She gripped the door. ‘Excuse me but who are you?’
The man turned back to face her. ‘I’m the owner of this house. Nikos Marchetti. I think the more pertinent question here is who are you? Because I’ve seen a picture of the housekeeper and you are most definitely not her.’
Nikos Marchetti. The owner she’d envisaged as middle-aged, paunchy, entitled. But this man was more like a Spartan warrior, sheathed in the modern-day trappings of a suit.
His eyes were dropping down her body again, with that insolent appraisal that should have disgusted Maggie but which was having an altogether far less acceptable effect on her body.
She drew herself up to her full five foot ten inches and crossed her arms over her chest. So far Nikos Marchetti was doing little not to live up to what she’d expected. Behaviourally, if not physically.
‘I am Maggie Taggart—Edith’s daughter. She died three months ago and your staff asked if I’d stay on until another housekeeper was hired. Something you’re evidently not aware of.’
He looked at her, expressionless. ‘I most likely wasn’t informed. My staff are briefed not to bother me unless it’s something urgent, and clearly they felt that you could handle the job. However, I am sorry for your loss. Do you think I could enter my own property now?’
His casual dismissal and tacked-on condolences for one of the most traumatic events in Maggie’s life—losing her beloved mother—made her stand her ground. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’
Nikos Marchetti looked at the woman in front of him and felt not a little shock and surprise running through his system. Along with something much more potent—the biggest jolt of insta-lust he’d ever felt in his life.
He’d just come from a black-tie event at Dublin Castle—leaving behind a room heaving with some of the most beautiful women in the world. And not one of them had turned his head like this...this fiery sprite.
Except she was too tall to be a sprite. She was strong. Supple. The full breasts evident under her thin T-shirt left little to the imagination, and she had wide hips and long pale legs that went on for ever. She was like a Viking queen—all woman and perfectly, generously proportioned—and Nikos’s brain was melting into a heat haze.
Which was probably why he was still standing there, long past the time he would normally have indulged such impertinence.
It wasn’t just her body, though. Unruly-looking red-gold hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head and her bone structure was exquisite—high cheekbones, firm jaw, straight nose. Her face was dominated by huge blue eyes and a wide, generous mouth. Currently tight. Like the arms across her chest, blocking him from entering his own property.
‘You’ve never even been here before, have you?’
Nikos arched a brow. ‘I wasn’t aware I had to account to you for my movements—but, no, I haven’t been here before.’
‘Why now? Tonight? No one warned me you were coming.’
‘As I own the property, and it should be in a state of readiness for my arrival at any time, I didn’t see the need to forewarn or inform anyone,’ Nikos drawled.
‘It’s late... I could have been in bed.’
> Nikos was rewarded with a very unhelpful image of this woman lying back on a bed naked, hair spread around her head, welcoming him to explore her sensual body. Blood rushed to his already heated groin, making him hard—something he was usually much more in control of.
Now irritation prickled. ‘Seriously? You’re denying me entry?’
‘I am until you show me some identification. If you are who you say you are, then surely you can appreciate the fact that I’m not going to let a stranger into your property?’
Nikos wanted to growl. There were very few instances when he wasn’t automatically obeyed. Except she had a point. The fact that she apparently didn’t recognise him was also a novelty that had an unexpected appeal. He was used to people targeting him because of exactly who he was: heir to a vast inestimable fortune and legacy.
But he didn’t want to think about that now—it would only remind him of the feeling of ennui and claustrophobia that had driven him here in the first place, even though he’d almost forgotten about the Irish estate he owned.
He dug into his inside pocket and muttered, ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this...’ before pulling out his passport and handing it to his housekeeper.
Who looked more like a cheerleader, with that supple body and fresh-faced beauty.
Before he could censor himself he said, ‘How old are you?’
She looked up from the passport. ‘Twenty-three. This is a Greek passport. I thought you were Italian?’
Nikos took the passport back. ‘I’m half-Greek, half-Italian and I decided to go with my Greek side. Any more questions? Or can I now enter the property I own?’
Maggie couldn’t believe she was being so antagonistic to the owner of this house. Because he was the owner.
Nikos Marchetti.