Книга - Brazilian Boss, Virgin Housekeeper

Brazilian Boss, Virgin Housekeeper
Maggie Cox


From waif to his wife!The scars he bears are the only visible reminder of the life Eduardo de Souza left behind in Brazil. Shunning the glare of publicity, he prefers to live alone. So why has he hired a housekeeper? The infamous South American has never been able to resist a waifish beauty!Marianne Lockwood is mesmerised by her brooding boss, and willingly taken between his sheets. But Eduardo is holding dark secrets, and when he whisks her to Rio it’s only a matter of time before she finds out the truth…









Excerpt


‘What are you—what are you doing?’

‘I’m repaying the compliment,’ he answered, an enigmatic little smile playing round his lips. ‘Now I am staring at you.’

Saying no more, Eduardo freed her wrists, then started to unbutton the shapeless red white and blue patterned cardigan she wore.

‘Now what are you doing?’ she asked nervously, the touch of his strong muscled thighs in the tough denim of his jeans all but burning her skin through the slightly flimsier material of her own.

‘I have a question for you.’

He locked his arms round her waist and Marianne stared up at him as if in a dream, yet fully and shockingly aware of the barely civilised, almost feral state of arousal reflected back at her from his haunting blue eyes. It was all she could do to keep breathing, never mind answer him.

‘If I asked you to come to me tonight and share my bed…would you?’


The day Maggie Cox saw the film version of Wuthering Heights, with a beautiful Merle Oberon and a very handsome Laurence Olivier, was the day she became hooked on romance. From that day onwards she spent a lot of time dreaming up her own romances, secretly hoping that one day she might become published and get paid for doing what she loves most! Now that her dream is being realised, she wakes up every morning and counts her blessings. She is married to a gorgeous man, and is the mother of two wonderful sons. Her two other great passions in life—besides her family and reading/writing—are music and films.





Brazilian Boss, Virgin Housekeeper


By




Maggie Cox









MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)


To my fellow romance authors and readers of romance everywhere—may we continue to hold out for love, hope and happy endings in these turbulent times, come what may!




Chapter One


NOTHING deterred her, it seemed. Not even weather that felt as if it was blowing in straight from Siberia, Eduardo mused. For the past three weeks he had taken to visiting the small historic market town more frequently than when he had first moved to the area—ostensibly drawn to a certain exhibition that had been running in the town hall—and he hadn’t been able to help noticing the girl strumming her guitar at the side of the road, singing mournful folk songs and looking like some pretty waif straight out of a Dickens novel. Didn’t she have parents, or people that cared about her? Apparently not…

It frankly appalled Eduardo that she was reduced to singing for her supper on the streets instead of earning her living by more comfortable means. It dawned on him that she was the first person to stir him out of his solitary existence for months—a state that had begun even before he had set foot on British shores from Brazil and made the impulsive decision to reside there. Well…the turbulent events of the past two years might have taken their toll, resulting in him becoming somewhat reclusive and distant from the rest of the human race, but he was definitely not looking for remedies to rectify that situation, he reminded himself. No…His interest in the girl was just a passing curiosity that would no doubt quickly fade. At any time she could move on, and he would likely never see her again. He paused to put a note into the tatty tweed cap that lay on the ground at her feet, and weighted it down with two fifty pence pieces to keep it from being snatched away by the wind.

‘That’s a pretty song,’ he murmured.

‘Thanks…but that’s far too much.’

She stopped strumming and reached for the note, pressing it back into Eduardo’s gloved hand. Their glances caught and held, and he had the most disturbing sensation that the ground had somehow shifted beneath him.

‘Too much?’ He raised a bemused eyebrow, certain he’d misheard her.

‘Yes. If you want to donate some money to a charity there’s a church just up the road, collecting for the local homeless…St Mary’s. I’m neither a charity nor homeless.’

‘But you have a hat with coins in it. Is that not why you stand here singing?’

A great irritation surfaced inside Eduardo, and he could hardly fathom the reason for the intensity of it—other than that he wasn’t used to having his generosity rejected. Why was he even wasting time talking to such a strange girl? He should simply walk away, abandon her to her peculiar philosophy of singing for mere pennies and leave her be. But he found he could not. Even though the waif had insisted she was neither in need of charity nor a home, somehow her predicament had got to him—reached past his usual iron-clad defences and caused a surprising dent. It was—as he had concluded earlier—just that this was the first time for months that he had voluntarily made contact on purpose with someone else, and he hardly welcomed his considerate action being thrown back in his face.

‘I sing because I’m compelled to…not for the money. Haven’t you ever done something just for the sheer love of it and for no other reason?’

Her question struck him silent for a moment, and he barely knew what to do with the discomfort that made his skin prickle and burn and his throat lock tight.

‘I—I have to go.’

Knowing his expression had become frozen and uncommunicative, as was his usual habit, Eduardo shrugged, suddenly eager to return to the anonymity of the rest of the passersby and the ponderous but familiar burden of his own tormented thoughts.

‘Please yourself. You’re the one that stopped to talk to me—remember?’

‘I did not deliberately stop for the purposes of talking to you!’ he flashed, his temper suddenly ignited by the girl’s unflinching hazel gaze.

‘I see that now. You merely wanted to make yourself feel good by leaving me a ridiculously generous amount of money, then walk away again satisfied that you’d done your good deed for the day. Is that it?’

‘You are impossible!’

Wishing with all his heart that he had ignored that bothersome rogue impulse to reach out to someone who he’d genuinely believed to be in need, Eduardo gripped the ivory handle of his walking cane and moved awkwardly away. He had practically reached the end of the street before his acute hearing once again picked up the strumming of the girl’s guitar, along with her mournfully toned voice.

Had she been watching him? It troubled him deeply to realise that she must have been doing exactly that—else why wait so long to resume singing? Yes, she had been watching him…watching him walk away like the cripple he now was, he reflected savagely. Was she by any chance feeling sorry for him? The thought was like corrosive acid in his blood. Well, if he was ever unlucky enough to see her again he would make a deliberate point of ignoring her, he vowed. Who the hell did she think she was anyway—rebuffing his goodwill like that…mocking him, almost?

