; his own words had confirmed that. Well, perhaps she had been at the bottom of her, she admitted unwillingly. She always seemed to feel that attack was the best form of defence around Slade Eastwood, and if anyone needed protecting she did. Not so much from him as from herself.

  Francesco had had his bath and tea and was tucked up in bed, Daisy sitting beside him as she told him another story in what had become the evening ritual of Bobtail’s adventures, when Slade appeared in the doorway of his son’s bedroom.

  ‘Please, don’t stop.’

  At his entrance Daisy had risen quickly to her feet, much to Francesco’s chagrin, the little boy immediately demanding she finish the story of Bobtail’s first day at school; and now, as Slade indicated his son’s querulous face with a jerk of his head and a slow smile, Daisy nodded.

  From that point the story didn’t flow as easily as normal although mercifully Francesco didn’t appear to notice, but Daisy was painfully conscious of the big dark figure sitting in one of the easy chairs on the perimeter of her vision, however much she tried to concentrate on her small charge.

  He would be expecting her to have dinner with him each evening he was here—his comments on the day of her arrival had made that clear—and the mere thought of it made her weak. Which was stupid, so, so stupid, because it wouldn’t mean a thing to him. He was used to far more beautiful, elegant, intellectual companions than her. But perhaps that was the root of her agitation?

  She took a deep breath and ended with, ‘And Bobtail went home with his brothers and sisters and had a lovely tea of hot muffins and cocoa.’

  ‘Can I have muffins and cocoa tomorrow for my tea?’ Francesco asked immediately as he straightened from his curled-up position by her side. ‘Please, Daisy? Like Bobtail?’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She smiled down into the earnest little face.

  ‘How many muffins can I have? I can eat loads and—’

  ‘Time for sleep, young man.’ Slade’s deep voice cut into the conversation and Francesco grinned at his father, his expression revealing he knew when to call it quits. He held out his arms to Daisy and she kissed him, hugging him tight for a moment before straightening.

  It was a routine they had fallen into every night but it was still painful at times when the feel of the thin, childish arms pulled at her heartstrings, and reminded her all too poignantly of what she had lost. She had held her daughter for such a short time. Such an eternally short time.

  As Slade bent to kiss his son Francesco looked up at his father, his voice enquiring as he said, ‘Papà? Will I ever have any brothers or sisters?’

  Oh, good grief! Daisy shut her eyes for an infinitesimal moment. What would he think of next?

  ‘Perhaps.’ Slade was aiming to be noncommittal but Daisy could see the innocent question had thrown him.

  ‘When?’ Francesco was nothing if not persistent. ‘How soon?’

  ‘I said perhaps, Francesco.’

  ‘You have to have a mummy and a daddy to have babies, don’t you?’ Francesco stated importantly. Mario’s sister’s cat had had kittens and Mario had taken the little boy to see them the previous day, the result being an impromptu biology lesson in the car coming home. ‘So who would be the mummy?’ he asked interestedly. ‘Could Daisy be the mummy?’

  ‘That’s enough, Francesco.’ Slade’s voice was unusually sharp, and then, as the child’s lower lip began to tremble, Slade gathered him close, his voice soothing as he said, ‘We’ll talk about this another time, all right? When you are not so tired. And tomorrow we must think about what you would like for your birthday, eh? Only another three weeks and you will be seven years old.’

  ‘I know what I want for my birthday.’ The diversion had wiped away any thought of tears and now the childish voice was animated when it said, ‘I want one of Guinevere’s babies. Signora Carialio said I could pick whichever one I wanted if I was allowed, and they will be ready to leave Guinevere in time for my birthday. Please, Papà? I want a baby cat more than anything.’

  ‘We will talk of this also tomorrow.’

  Daisy knew that Slade had purchased—at some considerable expense—a battery-operated, sit-in toy Jeep, and she could understand the wry, ironic note to the deep voice. But such were children, she thought ruefully. Francesco was at a stage when a pet of his own meant the world, and the kitten that had taken the little boy’s fancy—a small female tabby with white paws and a white-tipped tail—was very sweet.

  ‘I will buy her a basket out of my own money, Papà, and she can sleep in my room. She’ll be good; I know she will.’

  ‘I said we will discuss it tomorrow. For now, sleep, yes?’ Slade’s voice was very firm and after opening his mouth to argue Francesco caught his father’s eye and sank back down under the covers, but the big brown eyes continued to beseech his father until Slade closed the door of the bedroom after Daisy had switched on the mushroom night light.

  Once on the hushed landing Slade turned to her, and there was something in his face which stilled the light comment Daisy had been about to make to dismiss the more embarrassing connotations of Francesco’s conversation with his father.

