A Mistress, A Scandal, A Ring. Angela Bissell
‘That’s okay. Perhaps I’ll catch him later, when he gets home.’
Rosa wrung her hands together. ‘I am afraid he is not coming home tonight.’
She looked at the housekeeper in surprise. ‘He’s staying at work all night?’ she said, yet even as she spoke she knew it wasn’t inconceivable that someone like him would work through the night and into the weekend. He was a workaholic, and workaholics had only one priority.
‘He has an apartment above his office,’ Rosa said. ‘He stays there often. Senyor de la Vega works very hard,’ she added, and Jordan couldn’t tell from Rosa’s tone whether she admired or disapproved of her employer’s work ethic.
She regarded the table again. Despite the fine china and the sparkling crystal, the gleaming cutlery and the beautiful vase of crimson calla lilies, the solitary setting looked rather forlorn at the head of the enormous table.
‘Rosa, would it be all right if I ate outside on the terrace?’
Out there she’d at least have the birds and the crickets for company. And she could gaze out to sea and watch the sun as it sank below the horizon.
The housekeeper smiled. ‘Sí. Of course.’
An hour later Jordan sat on the terrace in the gathering dusk with a full tummy and a glass of white wine, watching the sky turn to lush shades of orange and purple. She could hear laughter and snatches of conversation coming from somewhere nearby. The feminine voice she recognised as Rosa’s; the male voices no doubt belonged to Alfonso and Delmar.
She pictured the trio, enjoying their own alfresco meal, and the sounds of their banter sharpened the sense of isolation that had crept over her in the last hour.
She took a gulp of wine. Was this what Xavier had intended all along? To isolate her?
Suddenly his offer of hospitality didn’t seem quite so munificent.
But why? Was he somehow testing her? Had he left her up here to see what she would do? What did he think she would do? Pocket the silverware? Slip some crystal into her bag? Snatch a priceless painting off the wall and hightail it off the estate before she was found out?
More laughter danced through the still air and she swallowed another mouthful of wine.
She knew this hollow feeling in her chest. It was loneliness. And she refused to let it suck her down into a place of misery. She didn’t do self-pity. Self-pity was a waste of time. She’d learnt that as a child in the wake of her mother’s departure, when she’d realised that crying under the duvet wasn’t going to bring her mother back. She had dried her eyes, got out of bed and focused on the parent she still had. She’d made herself indispensable to her father.
Because if Daddy needed her then he wouldn’t go away. Wouldn’t leave her like Mummy had.
Jordan shook off the childhood memories. It was history, and dwelling on the past was just another form of self-pity. The best medicine for the blues was to do something, and with that thought in mind she got to her feet, picked up her wine glass and went in search of the laughter.
IT WAS CLOSE to one-thirty p.m. on Saturday when Xav arrived home—a couple of hours earlier than he’d anticipated. He grabbed his briefcase, dismissed his driver for the remainder of the weekend and strode into the villa.
He should be dead on his feet. He was operating on little more than two hours’ sleep and a gallon of caffeine. But he wasn’t exhausted. He was wired. It was how he always felt in the midst of a major business deal. Focused. Determined. Ruthless.
It put him in the perfect frame of mind to deal with a certain redhead—a problem he would have tackled sooner, had Peter Reynaud’s bloodsucking lawyers not waited until six p.m. last night to return their marked-up version of the one-hundred-and-fifty-page contract. Either they were tearing every damn clause and sub-clause apart to eke out their billable hours, or Reynaud himself was hindering the process.
Furious, Xav had made his commercial and legal teams pull an all-nighter—which meant he’d had no choice but to stay as well. He never demanded anything of his people he wasn’t willing to demand of himself.
At least he’d been able to focus one hundred percent on work, secure in the knowledge that his other ‘problem’ was safely contained for now. Offering up his villa had been a stroke of genius, and she’d played into his hands just as he’d thought she would. Few women could resist the lure of luxury—especially when the luxury was free.
All he needed now was her signature on the paperwork in his briefcase. Once executed, the confidentiality agreement would prohibit her from disclosing any information about the biological relationship between her late stepmother and himself to any third party. In return she would receive a handsome one-off payment—a sum Xav considered a small price to pay for peace of mind. The last thing he wanted was some tabloid journalist digging up the answers to questions he had decided a long time ago he didn’t want to ask.
As for that one minor glitch yesterday—that fleeting moment of hot, naked lust that had struck him unawares in the car, when he’d leaned across her to belt her in and her light, feminine scent had curled around him... He’d glanced down, away from those entrancing hazel eyes and soft, full lips—away from temptation—only to be transfixed instead by pert breasts and hard, pointed nipples poking shamelessly against the fabric of her T-shirt, just begging for his attention.
Lust and fury had collided. Fury at her for tempting him; fury at himself for being tempted.
Subsequently, his having to stay overnight in the city had been a blessing in disguise. For a few hours he’d been able to cast her out of his head, shrugging off the incident as nothing more than the base reaction of a neglected libido.
Pausing now in the villa’s double-height entry hall, he pulled off his sunglasses and waited, listening for Rosa’s approach.
Nothing.
Which was unusual.
His housekeeper of ten years had an uncanny radar for people arriving at the villa—particularly her employer.
He moved deeper into the house and then stopped, canting his head.
He could hear music.
More specifically, the jaunty strains of the gaita—the Galician bagpipes that Rosa’s husband, Alfonso, had a talent for playing. He heard voices, too. And laughter.
Frowning, he set his briefcase and sunglasses down, followed the sounds through the house and ended up standing outside the kitchen, looking across Rosa’s meticulously tended herb and vegetable gardens to the staff cottage where she and her husband lived.
Xav recognised the music now—an old folk song—and it was indeed Alfonso on the gaita. He sat in the shade of a massive orange tree at a wooden table littered with the detritus of a group meal, his wiry chest puffing in and out as he breathed life into the old instrument. Rosa sat beside him, smiling and clapping, but it wasn’t the housekeeper who held Xav’s attention—it was the couple on their feet.
Alfonso’s twenty-something nephew, Delmar, who helped his uncle with the odd stint of landscaping on the estate, was performing the steps of a traditional folk dance, while opposite him Jordan Walsh attempted to mirror his moves.
Xav couldn’t tear his gaze off her—and it was no wonder, given the clingy tank top and denim cut-offs she wore. The latter left bare the long, slender thighs he’d caught a tantalising glimpse of in the car yesterday, before she’d closed her skirt in that prim display of modesty.
She laughed, the sound surprisingly throaty and appealing, and tossed her head, drawing his gaze to that magnificent mane of copper-red hair with its streaks of glinting gold. She wore it down today, and it flowed over her bare shoulders, thick and wavy, the ends softly curling against