But as Eduardo painfully forced his stride into a more rapid pace, the question she’d asked echoed tauntingly round his brain and constricted his already tortured heart without mercy. Haven’t you ever done something just for the sheer love of it and for no other reason? To his profound shame, moisture stung the back of his eyelids and, murmuring a vehement curse, he walked blindly on into the centre of town, hardly caring that his injured leg was taking unfair punishment—all because an insignificant slip of a girl had scorned his money and pricked his pride…

The temperature had plummeted to near freezing. Barely able to feel any sensation at all in her numbed fingers as they moved over the guitar strings, Marianne decided to call it a day. The idea of a mug of creamy hot chocolate nursed in front of a roaring fire drew her swiftly homewards, and she strove hard to blot out the fact that she would be returning to an empty house. A silent, echoing mausoleum, where everything from the daintiest ornament to the lovely music room with its shining grand piano was a haunting reminder of the husband and friend who had been taken from her much too soon…

‘Move on with your life when I’m gone,’ Donal had feverishly entreated her from his hospital bed, with a light burning in his eyes that had scared Marianne, because it had told her that he wouldn’t hang on for much longer. ‘Sell the damn house and everything in it, if you want! Go and see the world…meet new people, travel…live, for God’s sake. Live for the both of us.’

And she would…but not yet. She was still finding her bearings without a compass, in a world empty of the one person who had really cared for her. She was inching forward slowly but surely.

Busking in the street might seem a strange place to start. But having had a dread of performing in public that she wanted to overcome, so that from time to time she could sing in the local folk club without going to pieces, as far as moving on with her life went Marianne saw it as an entirely positive step. Not only was she facing down her fear and thriving at the same time, she was saying to the universe Is that the worst you can do? Take my husband from me and leave me alone again? Well, just watch this! Every day she was becoming more and more confident. Yet again, music had saved her. Donal would have been proud that she’d found the courage to take such a radical if unconventional step towards her own healing—even if his two adult children from his previous marriage were not, instead taking it as a sign that she must be unstable… A sign that she must have had some ‘not quite right’ influence on their father, to make him ignore them and leave everything to her in his will instead.

Just then, out of the blue, a stranger’s chiselled hard face overlaid her husband’s kind, familiar one, and Marianne was shocked to recall the man who had put a fifty-pound note in her cap. Not for one second did she doubt it had been the real deal. Not only had he looked wealthy—as if he lived an elite lifestyle that was way beyond the ordinary dreams of a secure, comfortable life for regular people—but he had smelled wealthy too. He’d spoken perfect English, with a trace of an accent—South American, perhaps? He had also exuded the kind of authority that would have made Marianne shrink inside herself not so very long ago. But nursing Donal through his long, ultimately fatal illness, then sitting beside his hospital bed for nigh on two months while he clung doggedly to life before lapsing into a coma, had fostered in her the type of courage and tenacity that she was determined never to be without again.

Cupping her mug of hot chocolate, she stared into the crackling flames in the fireplace, the compelling features of the man who had disturbed her becoming even stronger in her mind. Marianne had never seen eyes quite that unique shade of blue before. They’d been the frosted hue of a cloudless winter sky and, although his hair had had tones of amber-gold threaded through its tawny strands, his lashes had been the intense dark brown of richly melting chocolate. He’d had an aquiline nose, with a slight bump in the bridge and his mouth, though firm and well-shaped, had nonetheless been so stern that it had seemed to suggest it would physically pain him to smile. Even though she had briefly conversed with him, she still got the impression that he projected the kind of impenetrable fortress that even a seasoned campaigner didn’t have a hope of breaching! After she had declared she didn’t sing just for money, challenging him with her question as to if he hadn’t ever done something just for the sheer love of it, Marianne had immediately regretted her outburst.

She squirmed at the ill-mannered way she had accused him of trying to make himself feel good by putting so much money in the hat. She shouldn’t have done that. How could he know that after the tragedy she had suffered she’d vowed never to accept or need help from anybody ever again? That her trust in anything good had been utterly shattered when, after a hellish childhood with a neglectful alcoholic father, she’d finally found some happiness in her marriage, only for her husband to die just six months later?

But the stranger had stared back at her as if he’d had his own demons to face, she remembered, and for a few tense moments there Marianne had barely known what to think or do as she met his stricken gaze. Then, before she’d had a chance to apologise, he had walked away… limping. Had he suffered an accident or been ill? It didn’t seem right that such a big, well-made and relatively young man should have such an obvious infirmity—though it didn’t lessen the impact of his imposing stature and riveting carved features at all…merely added to those assets.

Frowning, Marianne realised she had watched him almost as though in a trance…as if totally forgetting where she was or what she was doing. Then the biting cold that had been like the touch of knives against her face had forced her attention back to the present, and she’d resumed her playing and singing with a stoic determination to defy the worst the weather could throw at her. But underneath her singing Marianne had been completely bemused, and not a little shocked that a total stranger could command her attention so avidly….

‘You’ve been overdoing it again, haven’t you?’

‘For God’s sake, I’m not a child!’ Grimacing at the older man’s frowning face, Eduardo wished he could dispense with the doctor’s fortnightly visits for good. But after nine operations on his shattered leg he had needed access to regular medical attention once settling in the UK, and Evan Powell was one of the top orthopaedic surgeons in Harley Street. Plus, he had been recommended to him by his own surgeon back in Rio de Janeiro.

‘Then take my advice, man, and stop treating your body as though it were some mechanical machine instead of very human flesh and bone!’

‘I was told I would recover complete and normal use of my leg, given time,’ the younger man challenged impatiently. ‘Why the hell is it taking so long?’

‘Your femur was all but crushed in the accident. The bone has been practically rebuilt from scratch. Did you really expect to recover from nine major operations as easily as you would get over a cold?’

‘When I want your opinion on how I conduct myself,’ Eduardo hissed, his already sour mood worsening by the second, ‘I will ask for it!’

‘Well, then…’ Powell retrieved his cashmere coat from the winged-back chair to fold it carefully over his arm. As tidily as he no doubt expected his staff to lay out the surgical instruments of his profession in theatre before an operation, Eduardo mused without humour. ‘Don’t bother calling your man. I’ll see myself out and bid you goodnight, Mr De Souza.’

