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His words trailed off as, head down, she limped faster.
That morning when he’d heard her gasp, he’d swung around and Ella’s eyes had grown to the size of saucers. In that moment, he had reflexively stepped closer—to assure her not to be alarmed, nothing more. But he’d barely said her name before she’d scurried down the stairs like a frightened deer. After he’d dressed, he’d gone to smooth things over but had discovered that she’d left the house. With him away this week, they hadn’t spoken of it…until now.
They lived together. Tricky situations were bound to occur, like her walking in on him buck-naked that morning, like his discovery of her swimming today—
He frowned.
Which brought him back to the original question.
“A resignation doesn’t explain what happened to your handbag.” The way it had been upended as if some no-good scum had been in a hurry to get what he’d come for.
Her pace eased as she wrapped the towel more securely under her arms. “My inheritance from my mother finally came through.” She flicked him a glance. “Nothing compared to your wealth, but enough that I shouldn’t need to worry about money again if I’m careful. The executor organized to have the funds trans-ferred through to my account last night, but when it bounced back this morning, he rang to check the BSB number. After a few minutes, when I couldn’t find the book I normally keep in my bag…” Her lips pressed together. “Well, I overreacted and dumped it upside down.”
Tristan pictured the scene—Ella taking the call, the executor perhaps growing impatient when she’d kept him waiting. Her heart could have raced, her hands might have shaken. She was normally so composed and ordered, as was he. But having overreacted himself just now, he could better understand how she might have lost control in that moment.
“And the uniform? The shoes?”
Her face pinched, then she shrugged. “When I ended the phone call and knew the money would be in my account on Monday, I had this overwhelming urge to be free of them. I ripped the uniform off where I stood. Then I kicked off my shoes.” She focused on her bare feet as she continued walking, moving slowly now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t give any thought to where or how they landed.”
Tristan slid his hands into his trouser pockets. So Ella had come into an inheritance. Odd, but he’d never thought of her with parents. She’d seemed such a blank sheet. He hadn’t known her business and she didn’t ask about his. Not that there was much happening in his personal life these days.
He stood aside as she entered the kitchen through the still open door. “I’m sorry about your mother’s pass-ing,” he offered.
Her step hesitated as she gave him a look he couldn’t read. “She died eight months ago, just before I came to work for you.”
As she moved into the kitchen, it struck him again that he knew nothing of his housekeeper’s background. She’d shown up on his doorstep, explaining that she’d heard of the job opening. She hadn’t presented refer-ences, which he usually would insist upon. But he’d taken her on, mainly because of a gut feeling that she would fit. Her reserved demeanor, her unassuming ap-pearance, the way she’d quietly but succinctly re-sponded to his questions—she’d simply felt…right.
As a rule he thought through every detail of a decision. He hated making a mistake. Growing up, his two brothers had called him Mastermind and had ribbed him constantly about his meticulous ways. Those days seemed so long ago. Although his younger brother hadn’t visited this house in a long time, he and Josh kept in touch. However, he hadn’t spoken to his older brother, Cade, in years. Never planned to again.
Ella made her way to the cushioned window seat and, wincing, sat.
He followed and indicated her ankle. “Mind if I have a look?” He’d been a lifeguard in his teens and early twenties and knew first aid. It could do more harm than good limping around when a joint needed rest.
She gave a reluctant nod and he dropped onto his haunches.
“The bruise is fading,” she told him as he carefully turned the one-hundred-percent feminine ankle this way then that. “It wasn’t so bad.”
“Have you had it seen to?”
“No need. It’s happened before, since as far back as junior high when I ran cross-country. I wear an ankle support and try not to overdo it, but I can’t give up running. It’s always been my release.”
Well, this was the most information of a personal nature she’d ever offered. Was it because she was leaving? Because she was finally free and out of that drab past-the-knees dress that usually hid those hon-eyed shins. Shins that must feel as smooth as they looked.
When his fingertips tingled to inch higher, he bit down the urge, lowered her foot and pushed from his knees to stand.
Focus, Mastermind.
This was no time to slip up, even if Ella’s transfor-mation was one hellova jolt, as was her resignation. He’d gotten used to her living here. Where would she be bunking down two weeks from now?
“Have you arranged somewhere to live?” he asked.
Her blue eyes sparkled up at him. “I want to buy in an affordable neighborhood and rent something in the meantime.”
Although he nodded sagely, it was almost painful to think of not coming home to her. Despite checking her references, the housekeeper before Ella had been less than satisfactory—scorched shirts, mediocre meals. Ultimately, he’d had to let her go. Perhaps that’s why he’d gone with gut rather than referees in Ella’s case.
And with Ella taking care of his domestic front, all had been as it should be. She knew exactly the right amount of ice to mix with his predinner Scotch. His sheets had never smelled better, of lavender and fresh sunshine. He trusted her, too, never needing to worry that some valuable item might go missing.
