Mistress to a Millionaire

He surveyed her through half-closed lids for some moments. ‘I think I have just been admonished,’ he murmured softly. ‘Yes?’

‘No, no, of course not.’ She jerked her eyes frontwards to where Francesco was turning inside out to get their attention as he engaged in a noisy fight with a benignly smiling whale. ‘I was just saying, that’s all.’

‘I see.’ He raised himself on one elbow, raking back a lock of jet-black hair from his forehead, and Daisy felt a fresh riot in her stomach. ‘Well, be that as it may, my son is benefiting from having you in his life, Daisy Summers,’ Slade said softly, ‘and I have to say you understand him far better than I.’ And then the tone changed, becoming almost teasing as he added, ‘And you even dealt perfectly with the dragon who has tormented poor little Angelica’s days and nights.’

He knew the Italian girl’s nickname for his mother-in-law? Daisy stared at him in surprise and the hard, firm lips twitched at her expression. ‘There is little which escapes me,’ he drawled mildly.

Now that she could believe.

Should he share with her what had happened in England before he’d left? Slade looked into the soft golden eyes and decided now was not the time. She didn’t trust him; moreover, she didn’t even like him, and her withdrawal at any contact with him—however slight—was noticeable. And yet that first day in the drawing room… He expelled a silent breath as his loins tightened at the memory. Whatever had gone on in the past, she wasn’t frigid. She was warm and soft and unbelievably lovely.

‘I…I think Francesco has been in the pool long enough.’ Daisy’s voice was prim now and Slade had to stop himself from smiling. She was such a mass of contradictions, this one. And wary, very wary. It was…enticing, this air of chaste reserved reticence—as enticing as it was provocative. It had been a long time since the urge to impress had been upon him, but when he was with her he found himself wanting to do something boldly impressive—swashbuckling even—to get her attention. Absurd. He didn’t like the direction in which his thoughts were travelling and now his introspection was derisive.

It made his voice cool when he said, ‘By all means take him back to the house, Daisy. I shall stay a little longer out here, relaxing.’

‘Yes, all right.’ He was annoyed with her; she sensed it. Was it regarding the conversation about Claudia Morosini? Daisy asked herself silently as she walked down to the water’s edge and persuaded a reluctant Francesco out of the pool. But it was Slade who had mentioned his mother-in-law, not her, she comforted herself in the next moment. Perhaps it was her comments on how to deal with children? Yes, that would be it. He had thought she was having a dig at him; his own words had confirmed that. Well, perhaps she had been at the bottom of her, she admitted unwillingly. She always seemed to feel that attack was the best form of defence around Slade Eastwood, and if anyone needed protecting she did. Not so much from him as from herself.

Francesco had had his bath and tea and was tucked up in bed, Daisy sitting beside him as she told him another story in what had become the evening ritual of Bobtail’s adventures, when Slade appeared in the doorway of his son’s bedroom.

‘Please, don’t stop.’

At his entrance Daisy had risen quickly to her feet, much to Francesco’s chagrin, the little boy immediately demanding she finish the story of Bobtail’s first day at school; and now, as Slade indicated his son’s querulous face with a jerk of his head and a slow smile, Daisy nodded.

From that point the story didn’t flow as easily as normal although mercifully Francesco didn’t appear to notice, but Daisy was painfully conscious of the big dark figure sitting in one of the easy chairs on the perimeter of her vision, however much she tried to concentrate on her small charge.

He would be expecting her to have dinner with him each evening he was here—his comments on the day of her arrival had made that clear—and the mere thought of it made her weak. Which was stupid, so, so stupid, because it wouldn’t mean a thing to him. He was used to far more beautiful, elegant, intellectual companions than her. But perhaps that was the root of her agitation?

She took a deep breath and ended with, ‘And Bobtail went home with his brothers and sisters and had a lovely tea of hot muffins and cocoa.’

‘Can I have muffins and cocoa tomorrow for my tea?’ Francesco asked immediately as he straightened from his curled-up position by her side. ‘Please, Daisy? Like Bobtail?’

‘We’ll see.’ She smiled down into the earnest little face.

‘How many muffins can I have? I can eat loads and—’

‘Time for sleep, young man.’ Slade’s deep voice cut into the conversation and Francesco grinned at his father, his expression revealing he knew when to call it quits. He held out his arms to Daisy and she kissed him, hugging him tight for a moment before straightening.

It was a routine they had fallen into every night but it was still painful at times when the feel of the thin, childish arms pulled at her heartstrings, and reminded her all too poignantly of what she had lost. She had held her daughter for such a short time. Such an eternally short time.

As Slade bent to kiss his son Francesco looked up at his father, his voice enquiring as he said, ‘Papà? Will I ever have any brothers or sisters?’

Oh, good grief! Daisy shut her eyes for an infinitesimal moment. What would he think of next?

‘Perhaps.’ Slade was aiming to be noncommittal but Daisy could see the innocent question had thrown him.

‘When?’ Francesco was nothing if not persistent. ‘How soon?’

‘I said perhaps, Francesco.’

‘You have to have a mummy and a daddy to have babies, don’t you?’ Francesco stated importantly. Mario’s sister’s cat had had kittens and Mario had taken the little boy to see them the previous day, the result being an impromptu biology lesson in the car coming home. ‘So who would be the mummy?’ he asked interestedly. ‘Could Daisy be the mummy?’

‘That’s enough, Francesco.’ Slade’s voice was unusually sharp, and then, as the child’s lower lip began to tremble, Slade gathered him close, his voice soothing as he said, ‘We’ll talk about this another time, all right? When you are not so tired. And tomorrow we must think about what you would like for your birthday, eh? Only another three weeks and you will be seven years old.’

‘I know what I want for my birthday.’ The diversion had wiped away any thought of tears and now the childish voice was animated when it said, ‘I want one of Guinevere’s babies. Signora Carialio said I could pick whichever one I wanted if I was allowed, and they will be ready to leave Guinevere in time for my birthday. Please, Papà? I want a baby cat more than anything.’

‘We will talk of this also tomorrow.’

Daisy knew that Slade had purchased—at some considerable expense—a battery-operated, sit-in toy Jeep, and she could understand the wry, ironic note to the deep voice. But such were children, she thought ruefully. Francesco was at a stage when a pet of his own meant the world, and the kitten that had taken the little boy’s fancy—a small female tabby with white paws and a white-tipped tail—was very sweet.