‘It’s been a bad day—’ he started, rising to his feet from his chair, bitterly suppressing a groan of pain after the short but thorough examination of his leg by the surgeon. Eduardo glanced at the ornate French antique clock on the marble mantelpiece. Sometimes he marveled that time continued as it did on its relentless course, when the tragedy that had ripped his wife and her unborn child away and all but left him a useless cripple should by rights have stopped the world in its tracks. ‘I should not have spoken to you like that. It was good of you to come out all this way on such an inclement night as this. Forgive me.’

‘No harm done.’

Quickly overcoming any offence he might have taken previously, Evan Powell shrugged his rather bony shoulders in his charcoal-grey pin-striped suit, then glanced interestedly round the beautiful lamp-lit drawing room, with its huge bay windows overlooking the surrounding moat, a network of fields and the dense forest beyond it. A landscape that was now shrouded in the blanket of surely one of the most severe winter frosts on record.

‘Perhaps what you need is some company?’ he suggested, the sudden ‘man to man’ glint in his eye speaking volumes. ‘You’re very isolated out here, and it would help to take your mind off things’

Eduardo’s gaze narrowed. ‘You mean a woman?’ What surprised him was that for the first time in two years he didn’t immediately dismiss the idea. What shocked him was that in response to this suggestion his mind helpfully conjured up for him a very engaging picture of the roadside busker, with her big hazel eyes, pretty mouth and rippling river of honey-brown hair. He was suddenly appalled at himself. How old was she? Seventeen…eighteen? Had good common sense deserted him along with everything else that mattered? He might indeed be ready for some female company recreationally, but in no other respect did he wish to be close to a woman.

After what had happened to Eliana he was done with relationships for good.

When he did not immediately answer the other man, the surgeon shrugged again, the edges of his thin-lipped mouth lifting in a conciliatory smile. ‘Just a suggestion, dear fellow…Now, listen to my advice and take it easy on that leg. I recommend just a twenty-minute walk each day—half an hour if you must, but no more than that. In the meantime, if you want to talk about any aspect of your recuperation, I’ve let my secretary know that I will accept your calls at any time so long as I’m not in the operating theatre. I’ll see you next time. Goodnight.’

Almost as if intuiting that his employer’s visitor was about to depart, Eduardo’s valet Ricardo appeared in the doorway, the spots of damp across his jacket’s dark shoulders suggesting he’d already been hard at work outside, clearing some of the ice from the long sweeping drive that led away from the house.

‘Goodnight, Mr Powell…and thank you once again for coming out on such a night. Please drive safely.’

In the early hours of that same morning, Eduardo tried his hardest to concentrate on the 1940s black and white comedy playing on the flat state-of-the-art television screen in front of him. But even a scant moment of pleasure or comfort frustratingly eluded him. He had got into the habit of watching movies well into the small hours, simply because he could not settle his mind enough to sleep. Not when it dwelled on one set of terrible events over and over again, like a nightmarish film stuck on rewind. Some nights he couldn’t face even going to his bedroom at all, so he simply pulled a rug over him on one of the comfortable leather sofas in the sitting room and dozed there till morning. Pain… burning and torturous…often shot through his injured leg and hip, adding to his woes.

Stoically ignoring the all too tempting urge to pour a glass of whisky to drown his sorrows and dull his pain, Eduardo muttered a passionate expletive. Rubbing at his increasingly tense brow as he attempted to watch the impossibly glamorous characters cavort on the screen before him, he quickly abandoned the whole idea and pressed the ‘off’ button on the remote. Even losing himself in distraction seemed impossible. It was as though he was permanently staring into a black abyss there was no escape from, and all hope of ever seeing daylight or sensing warmth again was lost to him for ever.

Releasing a bitter sigh, he reflected that even that pretty busker in the street was no doubt far happier with her simple hand-to-mouth existence than he could ever hope to be with his immensely wealthy and privileged one.

Why did he seem to be fixating on her? he wondered. Impatiently he shook his head. His interest made no sense—especially when she had spoken to him with the offhand brusqueness of inexperienced youth, making it more than clear that she obviously disdained his desire to help. But, nonetheless, time and time again in the too-long frosty night at his isolated house, Eduardo found his thoughts returning to the girl, wondering if she really did have a place to stay, if she had made enough money to eat that day, and if she was warm on this bitterest of winter nights?

By the time a reluctant grey dawn had seeped in between the parted velvet drapes the next morning he had more or less decided that the next time he ventured into town he would not ignore her, as he had previously vowed. No…instead he would talk to her, question her about her circumstances, and maybe offer to help better her situation. Was he a complete fool for contemplating such a potentially disastrous course of action? It was quite likely that she would laugh in his face or tell him to go and find some other poor down and out to foist his money on!

Finally, concluding that his desire to be of assistance was being prompted by the idea of his own child struggling in a similar situation, had he or she lived to be the age of this girl, he swallowed down the lump of anguish in his already tight throat and, making himself as comfortable as he was able on the couch, at last drifted off to sleep…




Chapter Two


MARIANNE was between songs, sipping café latte from a local coffee shop to warm her up and hopefully restore some heat into her blood again, on yet another day chilly enough to turn solid stone into a block of ice. All of a sudden a shaft of pure, undiluted sunlight arrowed down onto the pavement a few yards in front of her, trapping in its beam a golden head that riveted her attention. It was him! The expensive-looking guy with the stern mouth and the ivory topped cane. He didn’t seem to be limping as badly today, Marianne reflected, watching him, and her insides executed an unsettling somersault as she saw that he was definitely heading her way.

Moments later he stood before her, his breath making a little puff of frosted steam as he spoke. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said politely, and there was a barely discernible lift to one corner of that impossibly serious mouth that surprisingly might have been the beginning of a smile.

‘Hello,’ she murmured, her gloved hand tightening round her take-away coffee cup.

‘You are not singing?’

‘No…I’m taking a break. Warming myself up.’

