‘And I would like you to make a decision as soon as possible, of course,’ he added carefully. ‘Three months is not very long and the clock is already ticking away.’
And that same clock might be bringing Ronald nearer and nearer. The thought spun in her head. And she was never going to come to terms with the loss of her daughter and all that had happened with the threat of Ronald in the background.
Italy was far, far away. Her ex-husband wouldn’t find her in Italy, and perhaps she might even find some peace of mind in an alien land where there was nothing to remind her of that terrible Christmas Eve when they had buried her daughter in a tiny little white coffin? Perhaps…
She looked straight at Slade now and the hard, glittering eyes were waiting for her response, their darkness unfathomable.
‘You…you said a trial period?’ she asked numbly.
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving her white face. ‘Yes, I did,’ he said evenly. ‘And you have my word that if you find the post is not to your liking there will be no questions asked or pressure brought to bear. You will be flown home at the end of three months and that will be that.’
‘You might find I’m not to your liking,’ Daisy said quietly, her voice shaking a little. ‘It works both ways.’
Slade looked into the deep honey-gold eyes with their thick, silky lashes, at the small, straight nose and full, generous mouth framed by a silver halo of white-blonde hair, and he nodded again. ‘Yes, I might,’ he agreed expressionlessly, his dark face giving nothing away.
She was crazy to even be considering accepting this job. She didn’t want to work for him and she certainly didn’t want to be a mother figure to the sad little boy in the photograph when her arms were still aching for her own baby daughter, Daisy told herself silently. And then she heard a voice—which sounded suspiciously like her own—saying, ‘All right, Mr Eastwood, I would be very pleased to accept your generous offer if you are sure I am suitable for the post. But…but if you want me to come to Italy I would prefer to do it soon—as soon as possible in fact.’
‘I see.’ The deep, slightly husky voice betrayed no surprise or emotion whatsoever, and Daisy found it helped enormously. Suddenly it wasn’t such a crazy thing to do—it was a job, just a job, and if it didn’t work out on either side nothing was lost. But she would be out of Ronald’s grasp, in a different environment, and that could only be good. ‘But there is one thing I must stipulate,’ he added quietly.
‘Yes?’ she asked weakly, suddenly nervous again.
‘My name is Slade. This “Mr Eastwood” makes me feel sixty-four instead of thirty-four,’ he murmured with dark amusement.
And then he smiled, really smiled, and the cold, autocratic face turned into someone else—someone much younger, someone who could be tender, someone who was so breathtakingly attractive that it was mind-blowing…and someone who scared her to death.
CHAPTER THREE
DAISY flew out to South Tyrol in northern Italy straight from the hospital a few days later once the doctors were satisfied that the concussion, which had proved more of a problem than her fractured ribs, was gone. She collected her clothes and other personal items en route to the airport, her passport being up to date.
She had advised Stephanie against visiting her at the hospital the same night she had accepted Slade’s offer of employment, and her friend had understood perfectly. Stephanie, too, was under no illusion now as to Ronald’s true nature, and neither woman would have been surprised if he had tried to follow Stephanie or use her in some way to reach Daisy.
The flight was short and uneventful but very comfortable—courtesy of the first-class ticket Slade had insisted on buying for her—and Slade had promised she would be met at Verona airport and driven to Merano in South Tyrol, a distance of some 175 kilometres, by his housekeeper’s husband who acted as gardener and chauffeur.
Only it wasn’t Mario who greeted her once she was through Customs, much to Daisy’s consternation.
‘Daisy.’ Slade’s voice was deep and warm and his big body—clothed in an open-necked pale gold shirt which showed the shadow of curly black hair at the top of his chest, and black denim jeans, tight across the hips—perfectly relaxed. He looked cool and controlled and utterly at ease with himself, she noted desperately, whereas she—she was hot all over. Which was stupid, ridiculous, she admonished herself savagely. She was here as one of his employees—no more and no less, and she was not physically attracted to this man. She would never let herself be attracted to a man again—or certainly not a good-looking, sensual type anyway. Ronald had been like that.
‘Hello, Slade.’ It was easier than she had thought to call him by his Christian name and she even managed a cool smile in spite of her churning stomach and weak knees.
‘How was your flight?’
He had taken her arm as he’d spoken and after her, ‘It was fine,’ he smiled before turning to the porter who had all her luggage stacked on his trolley and speaking in rapid Italian.
And then he turned back to her, giving her another swift, all-consuming glance before saying, ‘Come this way.’
She noticed he matched his long legs to her shorter strides as he led her out of the airport building, but she was concentrating very hard on acting like a sensible, down-to-earth prospective nanny and forced her eyes and her thoughts from the hard, lean body at the side of her.
‘I thought Mario was meeting me?’ she asked with careful aplomb.
They had reached his car, and as the porter loaded her cases into the back of the magnificent and very stately Bentley Turbo Slade glanced at her, his ebony eyes narrowed against the white sunlight which, although bright, was without real heat. ‘Disappointed?’ he asked lazily.
‘No, of course not,’ she said a trifle stiffly, flushing slightly.
‘I’m not convinced.’ He folded his arms over his chest and looked at her intently and she looked back. ‘You need a few good platefuls of Isabella’s pasta,’ he said consideringly.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She couldn’t believe her ears.
‘You’re too slender, and it’s not just because of the accident, is it? You haven’t been eating properly for months,’ he accused calmly. ‘You are far too fragile.’