Mistress to a Millionaire

‘And I can call her Daisy, Papà?’

She hadn’t heard a word of their conversation through her hot confusion, but now, as Francesco’s clear childish treble penetrated the flurry in her head, Daisy heard Slade say, his voice calm and controlled and unforgivably steady, ‘Yes, this is what I am saying, on the condition that you speak English at all times in Daisy’s presence and that your vocabulary increases significantly. Signor de Sica will continue to take you for your lessons and you will continue with your French with him, but it is important your English improves, Francesco.’

That kiss hadn’t affected him at all, not an iota. The thought worked like a douse of icy-cold water on the hot humiliation that was keeping her head bowed and her face hidden. A moment ago she had been thinking that she would get the next plane back to England, that she couldn’t possibly stay in Slade’s house even overnight, but now she gritted her teeth and straightened her back, her eyes narrowing.

Okay, it had meant nothing to him and it meant nothing to her too, she thought tightly, her heart racing, but she would make sure she never put herself in such a dangerous position again. If he thought she was offering more than taking care of Francesco he would get a nasty shock, but no way was she going to let him believe his lovemaking had affected her. It hadn’t—not in the slightest, she lied passionately.

‘Are you ready to show me my rooms, Francesco?’ She raised her head as Slade finished speaking to his son, forcing a smile to her lips and rising quickly to stand on shaky legs.

‘Sì! Sì!’ And then, as he realised his mistake, the little boy flashed an apologetic glance at his father and added in a small, subdued voice, ‘I mean yes, Daisy.’

‘I know what you meant.’ She grinned at him and the small face grinned back. ‘But I think we could do with something to help you remember to speak in English, what do you think?’

The little face straightened. It was clear Francesco wasn’t at all sure there wasn’t a punishment lurking somewhere in this.

‘How about a point system?’ Daisy suggested quietly as she took one of the small hands in hers. She was aware of Slade looking on but didn’t glance at him once. ‘If, at the end of a day, I think you have done really well you can have points up to a maximum of, say…’ She pretended to consider and Francesco’s great brown eyes watched her avidly. ‘Say five,’ she continued quietly. ‘And then, once you reach one hundred points, you will win a prize.’

‘A prize?’ The little face was enraptured. ‘What will it be?’ he asked eagerly as he jumped up and down in excitement.

‘Oh, I’ll have to think about that.’ Dais

y smiled down at the small child. ‘But it won’t be easy, I warn you. I am a hard taskmaster; all the children at the school where I worked would tell you this. I only reward you if you really earn it.’

‘Did you stay at the homes of the other children?’ Francesco asked after a moment’s pause. He clearly didn’t like the idea of her having known children other than himself, and for a moment she almost smiled at the innocent childish jealousy.

‘No.’ She stared down at him gravely. ‘Your home is the first I have stayed in, Francesco, so I hope we can make it a happy time for us both.’

He nodded, his face now as serious as hers. ‘We will,’ he declared with all of his father’s firmness, and then he jerked her hand impatiently. ‘Come; I will take you everywhere, but I want you to see my room first; I have a games console and everything.’

As Francesco made to drag her towards the door Daisy turned a swift glance on Slade as his deep voice said, its tone very dry and cryptic, ‘As easy as that, eh? No, I was not wrong about you, Daisy Summers.’

She didn’t ask him what he meant—she really didn’t want to prolong the time in his presence for even a second—but the flush that had begun to die in her cheeks as she had talked to the child was vivid again as she left the room.

She had been mad, crazy, to take this job, but take it she had and she intended to see the trial period through no matter what, she told herself firmly. She had always faced difficult situations head-on—her father had taught her early in life that it was the only way to behave—and she wasn’t going to shirk this one. In four weeks she was due to report to Slade’s consultant here in Italy for a check-up and if he gave her the okay she would start to be more involved in Francesco’s care for the next few weeks leading up to Angelica’s departure. And then the three-month trial period would begin.

She breathed in deeply, listening to Francesco’s excited chatter with only half an ear as she contemplated the months ahead.

It was going to be a formidable summer.

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS an hour later and Angelica had taken Francesco away to the nursery suite for his bath and tea, and Daisy was alone in her own mini apartment next door. She was sitting just as Francesco and Angelica had left her some ten minutes before, quite overwhelmed by both the luxury and beauty of her rooms and the overall feeling that she was in way over her head.

Francesco, true to his word, had taken her on a tour of the vast house with its four separate towers—east, west, north and south wings, he had informed her importantly—and from the windows she had seen the grounds stretched all around the house, with a magnificent swimming pool and tennis courts at the rear of the property.

By the time they had returned to the west wing, where her rooms were situated, Daisy had been exhausted and her ribs had been aching badly, but it wasn’t her physical state which now had her limp and wide-eyed as she glanced round the small sitting room in which she was sitting.

Her apartment was beautiful—as was the rest of the house—and a sense of unreality had gripped her at the wealth and power displayed so casually. Her rooms consisted of the sitting room, a large bedroom with a big double bed and fitted furniture and a separate walk-in wardrobe, and a very luxurious bathroom complete with Jacuzzi—and this was just for the hired help, she thought bemusedly.

The blue colour scheme—reminiscent of bluebells and delphiniums which made it the warmest of blues—was toned with varying shades of violet and dusky pink, and she was at present sitting on a small, plumply upholstered sofa looking at a pair of armchairs on either side of a shining gate-leg table. The bed had a beautiful antique quilt thrown over it, with hyacinth-blue rugs on either side on the polished wood floor, and there were bowls of fresh flowers everywhere—even in the bathroom—their fragrance permeating the rooms with memories of hot summer days.

‘This can’t be for me?’ Angelica had joined them on the tour and when Francesco had opened the door to Daisy’s suite Daisy had turned to the other girl with wide eyes.

‘Sì, sì. Isabella—she get ready.’ Angelica’s English was not a patch on her small charge’s. ‘It is beautiful, sì?’ Angelica had sighed almost reverently.

‘It certainly is.’

And the rest of the house was even more magnificent, Daisy reflected now. Angelica had told her that Francesco’s mother had hired the very best interior decorators from Rome to oversee the total transformation of the house—Slade having given his wife a free hand—and that each wing had its own colour scheme.