Finding herself the target of his devastating silent scrutiny, Marianne felt her entire body tense with discomfort. Did he have any idea how intently he stared? His eyes were like twin frosted blue lasers, making an exploratory dive straight down into her soul. Her husband Donal had never regarded her in such an intense way. His gaze had simply been infinitely kind.

‘How’s business?’

‘Okay.’ Shrugging, Marianne glanced down at the small collection of coppers and silver change in the hat at her feet. ‘Like I told you before, I don’t sing just for—’

‘Money. I remember. You sing because you are compelled to…for the love of it, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Now she felt embarrassed, remembering her outburst of the other day. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I offended you in any way by what I said or did, but there are a lot of people far worse off than me you know? In fact I’m not badly off at all. Appearances can be deceiving.’

His tanned brow creased a little, as if he were silently disputing her assessment of her situation, and his gaze carefully took in her mismatched woollen clothing that today consisted of purple tights, brown boots, a red dress over a cream sweater and Donal’s too-big sheepskin lined leather jacket, with a beige scarf tucked into the neckline to keep out the worst of the cold. The only thing she wasn’t wearing to finish off the eye-catching ensemble was her multi-coloured ski hat. Rushing out of the house this morning, she had accidentally left it behind.

‘Well…if it helps you to know, I did in fact donate the money I would have given you to the church’s collection for the homeless, as you suggested. Let me introduce myself. My name is Eduardo De Souza.’ Balancing one hand on his cane, he removed a glove and struck out his now bare hand towards her.

For what seemed like an interminable second of agonising decision-making Marianne hesitated, before slipping her own gloved hand lightly into his. Even through the thickly knit wool she swore she sensed the heat from his body radiate up her arm, making her tingle. ‘I’m Marianne…Marianne Lockwood. You’re clearly not from around here, are you?’

‘I reside in the UK now, but I do not come from here…you are right. I am from Brazil…Rio de Janeiro.’

‘The land of samba, sunshine and carnaval? I’m sorry—I expect you hate that cliché.’

‘Not at all. I am proud of my country and what it has to offer.’

‘And you’d rather be here, turning into a human icepole, than at home soaking up the sun?’ She couldn’t suppress the teasing grin that took hold of her lips, but Eduardo de Souza’s grave expression did not lighten for a moment.

‘Even sunshine can pall after a time, if you have too much of it. It becomes commonplace, and one can easily risk losing the pleasure that was once derived from it,’ he commented seriously. ‘Besides…I am half-British, so I am not completely unfamiliar with this climate—and after the winter comes the spring, and that is consoling, yes?’

‘I know. I love the spring! So…what are you doing here today? Shopping? Meeting a friend?’

‘Neither. I’ve been visiting an exhibition that is on at the town hall. Surprisingly, there are quite a few places of interest to visit in this quaint little town.’

‘True. It gets quite packed in the summer, believe it or not.’

‘I can believe it.’

Now, to Marianne’s complete surprise, her companion did smile, and his eyes looked bright as stars for a moment. Something inside her reacted disturbingly strongly to the fact and she felt her skin tighten self-consciously.

‘Yes there are boat trips you can take on the river, and they’re always very popular with the tourists. Anyway…’

Coming to the end of her coffee, Marianne stood the empty cup on the pavement behind her, then picked up the guitar that lay in its open black case on the ground beside it. Surprised that such an urbane, clearly wealthy man as Eduardo de Souza would even bother to introduce himself to a girl like her—particularly in such unusual circumstances—she couldn’t help but be cautious. But then, as she glanced at that movie-star-handsome face and the commanding physique the cashmere coat he wore hinted at, it seemed unlikely that his intent was anything other than to pass the time of day with her. Anything else would be preposterous. They’d had a bit of an exchange before, and he was merely being polite, she told herself.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to get back to what I’m here for.’ Removing her gloves, Marianne strummed a few chords to tune her guitar. A group of visiting French students passing by just then momentarily peered at her with interest. As for her handsome visitor, he stubbornly remained where he stood, apparently in no hurry to leave.

‘Next time…when I am in town…perhaps you would allow me to buy you lunch?’ he suggested.

Marianne blinked. Even the idea of sitting in some smart little restaurant opposite this man for an hour or more made her go hot and cold. For a start, what would they possibly have in common to talk about? ‘Thank you, but no,’ she answered quickly. ‘I don’t really do lunch when I’m working’

‘You mean you do not take a break to eat?’ He sounded amused.

‘I do take a break, but only to have coffee and sometimes maybe a croissant or a muffin…I have my main meal in the evening…when I get home.’

‘Then how about I buy you coffee and cake instead?’

No reason to refuse him coming helpfully to mind, Marianne nodded uncomfortably. ‘Okay. Now, I really have to get back to this.’

‘Then I will say goodbye, Marianne.’ He briefly inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. ‘Until next time.’

‘Next time’ turned out to be two days later. Having endured an icy shower of rain and sleet combined for the previous hour, huddled beneath an inadequate umbrella instead of playing her guitar, Marianne had seriously thought about packing up and calling it a day. But then the sun came out, the freezing cold shower subsided, and as if by magic Eduardo De Souza appeared. He was dressed in his stylish cashmere coat, with a matching scarf draped casually round his neck, and his attire seemed much more suitable for the premiere of a theatre production rather than a casual visit to town.

‘Hello.’ He smiled, his rich voice sounding a little huskier than she remembered. Realising that for the past two days she had subconsciously been looking out for him, her heart thudding with what felt ridiculously like excited anticipation whenever his image crossed her mind, Marianne struggled to make her response sound natural.

‘Hi…’ she mumbled, standing back to shake the drops from her umbrella, fold it, then lean it against the wall. ‘Not exactly the best day for coming into town,’ she quipped.

‘Fortunately I missed the downpour. I have spent the past hour under cover at the exhibition.’

‘The same exhibition you visited before?’

‘Yes.’

‘It must be quite compelling to make you want to visit it again. What’s it about?’

‘It’s a collection by a French photographer I particularly admire…a retrospective of his life in Paris just after the war, when the city was being rebuilt. He died recently, and I saw an article in the local newspaper advertising the exhibition.’

