The Italian's Christmas Housekeeper
She shrugged. ‘It’s very tidy.’
He laughed. ‘I thought, given your occupation, that tidiness might meet with your approval.’
And oddly enough, that hurt. It was yet another reminder of just how far out of her comfort zone she was. A reminder of how he really saw her. She would never be his equal, she thought, as a powerful wave of fatigue washed over her.
‘Actually, I’m pretty tired,’ she said. ‘It’s a been a long day and the baby...’
The baby.
Salvio pushed away his wine glass. They hadn’t mentioned it all afternoon but the word no longer hit him like a shock. He was slowly getting used to the idea that she was pregnant, even if he wasn’t exactly jumping for joy about it. And Molly Miller was proving easier company than he had expected. Undemanding and optimistic. There was something about her quiet presence which made him feel almost peaceful. He stared at her washed-out face and felt an unexpected wave of remorse wash over him. Why hadn’t he noticed how tired she might be?
‘You need to go to bed,’ he said resolutely, pushing back his chair.
He saw her throat constrict.
‘Where...where am I sleeping?’
‘We’re supposed to be an engaged couple, Molly,’ he said, almost gently. ‘Where do you think you’ll be sleeping?’
‘I wasn’t...sure.’
He’d assumed she would be sharing his bed, because why wouldn’t he? But something about her pallor and trepidation made him reconsider—for his own sake as well as for hers. Wouldn’t a night apart re-establish his habitual detachment—especially since it was obvious neither of them had slept well last night?
He rose to his feet. ‘There’s no need to sound so fearful, Molly,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you the spare room. You’ll have plenty of peace in there.’
He saw the sudden look of uncertainty which crossed her features and then she nodded her head, the way he’d seen her do before.
‘That sounds like a good idea,’ she said, with what sounded like obedience, and once again he was reminded of the fact that she was, essentially, a servant.
CHAPTER EIGHT
BATHED IN THE bright December sunshine which flooded in through the giant windows of their Neapolitan hotel suite, Molly turned to Salvio, who was just changing out of the jeans and leather jacket he’d worn for the trip over, into something a little more formal.
‘We still haven’t discussed—’ Molly hesitated ‘—what we’re going to tell your parents.’
Pausing in the act of straightening his tie, Salvio turned to look at his fiancée. She looked...incredible, he thought. With her shiny hair scooped on top of her head and her curvy shape encased in a dress the colour of spring leaves, there was no trace of that shy and frumpy housekeeper now. They’d just arrived in his home city—his jet descending through the mountains surrounding the mighty Mount Vesuvius, with all its unleashed power and terrible history. It was an iconic view which took away the breath of the most experienced traveller and he had found himself watching Molly for her reaction. But, oblivious to the beauty which surrounded them, she had seemed lost in thought. Even when the car had whisked them to this luxury hotel overlooking the Castel dell’Ovo and a lavish suite which even he could not fault, she seemed barely to register the opulence of their penthouse accommodation.
He wondered if she’d noticed the sideways stares he’d been receiving from the moment they’d stepped off the plane. The double takes and the ‘Is it him?’ looks which were as familiar to him as breathing, whenever he returned to his native town. Yet Molly had been impervious to them all.
‘We tell them the truth,’ he said eventually, giving some thought to her question. ‘That you’re pregnant and we’re getting married as soon as possible.’
She winced a little. ‘Do you think we need to be quite so...?’
His gaze bored into her. ‘So what, Molly?’
She licked her lips and, mesmerised by the resulting gleam which emphasised their soft beauty, Salvio momentarily cursed himself for not admitting her to his bed last night. Had he really imagined such an action might make him more detached and rational, when he’d been obsessing about her all night long?
‘Brutal,’ she concluded, pursing her lips together as if it wasn’t a word she particularly wanted to use.
‘Brutal?’
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She shrugged and began walking across the room, pausing only to peer into the elevated stone hot tub which stood at the far end of the enormous suite—an extravagant touch eclipsed only by the tall decorated Christmas tree which was framed in one of the tall windows.
Eventually she came to a halt and perched on an orange velvet chair to look at him. ‘You told me you’re known as someone who is a commitment-phobe. Someone who doesn’t want to get married,’ she said.
Salvio gave his tie a final tug. That wasn’t the whole story, but why burden her with stuff she didn’t need to know? ‘What of it?’