Damn.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Two weeks, huh?”
Her smile was wry. “This is a luxurious setting with wonderful conditions. I doubt you’ll have any trouble filling my spot.”
“None who can cook like you.”
Her head slanted at an amused angle as her eyes sparkled more. “Thank you. But my cooking’s really nothing special.”
Said who? He could practically smell her mouth-watering beef Wellington now. He particularly liked the way she distributed gravy—from a delicate, gold-rimmed pourer at the table, and only over the meat, never the vegetables. She always asked if there was anything else he’d like.
He’d always said no.
Tristan’s stomach knotted and he cleared his throat.
Hunger pains. He should’ve eaten on the plane.
He moved to his briefcase, which he’d left on the counter beside her upended handbag. “Whatever you do, however you do it, I’ve only ever received compliments from our dinner guests…and requests for invitations.”
Most recently from Mayor Rufus.
As he clicked open his briefcase, out of the corner of his eye he saw Ella push to her feet. He could almost hear her thoughts.
“You’ve invited someone special to dinner, haven’t you?”
He put on the eyeglasses he needed to read small print and shuffled through some property plans he ought to go over this afternoon. “I’ll get around it.”
Did he have any choice? Ella was obviously eager to start her new life, permanently shuck out of her “rags” and into something pretty. If no one else could make pork ribs with honey-whiskey sauce the way she did, he’d have to survive. He only wished the mayor, who had a notorious sweet tooth, hadn’t heard Councilor Stevens’s compliments regarding Ella’s caramel apple pie.
Either way, the mayor had invited himself over, un-doubtedly to kill two birds with one stone—sample Ella’s superb culinary skills as well as address rezoning problems regarding acreage Tristan had purchased with a vast high-rise project in mind. But Tristan wasn’t looking forward to another topic of conversation that would unfold during the course of the evening—conversation concerning a duplicitous and beautiful young woman who also happened to be the mayor’s daughter…
Ella’s voice came from behind him. “When did you invite them?”
“Really, Ella—”
“Tell me,” she insisted.
He pushed out a sigh. “Three weeks. But it’s fine.”
“I could stay on a little longer, if that would help.”
He slipped off his glasses, turned to her and smiled. Loyal to the end. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
“Another week won’t kill me.” She flinched at her gaffe. “What I mean to say is, if one last dinner party will make a difference to an important business deal, I’ll stay.”
“I appreciate that, but as wonderful as your meals are, they’re not a deal breaker.”
She arched a knowing brow. “But it wouldn’t hurt, right?”
Shutting his briefcase, he surrendered. “No. It wouldn’t hurt.”
“Then it’s settled.”
When she pulled back her shoulders, his jaw shifted. In the past, she’d never been the least assertive, but given she was only acting in his best interests he couldn’t find a reason to object.
The real pity was he couldn’t talk her into staying indefinitely. But why would—as it turned out—an attractive young lady remain as someone’s housemaid when she had money enough to be independent? He had to be grateful she was willing to help out for an added week.
He swung his briefcase off the counter. “All right, I accept your offer. But I owe you.”
Looking defensive, she moved to tidy her handbag mess. “You’ve already done enough.”
“What? Allowed you to cook, clean and do my laundry?”
“You gave me a place to stay when I needed it most.”
When she hesitated before dropping her purse into her handbag, Tristan studied her suddenly tight-lipped expression. Her background wasn’t any of his business, particularly now that she’d resigned. Still, he was in-trigued as he’d never been before. What harm would it do to get a little closer now that she was leaving? In fact, perhaps he could satisfy his curiosity over his un-assuming duckling turned swan and at the same time thank Ella in some small but apt way.
He cocked his head. “I insist I repay the favor. What would you say to me supplying dinner for a change?”
Her eyes narrowed almost playfully as she stuffed the last article, a hairbrush, into her bag. “I didn’t think you could cook.”
“I can’t. But I know a few chefs who can.”
Her expression froze as a pulse beat high in her throat. She took a moment to speak. “You want to take me to dinner? But I’m your housekeeper.”
“Only for another three weeks.” But he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. “It’s just a small show of appreciation for your efforts in the past, as well as for staying on longer than you’d intended.”
It wasn’t a date. Truth was he hadn’t had a real date in a while. He didn’t count the run of women he’d asked out once or twice to see if the chemistry worked.
He was thirty-two—time to find a wife and have that family. But with each passing birthday more and more he realized he preferred the old-fashioned type, and the women in his circle were either sickeningly simpering, over-opinionated or flat-out treacherous, as Bindy Rufus had been.
Ella crossed to the pot to make coffee—strong and fresh, just the way he liked it. Head bowed, she curled wet hair behind her ear and answered his question. “I don’t think going out to dinner would be…appropri-ate.”