‘Oh.’ Collecting her guitar from its case, Marianne gave her visitor an awkward smile. ‘I should probably go and take a look at it myself before it ends. It sounds fascinating.’

‘You are interested in the subject?’

‘I’m always interested in creativity and art—whatever its form. It intrigues me to learn how other artists see the world…how they interpret what they see. Just goes to show we all see things so differently…not in the same way at all.’

For a moment the man in front of her fell silent, as though he were seriously considering the opinion Marianne had just expressed, and with no small amount of surprise either.

Then he glanced down at his watch—expensive-looking, but definitely not ostentatious. ‘How about going for that coffee now?’

Again finding no immediate reason to decline, and feeling chilled to the bone after that hour of relentless sleet and rain, Marianne found herself agreeing. ‘Okay. Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.’

In the familiar café, with its cheerful red and white checked curtains and matching tablecloths, the aromatic smell of brewing coffee mingling with the steam arising from the damp coats of customers gratefully seeking warmth, shelter and sustenance after their tussle with the elements, Marianne was mildly surprised to find it as busy as it was. Luckily she found a small table close to the woodstove, and the waitress appeared almost straight away to take their order. She didn’t doubt it was because Eduardo did not look like your average everyday customer—his almost regal bearing and sheer physicality alone commanded instant attention.

Goodness knew what the poor girl made of Marianne as his companion! As it was, she saw her look slightly askance at her guitar in its battered case, as if it was something almost distasteful. Eduardo gave her their order, and Marianne suddenly found herself alone with him. Resting his hands atop the checked tablecloth, he studied her without speaking. What was he thinking? Marianne wondered nervously. She cleared her throat and forced a shaky smile, feeling ill at ease and somehow graceless in her jumble of ill-fitting clothing beneath his intense examination.

‘This is a nice place. It makes a change from the local coffee chain I usually use. The coffee’s very good, and the pastries aren’t bad either.’

‘I am glad you chose a table near the fire…you look half frozen!’

‘I’m not any more. I’m quite warm, actually.’ Undoing several buttons on her coat, Marianne flashed him a smile, genuinely touched by the concern in his voice.

‘I have to ask you—’ the disturbing glance seemed to intensify ‘—are your parents happy about you singing at the side of the road?’ he questioned, frowning.

She could tell by his tone that he disapproved.

‘They’re not around any more to have an opinion,’ she answered instantly, without thinking, and then a splinter of indignant anger pierced her that he should disapprove of people he didn’t even know. ‘Anyway…I don’t mean to be rude…it’s really none of your business.’

‘How old are you? Seventeen…eighteen?’

Marianne stopped fiddling with the sugar bowl on the table and stared at him with the hardest gaze she could muster. ‘For your information, I’m twenty-four—and quite capable of looking after myself and making my own decisions without the interference or permission of anyone else, including parents if they were around!’

‘It is just that you appear much younger…’ Eduardo murmured, his returning gaze completely unapologetic.

‘It’s hardly my fault if genetics or fate has made me look younger than I am!’

‘I am not criticising the way you look, Marianne.’ His voice softened, and so did his gaze. ‘I am just concerned that you would choose to put yourself in what could potentially be a very vulnerable position. Can you not find somewhere else…somewhere safer where you might perform your songs?’

‘There’s a folk club I sing at sometimes…but it’s only open once every fortnight. I’d get very rusty if that was my only outlet. Besides…’ Fearing his judgement and disapproval, Marianne slotted her defences firmly into place. ‘The vendors that work in the market look out for me. Someone immediately comes over if it looks like anyone is bothering me.’

Eduardo sighed. ‘That at least makes me feel a little easier about the situation.’

‘Well, please don’t give it another thought. I’ve been singing outside for over a year now, and nothing dire has happened to me yet!’

The waitress brought their coffee, along with two generous slices of the fruitcake Eduardo had ordered for them. Marianne added sugar to her drink and stirred it.

His expression at her words revealed more alarm than reassurance, and her companion reached into his inside coat pocket for his wallet, extracted something, and held it out to her. Initially thinking he was going to offer her money, Marianne was about to give him short shrift when she thankfully saw that he was actually offering her a small business card.

‘What’s this for?’

‘If you ever need anything…’

‘What could I possibly need from a complete stranger?’ For some inexplicable reason she found herself precariously close to tears. Some renegade emotion had crept up on her undetected, until it was almost too late to rein it in again. It had been happening a lot lately.

The Brazilian firmed his mouth. ‘A job, for one thing…And, seeing as we are sitting here together having coffee, I hope I am no longer a stranger. If this weather gets much colder—and the forecast is not good for the rest of January—you might appreciate an alternative way to earn some money. A job that would also provide a roof over your head and good, nourishing food to eat.’

‘What kind of job?’ Intrigued now, despite herself, Marianne glanced out of the window at the steel-grey sky and the threat of even more sleet and snow. An involuntary tremor went through her.

‘I need a housekeeper.’ The broad shoulders beneath the fawn-coloured cashmere lifted, then fell again.

‘A housekeeper?’

‘I already have a valet to do the personal things I need help with…but, having resided here for almost a year now, I find it has become increasingly clear that some extra help in the house would be most welcome. At present I hire contract cleaners, and Ricardo—my valet—does the cooking. But if you can cook too that would alleviate him of that particular task and no doubt be most welcome. Give it some thought and ring me if you would like to give it a try. The house is a little remote, but if you do not mind that and enjoy beautiful countryside views then I do not think you will be disappointed.’

‘And you would give me this job without even knowing if I could do it?’ Marianne’s hazel eyes were sceptical.

‘You seem a very independent sort of person to me…the type who would learn quickly, get on with things and not make a fuss. I am sure you would work out just fine.’

‘Are you normally so trusting of people you don’t even know? I could be anyone! What if I pinched the silver, or some priceless family heirloom whilst under your roof?’

Astonishingly, both corners of Eduardo’s severe mouth lifted at the same time. For a moment Marianne’s breath caught at the flash of humour that transformed his compelling pale blue eyes.

‘Would a girl who sings in the street for pennies and hands me back a fifty-pound note, telling me to give it to the homeless, be likely to steal even a crust of bread from her employer?’ He shook his head, his expression reverting to seriousness again. ‘I do not think so.’

