The Italian's Christmas Housekeeper. Sharon Kendrick
of turning down their beds at night or offering them a home-made scone. Politicians who worked with Lord Avery in the Palace of Westminster, and famous actors who spouted Shakespearean sonnets from the stages of London’s theatres. There were business people, too—and sometimes even members of the royal family, whose bodyguards lurked around the kitchen and kept asking for cups of tea.
But Molly had never heard Lady Avery make such a fuss about anyone as she’d done about the impending arrival of Salvio De Gennaro, who was apparently some hotshot property developer who lived mostly in London. Earlier that day she had been summoned into her boss’s office, where the walls were decked with misty photos of Lady Avery wearing pearls and a dreamy expression, in those far-off days before she’d decided to have a load of extensive work done on her face. A bad idea, in Molly’s opinion—though of course she would never have said so. Lady Avery’s plump lips had been coated in a startling shade of pink and her expression had been unnaturally smooth as she’d gazed at Molly. Only the hectic flicker in her pale eyes had hinted how excited she was by the impending visit of the Italian tycoon.
‘Everything is prepared for our guest’s arrival?’ The words were clipped out like tiny beads of crystal.
‘Yes, Lady Avery.’
‘Make sure that Signor De Gennaro’s bed linen is scented with lavender, will you?’ continued her boss. ‘And be sure to use the monogrammed sheets.’
‘Yes, Lady Avery.’
‘In fact...’ A thoughtful pause had followed. ‘Perhaps you’d better go into town and buy a new duvet.’
‘What, now, Your Ladyship?’
‘Yes. Right now.’ A varnished scarlet fingernail began tracing a circle on the sheet of blotting paper on the desk and an odd, trembling note had crept into her employer’s aristocratic voice. ‘We don’t want Signor De Gennaro complaining about the cold, do we?’
‘We certainly don’t, Lady Avery.’
The last-minute purchase of the new duvet had been the reason why Molly hadn’t been on hand to greet the Italian tycoon when he’d arrived. And when she’d returned from her shopping expedition—gasping under the bulky dimensions of a high-tog goose-down duvet—there had been no sign of him. Only his open suitcase and a few clothes strewn around his room indicated he was somewhere in the vicinity, although he was nowhere to be seen in the house. Which at least meant Molly had been able to make up his bed in peace—though her heart had started racing when she’d spotted the faded denims slung carelessly over a stool. And when she’d picked up the dark sweater which lay crumpled beside it, she had been startled by the softness of the cashmere as she’d automatically started to fold it. Briefly, her fingertips had caressed the fine wool before she had taken herself downstairs for tea and some restorative cake and she was just on her third mouthful when the kitchen door opened then slammed shut with a rush of icy air and Molly looked up to see a man framed in the doorway who could only be the Italian billionaire.
Her heart crashed against her ribcage.
The most perfect man she could have imagined.
Her mouth opened slightly but she clamped it shut and the chocolate fudge cake she’d been eating suddenly tasted like glue against the roof of her mouth.
Mud-spattered and windswept, he was standing perfectly still—his singlet and shorts surely the craziest choice of clothes he could have selected for the bitter winter day, although a fleecy top was knotted around his narrow hips. His olive skin was silky-smooth and his body was... Molly tried not to shake her head in disbelief but it took some doing, because his body was sensational—and she was certainly not the kind of woman who spent her time analysing men’s bodies. In fact, her interest had never really been sparked by anyone.
Until now.
She swallowed, the cake she was holding suddenly forgotten. It took a lot for Molly to disregard the sugar craving which had always been the bane of her life, but she forgot it now. Because she’d never seen a man like this. Not someone with a rocky torso against which his wet top clung to every sinew, as if it had been painted on with a fine-tipped brush. Nor such narrow hips and sculpted thighs whose glorious flesh was exposed by the shorts he seemed to wear so comfortably. Her eyes moved up to his face. To eyes as black as one of those moonless nights when you couldn’t ever imagine seeing daylight again. And his lips. Molly swallowed again. Oh, those lips. Sensual and full, they were hard and unsmiling as they looked at her with something it took a moment for her to recognise. Was it...disdain? Her heart pounded uncomfortably. Yes, of course it was. Men with whiplike bodies which didn’t carry an ounce of extra weight would be unlikely to approve of an overabundant female who was bulging out of her ugly uniform and stuffing a great big fix of carbohydrate into her mouth.
Flushing to the roots of her hair, she put down the half-eaten cake and rose to her feet, wondering why the ground beneath them suddenly felt as if it were shifting, the way she’d always imagined standing on quicksand might feel. ‘I’m...’ She blinked at him before trying again. ‘I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone...’
His voice was sardonic as his gaze met hers for one heart-stopping moment, before dropping briefly to the crumb-laden plate. ‘Clearly not.’
‘You must be...’ A dark angel who has suddenly fallen into my kitchen? The most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen? Her chest felt tight. ‘You must be Signor De Gennaro?’
‘Indeed I am. Forgive me.’ Jet eyebrows were raised as he unknotted the warm top from his hips and pulled it over his head before shaking out his damp, dark curls. ‘I seem to have disturbed your snack.’
Her snack? Although his English was faultless, his richly accented voice was nearly as distracting as his body and Molly opened her mouth to say it was actually a late lunch because she’d been rushing around all morning preparing for his arrival, but something stopped her. As if someone like Salvio De Gennaro would be interested in her defence! As if he would believe her making out she was a stranger to cake when her curvy body told an entirely different story. Smoothing her uniform down over her generous hips, she tried to adopt an expression of professional interest, rather than the shame of being caught out doing something she shouldn’t. And he was still staring at her. Making her aware of every pulsing atom of her body in a way which was making her feel extremely self-conscious...but strangely enough, in a good way.
‘Can I get you anything, Signor De Gennaro?’ she questioned politely. ‘I’m afraid Lord and Lady Avery have gone to the village pantomime and won’t be back until later.’
‘I know,’ he said coolly. ‘Perhaps some water. And a coffee, if you have one.’
‘Of course. How do you take your coffee?’
He flickered her a smile. ‘Black, short, no sugar. Grazie.’
Of course not, thought Molly. No sugar for someone like him. He looked as if he’d never been near anything sweet in his life. She wished he’d go. Before he noticed that her brow had grown clammy, or that her nipples had started to push distractingly against the unflattering navy-blue uniform Lady Avery insisted she wore. ‘I’ll do that right away,’ she said briskly. ‘And bring them up to your room.’
‘No need for that. I’ll wait here,’ he said.
She wanted to tell him he was making her feel awkward by standing there, like some kind of brooding, dark statue—just staring at her. As if he had read her thoughts, he strolled over towards the window and she became aware of an almost imperceptible limp in his right leg. Had he injured himself when out running and should she ask him whether he needed a bandage or something? Perhaps not. Someone with his confidence would be bound to ask for one.
She could feel a stray strand of hair tickling the back of her neck and wished she’d had time to fix it. Or had been sitting reading some novel which might have made her look interesting, instead of scoffing cake and emphasising the fact that she was heavy and ungainly.
‘I’ll try to be as quick as I can,’