The Italian's Christmas Housekeeper
Шрифт:
‘Oh, you men!’ Sarah Avery slunk back across the room to perch on a nearby chair, her bony knees clamped tightly together. ‘You’re all the same!’
Salvio managed not to wince, trying to steer the conversation onto a more neutral footing as he sipped his wine, though all he could think about was Molly hovering nervously in the background, the black dress clinging to her curvaceous figure and a stray strand of glossy brown hair dangling alluringly against her pink cheek. He cleared his throat. ‘How are you and your husband planning to spend Christmas?’ he questioned politely.
This was obviously the opportunity Sarah Avery had been waiting for and she let him have the answer in full, telling him how much Philip’s adult children hated her and blamed her for ending their parents’ marriage. ‘I mean, I certainly didn’t set out to get him, but I was his secretary and these things happen.’ She gave a helpless shrug. ‘Philip told me he couldn’t help falling in love with me. That no power on earth could have stopped it. How was I supposed to know his wife was pregnant at the time?’ She sipped a mouthful of wine, leaving a thin red stain above the line of her lip gloss. ‘I mean, I really don’t care if his wretched kids won’t see me—it’s Philip I’m concerned about—and I really think they need to be mindful of their inheritance. He’ll cut them off if they’re not careful!’
Salvio forced himself to endure several minutes more of her malicious chatter, his old-fashioned sensibilities outraged by her total lack of shame. But eventually he could stand no more and rose to his feet and, despite all her cajoling, she finally seemed to get the message that he was going to bed. Alone. Like a child, she pouted, but he paid her sulky expression no heed. He felt like someone who’d just been released from the cage of a prowling she-cat by the time he escaped to the quietness of the guest corridor and closed the door of his room behind him.
A sigh of relief left his lips as he looked around. A fire had been lit and red and golden lights from the flames were dancing across the walls. He’d been in these grand houses before and often found them unbearably cold, but this high-ceilinged room was deliciously warm. Over by the window was a polished antique cabinet on which stood an array of glittering crystal decanters, filled with liquor which glinted in the moonlight. He studied the walls, which were studded with paintings, including some beautiful landscapes by well-known artists. Salvio’s mouth twisted. It was ironic really. This house contained pictures which would have been given pride of place in a national gallery—yet a trip to the bathroom required a walk along an icy corridor, because the idea of en-suite was still an alien concept to some members of the aristocracy.
He yawned but didn’t go straight to bed, preferring to half pack his small suitcase so he was ready to leave first thing. Outside he could see dark clouds scudding across the sky and partially obscuring the moon, turning the churning ocean silver and black. It was stark and it was beautiful but he was unable to appreciate it because he was restless and didn’t know why.
Loosening his tie and undoing the top button of his shirt, Salvio braved the chilly corridor to the bathroom and was on his way back when he heard a sound from the floor above. A sound which at first he didn’t recognise. He stilled as he listened and there it was again. His eyes narrowed as he realised what it was. A faint gasp for breath, followed by a snuffle.
Someone was crying?
He told himself it was none of his business. He was leaving first thing and it made sense to go straight to bed. But something tugged at his... He frowned. His conscience? Because he knew that the person crying must be the little housekeeper? He didn’t question what made him start walking towards the sound and soon found himself mounting a narrow staircase at the far end of the corridor.
The sound grew louder. Definitely tears. His foot creaked on a step and an anxious voice called out.
‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me. Salvio.’
He heard footsteps scurrying across the room and as the door was pulled open, there stood Molly. She was still wearing her black uniform although she had taken down her hair and removed her sturdy shoes. It spilled over her shoulders in a glorious tumble which fell almost to her waist and Salvio was reminded of a painting he’d once seen of a woman sitting in a boat, with fear written all over her features. He could see fear now, in soft grey eyes which were rimmed with red. And suddenly all the lust he’d felt from the moment he’d set eyes on her was replaced by a powerful sense of compassion.
‘What’s happened?’ he demanded. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘Nothing’s happened and, no, I’m not hurt.’ Quickly, she blotted her cheeks with her fingertips. ‘Did you want something?’ she asked, a familiar note of duty creeping into her voice. ‘I hope... I mean, is everything in your room to your satisfaction, Signor De Gennaro?’
‘Everything in my room is fine and I thought I told you to call me Salvio,’ he said impatiently. ‘I want to know why you were crying.’
She shook her head. ‘I wasn’t crying.’
‘Yes, you were. You know damned well you were.’
An unexpected streak of defiance made her tilt her chin upwards. ‘Surely I’m allowed to cry in the privacy of my own room.’
‘And surely I’m allowed to ask why, if it’s keeping me awake.’
Her grey eyes widened. ‘Was it?’
He allowed himself the flicker of a smile. ‘Well, no—now you come to mention it. Not really. I hadn’t actually gone to bed but it’s not a sound anyone particularly wants to hear.’
‘That’s because nobody was supposed to. Look, I’m really sorry to have disturbed you, but I’m fine now. See.’ This time she gritted her teeth into a parody of a smile. ‘It won’t happen again.’
But Salvio’s interest was piqued and the fact that she was trying to get rid of him intrigued him. He glanced over her shoulder at her room, which was small. He hadn’t seen a bedroom that small for a long time. A narrow, unfriendly bed and thin drapes at the window, but very little else. Suddenly he became aware of the icy temperature—an observation which was reinforced by the almost imperceptible shiver she gave, despite the thickness of her black dress. He thought about the fire in his own bedroom with the blazing applewood logs which she must have lit herself.