‘Well, I thank you for your concern, as well as the offer of a job, but I’m not ready for a change just yet. As long as there’s not a full-blown blizzard then I’ll continue to sing outside for the foreseeable future.’

‘Very well…That is your decision, of course. Why don’t you try your fruitcake? It looks very good.’

‘Thank you. I will.’

The rest of their conversation was politely superficial and companionable—as though they had silently recognised the potential danger in discussing anything more personal and mutually agreed to avoid it.

Twenty minutes later they parted—Marianne to return to her singing, and Eduardo to head wherever he was heading. She hadn’t asked him where. But as he moved away from her and continued on down the street her heart definitely raced a little as she watched him go. Remembering his surprising offer of a job, she wondered why she suddenly felt so bad for refusing his help. Was it because she thought she’d detected a hint of melancholy or sadness in that magnetising gaze as they’d sat talking? Was it anything to do with the reason he walked with a cane? A wave of sympathy tugged hard at her heartstrings.

‘Sing us a song, love!’ One of the cheerful vendors who sold fruit from a stall further down the street stopped in front of her, clapping his gloved hands together with an exaggerated shiver. ‘We need something to warm us up. It’s colder than bloody Siberia today, and there’s heavy snow forecast for tonight. Got any songs about spring?’

Shaken out of her reverie, Marianne grinned. ‘How about “By the Banks of the Sweet Primroses”?’

‘Lovely job!’ The vendor happily grinned back.

When the notion of trying to help the little roadside singer had come to him, it hadn’t even crossed Eduardo’s mind to offer her a job. So when the words had come out of his mouth he’d surprised even himself. Contract cleaners he could maintain an aloof distance from, and the familiar Ricardo whom he’d brought with him from Rio de Janeiro were one thing—but to invite a new young acquaintance to share his roof and become his housekeeper was quite another. Especially when he guarded his privacy more fiercely than Fort Knox was famed for guarding its gold bullion.

But it was perfectly true that he did need a housekeeper, and considering Marianne’s shivering form yesterday, watching her struggle to keep warm in the bleak winter weather, Eduardo had suddenly thought it was the ideal solution. But she had turned him down. It was true that he had not really believed that she would accept his offer, but still…it irked him more than a little that she had not. And it was a practical certainty that if he attempted to offer her money again, to help better her situation, she would likely throw it back in his face and instruct him in no uncertain terms to go to hell! She had a temper on her, that was for sure. And it had genuinely shocked him to learn that she was no teenager but twenty-four years old…a woman.

Recalling the flash of fire in her almond-shaped hazel eyes as she’d castigated him for being too intrusive, he felt his skin tighten hotly. Irritably ignoring the unsettling sensation, he strode into the ornate marble bathroom that led off his private suite of rooms and for several moments just stood in the centre of the floor, unsure why he had even gone in there. Restlessly he pushed his fingers through his hair and sighed. It was probably best he curb his philanthropic urges where that particular young woman was concerned and concentrate his efforts on repairing his damaged leg, doubling his belief that one day soon he would be able to walk as well as he had before the accident—confidently, and without even a trace of a limp.

After that…Eduardo moved across to the vanity unit, staring at his reflection in the large oval mirror there and grimacing at the deep shadows wrought beneath his eyes by agony of body and spirit and a severe lack of sleep. After that… Well, he would just have to take one day at a time, he told himself, hardly able to contemplate a future that wasn’t as bleak and pain-filled as the present. How could such a prospect be possible when the two lives most intimately intertwined with his had been ripped away? When every night he relived the terrible nightmare of the accident that had killed them—the accident that he had caused?




Chapter Three


THERE was indeed a heavy snowfall that night, as the fruit vendor had predicted. After surveying the cloak of sparkling white that blanketed her garden as well as the street outside the next morning Marianne tidied the house, made herself a hot drink, then tinkered with an unfinished song she’d been composing on the piano. But her mood was not buoyant, and she struggled to stave off the sense of melancholy that kept threatening to overwhelm her. Finally, unable to bear the enforced isolation a moment longer, she donned a warm coat, boots and a hat over her jeans and sweater and went outside.

The ice in the air snatched at her breath, making her eyes water, but her spirits lifted at just being out in the open again. She took herself off for a long, if laboured walk, due to the impediment of snow, into the park nearby. Just watching the children toboggan down the glistening frosted hillside and hurl snowballs at each other restored her sense of perspective and her good humour. And if any thoughts of the childhood she’d experienced, which had been bereft of similar happy times and feeling secure started to threaten, she firmly pushed them away, knowing it was pointless to contemplate such things when her cheerful mood could so easily regress to one of despair.

By the time she returned home she’d made a vow to fight off any gloomy recollection that might seduce her into unwanted misery. She simply would not allow herself to go there. But by mid-afternoon, when early darkness had descended, impelling her to turn on all the lamps again and draw the curtains, Marianne was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace, watching the flames lick round the burning coals and crackling twigs, and considering the prospect of life on her own again for the foreseeable future. Donal would be so mad at her for sitting here feeling sorry for herself! That was for sure. And suddenly she was crying. An unstoppable flow of hurt and sadness long dammed up could no longer be contained—making her weep until she was utterly spent and could cry no more.

Taking herself off to bed, she curled up in a foetal position, drawing the duvet right over her head, feeling numbed and empty. Just before she closed her eyes she swore to herself she would never indulge in such futile self-pity again. Tomorrow was a new day, and when the morning light came it would herald a new and more positive beginning. Marianne was adamant about that.

However, on lifting a corner of the bedroom curtains the following morning and being confronted by an even thicker blanket of snow, with a fresh shimmering fall of delicate white descending before her very eyes, she had to draw on every ounce of resolve not to be downcast. During the night she had made her mind up about something, and today there was plenty to occupy her towards implementing that decision.

Donal’s adult children—Michael and Victoria—had contested the will that he’d made, leaving his house and all his belongings to Marianne. For nearly eighteen months she’d endured formal, aloof and cruel letters from their solicitor, stating the reasons for their dispute and insinuating that both she and their father had not been of sound mind, and now she had had enough. They could have the house and everything in it. She would leave it to them without a backward glance or a single regret.

