Mistress to a Millionaire

Certainly Francesco’s suite next door, with its pièce de résistance for any small boy—a bed in the shape of a Lamborghini sports car with working headlights—was quite unique, Daisy mused, and the small boy had everything he could possibly want materially. And yet… Her gaze stopped focusing on the lovely surroundings and went inward. Francesco wasn’t happy; in fact she felt he was a very troubled little boy. And that wasn’t surprising, she supposed, if his grandmother was spoiling him outrageously on the one hand and his father was ruling him with an iron hand on the other.

Daisy sighed heavily and then forced all thought of Slade out of her mind as her heartbeat went haywire. No, she would not think of that kiss, she told herself stoutly. Not for a minute, not for a second. She had been incredibly stupid but she would be on her guard now, and if he made one move towards her—just one—she would pack her bags and disappear back to England before he could say Jack Robinson! Nanny did not spell mistress in her dictionary whatever the Italian version said.

After taking a couple of the pills the doctor in England had prescribed for the pain in her damaged ribs, Daisy walked into the bedroom and lay down on the bed, intending to shut her eyes for just a moment before she ran herself a long hot bath.

She must have been more exhausted by the journey than she had thought, because when she next opened her eyes it was to the realisation that the brightness of the sunshine streaming through the big window had mellowed and Isabella was shaking her arm gently, a warm smile creasing the homely Italian woman’s plump face.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Daisy sat up quickly.

‘Is no problem, signorina, but the signore, he think you like the tea, sì?’ The housekeeper pointed to a tray containing a pot of tea and milk and sugar, along with a plateful of what appeared to be shortbread slices and another of wafer-thin sandwiches, which Isabella had placed on the bedside cabinet. ‘An’ he say the dinner at eight o’clock?’

‘Yes, yes, thank you.’ Daisy smiled at the friendly-faced woman but her brain was still too dazed with sleep to form the enquiry that was buzzing in the back of her mind in a tactful manner. She was here as an employee of Slade Eastwood—not a house guest—and yet both Isabella and Angelica seemed to be treating her as one. Did they realise she was a hired hand like them? she asked herself as the large plump figure dressed totally in black bustled from the room.

But they must do. Of course they must, she reassured herself in the next moment. She was being over-touchy here. Slade had no doubt been thinking of her recent accident when he had suggested Isabella wait on her today—it was an act of kindness, nothing more. And both the women knew she was going to take over the care of Francesco when Angelica left.

After drinking two cups of tea and eating several of the minute sandwiches—which were absolutely delicious—and three of the shortbread biscuits, Daisy padded through into the bathroom to run the bath she had promised herself earlier.

She would soak in the wonderful Jacuzzi for half an hour or so and wash her hair, and then take her time getting ready for dinner. Dinner. She frowned suddenly. She should have asked Isabella if they ate in the kitchen or if Slade liked his household to eat with him in the smaller of the two dining rooms downstairs. The large one—which was all chandeliers and heavy antiques—she assumed was for formal dinners when Slade was entertaining.

Oh, no matter. She shook her head at herself. She had a plain silk-jersey dress in rust-brown which had cost a bomb but was gorgeous and classless; she would team it with her strappy sandals and waist-length cashmere top and the whole outfit would dress up or dress down to whichever room they were in.

She had unwound aching muscles and relaxed stiff limbs in the bath, washed her hair, and was just walking through to the bedroom clothed in her big fluffy towelling robe with her hair wrapped turban-fashion in a hand towel, when a knock, followed by Angelica’s voice, sounded outside.

‘Oh, scusi, signorina, scusi,’ Francesco’s nanny said as Daisy opened the door on to the landing. ‘You have the bath?’

‘It’s all right, Angelica, I’ve just finished,’ Daisy said pleasantly, ‘and please, call me Daisy. You wanted me for something?’ she added when the other girl didn’t speak.

‘Sì, signorina.’ Angelica’s smile was nervous but that seemed habitual with the pretty Italian girl who really seemed very unsure of herself. If Francesco’s maternal grandmother was anything like the picture Slade had painted of her, Daisy could understand Angelica would have been no match for the older woman. ‘It is the bambino, Francesco. He want—how you say?—he want the conversazione?’

‘Conversation? Oh, you mean he wants me to come and say goodnight?’ Daisy asked quickly.

‘Sì, sì, the goodnight,’ Angelica agreed. ‘He very tired, but he cry an’ cry. You come now?’ she asked a trifle desperately.

‘All right, Angelica.’ It was clear the other girl was harassed; no doubt the little monkey had been playing her up, Daisy thought wryly, and as Francesco’s suite was only next door—Angelica’s rooms being on the left and hers on the right of the nursery suite—it would only take her a moment or two to help Angelica by settling the little boy down. ‘I’ll come now.’

Angelica’s thanks were heartfelt—indeed she didn’t seem that far away from tears—and as Daisy followed the Italian girl into Francesco’s bedroom she determined to take a firm hand with the little boy. It wouldn’t bode well for their future re

lationship if he got the impression he could manipulate her as easily as he obviously did Angelica, she told herself silently.

However, her first sight of Slade’s son sitting up in the car bed clad in teddy-bear pyjamas and with his black curls damp about his small head tested her resolve. He looked so impossibly sweet and angelic that she just wanted to gather him up in her arms and love him, she told herself ruefully, before she shook her head slowly at him as she walked across the room.

‘I can hardly believe what I’ve been hearing,’ she said as soberly as she could manage when faced with the great big liquid eyes that resembled brown velvet. ‘Is it true that a big boy like you has been crying because he doesn’t want to go to sleep?’

‘I wasn’t crying because I didn’t want to go to sleep, Daisy, I was crying because I wanted to see you,’ Francesco said with disarming ingenuousness, before adding with a shy smile, ‘And Leonardo—’ Daisy had been introduced earlier to Francesco’s dearest possession—a dog-eared, semi-bald toy rabbit with the impressive name of Leonardo ‘—was crying because he wanted to say goodnight too.’

‘I see.’ It was the first night; she had all the time in the world to be firm and that could start tomorrow. ‘Do you think he will go to sleep like a good rabbit if I tell him a story?’ Daisy asked seriously. ‘Would that work?’

The little head bobbed eagerly.

‘How about one concerning some of his relatives in England who live in a big forest?’ Daisy suggested softly.

Even more fervent nodding.

‘Let’s get comfortable, then.’ Daisy settled herself by Francesco’s side as he made room in the bed for her, putting one arm round the little thin figure and drawing him into her tenderly as she began, ‘Once upon a time, Leonardo’s English cousin, who is called Bobtail, got into the most terrible fix…’

She had always been good at making up stories—first for her two younger sisters and then for the children she had worked with—and now she weaved a tale that had Francesco all agog as he lay snuggled up beside her.

She had just pronounced, ‘And Bobtail never went wandering off by himself again,’ and then kissed the sleepy little face which lifted up to her at the end of the story, when a deep voice shattered the peaceful atmosphere in the warm, shadowed room and brought Daisy’s head jerking round towards the door.