“Then you need to think again.” When he made up his mind, no one and nothing dissuaded him. Neverthe-less, he put a smile into his voice. “Today’s a day to kick off your shoes and let go, remember?’
She chewed her lower lip then, looking up at him, slowly grinned. “I guess it is.”
Ignoring the embers that innocent smile stirred in the pit of his stomach, he headed for his study. “We’ll make it tomorrow night.”
He smacked his forehead and turned back. Where was his mind today?
“Ella, is my tux back from the cleaners? I have an event tonight.”
“It’s hanging in your wardrobe.”
She paled and he read her thoughts as clearly as this morning’s newspaper. The wardrobe where I saw you without a stitch on last week.
But that was all behind them.
He stole a last look at those legs.
At least he thought it was.
Chapter Two
Finished applying her new lip gloss, Ella examined her reflection in the bedroom mirror and let out a sigh.
Life truly could turn on a pin. Only eight months ago she’d buried the poor wasted body of her mother, Roslyn Jacob, who’d finally succumbed to cancer. Later that same day, a man she would revile until the end of time had paid her a visit. A man Ella hoped she would never see again.
She’d first met Drago Scarpini some weeks before the death of her mother. He’d claimed to be her half brother, conceived out of wedlock by Ella’s father before he’d married her mother.
Scarpini’s own mother, an Italian who’d immigrated to Western Australia many years before, had recently passed away. On her deathbed she’d revealed the name of her son’s father, Vance Jacob. Scarpini discovered that Ella’s father had passed away long ago but Scarpini had wanted to visit his father’s widow to see if he had any brothers or sisters.
A well-packaged story, but from his first, Scarpini had sent chills up Ella’s spine. As days wound into weeks and Roslyn’s condition and faculties deterio-rated more, Scarpini’s visits continued and his ulterior motives became clear.
Ella had overheard Scarpini talking to her mother about his difficult life growing up without a father, without money. Although Vance Jacob couldn’t make recompense now, Roslyn could change her will and divide the estate between Ella and himself. That, Scarpini had said, would’ve made her husband happy. After all those years of unwitting abandonment, it was the right thing to do.
Ella had been disgusted at his prodding. Her mother had been so ill, so confused. And there had been no proof Scarpini was who he claimed to be. If she’d had a few thousand to spare, she’d have hired an investigator.
The second time Ella had heard him pushing Roslyn, she’d told him to get out. Roslyn had died the day after, sooner than doctors had anticipated. Scarpini had attended the funeral and had even played the sorrowful, supportive brother. Later, however, he’d arrived on Ella’s doorstep demanding she divide the estate. When Ella had reminded him she’d just buried her mother, he’d exploded. He needed money to pay off pressing gambling debts.
As she’d shut the door in his face, he’d shouted she would regret it.
The next day, the police had arrived. Scarpini had alleged Ella had murdered Roslyn with a morphine overdose to head off the change she had been about to make to her will. It had been an hour of horror Ella would never forget, but, of course, no charges were laid. The following day her front window was smashed and a condolence card left on the mantel. Scarpini had phoned—either she agreed to his suggestion, or he would get nasty. He’d said he intended to haunt her until he got what he deserved.
Quaking all over, she’d immediately called the police, who couldn’t do much about Scarpini’s threats. She could petition for a restraining order, the officer ex-plained, but perhaps it would be better to wait and see if Scarpini would cool down and disappear. If he physi-cally harmed her, she should get in touch straight away, the officer had advised.
Ella hadn’t slept that night. She’d given up her job to care for her mother and, after medical expenses, there was no cash to speak of. The house, as well as an investment property, needed to be sold before the estate could be settled. That would take several weeks, if not months.
By dawn Ella had made two decisions. One, she needed a job to survive until the estate came through. Two, she didn’t intend to wait around for Scarpini’s next sadistic game. She’d bought a prepaid phone, or-ganized a post office box for correspondence from the will’s executor—the husband of a longtime friend of her mother’s—and dyed her hair a different shade for good measure. Then she’d applied for the house-keeper’s position at the Barkley mansion.
It had been a bold move, particularly without refer-ences, but she certainly knew how to cook and clean and do laundry. When she had secured the job, she’d settled and kept very much to herself.
She’d heard nothing from her harasser since. She hoped the police were right and Scarpini had slid back beneath the rock from which he’d crawled. Now with the house and investment property sold and all of her inheritance in hand—just over a million dollars—the time was finally right to take a deep breath, emerge from her cocoon and start afresh.
And what a way to mark the occasion…asked to dinner by the thoroughly enthralling, undeniably dreamy Tristan James Barkley.
Tingling with anticipation, she gazed into the mirror and clipped on her rhinestone eardrops.
She’d lived through a nightmare. How wonderful if dreams could come true…