She was certain Donal would forgive her. Everything he’d done for her in helping to restore her low self-esteem and encouraging her to believe in her talents and abilities she totally appreciated, but the truth was Marianne did not want to be beholden to anyone any more. Not even her deceased husband. She needed to be free again…free to live her life the way she chose—however that looked to anyone else. So, from the house she would take just her clothing, her guitar, and what little savings she had put by. Everything else—even the gifts Donal had bought her during their short-lived marriage—she would leave to his avaricious children.

Galvanised into action, she spent the day cleaning the house, restoring stray books to shelves, packing up her things and moving furniture back to where it had been when she had first moved in with Donal. Her body throbbed with satisfying warmth from a job well done, and she was too physically tired to allow even one negative thought to invade her mind. And that night…that night she slept like a baby.

But when she woke the next morning to find that the snow still hadn’t cleared, and with no prospect of getting into town to play her guitar and sing—knowing she would be mad even to try—Marianne impulsively found herself searching for the business card Eduardo de Souza had insisted she take. Lifting the telephone receiver in the hall, she dialled his home number with shaking fingers. Even as she dialled she called herself all kinds of fool for contemplating such a reckless path.

But she could be snowbound for days, she thought, genuine dread invading her as she waited for someone to pick up at the other end. And now that she’d made the decision to leave and forge a new life, a new future, she was eager to put the past behind her and start again. Something had to be done to help improve her situation besides overcoming her fear of performing in public and accepting that she was now on her own again. Unlikely as it seemed, this might, just might, be it.

‘Hello?’ an accented male voice answered.

‘Is that Mr De Souza?’ Marianne ventured, her heart beating like a military tattoo.

‘No. May I ask who is calling?’

It must be his valet, she realised, and taking a deep breath she said clearly, ‘Marianne Lockwood. Is he available to speak?’

After a pause the man replied, ‘Wait a moment, please. I will see.’

There were several times after the man went to locate his employer that Marianne almost put the phone down. What was she doing? she asked herself. She didn’t know the first thing about being a housekeeper, and neither did she know what kind of an employer Eduardo De Souza would turn out to be. No doubt he would be overly serious and exacting, finding constant fault should she fail to measure up, examining her with that intense stare of his and making her rue the day she’d made the impulsive decision to go and work for him.

Yet beneath the cacophony of doubt and apprehension that raged inside her, a stronger more positive instinct was urging Marianne to go for it and give it a try.

‘Marianne?’

Her prospective employer’s voice—impatient and a little out of breath, as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of something and resented it—sounded in her ear.

‘Hello, there. It’s Marianne—the busker from town,’ she explained, a light tremor in her voice. ‘I—I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but you said…’

‘What is it that you need?’

Marianne glanced up to the heavens for courage. ‘A job…and a home,’ she replied, then made herself breathe deeply and mentally count to ten, so that she didn’t succumb to her fears and change her mind. ‘Are you still looking for a housekeeper?’

Sweat broke out on Eduardo’s brow. The visiting physiotherapist might have been a torturer straight out of the Spanish Inquisition, he thought grimly as the man manipulated his scar-criss-crossed leg into yet another excruciatingly painful position to test its flexibility. He swore…loudly. The therapist looked startled and carefully moved his patient’s leg back down onto the treatment couch with a murmured apology. Staring up at the ornately plastered Victorian ceiling in the library as he lay there, Eduardo sensed his racing heart slowly return to a more normal rhythm.

‘Are we finished?’ he asked, gravel-voiced.

The sandy-haired physio gave him a respectful and sympathetic smile. ‘I agree you’ve probably had enough for now, Mr De Souza. My advice is to take it easy for the rest of the day. Try and get some proper rest tonight, and don’t overdo things.’

‘Do they teach you at medical school to come out with these clichéd platitudes?’ Eduardo remarked irritably, swinging his legs over the side of the table and ignoring the other man’s immediate move to help him.

Unoffended, the man smiled again. ‘Sometimes rest really is the best course of action when dealing with any kind of physical trauma,’ he explained. ‘The body needs to access its own powers of healing, and rest gives it the opportunity to do that. I realise it may have been a little uncomfortable for you today, but the fact is your leg is definitely recovering from that last operation. Another month or two and you should notice a significant improvement when walking. I can practically guarantee it.’

‘Give me your hand,’ Eduardo muttered, and accepted help to stand—though it psychologically pained him to accept anyone’s help these days, when he had previously been so fit and able.

Hearing the heavy oak front door open downstairs, then shut again with a sonorous clunk, he remembered that he’d instructed Ricardo to take the four-by-four and go and collect Marianne. Ironic that he had been reflecting on his resistance to accepting help when he had just effectively hired a girl he had only recently met to come and live in his house and act as his housekeeper!

What had made her change her mind about accepting the post? he speculated. Perhaps it wasn’t so difficult to deduce. Common sense had simply prevailed, and the plummeting temperatures had forced her to make a more sensible decision about her living and working arrangements after all. At least now he would not have her wellbeing on his conscience, as he imagined her standing at the roadside singing and ending up in hospital with hypothermia!

‘Sounds like you’ve got company,’ the therapist said cheerfully. ‘Why don’t you let me tidy up here, then I’ll be on my way?’

‘Ricardo…Take Miss Lockwood’s coat and hang it up, if you would, and when you’re done perhaps she would like a mug of hot chocolate to warm her up? We will be in the sitting room.’

Watching Ricardo help their visitor out of her too-large tweed overcoat and then leave, Eduardo skimmed his gaze over the medley of colourful clothing the girl wore underneath, and the curtain of long rippling hair over which she’d jammed the quite outrageously bright cerise woollen hat. He frowned.

‘It might be a good idea to remove your hat too,’ he suggested, the urge to smile suddenly too overwhelming to resist.

‘Oh. I forgot.’ Grabbing it off her head, Marianne stuffed it into the large bag made up of multi-coloured velvet squares that she’d temporarily left on the smooth marble floor in front of her.