  ‘I should have told you as soon as I got home this afternoon,’ he said without any prevarication, ‘Your ex-husband appeared at the hospital this week and caused quite a scene when they refused to inform him of your whereabouts. I understand you had left orders to that effect?’

  Daisy’s stomach clenched. She looked away, the blood draining from her face and her soft mouth tightening. ‘Yes, I did,’ she said shortly. This was what she had been dreading for weeks.

  ‘Somehow he had got hold of my name,’ Slade continued evenly, and then, as her eyes shot to meet his, he a
dded slowly, ‘Yes, he came to see me,’ in answer to the unspoken question in her horrified face. ‘Again he learnt nothing beyond that it was my car which knocked you down, and this he knew anyway.’

  ‘He… You didn’t—’ Daisy paused, her heart hammering as she struggled for control. ‘There wasn’t any unpleasantness?’ she managed shakily.

  ‘Not at all.’ Slade didn’t add that he had disliked the other man on sight and with an intensity which had surprised him. Ronald McTavish had been charming—too charming, his manners too polished and slick and his handsome face suspiciously sincere. And this was the guy who had broken her heart. Did she still love him? His senses recoiled from the possibility. But women always had the crazy notion that they could reform the real swines, didn’t they?

  ‘And he doesn’t know I’m living with you?’ And then she flushed a livid scarlet as she realised how she’d phrased it.

  ‘No, he doesn’t.’ This was the first time she had talked about her husband and he wanted to know more. ‘After your instructions to the hospital staff I assumed you’d want it that way?’ he questioned with careful flatness. And then he said, when Daisy nodded, ‘He stated the divorce was a mistake, that the solicitors had engineered things to fly away out of control.’

  ‘No, they didn’t.’ Her heartbeat was in her throat and she could scarcely breathe. ‘I wanted the divorce.’

  Slade could feel her tension; it was a live thing, hot and claustrophobic, and he sensed there was much, much more she wasn’t saying. Had he beaten her along with the womanising? Was that it? Or maybe he was some sort of pervert? Sex could be a terrible weapon in the wrong hands. His careful investigations had shown that Ronald McTavish played around—constantly—but nothing much beyond that. But there were some things too intimate for general knowledge. He felt the possibility twist his insides.

  ‘He seems to think there’s a chance you will return to him, Daisy.’ He kept his voice steady and even, but it surprised him how much he wanted to hear her answer.

  Again it was succinct. ‘I won’t.’

  She wouldn’t. Hell, was that it? Along with his curiosity and concern he recognised a thread of anger and it irritated him. He took a hard deep breath and deliberately gentled his voice. ‘This is good,’ he said quietly. ‘You are worth far more than this man.’

  She was worth far more than Ronald? How right he was, Daisy thought bitterly. ‘I know that.’ Her voice was harsh and not at all like herself and it shocked them both.

  ‘What is it?’ He had moved closer as she had spoken and now he took her arms in his hands, the warmth of her soft fragrance teasing his nostrils and causing his muscles to clench.

  ‘Don’t.’ She tried unsuccessfully to draw away but he seemed oblivious to the movement and she didn’t like to force the issue. He might think she thought he was making a move on her and she knew it wasn’t like that. She had made a fool of herself before on this issue with Slade Eastwood and once bitten, twice shy.

  ‘What is it, Daisy? What did he do to make you fear him so badly?’ Slade asked softly.

  ‘I’m not frightened of him,’ she said tightly. And she wasn’t frightened of Ronald, not really. It was more herself. She just didn’t know how she would react if she ever saw his face again. For a time after Jenny’s death she had wanted to kill him; she had actually wondered how she could accomplish it and that had been terrifying. That stage had passed, along with the sleepless nights when she had walked the bedroom and wondered how people could endure such agony and remain sane, but she still didn’t know how she would react if she looked into that handsome, lying face again. One thing she did know—she loathed him more than she had dreamt possible.

  ‘Has he threatened to hurt you? Is that it?’

  ‘No.’ Why did he keep questioning her like this? she thought feverishly. And he was too close, much too close. She could feel his strength and warmth through the hands on her arms and it was making her shiver. ‘It’s over and I don’t want to see him, that’s all; there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  ‘Of course not.’ His voice was soothing now and perversely it added to her turmoil. He was being kind, she knew that, and he probably felt sorry for her. He was a man who was clearly used to women; he knew how to draw them out and that was dangerous. She couldn’t talk to him about Jenny; she hadn’t talked to anyone—even Stephanie or her mother—about Jenny; she just couldn’t.

  She should never have come to this house, she should never have agreed to work for Slade Eastwood and get involved with Francesco. This was not going to help her; it was making everything ten times worse.

