His Housekeeper Bride

His Housekeeper Bride Melissa James His Housekeeper Bride Melissa James www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) Table of Contents Cover Page (#u01120c96-0def-54c2-9d1f-738030c10d69) Title Page (#uee640b95-1469-5fc5-8a0d-e3ee881d87be) Dear Reader (#u8c41bc44-affe-59c0-9dc8-3296296e6f8e) Dedication (#uff8fcddb-5b94-57e1-9679-8fc0ef4b3aef) Prologue (#u0bc56974-311a-585e-b994-d78528590e4b) Chapter One (#ue0f1433a-4e92-5db3-beba-2452d1371a4b) Chapter Two (#ufb62ad48-83d8-510c-a24a-4ad5f1a15f46) Chapter Three (#ub1a3f184-378c-58f4-bf0f-b1a4e14c8606) Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) Dear Reader This book has been very near to my heart since I wrote it—first draft in 1997. In the writing of this Cinderella story, Mark and Sylvie became very special characters. In fact, for me, 2009 has been a year of releases for beloved characters: Jazmine, Charlie, Lia and Toby, and now Mark and Sylvie. I am so happy they finally found a home where I originally intended them to be all those years ago—at Mills & Boon Romance. I hope as you read about them they become beloved to you, as well, and find a place on your keeper shelf. Happy reading! Melissa To the woman who inspired this book with an extraordinary life: I am privileged to be your friend. You raised a family from the age of eight, survived the worst horror a young girl can imagine, and yet you’re constantly giving. You have no idea how special you are. To Vicky, a woman of true giving, strength and compassion: you don’t even know how you inspire others as you do what needs to be done. To my beloved Mia: thank you for loving these characters, and never giving up on this book. My friend, my sister, we’re always a continent apart, yet our friendship goes from strength to strength. Remember you are never as others define you; you are what your heart is, loving and giving. My deepest thanks go to my dear friends and CPs Robbie, Barb and Rachel, particularly Rachel, for showing me where and when I wandered off track, and Barb, for taking the time to read for me while on retreat. Special thanks to Nikki for reading at short notice. I thank you all. PROLOGUE St Agatha’s Hospice, Sydney, fifteen years ago THERE she was again, standing just outside the window, giving him her sweet smile, her little encouraging wave. His friend with the sunny redgold curls, big brown eyes and brave, dimpled smile that made her look like Shirley Temple. She was in the copse of trees and flowering shrubs in the middle of the hospice that she called the garden. The secret garden, she called it—named for her favourite book, which she read over and over to herself, as well as to her little brothers. It was her escape from a reality and a future even grimmer than his. She was his escape. They’d met only in the confines of this hospital during the times her mother’s and Chloe’s hospitalisations coincided, yet she saw, understood him, as his family no longer did. Sometimes he felt as if he was standing in a black and blinkered place, screaming for help, but surrounded by people who saw only Chloe’s needs, who were tuned only to Chloe’s voice. Except for this thirteen-year-old girl who knew almost nothing about his life—a girl he never saw unless he was here. ‘Shirley Temple’ was his light and warmth in a dark, cold world, his colour and life. Everything had faded to black or white except for her. Mark waved back at her, letting her know he’d join her soon. Their brief exchanges of maybe twenty minutes made her day bearable, just as they did his. They talked, or didn’t talk; it didn’t matter. It was the only time in the day when she wasn’t playing the adult, and when he actually felt like the kid he still was. He glanced briefly back inside the room, but everything in there was a blur of white, a deathly shade of pale. The blankets, the walls, the gown Chloe wore, her face—even the blue oxygen tube going into Chloe’s nostrils—had somehow faded into the pale thinness of her. Beneath her knitted pink cap her hair was in a plait, roped over her shoulder, thin and dull. Even shining with lipgloss her mouth looked defeated, transparent. Her eyes were like a delicate cobweb on a winter morning, rimed with frost. Broken with a touch. She was sixteen, and she was dying…. He was seventeen, and he was watching his best friend die—just as he’d been watching it for five endless years. Chloe had turned from childhood pal to his lover and bride of four weeks, and, watching her, he wanted to scream, to punch holes in the walls, to bolt as far away from this place as he could. Oh, help—that sounded so selfish when he’d loved her almost all his life! But part of him felt as if he’d begun to die too when she’d got cancer, or as if he was chained to a cage: he wasn’t in the cage but he couldn’t fly away, either—and the only person who understood how he felt was a thirteen-year-old kid. Carrie and Jen would be here in five or ten minutes. Chloe’s best friends came every day after school, to tell them who was dating who, who’d broken up with who, and how ugly it had got. About the fight between Joe Morrow and Luke Martinez over who’d lost the opening game of the football season, and ‘—don’t choke—Principal Buckley is getting married—like, at forty. How gross is that? He’s so old.’ When Carrie and Jen came, Mark took off for a while. It was his time to breathe, to be. Chloe would fill him in on the Big News after. It gave them something to talk about. Waiting for his escape time, he let his gaze touch all the reminders of life and normality. There was the massive Get Well card—as if she had a choice—signed by the whole school—even old Buckley and Miss Dragon-face Martin; the flowers-and-hearts and stick-figure finger paintings by Katie, his six-year-old sister, and Jon, Chloe’s eight-year-old brother; the flowers his other sisters Bren and Becky picked for Chloe every day… There was also a photo of Chloe, Jen and Carrie in a group hug, from when their school year had gone to the Snowy Mountains. Clear-skinned, tanned and laughing, Chloe looked so beautiful and healthy—as if nothing could hurt her. He remembered her smell that day. Like wind and sunshine and smiles. To her, it had been as if taking a six-hour trip on a bus was Everest and she’d conquered it. It was the last time she’d gone out with her class. As he stood by the bed he kept trying to calculate when he’d last had a day not spent in hospital, or at a doctor’s office or thinking about illness and death. It was all a blur—as if he was a slow car stuck on a fast freeway. Everyone else around him rushed and flew, while he chugged along, unable to go faster. Just waiting. It was a sunny day outside, a soft spring afternoon, perfect for testing the capabilities of his new motorised go-cart. But he was stuck in this room, watching the life drain out of Chloe, and there was nothing he could do about it. ‘Prof…? Prof?’ The pain lacing her voice tore at his guts, but Mark couldn’t make his head lift. The girl in the bed—strained, so thin, the hollows beneath her eyes the biggest and most colourful part of her—wasn’t his best friend. This girl had given up. Secondary cancer had gone from her bones to her lungs, and finally her brain. It was over—apart from the endless waiting. ‘Come on, Prof, look at me.’ Chloe’s thready voice gained strength by that hard-headed will of hers—the same will that had talked him into playing with her when they were four and he’d hated girls. The same stubborn faith that had made her believe he’d marry her one day—she’d been saying it since they were five—and had seen her become his research partner in the inventions he made in his backyard workshop. The same adorable persistence that had given him acceptance at school when the other kids had thought his flow of ideas strange and stupid. Because Chloe had believed in him, because beautiful, popular Chloe Hucknall had said she was going to marry Mark Hannaford, he’d become part of the inner circle. ‘I know you hate looking at me now, but I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.’ He didn’t hate it—or her—but he hated what she was about to ask, what he knew she’d say. Because she’d been asking the same thing for days—for weeks now. He felt like a sleepwalker bumping into the same wall over and over. He’d turned seventeen five weeks ago. Last time he’d looked he’d been twelve, asking what osteosarcoma was and when was Chloe getting better, because he had this massive idea he needed to work on with her. Then the days and years had become like potatoes under a masher. Though he’d gone to school and found a part-time job, got his learner’s permit and his driver’s licence, had worked hard and passed all his exams, created things for her to marvel at or give ideas for improvement, this place, this pain, was all that was real. ‘Mark—please. I need you.’ I need you. The words he’d answered from the time she’d roped him into fixing her Barbie doll after Milo Brasevic had ripped its head off. He felt encased in darkness, with dark shutters fallen over his soul, yet he made himself look at her, and from somewhere deep inside he even forced a smile. It felt weak and hollow, but he managed it—for her, his best friend, the girl he’d loved ever since he could remember. ‘Yeah? Whaddya want, Slowy?’ Mark and Chloe—the Mad Professor and Slowy. Always had been, always would be. Chloe’s answering grin was weak, but her thin, pale face was radiant with the love she’d never tried to deny in all the years they’d known each other. ‘You didn’t promise yet, George.’ For no reason he’d ever known, she called him George when she was trying to be funny. ‘I swear, I won’t die until you promise,’ she joked, her eyes glistening with tears of cheated wishing for all the years they’d never have together. ‘Then I’ll never do it,’ he replied huskily. Chloe stopped smiling. ‘Stop it, Mark. It doesn’t help—and I’m so tired. I know you’re not gonna do so well without me, but you have to promise…’ She closed her eyes, but the tears kept squeezing through. ‘Don’t spend all your time going for a scholarship, or hanging out in your shed alone with your inventions. You—you have to find another girl to love when you grow up, have kids…’ What was he supposed to say to that? Yes, dear? He knew how much it cost her to keep on asking day after day, because he couldn’t stand to think of another guy touching her even if he’d been the one lying in that hospital bed. Chloe was dying, and he had to live the rest of his life without her. The bile rose hard and hot and fast, like a burning catapult. He turned and stumbled out of the ward—he wasn’t going make it to the bathroom. He made it outside the swinging doors, past the metal garbage can, and ran through the first door—the one leading to the tiny walled-in garden—before the sickness hit. His hands and legs shook so badly he couldn’t make his knees or his feet work. His breathing hurt, and there was a burning pain all the way up his chest and throat—but it was better than going back and having Chloe see him like this. He knew that she’d try to force him to give the promise—or get their parents to talk to him again. Give her the promise, Mark. Do it for Chloe. The same words he’d been responding to for five years—from going with her to her specialist appointments, to going back to school, to marrying her in a hasty backyard ceremony a few weeks ago. Sometimes he just wished he’d had a choice to make. He’d like to know he’d have done all he had without the family’s persuasive tactics. ‘Here,’ came a sweet, piping voice from behind him. Mark’s voice was croaky as he realised she was there. ‘Hey, Shirley Temple.’ He liked calling her that as much as he liked the fact that she never used his name. If they didn’t say Mark and Mary this wasn’t real, it wasn’t happening to them…and without names their shared time seemed a harmless dream, far from grim reality. She was holding out a wet flannel to him. Crouching on the path beside him, she seemed luminous as the sun dipped behind the wire fencing at the end of the garden and framed her reddishblonde curls. He knew those big fox-brown eyes of hers would be filled with the silent understanding only she could give. ‘Put it on your face and your neck. It helps take the burning away.’ He took the cloth and wiped his face and throat. The pain eased a little. ‘Thanks.’ ‘Keep it there.’ She handed him a glass of water. ‘Sip it slow.’ He nodded and sipped, and it eased the pain a little more. He felt it again—the unspoken connection. This pale, tired girl, looking so young until you looked in her eyes, felt like his only ally in a war he hadn’t signed up to fight. ‘Thanks.’ ‘You’re welcome.’ She reached out and touched his hand. He could feel her hand shaking, could see her corkscrew curls bobbing with the effort to stay steady. ‘Bad day?’ he asked quietly. She gave him a smile that wobbled. ‘The doctor told us to say goodbye. Mum told me to be a brave girl and look after the boys.’ Oh, God help him. God help them both in what they had to face when they left here. ‘Want to hit something with me?’he asked, to see what she’d do. Maybe she needed to lash out, to scream or yell, do something to let her suffering out. She gave a gulping laugh, then two fat tears welled in her eyes. ‘I have to set a good example for the boys.’ Her slight body began to shake and lurch forward. ‘Come here.’ He held the trembling girl in his arms, feeling safe, at peace. She lived inside a similar cage to his, and she wasn’t asking anything from him but to hold her, to understand. Weird how a girl barely out of childhood could become his only haven…even weirder how he’d become hers, too. But he sure couldn’t seem to make anyone else happy. When she lay still against him, the only sound her hiccupping now and then, he wiped her tears with the cloth she’d brought for him. ‘Hey, you want a drink or something?’ A soft, catching double breath told him she hadn’t heard. Probably she’d spent the night caring for her youngest brother, who had croup. Nobody knew the Brown family’s story, for none of them talked about themselves. They all knew ‘Shirley Temple’ was the oldest of four kids. Local gossip said that Mrs Brown shouldn’t have had the last of her children because she was too sick; she had something wrong with her heart that could threaten her life. She’d had him three years ago by C-section, and had been slowly dying since then, her heart too weak to pump. She’d been on the list for a transplant, but when one had finally come she’d been too sick for the operation. So while Mr Brown was crying over the imminent loss of his wife, Shirley Temple was caring for the needs of her little brothers. It was the scandal of the hospital, but the girl did it all with a serene, defiant smile, neither complaining nor welcoming any sympathy. Social workers had come and gone, amazed by the strength of this girl who played a mother’s part with seeming ease, refusing to admit she needed any help from the networks. But she had to sleep some time…someone had to let her sleep. Poor kid. His back was aching from sitting up unsupported. Holding her awkwardly in his arms, he wriggled back until he found the trunk of a big, thick old pine tree in the centre of the garden. He rested against it and closed his eyes, feeling a deep sense of life and hope emanating from her. Peace enveloped him. ‘Mary! Mary!’ The panicked bellow woke them both with a start. Mark peered around the darkening garden with bleary eyes. The last thing he’d remembered was yawning. Now the sun was behind the western wall. Dusk had come and was almost gone. ‘Mary!’ ‘Shirley Temple’ jumped in his arms; Mark let her go, and she scrambled to her feet, rubbing her eyes, still swaying with tiredness. ‘Da-Dad?’ A man was peering out of the slide-up aluminium window on the opposite ward to Chloe’s. He had that poleaxed look of grief that Mark had seen on too many faces in the past few years. ‘She’s gone.’ He didn’t even seem to notice that a strange boy was standing beside his daughter, had been holding her in his arms. ‘She’s gone, Mary.’ A child’s cough and a wail came from inside the room behind him. Mark watched ‘Shirley Temple’—Mary—sway again, her lip tremble and her eyes blink. He waited for the tears to come. Then she squared her shoulders. ‘I’m coming.’ Mark turned to stare at Mary’s father. In disbelief he saw the man’s face crumple with relief. ‘You’re my good girl…’ He withdrew from the window. Mark watched Mary walk away with a poise that seemed totally wrong. She was thirteen and she’d just lost her mother. How could she be so—so calm? ‘Mary?’ he said, using her real name for the first time. Mary turned her head, looking over her shoulder at him. In that moment he saw not the girl but the woman she would become. No: there was a woman already inside her—a person of more courage and strength than he’d ever have. Her eyes were open windows to a beautiful soul—and Mark grieved for the maturing of this girl to a woman he’d want to know. Because this was the last moment he’d have with her. She was leaving—going to that unbearable future without him. ‘Will you be—all right?’ Inadequate words for all he wanted to say. Her bottom lip was sucked under the top one, and tears were falling down her cheeks, but the delicate body was tight and straight. He saw the contours of her body in the silhouette of shadowy lights against the wall, the last light of the falling sun, and for the first time he saw a girl poised on the brink of womanhood. It was a reaction as physical as it was emotional, and guilt pierced him that he could even think that way when Chloe was in the room behind him, dying…. ‘I promised,’ Mary said simply. ‘Goodbye, Mark. I have to go now.’ And then she was gone. Mark stood in the garden until darkness filled it. Then he walked back into the ward, to Chloe’s room. The entire family was there, and each of them had identical expressions of grief and accusation on their faces as they looked at him—even Katie and Jon. The tense, exhausted look on Chloe’s thin face broke him. It was obvious she’d spent most of the afternoon fighting her wasting body, summoning up all her reserves of courage and strength to continue her quest for his promise. It meant that much to her to believe that one day he’d find happiness again. He waved the family out with the cold fierceness that was starting to feel like a second skin over his heart and soul. ‘I’ll do it,’ was all he said when they were alone. Those cobweb-delicate eyes slowly closed; her face relaxed. She brought his hand to her cheek—the hand that had for four weeks borne his ring. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered, and drifted back into a ghost-like sleep, releasing his hand as her body unwound like a coil with its pressure released. Mark’s hand moved over her limp hair. Even now Chloe was beautiful, yet all he could see at this moment was the face of the girl who’d just left him behind. Perhaps because he saw a mirror of Mary’s reflection in Chloe’s acceptance of death, the dignity, grace and courage to say goodbye, to make a promise and keep it. Filled with hatred at the thought of what he’d promised, Mark clenched his free fist and sat on the chair beside his wife’s bed, watching her face. Waiting again…and already missing his only friend. CHAPTER ONE Office of the CEO, Howlcat Industries, Sydney Harbour, the present day ‘WHY, Bren? Why the—?’ Mark skidded to a mental halt, remembering his three-year-old niece was sitting on his lap. Shelby was prone to repeat anything he said and then bat her long golden eyelashes at her father when she got in trouble for it, saying, ‘But Unca Mark says it.’ He amended his words. ‘You think she’ll do, so why do I have to interview this woman? She’s a housekeeper. I have better things to do with my time than—’ Brenda Compton, n?e Hannaford, pulled her thick dark-blonde hair back off her face and fanned her neck, but grinned at Mark’s careful pruning of his language. ‘Well, of course, if you want me to conduct the interviews for you, find another…um…suitable woman…’ He set his jaw at the reminder. He might be CEO of Howlcat Industries, Australia’s most successful engineering firm, in total control of the company he’d built from the ground up—but at home he had too many reminders of his humanity. His family knew him well, as no one else did—his hidden weaknesses, the way he spaced out when caught by an idea… And they never failed to reminder him of the promise he still hadn’t kept. But why had Bren chosen now, today, to make that reminder, to find him another suitable woman? Today was his wedding anniversary. In six weeks it would be the anniversary of the day he’d become a widower. His mother and his sisters had interviewed every housekeeper he’d ever hired. Before he gave them a contract he had them vetted by the best security firms in the country, and he paid them well. He also forced them to sign a confidentiality clause. None of his precautions had stopped his employees selling their story about him to the tabloids, or bringing along their daughters or nieces, who happened to be pretty and single and, who’d love to be taken out on the town, marry a multi-millionaire and give him the family and kids his parents and sisters so romantically believed was in his future. Today was a reminder that he’d never risk his heart and soul again. He’d never risk becoming a person so lost in grief that he’d almost— Grimly he blocked out the memory, and answered Bren. ‘I’ll interview her myself…but she can wait in the outer office until I’m da—good and ready.’ Bren grinned and pretended to bow to him—which earned her a paper bird tossed in her hair. He often made origami when he was thinking up the dimensions of new inventions, needing to keep his hands busy while his mind worked. His family were the only ones who could get away with any kind of irreverence with him. Everyone else was too afraid of his cool sarcasm. ‘Heart of Ice’ was his nickname in the press, and he was happy to keep it that way. It kept the nice women away from him—and fame-and-fortune-hunters deserved all they got—which was nothing but an occasional good time and their faces in the glossies. ‘What’s da—good, Unca Mark?’ Shelby’s big bright eyes were alight with curiosity. He grinned down at his niece and pulled her ponytail, until she mock-shrieked and tugged hard at his nose. ‘It means really, really good.’ ‘Okay,’ Shelby replied, her face thoughtful. She knew he’d covered the truth and was trying to work out what he’d been about to say. She was a Hannaford, all right. Bren got to her feet, rubbing her very pregnant belly. ‘I’ll tell Sylvie to wait. You’ll pick me up tonight? Glenn felt so bad about asking, but since his trip is for Howlcat—’ He smiled, soft as he only ever was with his family, and handed Shelby to her mother. ‘Can it, Bren. I can handle a couple of Lamaze classes as long as you introduce me as—’ His sister rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, yeah—as if calling you George is going to fool anyone when your face is in the papers every week.’ ‘Not every week,’ he retorted mildly. He liked being called George every now and then. It made him smile. She’d been waiting almost an hour. Sylvie Browning smiled to herself. If he expected her to be put off or storm off he’d be disappointed. In the initial interview his sister Brenda had warned her that meeting her prospective employer would be no picnic. Mark Hannaford was hard-edged and cold, and he didn’t like his routine or privacy challenged—he had no use for women, apart from the obvious. That was why she was here. She had a fifteen-year-old promise to keep. After ninety minutes, the fanatically neat secretary rose to her feet, and said, ‘Mr Hannaford will see you now.’ The older woman showed Sylvie in through the massive oak double doors, opulent without ostentation. ‘Ms Browning to see you, sir.’ Then she closed the doors behind her. Feeling the nervous grin stretching her face—she always laughed or joked through stress, and this was a tremendous moment—Sylvie walked on low-polished floorboards and for a few moments looked anywhere but at the CEO of Howlcat Industries. There was a soft blue and grey scatter rug on the floor. Pictures of the harbour and the Blue Mountains lined the walls, comfortable in their places. What a lovely office, she thought to herself. It suits— ‘No. No.’ She blinked, and focussed on the sole occupant of the office. ‘I beg your pardon?’ she said softly, putting her hand out to him. With the golden-brown hair and eyes, the lithe, athletic male body obvious even beneath the designer suit, she recognised him at once…But then, what Aussie wouldn’t knowhim? Hewas one of the most famous men in the country. He hadn’t inherited his empire, but pulled himself up by the bootstraps to this level of success by sheer brilliance. Inventor and lone wolf—tagged ‘Heart of Ice’ because no woman had ever come close to him. Only his family—and she—knew better than that. But at the moment he was living up to his reputation. He didn’t stand to shake her hand, didn’t touch her. His eyes were frozen as he said, with chilling clarity, ‘I said, no. If you’re Sylvia Browning, you are not being offered the position of housekeeper.’ Unfazed, she lifted her brows. This, too, she’d expected. She would change his attitude soon enough. She’d done it before, and she’d do it again. ‘I know I look young, but I’m twenty-eight.’ Eyes filled with scepticism roamed her face. ‘Twenty at the oldest. No.’ Since it was obvious he wasn’t going to observe the most basic of social niceties, she dropped her hand and sat in the chair facing his desk. She rummaged in her handbag, pulled out her wallet and handed him the driver’s licence and birth certificate from her CV packet. He read them in silence, and handed them back without changing expression. ‘Your age changes nothing, Ms Browning.’ ‘I was under the impression it changed everything.’ Her gently amused tone seemed to perturb him, for he frowned at her. ‘Don’t be impertinent.’ ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Hannaford,’ she said gravely, but her telltale dimple quivered—she had only one, in her right cheek. Her brothers swore it gave her away when she was teasing. ‘But, since you are not employing me, I’m free to be as impertinent as I like.’ His face stilled, then his mouth moved in a half-smile, slow as a rusted gate. ‘Touch?, Ms Browning.’ Sylvie grinned at him, rose to her feet, and again put her hand out to his. ‘It was nice meeting you, Mr Hannaford. I hope you find a housekeeper of the right age and appearance for you.’ Her heart raced so fast she could barely keep up to breathe. Would it work? He stood, too, but was still frowning. ‘You’re not going to try and convince me to give you the position?’ he asked abruptly, again not taking her hand. Her heart kicked up yet another notch—yes, there was the faintest tone of challenge there, as well as surprise. She made herself shrug. ‘What’s the point? I can cook and clean—but you don’t care about that. I can make a home for you—but that isn’t why you rejected me. I can only grow older in time, and I can’t change the way I look.’ ‘There’s nothing wrong with the way you look.’ His tone was still abrupt, but again something faint beneath it made her breath catch and her pulse move up a touch. ‘Thank you,’ she said as she turned towards the doors. ‘I like to think I’m not totally repulsive.’ ‘You have to know you’re a pretty woman.’ But the comment was so far removed from a compliment—almost an insult in the hardness of his voice—that she didn’t thank him. ‘Are the curls natural?’ he asked as he followed her to the door—he was actually coming with her. She wanted to rejoice. Yes, she’d intrigued him. ‘Yes, they are.’ The answer was rueful. She touched the tumbling dark auburn curls escaping from her attempt at a chignon and looked up at him…really up. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. ‘Any attempt to straighten them only makes them frizz. Combine that with freckles, being only five-one and size eight, and I have to put up with everyone thinking I’m sixteen.’ She’d used the number deliberately, to see how he’d react. It was why she was here—why she’d come on this particular day—and she might as well start now. His mouth tightened, but he only nodded. Then he frowned again, as if the number had triggered something inside him. ‘Pardon me, Ms Browning, but I’m having the strangest sense of d?j?-vu. Have we met?’ He’d remembered! She nodded, with a grin that felt silly on her face. He remembered her…‘For years I’ve wanted to thank you for all you did for my family. You’ll never know what it meant to us—giving us the house, setting up the trust fund to send Simon to medical school, Joel to university, Drew to engineering college. When I found out this job was for you, it seemed a good chance to meet you again and thank you.’ For the first time he looked in her eyes, and she saw the change as he took in the face, the curls, and emotion dawned in him—recognition. ‘Shirley Temple?’ With his low growl, it was as if deep winter broke, giving way to a reluctant spring, and the warm-hearted boy she’d known when she was a girl peeked at her from beneath the frozen heart of the famous man. ‘I go by Sylvie now.’ For the third time she put her hand out, hoping he’d take it. She needed to know if the illusion she’d held for so many years would crumble under the force of reality—if she’d shrink or find him as terrifying as every other man she’d met since she turned fifteen. ‘Sylvie?’ His voice was deeper, rougher than she remembered it, but a warm shiver still ran through her. ‘But your name’s Mary Brown.’ ‘It’s Mary Sylvia, actually, and we—the boys and I—liked Browning better. It was less common—especially for me, with a name like Mary.’ Feeling embarrassed by the admission, she shrugged. ‘I changed my name by deed poll, and the boys did the same.’ She’d never tell him why she’d done it, or why the boys had followed her lead without hesitation. Although none of them had changed their first names, as well, as she had…. ‘Then Joel must have changed his only a few months ago.’ He knows how old we all are. He’s kept up with us. The knowledge that he cared enough to know them, even from a physical and emotional distance, made her feel—feel— Just feel. He hadn’t forgotten her—as she’d never forgotten him. Looking dazed, he put his hand in hers just as she was about to drop it. ‘Look at you. You’re all grown up.’ ‘So are you.’ Her voice was breathless—but how could she help it? He was touching her again…and for the first time since she was fifteen a man’s touch didn’t repulse or terrify her. She felt warm and safe—and, given what her life had been, those feelings were as precious as gold to her. From the first time she’d seen him at the hospital, when she’d been only eight, the prince of her fairytale dreams had changed from blackhaired to dark blonde, from blue-eyed to golden-brown. Every time she’d met him after that, though months had passed, she’d felt the connection deepen, and when he’d held her in his arms and let her sleep the day her mother had died she’d known that, though it was the last day she’d see him for a very long time, no other boy would ever take his place. Quiet lightning still strikes once—and never in the same spot. But he had lovers in abundance—all far more beautiful than she’d ever be—and they didn’t come with her issues. Years ago she’d accepted that he was her impossible dream. That wasn’t why she was here. ‘So you really are twenty-eight?’ He shook his head, as if trying to clear it. ‘Yes.’ As the juxtaposed longings to reach out and touch his face and to jerk her hand out of his and run all but overwhelmed her, she had to force her hand to stay where it was. Though she’d never been to counselling, she’d learned to conquer her fear to a manageable degree, by dint of the simple need to eat. If an employer thought she was crazy, he wouldn’t employ her, and she couldn’t always work with women. His gaze swept her again. ‘Your hair grew darker.’ ‘Red hair quite often does that.’ He was still holding her hand. Looking at his expression as they touched, she sensed that it had been a long time since he’d truly touched anyone. ‘Strawberry blonde.’ He was smiling. ‘You looked like a china doll.’ ‘According to some people I still do,’ she said, sighing. ‘Sometimes I’d give anything to be a few inches taller, if nothing else.’ ‘People don’t take you seriously?’ His voice held sympathy. ‘You didn’t,’ she retorted, disliking the tone that seemed too close to pity, too close to how she’d been treated for so many years of her life. She pulled her hand from his. ‘You’re right.’ He was looking at the broken connection, a strange expression in those frozen dreamer’s eyes. ‘Why do you want this position—or did you only come to thank me?’ His tone had lost the gentle warmth that made her glow. He wanted to be thanked even less than he’d appreciated her pointing out when he’d been in the wrong. By the look in his eyes, he also didn’t want to hear any personal reasons for her answering his advertisement, on this of all days. ‘I need the job,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’m in the final year of my nursing degree. I need somewhere to live and I need to pay the bills.’ ‘Why now?’ The simple question drew her out—the not-quite-cynical tone, the weary implication of there must be a catch in this. She stiffened her spine. It was all she could do not to walk out—but even her unconquerable pride was less important than keeping her word. But, oh, if she’d known it would be so hard to come back into his life this way, to stand before him and ask, she would never have made that promise to Chloe. She heard the flat curtness in her voice as she finally answered. ‘My flatmate Scott’s getting married in a few weeks, and Sarah, his fianc?e, wants to move her stuff in. I could live on campus, but I’d still need a job.’ ‘You still have the house?’ It wasn’t quite a question, more of an interrogation. ‘Drew married his long-time girlfriend a while back—they had a baby boy five months after. They needed the house. He’s in his third year of mechanical engineering, and with his study workload he can only work long enough hours to keep the family. Simon, Joel and I can get out there and pay rent.’ She smiled at him, as if it was no big deal. ‘I see.’ And the tone, though restrained, told her he really did. Mark looked down at the face of memory, an echo of sweetness long submerged. He saw in the pretty face of Sylvie Browning the girl she’d been. She didn’t look as he’d expected except for her eyes—eyes still ancient in a young face—and her smile. The sweet, defiant smile of a girl who’d had to go to school while caring for her father and brothers, taking on a mother’s role long before her mother had died. Yes, he did understand her—too well. She’d accepted his money for her family. The one person he’d wanted to help through the years probably hadn’t taken a cent for herself. He shut himself off from the world with ice. Sylvie did it with a smile. Behind the shutters he could make of his eyes, his famous brain raced. If she was desperate enough to play on a past so painful and intensely private, then she truly needed help—but she wouldn’t accept his charity. ‘Do you have references from past positions?’ As he’d judged, his cool detachment reassured her. Her shoulders relaxed and she breathed in deeply before she replied. ‘Here’s a reference from my boss at Dial-An-Angel, and some from many of my regular customers.’ She thrust a plastic sleeve at him, filled with letters. His brows lifted as he read one glowing referral after another. Honest, hard-working, discreet. She made our house a home. She became part of our family. We offered her double to stay. We’re so sorry to lose her. ‘Impressive.’ He noted she’d updated the references that stretched back a dozen years to fit her name change. She obviously wanted to leave her past behind for some reason—a reason he’d have to find out. He hadn’t come this far in life by trusting anyone. A wave of colour filled those soft-freckled cheeks. ‘I didn’t ask them to say it.’ The ‘Heart of Ice’ was famed for never descending to argument or reassurance on minor points. ‘I have a contract all employees sign—including a confidentiality clause. If you sell a story or steal anything from me I’ll sue you out of all human existence.’ She stared at him, and her flashing eyes—eyes the colour of old sherry, enormous, their curling lashes made thicker with mascara—held insult. The colour grew in her face. Sweet indignation and adorable anger. Yet she was so much a woman at that moment the image of little brave Shirley Temple wavered and fell in his mind, shattering like glass on a tile floor. ‘You’ll sign it?’ he pressed, fighting the ridiculous urge to take it back, to say he knew he could trust her. He hadn’t seen her in fifteen years. He knew nothing about the woman apart from her stiff-necked refusal to accept help. That much about her hadn’t changed a bit. She nodded. ‘I have one condition.’ He lifted a brow. None of his housekeepers had ever tried to bargain with him before; he made sure they didn’t need to. ‘Well?’ ‘I want to live in the cottage that comes with the job, but—’ her eyes held the smiling defiance he’d seen in her as a girl, setting boundaries as well as he did, with all his cold control ‘—you don’t come inside. Ever.’ He almost laughed in her face. What did she think? He hobnobbed with the help? He hadn’t been in that place since he’d had it renovated years ago. ‘Done. Now, please wait outside. If your references check out, the job’s yours.’ ‘Thank you.’ The words were cool, reserved, but he felt relief inside. Oh, yeah, he understood that desperation and that pride, the need for personal space and dignity. She walked out, her little feet in low-heeled sandals making no sound on his wooden flooring. He watched the sway of her gently flaring hips beneath the swishing skirt, saw the way her fists curled, her head held high, and didn’t bother to call her former employers. He was neither stupid nor blind. He knew inevitability when he saw it. Sylvie had the job, and she would live in the housekeeper’s cottage behind his house for as long as she needed. If warning signs were flashing, if he felt as if he was standing in quicksand, he still couldn’t do anything but hire her. If he let her down for the sake of his own security she’d haunt him for life: he’d be wondering where she was, what job she had, if they were good to her. He’d taken care of her by proxy for too many years to stop now. Suddenly he wondered. Did Bren know how he’d cared for the Brown family? Did she know it was Shirley Temple when she brought her here? Anger flooded his soul. Oh, yeah, Bren must have recognised Sylvie. By now the whole family must know that the child Sylvie had been made her the only woman who could break his defences on this day of all days. Why she’d come to him he didn’t know, but he knew his family—still trying to rescue him from a life they abhorred, trying to break the ice around his heart. They were always trying to find him a woman like— Didn’t they know if he ever found another woman like Chloe he’d only run like hell? People like Chloe weren’t meant to live long lives with guys like him. Just as Chloe had done, as little Mary had done, they touched your life and then left you—bereft, empty. As empty as his heart and soul had become in the past fifteen years. It was too late for redemption. None of his success changed what he’d done. No amount of money could take away the damage he’d inflicted on others—and Shirley Temple had come fifteen years too late. Her name’s Sylvie, and she’s not a kid anymore, his mind taunted him. Small, delicate, haunting, but she’s a woman, head to foot. He clenched his fists, hating that just by telling him who she was she’d breached his defences. Her gentle face with its freckled prettiness was vulnerable and genuine, and it made him feel warm in a place he’d forgotten existed. But he couldn’t let her get too close or she’d destroy him—and, worse, he’d destroy her. He shuddered. Never, never again. No. It was time to erect a few barriers. With cold deliberation he reached for the phone and, instead of calling Dial-An-Angel, he called a woman he’d dated once or twice—a model-actress as callous and uncaring as he’d been for years, who wanted only fun and a few minutes of fame. If Sylvie was in the cottage behind his waterfront mansion tonight, she’d be alone. He’d be out on the town with Toni, doing what he did best: forgetting there had ever been someone who loved him just as he was, and who pushed him to be his best. On this day he had two choices: drink, or take a woman to a hotel. As usual, he chose the latter. Balmain Sylvie wandered through the house, wide-eyed, whispering, ‘Oh,’ every few moments. Built in 1849 by a ship’s captain, right on Sydney Harbour, Mark’s house was a fascinating waterfront blend of colonial, naval and Victorian, with open beams, leadlight windows and wide-planked flooring; the outside was sandstone blocks. It was a dream come true—the kind of dream she’d have had if she’d known this wonderful, eclectic, homey house existed. It was almost perfect…almost. She grinned. So he had a date tonight? So what? Because of him, she now had a home, and a job that would pay the bills and allow her to save while she finished college. She was so deeply in his debt she doubted she’d ever be able to climb out—and she’d promised Chloe she’d take care of him. It was time for her to do some giving…and she knew where to start: the Friday night markets at The Rocks. By running all the way to the ferry stop on the harbour, she just made the next ferry. CHAPTER TWO Later that night MARK had to hold back from slamming the door. What was wrong with him? After the Lamaze classes, where he hadn’t missed a single opportunity to get the message across to Bren, he’d dropped her home and taken Toni, a stunning woman, for a late dinner and dancing at the best clubs. And he’d made sure his sister knew where he was going. He’d fulfilled his part, given Toni the exposure she needed. She was currently between jobs, and being photographed with him would make all the tabloids. It was a guarantee that producers and casting agencies would remember to call her. In return, she’d have been happy to spend the rest of the night with him at a hotel—she didn’t want the intimacy of spending the night at her place or his, either—and yet he’d still said, ‘Another time…’ Toni’s amused acceptance of his being so able to keep his hands off her perfect tanned body hadn’t helped things, either. ‘So, what’s her name?’ He’d had a ridiculous urge to snap back, Shirley Temple. And it was the truth. Oh, not sexually—it was guilt. After she’d signed the contract, he’d tossed his spare keys at a bemused Sylvie, scrawled the address on a piece of paper for her, and told her the housekeeper’s cottage was out at the back and to move in over the weekend. He’d said he expected breakfast at six twenty-five Monday morning, and he wouldn’t be home tonight. All she’d said was, ‘Of course. Thank you for everything.’ Her good manners in the face of his rudeness had made him all the more appalled that he’d lost his manners with the wrong person. She’d come to thank him—to answer a job advertisement. He’d taken out his anger with Bren on Sylvie. He owed her an apology, and he didn’t like its effect on him. She’d stayed on his mind, haunting him with her brave, defiant smile and her acceptance of his bad temper, until he hadn’t even felt Toni when she’d kissed him. So now he was home alone, thinking of his housekeeper when he could have been naked with a gorgeous blonde, forgetting the past for an hour. And now he probably wouldn’t sleep because he felt totally screwed up, screwed over, angry and ashamed. And Sylvie was bound to be sleeping so he couldn’t offload his conscience until morning— And then every thought vanished. He flicked on the lights and stood in the middle of the entryway, breathing. What was that amazing smell? Inhaling again, he felt the turbulence inside his soul vanish, leaving only traces of its memory behind. He felt uplifted, energised, inventive… The house was different, too—wasn’t it? He went into one room after another, flicking on lights. He’d never seen that stained-glass sailing ship on the living room wall before, or that chart beside the entry to the ballroom—a print of Captain Cook’s pencilled route to Botany Bay. Funny, he had to look at them twice to notice, but now he looked there seemed to be little changes everywhere. Even the lights weren’t the same—the lights themselves were softer, lending a gentle night radiance to every room it hadn’t had before. What had Sylvie done to his house? Breathing in the amazing scent, he wandered from room to room, seeing the touches so sweet and subtle he still had to look twice to find them. It was as if they’d grown here while he’d been gone. A funny little scarecrow doll sat proudly on his kitchen windowsill, bearing the legend ‘Housework Makes You Ugly’. A plain grey river stone sat on his study desk in front of his monitor, with a single word on it: Believe. Two of his stupid origami pieces sat either side of the stone, as if to say Your creations. Dried herbs hung from the edges of curtains. There was a bright flowered tablecloth on his grandma’s dining table, a vase filled with purple flowers from his garden. Tiny pictures hung on the kitchen walls, old soap and butterscotch ads in wooden frames. A distressed wooden hanging was on the dining room wall, proudly bearing a kookaburra in military get-up, proclaiming the efficacy of Diggaburra Tea. Another faced it, this time a teddy bear saluting him, telling him to drink Teddy Beer. Everything was scrupulously clean, polished, but it looked…He didn’t know—but after his fury of a minute before, now all he wanted was to smile. The glowing floors, the scent, the additions to his furniture made him want to laugh. Stupid clutter to him—he’d never have bought it himself—yet somehow it announced her presence in his life. I’m here, Mark. She knew how to make an impact. It was just so—so Sylvie, he thought grimly, trying to muster up some negative emotion and failing. Confused by all the foreign emotion churning in him—he was feeling happy when he should be mad—he stalked to the back door, jerked it open and shouted in the general direction of the cottage, ‘Sylvie!’ He refused to repeat himself. He’d yelled loud enough the first time. Moments later a light came on in the cottage, then the door opened and a sleepy voice said softly, ‘I think knocking would be kinder to the neighbours at this time of night.’ He cursed beneath his breath. ‘Could you come inside, please?’ he asked, in as reasonable a manner as possible. ‘Answering to the boss at 2:47 a.m. wasn’t in the contract…sir.’ She was right. He was caught in the wrong again—and the fact only made him want to fight more. ‘Tomorrow at six.’ ‘Technically, it’s today, sir—and it’s a Saturday. Do I have weekends off?’ The word sir got him all fidgety. It wasn’t right coming from her, after their shared past, and he suspected she only did it now to make a point. ‘Just come inside now!’ He heard a distinct sigh, but a figure emerged from the warm darkness. Mark caught his breath. Tumbled curls, mussed with sleep, fell around her shoulders, catching the light until they looked like dark fire. Her face was rosy, her eyes big, cloudy—and she was wearing a slip nightie in a soft clear blue that showcased her pale skin like pearls in shimmering water. She stood outside the door, dropped some slippers to the mat, and shoved her feet into them. She sent him an enquiring glance. ‘You did want me to come in now?’she asked, nodding at the door he still held. ‘What? Oh, yes.’ He moved back and she walked into the kitchen, throwing a cotton robe over her nightie. He nearly growled in protest. She’d looked so sweet and silky, so touchable with her bare feet, and her body—the curves were small, but in the iridescent half-light she’d looked like a creature of magic and moonlight. She rubbed her eyes and blinked. ‘Is this kind of awakening going to be a regular occurrence, sir? If so, I’ll have to go to bed earlier.’ ‘Stop calling me sir,’ he snapped. Sylvie sighed again. ‘Mr Hannaford is such a mouthful…but whatever you wish.’ ‘I’ve already warned you about impertinence. I won’t tolerate it.’ She frowned and tilted her head. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not at my best this time of night. Are you saying that calling you Mr Hannaford is impertinent?’ ‘I’m saying—’ He shook his head. How had they descended to this level so fast? And how could he have fallen in lust so fast with someone he’d thought of as Shirley Temple? Until he’d seen her like this, as if she’d come fresh from a lover’s bed. ‘I don’t argue with employees.’ She smiled at him, a sleepy thing of flushed beauty that made him catch his breath and his body harden with an urgency all Toni’s kisses hadn’t been able to rouse. ‘You can’t imagine how glad I am to hear that—given our…um…conversation of the past few minutes. So, to sort matters, what would you like me to call you?’ Locked into the unexpected desire that had hit him with the force of a ten-pound grenade, he said huskily, ‘Mark will do.’ The way that single crinkle between her brows grew told him what she thought of that. ‘I thought you wanted some professional distance between us?’ He shrugged, trying not to laugh. Oh, she knew how to call him on his pronouncements, and she wasn’t a bit intimidated by anything he did or said. ‘Distance seems fairly silly at the moment, given where we are and what you’re wearing—and our shared past.’ With an endearing self-consciousness she pulled her robe around her. ‘I’d feel better if you smiled.’ Her eyes were big as she stared at him with haunting uncertainty. China-doll lovely, and so tempting… ‘Please, Sylvie, call me Mark,’ he murmured—and smiled. She swallowed and moistened her lips, her eyes still huge, unsure. ‘Thank you—Mark.’ A little half-smile lingered on her mouth. She always smiled—unless her prickly pride was touched. She seemed to have hidden laughter lurking around her, a delicious mirth he thought she might share with him if he got close enough. He took a step forward, obeying the imperative urge to imbibe her sparkling warmth, to touch— Sylvie caught the back of her slipper on a mat as she took a hasty step back. And he remembered at the worst possible moment what he was doing, where this was going. She was his employee, in a vulnerable position—and, much as he wanted to forget it, she was Shirley Temple. Her memory shone in his mind like starlight: for five years she’d been the girl who’d given him silent empathy when no one else had understood he didn’t want to talk, who’d been there for him when he’d felt lost and alone, cared for him when she’d had no one to care for her. She’d simply given him what he’d needed when he’d needed it, in a no cost or agenda way. She was still doing it now—giving without taking back—and while his craving body was reminding him that she was most definitely a woman, she was only here because he’d ordered her inside. Hours after duty ended. Her duties haven’t even begun yet, jerk. She’s barely had time to move her stuff in. She’d suffered enough in her life, if the report he’d received this afternoon was true. She didn’t know the shallow games he played with women; she’d been too busy caring for her father until his death, bringing up her brothers. She’d only begun to have a life of her own when Joel had moved into the dorm rooms at his university. Three months ago. His hands curled into fists of denial. He couldn’t be the hard-hearted man on the town. No matter how much he wanted to forget what this day was, he couldn’t do it to her. ‘So…what did you want to talk about?’she asked, the breathless sound in her voice sweet and pretty. Everything about Sylvie was pretty—from her tousled curls to her pink-painted toes peeping out from the open-ended slippers. And so were the changes she’d made to his house. His anger seemed ridiculous now. ‘I owe you an apology for my rudeness at the office.’ She yawned behind her hand with a puzzled look. ‘You yelled the street down at 2:47 a.m. to apologise?’ He felt heat creeping up his neck. Her grin was as sweet as the look in her eyes—a mixture of woman and imp. ‘I was sure you were going to bawl me out for the presents I brought you.’ ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked abruptly. She shuffled her slippers on the floor, staring at her feet. ‘Every good thing in my life has come from you.’ She shrugged with one shoulder, her neck tilting to meet its uplift, and he knew what she was about to say. ‘It isn’t in me to do nothing but take, Mark. I know there’s nothing I can give you to thank you for rescuing my family—but I wanted to try.’ Any lingering anger, any urge to bawl her out or freeze her out, withered and died under the pure, humbling honesty of her. ‘Anything I ever gave you can never repay what you did for me.’ She looked up again, her smile shy and eager, and though he saw an echo of the Shirley Temple he remembered, she was a rosy, tumbled woman at the same time. She was both and more—and she fascinated him too much for her own good. He had to get her to stay away from him, because he wasn’t having any success in staying away from her. ‘When the deed for the house came, and the trust for us, and the card from you…You have no idea what you did for me—us.’ Her words, sincere and choked with emotion, annihilated his normal method of making a woman keep her distance. ‘You, Sylvie,’ he said quietly, wondering why he said it. ‘I did it for you.’ ‘You saved my life.’ She looked at him as if he was wonderful. ‘Literally, you saved me, Mark. When the money came I was drowning. Dad was too sick to work, I was working part-time at a restaurant to make the rent, going to school, cleaning houses, doing homework at midnight. I—’ She swallowed, and then said abruptly, ‘Owning the house helped me put food on the table, paid for a housekeeper. I could stay at school, study and pass my exams.’ ‘It was just money.’ He wanted to turn away, but he couldn’t stand not to see her flushed prettiness, the shining gratitude and hidden pain in those lovely eyes. ‘No.’ She took a step towards him, tender, hesitant. ‘Your house is so beautiful. I can feel your love for it in all the old furniture. I love it, too. It’s like you.’ Too many emotions crowded him; he hadn’t felt this confused since he was about thirteen, and her last comment heightened his bemusement. ‘Like me?’ She nodded, her face serious. ‘I walked in this afternoon and felt as if it was a haven in a crazy city. I felt peace. You could have made this a showplace. Instead you chose furniture that made it mellow, gentle and welcoming. It’s a family house for a family man.’ Alarm bells shrieked in his head. Don’t do it. Don’t lose it with her. And still he stepped forward, looking over her—such a delicate woman—and snarled in a freezing tone, ‘Do you see a family here?’She jerked back fast, breathing unevenly, her face white, and with such terror in her eyes he felt horrified. ‘Sylvie, I didn’t mean to—’ She lifted a shaking hand and he stopped. Just like that. He who hadn’t obeyed any woman but his mother for over a decade. Was it their past, or the shimmering tears in her eyes that halted him before her? When she spoke it was in a half-whisper, with the shadows of her fear hovering around her like an aura of night. ‘I see the ghosts of the family that should be here. This house is the real you…it’s your haven from being the Heart of Ice. You bought this house for her. For Chloe, for both of you—it’s everything you should have had with her. The family, the babies.’ He felt the blood drain from his head, leaving him dizzy. By God, she met a sword-thrust with gentle atom bombs—and he couldn’t take any more reminders of what he’d become, what he’d always be now: a man alone. ‘Go to bed, Sylvie. Have the weekend off to settle into the cottage. Don’t worry about my breakfast. Just don’t come in here until I’m gone.’ The words grated like sandpaper in his throat. ‘All right.’ She turned and walked to the door, not wishing him a goodnight. Probably she knew it wasn’t, and it wouldn’t be. All he wanted now was for her to leave him alone. All he wanted was to drown himself in Scotch. If only he had any of the stuff in the house. An echo rang in his heart and head—an anthem of unending loss. Not of Chloe herself—he’d accepted that a year before her death—but loss of hope. He’d lost something vital inside himself long before her death, and he’d never found it again. At the door, Sylvie spoke again. ‘Mark?’ He gripped a dining chair, knowing that whatever she was about to say would be unexpected. She wasn’t fooled by his cover. She didn’t see him as the Heart of Ice, wasn’t intimidated by his anger, wasn’t over-awed by his power or wealth. She saw Mark. She knew what he’d once been—believed that boy was still inside him somewhere—and that scared the living daylights out of him. He couldn’t be that person again. He couldn’t open his heart to any woman. Even Sylvie. Especially Sylvie. She was everything he’d avoided for fifteen years—the kind of woman who’d take what was left of his heart and soul and rip it to shreds. ‘What?’ He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow. He already knew she had that power. When she spoke, he heard the shaking in her voice as strongly as he felt the trembling in his limbs. ‘Chloe deserves you to have bought this house for her. She deserves to be remembered and to be loved still. And you deserve this refuge. Time out from the cold and uncaring person you never were inside.’ He hung on to the chair like grim death as pain raced through his body and soul like a heat blast, leaving him scalded and weak. She doesn’t know the truth. Don’t tell her. Don’t say it! ‘Just go. Please.’ The words came out in a strangled voice. The door closed behind her, and he was left alone with the endless ghost of grief, guilt and regret. All he wanted now was to talk to a friend in a black-labelled bottle. He’d been wishing that for the past fifteen years. All he could drown himself in now was meaningless sex…and it never helped him forget who he was. What he was. Sylvie closed the door of her new home, closed her eyes and gulped in shaking breaths. She should never have said it. The agony in his eyes had told the truth about the infamous Heart of Ice. He wrapped himself inside a coldness that could shatter at a touch. But it was nothing but a delicate veneer, hiding his private emotions from a world that didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know the man beneath the legend. So stupid! She’d known it was too early. If he snarled at her like that again he wouldn’t have to fire her; she’d run like the frightened jackrabbit she was—even though she knew he’d never hurt her. Leaning against the door, because she didn’t think her legs would carry her further, she kept trying to breathe while her ears strained for the sound of his footsteps. She was pulling herself together, ready to smile in the face of disaster. Waiting and waiting. Only the soft lapping of waves behind her cottage greeted her. He wasn’t coming. Of course he wasn’t—because he was Mark and she was Shirley Temple, the girl who’d handed him a wet flannel, a few glasses of water, given him some hugs and held his hand. And yet he’d treasured what little she’d done for him enough to seek the family out and save them when she’d reached desperate measures to pay the rent and put food on the table, with threats of Welfare stepping in to take the boys away. From the moment Brenda had recognised her at the job interview today, her words had cemented what Sylvie had long suspected. Mark’s family loved him but didn’t understand him. They wanted to push him into happiness so they could stop worrying about him. It was love, but not the love he needed. Just like her brother Simon, who tried to match her up with men all the time: men who were gentle, who wouldn’t rush her. Men who might as well have been invisible for all she could feel for them. ‘Stop reaching for the stars,’ Simon always said. ‘You’ll never see him again.’ But she’d rather live her life alone than with any man who wasn’t the one. Mark had been her childhood prince, but he might have faded from her memory if he hadn’t saved her life, saved her family…saved her from the unbearable choice facing her when the money came. And the prince of her little-girl fantasies had become her teenage hero. Then finally, when she’d seen the tabloid stories on him, seen the frozen suffering beneath the wolfish smile, he’d become her love, so entwined in her heart she’d never leave him behind. The Heart of Ice wasn’t the boy she remembered, who’d stood beside a dying girl for years, even marrying her rather than running when it all became too hard. The boy who’d felt sick at the thought of giving a promise to love another girl because it would be a lie. Maybe all he wanted was to be left in peace with his memories but she’d given a promise, made sacred by death. At the right time she’d given up her home, her job security—and most importantly, her secure anonymity—to come to Mark and keep her vow. Though she had nothing to speak of, she had something she could give Mark that he didn’t have: a true home, a friend…And if she could pull off a miracle, maybe she could help him learn to live again. CHAPTER THREE SYLVIE was in the kitchen Monday morning, making breakfast while Mark was out running, when the phone rang. She checked the oven clock: sixfourteen. She was sure Mark carried a mobile phone and a pager. She shouldn’t take his private calls. But by the fourth time it started ringing she’d realised the caller knew Mark was out. She picked up. ‘So, how’s it going, Sylvie?’ Brenda’s eager voice came the second she said hello. ‘Fine,’ she said warily. How would you describe a weekend where your employer had seemed to work all hours while you moved non-existent furniture around, aching to move your feet thirty metres but you’d been banned until Monday? And how did you say that to your employer’s sister whom you barely knew—hadn’t seen in fifteen years? ‘So, how’s Mark? Is he talking to you? Has he said anything?’ She bit her lip. This was her first real day of work. The course of wisdom was telling her to take her time—but, being Bigmouth Sylvie, she did the opposite. ‘Brenda, I appreciate you helped me get the job, but whatever Mark says to me remains between us. End of subject. I need this job, and I’m not about to risk it by being unprofessional—’ ‘Sylvie, Mark needs you,’ Brenda said bluntly. ‘You’ve seen how he is. He’s not our Mark—the boy you knew.’ Sylvie sighed. ‘You can’t throw women at Mark like mud and hope one sticks. You can’t heal him; he can only do that himself. And calling me for updates is something I never agreed to. I’m only here to cook and clean.’ She almost added, For all you know, I could be romantically involved, but she remembered Brenda’s specific questions on her romantic status, with the excuse that Mark would welcome no overnight guests. ‘I haven’t seen him in fifteen years, but I’m sure of one thing: your anxiety probably makes him feel bad that he can’t make you feel better—and that makes it worse for him.’ Silence greeted her declaration for a few moments. ‘I’m sorry.’ Brenda’s voice had gone stiff and cold. ‘Wouldn’t you be anxious about your brother if he was like Mark?’ Before Sylvie could answer, the bleeping sound of disconnection filled her ear. She sighed and hung up, turning back to the breakfast she was making. ‘Thank you.’ She whirled around. Wearing exercise gear that moulded to his body like a second skin, he stood in the open doorway between the kitchen and dining room, hot and sweaty from his run, his dark-blond hair plastered to his skull. He was still breathing heavily. ‘You’re welcome.’ Her throat was thick, her heart pounding so hard it was as if she’d been running with him. Shocked by the depth of her response to him, she whirled to face the oven. She’d never felt desire in her life before, but the aching of her body, the itching in her fingertips to touch him, couldn’t be anything else. ‘I know I crossed the line, but she kept calling. She said…’ Hot colour scorched her face. She was talking about his sister! ‘I knew she would. Persistence and interference are the Hannaford middle names.’ He spoke with loving resignation. ‘The only mystery is why the other girls haven’t called or come over yet—you remember my sisters Becky and Katie—or my mother. You ought to expect them, though. Beware: they’ll dig and dig until they get what they want,’ he said, sounding surprised he’d said anything so personal. To cut off the coldness she sensed was coming—his way of trying to keep a professional distance—she spoke in a flat tone.‘I’ll be at college.’ She opened the oven door.‘I hope coming in early to make breakfast is acceptable?’ ‘For something that smells like that, you can come in before dawn.’ He breathed in deeply.‘That smells incredible. What is it?’ Trying to hide a grin of delight—Brenda had told her that he preferred health foods—she said neutrally,‘Just some home-baked muesli and fresh coffee.’ ‘Home-baked? I don’t think that was in the contract.’ But the way he inhaled, the smile as he did so, told her he wasn’t about to argue. ‘I usually eat fruit.’ ‘I made fruit salad, too.’ She turned back to the food before he could comment, unsure whether he would say something kind or would freeze her. ‘It’ll be ready when you are.’ Fifteen minutes later he was wolfing down breakfast as she cleaned. ‘That was superb,’ he said as he brought the bowls and cup to her.‘Thank you, Sylvie.’ ‘You’re welcome.’ Strange how such polite words and praise could hide so much. Somewhere between his coming in on her conversation with Brenda and his return from the shower he’d remembered her interference on Friday night. The air was strained, the tension almost visible; it would only become worse if she apologised. All they were leaving unsaid hovered in the air between them like a comic dialogue balloon—you could choose not to read it but it was still there. He said a curt goodbye as he was leaving—before seven. ‘I’ll have dinner waiting,’ she said, not knowing why she’d said it or what she was hoping for. His cold reply was all she deserved for poking her nose in again.‘I’m rarely home before nine.’ He worked fourteen-hour days on a regular basis?‘I’ll have it ready for eight, in case.’ She cursed her clumsy mouth—setting rules in his home. She didn’t expect an answer, and didn’t get one. When he roared out of the garage she shrugged, ate her share of breakfast, put on her cleaning music, ran through the house until it was sparkling, and left for college before the family he’d forewarned her about could arrive. ‘So how’s the new housekeeper?’ his brother Pete asked after the morning meeting was done, and he, Pete and Glenn, his brother-in-law, were alone. ‘Tell Bren if she wants an update to ask me herself.’ Glenn chuckled, and Pete grinned.‘The Heart of Ice stuff doesn’t work on me, bro. I’ve shared a room with you, punched you up, stood beside you when the football jocks attacked us, and covered up for you when you and Chloe did midnight flits to invent something.’ Glenn laughed again, and agreed. Mark smiled reluctantly. They’d all been close from school days. Pete, only a year younger than him, was his Chief IT Officer, and Glenn, besides being Bren’s husband, was Financial Controller for Howlcat. Nerds United, they used to call themselves; but they’d stuck together through good times and bad, and there were no two men he trusted more. ‘So, how is she? You know Mum’s sure to call me and ask.’ Mark gave an exaggerated sigh.‘We fell in love at first sight, made passionate love all night and we are eloping on our first day off. Now will you get off my back?’ Pete’s brows lifted.‘I only meant to ask if she can cook and clean all right, since I know you did her a favour in hiring her,’ he said mildly. Mark found himself flushing.‘She makes muesli to die for, keeps the house in perfect order.’ He tried to stop himself, but the stress in him had been building like a pressure cooker on high all weekend, and it had to come out.‘She also says everything she shouldn’t, gives me presents that make my house hers somehow, then says something so sweet I can’t tell her off. She doesn’t act like any employee I’ve known, but I can’t fire her because—’ The words burst from him.‘She’s Shirley Temple—all right? Remember the kid whose dying mother was in the hospice the same time as Chloe a lot? She’s been through hell since then, and she deserves a break.’ His brother and his friend both nodded, but there was a suspicious twinkle in both sets of eyes, and he knew what was coming.‘I saw her the other day. She’s a real cutie,’ Glenn said. ‘Adorable, if you like the type,’ Pete added, grinning.‘Pretty and sweet. Just as well you prefer sophisticated women to china dolls.’ He was lying, and they all knew it. He growled in agreement and stalked out of the conference room to his haven in Howlcat Industries, pulling off his jacket and tie on the way. Nobody bothered him in the basement lab except in an emergency—even his mother. Why he was home by seven-thirty he didn’t know. She was his housekeeper, he wasn’t accountable to her—but the good manners his mother had instilled in him came into play. If dinner was ready by eight, he’d be there. Though he was still angry at her less-than-subtle manipulation of his working day, after the breakfast she’d made this morning his stomach was reminding him he didn’t have to get takeout, heat a frozen meal or eat at his parents’ tonight and answer the inevitable questions. He came in the back way, and his reward for leaving work was immediate. The smell from the oven made his mouth water and his stomach growl double-time. Baking garlic, cheese and pasta…and music wafted from his ballroom. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/melissa-james/his-housekeeper-bride/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.