For a few moments static electricity turned her light brown hair into a wild and silken tangle, and Eduardo could not help but stare at the arresting picture she made. A cinematic image of Mary Poppins the quintessential eccentric and pretty English nanny appeared in his mind. She sang too, he remembered, this time without amusement. Being bereft of the child he might have had, he was in no need of a nanny but a housekeeper. Someone who might help make his day-to-day living in self-imposed exile a little more bearable and smooth-running.

‘Follow me,’ he instructed, moving down a corridor that led away from the generously proportioned hall, with its solid brass chandelier, and bypassing several closed doors before finally reaching one that was slightly ajar. Painfully and bitterly aware of his limp, he leaned a little too heavily on his walking cane and turned into the comfortably furnished sitting room. The only noise was the crackle and hiss of the blazing fire and the sedative ticking of the clock on the marble mantel. He stood aside to let Marianne precede him.

‘Oh, how beautiful!’

Her gaze was not on the room itself, he saw, but on the incredible view that the tall curved windows with their parted drapes displayed. Eduardo sensed an arrow of pride shoot through him as he stared through the unadorned glass at the silhouette of majestic firs against the navy blue skyline. Stars were dotted about like splashed pinpricks of luminous paint, and a dazzling crescent moon hung suspended as though it were a bright magical toy controlled by a master puppeteer. He heard her softly appreciative gasp of pleasure.

‘I told you that you would not be disappointed with the views, did I not? And it is nothing compared to what you will see in the daytime’

‘I’m almost speechless at the sight of it!’ Swinging her glance back in his direction, Marianne smiled at him with uncensored delight.

Again Eduardo had the disturbing sensation of his skin being too tight and hot to contain the avalanche of sensation that poured through him…a wave of sensual longing that was as powerful and unpredictable as El Niño…and prompted entirely by that bewitching smile. For a moment he could do nothing but stare. Automatically his mind took a snapshot of the captivating glowing features before him, and an old excitement that he had not experienced for ages pulsed strongly through his veins.

‘We could be in another realm,’ she enthused, greengold eyes shining. ‘However did you find such a place?’

‘My mother grew up in this area. Whenever she brought me here as a child I loved it. So when I was looking for a house I knew immediately where I wanted it to be situated. I visited several before I was shown this place. As soon as I saw it I knew it was the right one.’

‘You were right when you said it was remote.’As she secured the strap of her bag against her shoulder, Marianne’s expression was thoughtful. ‘When Ricardo was driving me here I didn’t see another house or building for miles!’

‘You are thinking maybe that it is too remote for your liking?’

‘I don’t think that at all. Seeing as I’m not someone who needs company all the time, being remote doesn’t bother me. Besides…being around people too much can really get to you after a while, and I’d go crazy if I didn’t have some peace and quiet to balance things out. Do you know what I mean?’

‘Clearly I do—or else I would not be living here.’ Eduardo smiled reluctantly, but he was genuinely surprised by the fact that she was apparently quite content with her own company. These days, when most people he observed seemed driven by the need for perpetual noise and distraction, it was positively unusual. ‘Shall we continue our discussion sitting by the fire?’

Once they were ensconced in comfortable leather armchairs, Eduardo followed Marianne’s mesmerised gaze to the dancing amber-gold flames. For a while companionable silence settled over them, like another softening blanket of snow on the desolate winter landscape outside.

‘Warm enough?’ he asked, almost reluctant to intrude upon the stillness and quiet with words.

Withdrawing her glance from the fire, she blinked at him as though momentarily forgetting who he was and why she was even there.

‘Oh, yes…perfectly warm, thanks. I expect you’re wondering why I changed my mind about taking you up on your offer,’ she said in a rush, her pale, slender-fingered hands twisting together restlessly in the lap of her red wool dress. ‘The truth is I suddenly realised that a change was what I needed after all. Being snowed in for three days certainly helped focus my mind on the subject! Although I was playing my music, doing what I loved, I was also in a bit of a rut. I figured it was time to try something different.’

‘So you decided to ring me after all?’ Linking his fingers steeple-like beneath his chin, Eduardo thoughtfully studied the pretty oval face and expressive hazel eyes before him. There were myriad conflicting emotions behind that arresting gaze that he couldn’t help but wonder at. Was she running away from something…some cruelty or unhappiness that she hadn’t revealed? Something like an abusive relationship, perhaps?

‘I did. You—you didn’t mind?’

‘I would not have given you my card if I minded.’

‘I just wanted to make sure.’

‘And can I ask about the jobs you have had previously—before this?’

‘Well. I…’ Briefly Marianne’s attention returned to the fire, where a hot coal sizzled brightly before settling more deeply into the nest of flames. ‘I’ve worked in shops, mostly…a large clothing store, then a music store selling instruments and sheet music…that kind of thing.’

‘You must have been in your element there.’ Eduardo remarked, already knowing that music was a passion for her—the same as the career he had chosen had once been a passion for him. He quickly quashed the thought.

‘I was.’ The bewitching smile returned, naked and unguarded, and it was as though someone had brought a rare and beautiful orchid into the midst of a grey concrete prison cell. ‘Look…I know I’m not exactly qualified to be a housekeeper, if you go by my previous employment, but I’m a fast learner, and I actually get great pleasure from doing the things that help make a house a home.’

‘Talking of home…where was it you last lived, Marianne?’ he enquired, intrigued. ‘A commune or a squat, perhaps?’

Her glance was perturbed. ‘No. It was a house that I shared with somebody.’

‘A boyfriend?’

‘No…not a boyfriend. Can we talk about the job and what the daily routine is? I’d like to get a feel for things as soon as possible, so that I won’t have to trouble you with too many questions.’

Reluctantly Eduardo curbed his curiosity. A businesslike approach to work was not what he had expected from someone who appeared as Bohemian as Marianne, but nonetheless it could hardly displease him, he mused silently. Not when he had begun to realise that established routines and a smooth-running household could sometimes help take the edge off the mental torture that plagued him, by acting as a sort of shield that could occasionally cushion him from the painful events of the past. For someone who had once been an inveterate risk-taker this was a revelation to him…even though he privately despised himself for succumbing to such appalling weakness.





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