The Maid's Best Kept Secret (The Marchetti Dynasty 1)

CHAPTER ONE

MAGGIE TAGGART FELT RESTLESS. She’d finished washing up the dishes in the sink and looked around the vast and gleaming kitchen which was situated in the basement of an even vaster house. A stunningly beautiful period country house, to be exact. Set in some ten acres of lush green land about an hour’s drive outside Dublin.

There were manicured gardens to the rear and a sizeable walled kitchen garden to the side. There was even a small lake and a forest. And stables. But the stables were empty. The owner—a billionaire tycoon—had apparently bought the house sight unseen on a whim when he’d had a passing interest in investing in horse racing, for which this part of Ireland was renowned.

Except he’d never bought any horses and he’d never actually visited the house. So here it sat, empty and untouched. Luxuriously decorated to his specifications. He hadn’t even hired the housekeeper himself—one of his assistants had done it remotely.

That housekeeper had been Maggie’s

mother, and when she’d fallen ill she had been terrified of losing her job. So Maggie had quit her own job as a commis chef in a Dublin restaurant and come to help her and take care of her. Leaving her restaurant job hadn’t been too much of a sacrifice, thanks to the head chef, who had been a serial groper of his female staff.

Then Maggie’s mother had died suddenly, and when she’d informed the owner’s offices an impersonal assistant had asked if she wouldn’t mind taking over in the interim, while they found a permanent replacement.

Maggie had been in shock...grieving...so she’d found herself saying yes, relishing the thought of a quiet space where she could lick her wounds and deal with her grief, not yet ready to face back into the world.

That had been three months ago. Three months that had passed in a grief-stricken blur. And she was only just emerging from that very intial painful stage.

Hence this sense of restlessness. Up to now the house had served as a kind of cocoon, shielding her from the outside world. But she could feel herself itching to do more than just tend to it. In spite of its lack of occupants, it was surprisingly challenging to maintain at the high standard demanded by the boss—should he ever decide to drop by. On another whim.

Maggie’s soft mouth firmed. The impression she had of the owner—a man she wasn’t interested enough in to look up on the internet—was one of gross entitlement. Who bought a lavish country house and then never even came to see it?

‘Rich, powerful men who have more money than sense.’

Those had been her mother’s words. And she had known all about rich, powerful men—because Maggie’s father had been one. A wealthy property tycoon from Scotland, he’d had an affair with Maggie’s mother and when she’d told him she was pregnant he’d denied all knowledge, terrified that Maggie’s mother and his illegitimate daughter might get their hands on his vast fortune.

He hadn’t offered any support or commitment. He’d offered only threats and intimidation. Maggie’s mother had been too proud and heartbroken to pursue him for maintenance and they’d left Scotland and moved to Ireland, where Maggie’s mother’s job as a housekeeper had kept them moving around the country, never really settling in any one place for long.

To say that Maggie had a jaded view of rich men and their ways was an understatement. She sighed. However, she was being paid very generously to take care of an empty house by a rich man, so she couldn’t really complain.

At that moment the peace that she’d so relished was shattered by a sound from upstairs—the ground floor. A banging noise. The front door? It was such an unusual sound to hear in this silent house that she almost didn’t recognise it.

Maggie rushed upstairs and walked into the hall just as the knocker was slammed down onto the door again. She muttered, ‘Keep your hair on...’ as she switched on the outside light and swung the door open.

And promptly ceased breathing at the sight in front of her. A tall, dark man dominated the doorway, hand lifted as if to slam the knocker down again. His other arm was raised, and rested on the door frame. The late-summer sky was a dusky lavender behind him, making him seem even darker.

Maggie couldn’t find her breath. Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, he was the most stupendously gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Thick curly hair and dark brows framed a strong-boned face...cheekbones to die for. His deep-set eyes were dark, but not brown. Golden. His skin was dark too. There was stubble on his jaw. The sheer height, width and breadth of him was heat-inducingly powerful.

She registered all this in a split-second—a very basic biological reaction to a virile male.

His black bowtie hung rakishly undone under the open top button of his shirt. Those dark eyes flicked down from her face over her body. A bold appraisal. Arrogant, even.

Maggie became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing cut-off shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, her hair up in an untidy bun. Her habitual uniform for when she was cleaning.

‘This is Kildare House?’ the masculine vision asked, with a slight accent.

His voice was deep and rough and the pulse between her legs throbbed. Most disturbing.

‘Yes, it is.’

The man stood up straight. He had an air of slightly louche inebriation but his eyes were too focused and direct for him to be intoxicated. Actually, it was an air of intense ennui.

He turned away from her, and it was only then that Maggie noticed a taxi at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, engine idling.

The man addressed the driver, who was waiting by the car. ‘This is the right place. Thank you.’

Maggie watched with growing shock as the taxi driver waved jauntily, got into his car and drove off.