  ‘You need a break from routine and I know just the thing.’ Slade smiled, a sexy easy smile, as he let got of her arms and stepped back a pace, his dark head slightly tilted as he looked into her white face. He didn’t betray by so much as the flicker of an eyelash that he sensed she was at the end of her tether. ‘There’s a concert in the town tonight and I just happen to have tickets,’ he said nonchalantly.

  ‘You mean go with you, just the two of us?’ Daisy asked hesitantly, wondering how best to refuse.

  He smiled again, but this time it was cool. ‘Would that be so terrible?’ he asked evenly, before adding, before she could speak, ‘I meant in a group actually. A friend of mine is in the orchestra and is having a small party afterwards.’

  ‘Oh, in that case I wouldn’t want to intrude—’

  ‘You won’t be intruding, Daisy; you will be with me.’ His tone made it clear he wasn’t going to take no for an answer—not that she really wanted to refuse, she realised suddenly. An evening out on the town with a group of people all determined to enjoy themselves was immensely appealing. And that was all that was appealing, she told herself firmly. She would be feeling just as excited if she were being accompanied by Mario and Isabella!

  ‘All right, thank you.’ She couldn’t keep the lilt of anticipation out of her voice, and then, as the thought occurred to her, she asked quickly, ‘Oh, what shall I wear? Is it a formal type of affair? I’m not used to anything like this.’

  ‘Not really; people wear everything from full evening dress to jeans and jumpers at the concerts these days, but the party afterwards will be semi-formal.’ And then his voice dropped an octave or two and he stepped forward so that Daisy was forced back against the linen-brushed wall of the landing, and his voice was very smoky when he said, ‘Just be yourself and you’ll look great whatever you wear.’

  One of his arms was stretched out, his hand splayed next to her shoulder as he leant over her, and although he wasn’t touching her the warmth and delicious expensive smell of him were making her shiver inside. And he mustn’t guess. Oh, please God, please don’t let him guess the effect he had on her, she prayed silently.

  And then his elbow unlocked, bringing him even closer, and she realised she had been waiting, longing, for this moment. He was going to kiss her, like before. She was going to feel his mouth on hers again and know that flood of pleasure she had never experienced in her life until she had stood in his drawing room that first night.

  Her eyelids had closed, her mouth half open and her chin tilted as she waited, so it came as a drenching anticlimax when she felt his body briefly brush hers and then heard his voice say, ‘We’ll need to leave just after eight, so I will instruct Isabella to serve dinner early, okay? We’ll just have something light as we’ll be eating at the party later.’

  He had merely been reaching over to open her door for her. Daisy didn’t know where to put herself as her eyes shot open but she nodded jerkily, almost falling into the sitting room and shutting the door into the hall behind her without turning round.

  She stood for some moments with both hands pressed to her burning cheeks, hot humiliation making her sway in a little semi-circle of mortification, and then the ticking of the clock reminded her she only had a few minutes in which to get ready.

  Had he noticed her blatant invitation for him to kiss her? The thought was there but she didn’t
have time to reflect on it as she hurried through to the bedroom and opened the door of the walk-in wardrobe, swiftly scanning its contents.

  One of the more outrageous things she had done at the time of the decree absolute—aided and abetted by Stephanie—had been to indulge herself in a new hairstyle and a new wardrobe, and now Daisy blessed her friend’s insistence that she spend money on herself in a way she had never done before in all her life, although she had balked against it at the time.

  She had thrown out everything belonging to her life with Ronald, and although her wardrobe had been severely depleted what she did now own was new, on the whole expensive and bang up to date.

  She stood for a moment scanning the small array of clothes which seemed lost in the huge, cavernous depths of the wardrobe, but as her eyes alighted on the sleeveless sheer twisted tulle dress with attached dress underneath in coffee silk she nodded slowly. Perfect, just perfect. If it saw her successfully through this evening with Slade and his friends, it would be worth every penny of the exorbitant price she had hesitated about until Stephanie had lost patience with her.

  He had invited her out this evening through pity. For the second time in as many minutes she pressed her palms to her hot face. That was it at bottom. Well, she couldn’t do anything about that, nor could she negate what had happened out there on the landing. He must have known she was waiting for him to kiss her? Her stomach churned and she bit hard on her lower lip. Yes, he must have.

  But one thing she could do something about was her behaviour and appearance tonight. She was not going to be a Cinderella waif and stray, she was going to be a well-dressed, upbeat, amusing and cool companion, whilst making it perfectly clear her relationship with Slade was one hundred per cent platonic.

  She had—Daisy consulted her wristwatch—about fifteen minutes in which to transform herself so she’d better get cracking. For this one night she was going to forget the past, refuse to consider the future and concentrate wholly on the present, and that meant making Slade Eastwood feel she’d done him the favour by allowing him to escort her for the evening!