One Summer At The Lake: Maid for Montero / Still the One / Hot-Shot Doc Comes to Town. Susan Carlisle
legs and a stupendous mouth?
Her smile was cold and proud. ‘I won’t expect any.’
‘We’ll see. I judge by results, not promises.’ Or lips, he thought as his gaze made an unscheduled traverse of the lush pink curve of her wide mouth before he could think better of it.
‘I never had any complaints.’ The unintentional innuendo after his previous comment brought a flush to her cheeks. ‘In any of the jobs I’ve had,’ she added hastily.
‘That cannot be many. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-two, and actually—’ She lifted a hand, about to list the jobs she had done, and dropped it again, not wanting to give the impression that she didn’t have staying power. As it happened, it was too late, as his next disturbingly perceptive remark revealed.
‘What is the longest time you have remained in one job?’
Outwardly cool, inwardly thinking, Why, oh, why can I never keep my big mouth shut? she furrowed her smooth brow. ‘Is that relevant?’
‘It is if you walk after a week.’
‘I have done a number of jobs, it’s true, but who hasn’t in this job market?’ As if he knows such a lot about this job market. He may employ a lot of people in his various empires, but to him they are statistics on a chart. ‘I’ve never left anyone in the lurch. I’m totally reliable.’
‘But you don’t like to stay in one place long? You have no staying power?’
‘I have…’ She forced her lips into a smile and bit back a retort even though it choked her to do so. ‘Please don’t judge me on first impressions. I have responsibilities now that I did not have previously.’
‘We’ll see.’ He flicked his wrist and glanced at his watch. ‘My chef will be here later. You will make the arrangements.’
She nodded and produced a smile that oozed professional confidence. ‘Of course.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘What arrangements would they be?’
Unable to decide if she was joking, he regarded her with an expression of stern disapproval. ‘This is not a work experience position, Miss Grace.’
‘Of course not, Mr Monster…Montero.’ Thrown into confusion by the horrifying Freudian slip, she almost fell over in her haste to get to the door before him to open it.
‘I do not require grovelling. I require efficiency.’
She tipped her head meekly. ‘Of course.’ What he required, in her opinion, was taking down a peg or several hundred. She just hoped she was around to watch when it happened.
Passing through the door, Isandro revised his month estimate. She wouldn’t last a week. If she had mouths to feed that was not his problem—he was not a charity.
IF HE FOUND so much as a curtain fold out of place she’d eat her rather grubby trainers, Zoe decided, doing a final survey of the room.
The army of volunteers had cleared away any sign of yesterday’s festivities in the grounds. The word had got around that the boss had put in an unexpected appearance the previous day and the staff had really gone the extra mile on the house. The rest of the rooms were equally pristine, about as lived-in as your average museum, but presumably cosy was not what he wanted.
Thinking the word ‘cosy’ in the same thought as Isandro Montero made her lips quirk, but not for long. She had spent a really awful night reliving yesterday’s encounter, by turns breaking out in cold sweats when she thought of how close she’d come to losing the roof over their heads and seething with resentment that she’d had to crawl to keep it.
The couple of times she had managed to drift off she hadn’t been able to escape the awful man who held their fate in his elegant, over-privileged hands. Shivering, she pushed her fingers into her hair and shook her head. Typical. She normally forgot the contents of her dreams the moment she woke up. But the dark erotic images from last night remained disturbingly fresh, as did the lingering shivery feeling in the pit of her stomach that did not diminish with each subsequent flashback.
Get a grip, Zoe, she told herself. The man only comes here once in a blue moon, so grit your teeth and give him no opportunity to criticise.
‘You don’t have to like him.’ And you definitely don’t have to dream about him, she added silently as she rubbed a suggestion of a smudge off the surface of a mirrored bureau door with the sleeve of her sweater.
Catching sight of herself, she gave a horrified gasp. The house and grounds looked terrific but she didn’t!
Rushing out into the square marble-floored hallway, dominated by the graceful curving staircase that rose to the second floor and the glass dome above that flooded the space with light, Zoe couldn’t help glancing nervously at the big front door, her heart beating fast in reaction to the image in her head of it opening to reveal the master of the house. A shiver travelled the length of her spine before she shook her head, laughing.
Master?
‘Really, Zoe!’ She shook her head again, ignoring the fact her laugh this time had a breathless sound to it. Living with all this history was making her thoughts turn positively feudal, she decided, exiting through the door that led into a long winding inner hallway and in turn to the sturdy door that led outside into the quadrangle of outbuildings at the rear of the building.
She headed across the cobbled yard, past the rows of stone troughs filled with artistically arranged tumbling summer flowers, and up the stone steps that led to the flat above what had once been a coach house but now housed what was by all accounts an impressive collection of vintage sports cars.
Inside the flat she closed the door and leaned against it, relieved that he hadn’t put in an appearance while she was looking like a scarecrow. Walking across to the fitted cupboard that housed her clothes, she grimaced at her reflection in the full-length mirror inside the door. Not exactly the image of cool efficiency she was determined to exemplify.
Stripping down to her bra and pants, she folded her jeans. When the space was limited neatness was essential but fortunately she didn’t have many clothes, which made her choice of a suitable outfit pretty easy. Padding through the living room and through the twins’ bedroom into the en-suite, she popped her dusty top in the linen basket, then pinned her hair up before she stepped into the shower. Though she would have liked to wash her hair, it took an age to dry and she was short of time.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing a crisp white blouse, a pair of narrow-legged tailored black trousers and with her hair in a fat plait down her back, she slid her feet into a pair of sensible black leather loafers. She gave herself a critical once-over, bending at the knee to see the top of her head in the angled mirror. Resisting the temptation to jazz up the sombre outfit with a pink scarf dotted with orange roses, she slid a pair of gold hoops into her ears. The sound of them jingling brought a smile to her lips as she lifted her head, more confidence in her stride as she headed across the courtyard. She was determined to make up for the disastrous first impression she had made; she could do it.
She had to do it.
Her smile faded slightly as she approached the building, tensing as she heard a car in the distance, but the vehicle that drove through the arch was a delivery van from the local butcher’s. She started breathing again, delivering the silent advice, Cool it, Zoe, before she paused to thank one of the gardeners for donating a box full of the vegetables from the kitchen garden to the raffle the previous day, and admiring the magnificent lavender tumbling from a group of barrels.
‘The smell always makes me think of summer and at night it fills the flat,’ she told him, adding warmly, ‘The flowers you cut for the house were marvellous.’ She had spent a pleasant half-hour filling bowls in several of the rooms with the fragrant summer blooms.
He