The Billionaire's Housekeeper Mistress. Emma Darcy
with it, she would have walked out on day one when Lynda had stated she couldn’t have a PA called Daisy because she associated that name with a lowly cow. Dee-Dee sounded far more upmarket.
‘This is my PA, Ethan,’ Lynda continued in a dismissive tone. ‘No one you need to know.’
The snobbish remark apparently did not sit well with him. ‘On the contrary, should I do business with you, your PA may be my first point of contact,’ he countered, a hard glint in the green eyes.
‘Oh, very well then,’ Lynda conceded, realising he was going to persist and if she wanted him to butter her bread she had to toe his line. ‘Ethan Cartwright, Daisy Donohue.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Cartwright,’ Daisy rattled out, wanting only to escape back into the crowd.
He viewed her curiously, offering his hand as though sensing her desire to bolt and purposely delaying her. ‘Probably more of a pleasure for me to meet you, Daisy Donahue,’ he said, amusement dancing in his eyes.
Oh, sure! What fun! Big man condescending to the little brown cow, Daisy thought viciously as she took his hand to complete the polite formality. The flesh contact tingled hotly and his grip felt aggressively strong, pressing a dominant will that she fiercely rebelled against when he held onto her hand longer than polite formality required.
‘Please excuse me, Mr Cartwright. I don’t have time to dally. I’m needed elsewhere,’ she said firmly, tearing her gaze from the devilishly attractive green eyes and giving a subservient nod to Lynda Twiggley whose bad temper was probably already simmering at having an important conversation interrupted.
Apparently Ethan Cartwright had enough sensitivity to realise he might be causing her trouble and backed off, releasing her hand, though still smiling at her as though she pleased him, though why she would seemed totally perverse of him when the marquee was full of gorgeous women who would undoubtedly love his attention. She had brown hair, brown eyes and was wearing brown, conscious of keeping herself as insignificant as possible, not blotting one bit of the limelight her boss liked.
‘If you have a spare minute, place a bet on Midas Magic,’ he said on a parting note.
Put good money on a horse! Not in a million years! Daisy’s tongue lost its discipline. ‘Is that your best financial advice?’ she shot at him in fiery scorn for all he stood for.
He laughed, giving a breathtaking oomph to his sexual magnetism. ‘No, but it’s a good bet,’ he finally answered. ‘I bought him at the yearling sales this week, on excellent advice, and he has the bloodline and form to win the big race.’
Daisy recovered enough breath to coolly state, ‘I don’t gamble.’ She lied through her teeth as she added, ‘I wish you luck, Mr Cartwright,’ then turned her back on him to effect some fast distance from the troublesome encounter.
‘All of life is a gamble, Daisy Donahue,’ he floated after her.
Not for her it wasn’t, and no way was she going to acknowledge the comment by looking back at him.
They all had money to burn, these people. Having worked the past three months with Lynda Twiggley whose PR agency organised events for A-list socialites, Daisy was constantly amazed and scandalised by how much they spent on having a good time. The pre-Christmas parties had been unreal. The New Year’s revels, of course, had to be on a luxurious private yacht for the fireworks around Sydney Harbour to be viewed. Now anyone who was anyone was up on Queensland’s Gold Coast for the annual Magic Millions carnival—the first big horse-racing event on the calendar.
It had begun earlier this week with the yearling sales, the largest sale of thoroughbreds in Australia. No doubt Ethan Cartwright had paid an enormously extravagant amount for Midas Magic, and had been celebrating his successful bid ever since. There’d been a ball, a swag of cocktail parties, and today was the day to cap it all off, the third richest race day of the year with almost five million dollars in prize money. Daisy sourly hoped his horse would run last.
All of life should not be a gamble.
Some things should be secure. Like her parents’ home. If helping to make it secure meant staying in this rotten job, she would grit her teeth and do it, despite the severe heartburn it gave her.
Ethan had not been having a good time. He’d slipped away from the gaggle of women whose frivolous chatter bored him and then been cornered by Lynda Twiggley who was bent on getting him to handle her investments, which was even more boring and distasteful since this carnival was supposed to be fun, not work. The PR specialist had certainly not been using her expertise on him—far too irritatingly pushy—and her manner towards her assistant had bordered on contemptible.
Daisy Donahue…
Now there was a woman who did interest him—the little brown sparrow amongst all the glitzy parrots, playing the meek servant when there wasn’t a meek bone in her body. A pocket dynamo, blasting so much hostile energy at him, it had instantly sparked the urge to engage her in battle. Not that he could, given the unfair circumstances of him being a guest and her being a worker under the eyes of her disapproving employer.
I don’t gamble…
Containing herself in such a tight mentality, not running any risks whatsoever, probably had her exploding inside. Ethan found himself thinking he would enjoy liberating her, finding out what she would be like if all that burning passion was released. One thing was certain. Daisy Donahue did not have a frivolous personality. And she wasn’t boring, either, he added as he suffered Lynda Twiggley claiming his attention again.
‘As I was saying before Dee-Dee interrupted…’
Dee-Dee…what a silly name to give to a person who had so much innate dignity! It also showed a lack of respect for her, which had been obvious in how this unbelievably arrogant woman had dealt with Daisy. Ethan held the firm belief that everyone deserved to be treated with respect, regardless of their position in life. He wondered why Daisy put up with it, then realised that in these tough economic times, she was not about to risk being out of work.
He gave Lynda Twiggley five more minutes so she wouldn’t blame her PA for cutting her business short, then excused himself, saying, ‘I already have a very full client list, Lynda, but I’ll check if I can fit you in when I get back to my office.’ He nodded towards his best friend who was chatting up one of the top-line models. ‘Mickey Bourke told me we should talk to the jockey before the big race and it’s time I went and collected him.’
‘Oh!’ Her face fell in disappointment before she summoned up a big parting smile. ‘I’ll go straight away and place a bet on Midas Magic.’
He didn’t care if she did or not. He just wanted to get away from her. Mickey had talked him into this horse business, insisting he needed some outside interest to lighten up his life and get him into the social whirl again after his grim disillusionment with his ex-fiancée. A bit of fun, Mickey had argued, especially if Ethan was off women.
According to his friend, there was nothing better than the rush of excitement one felt when watching your horse win a big race. Ethan had yet to feel it. Though Mickey should know. His father was one of the most successful thoroughbred trainers in Australia.
Mickey had been born and bred to the horse business. Even at school he would organise sweeps for the Melbourne Cup—strictly against the rules but he always got away with it. He’d been the livewire in their class—bright, witty, charming—a golden boy with his sun-bleached streaky blond hair and sparkling blue eyes. A natural athlete, too, which was one thing they did have in common, along with their tall, powerful physiques.
Everyone liked Mickey. He was always amusing company. Why he’d chosen to attach himself to Ethan—the quiet, intense student, and his fiercest competitor on the playing fields—had seemed weirdly perverse of him until Mickey had explained.
‘No bullshit, okay? I’ll give it to you straight. In the quality stakes you’re a top-notch contender and I’m naturally drawn to quality. I enjoy the way you think and the way you do things.