Italian Boss, Housekeeper Bride

Natasha sighed. It was that age-old double standard again, which some men—particularly the old-fashioned macho breed, like Raffaele—applied to all women. That there were two types. Madonna and whore. She bit her lip. Which category would she fall into?

Her behaviour since she’d first entered the de Feretti household had been beyond reproach—but she was still a single mother, wasn’t she? And, surely, that would score negatively when measured by Raffaele’s exacting standards?

‘Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?’ she said softly.

He shrugged his shoulders restlessly. Her voice was cajoling—it was like the warmth of the sun on a summer’s day—but, instinctively, he fought against its comfort. ‘What’s to tell? This scum bled her bank account until her attention was drawn to it—and then he ran.’ His face darkened. ‘But not before he had convinced her that she loved him and that she could love no other as much as him. She stopped eating. She stopped sleeping. Her skin is like paper and her arms—they are like this…’ He joined his forefinger and thumb together in a circle to illustrate Elisabetta’s emaciated limb, and another wave of pain etched its way across his features. ‘She’s sick, Tasha.’

His eyes narrowed as he saw the look of concern on her face. Thank God, this was only Natasha he was talking to, came one sane, fleeting thought. Nobody had ever seen Raffaele de Feretti even close to vulnerable before—and, surely, this came close. At least, Tasha didn’t count.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Natasha anxiously.

The image of Elisabetta came floating into his mind—with her huge eyes and the waterfall of black hair which fell in a heavy curtain to her waist. Clenching his fists together, he thought how much he would like to be able to protect his vulnerable half sister from the knocks that life had waiting in store. ‘I should have been able to protect her!’

Natasha opened her mouth to say that modern women were strong enough not to need protectors—but that wasn’t really true, was it? Hadn’t Raffaele done just that with her? Brought her in from the cold. And hadn’t he treated her son as…well, if not as his own, then certainly as some distant and fondly regarded relative?

Had she forgotten how despairing she had been when she had thrown herself onto him for mercy?

She had rung his bell one night in answer to an advertisement in the newspaper for a housekeeper, and he had opened the door himself. Some time in the hours between Natasha deciding that there was no way she could carry on living in a damp house and working like a slave, the heavens had opened and she had been soaked to the skin.

‘Yes?’ Raffaele had demanded, ‘What is it?’

Natasha had barely noticed the autocratic and irritated note in his voice—or that his black eyes had narrowed to something approaching astonishment as he took in the sodden mess she must have made.

‘I’ve come about the job,’ she’d said.

‘You’re too late.’

Her face’d crumpled. ‘You mean, it’s taken?’

He’d shaken his head impatiently. ‘I mean, that you’re too late. Literally. I’m not interviewing any more today. See the agency and I’ll try to fit you in tomorrow.’

But Natasha was desperate—and desperation could make you do funny things. It could fire you up with a determination you didn’t know you had until your back was against the wall. Particularly, if you were looking out for someone else.

‘No,’ she said firmly, and rushed on as she saw his expression of incredulity—because it was now or never.

‘No?’ he demanded. She dared to say no? To him?

She took a deep breath. ‘If I go away now, then you might appoint someone else before me, and no one will do the job as well as me. I can promise you that, Mr de Feretti.’

‘Signor de Feretti,’ he’d corrected flintily, but his interest had been awakened by her passion and determination and by the cold light of fear which lay at the back of her eyes.

He’d opened the door a fraction wider, so that a shaft of light had illuminated her, and Raffaele’d found himself thinking that she certainly wouldn’t provide much in the way of temptation—and maybe that was a good thing. Some of the younger applicants he’d seen that day had been pretty conturbante—sexy—and had made it clear that working for a single and very eligible bachelor was at the top of their wish-list for very obvious reasons. And the ones who’d been older had seemed itching to mother him. ‘So what makes you think you’d do the job better than anyone else?’ he’d demanded.

There was no possible answer to give other than the unvarnished truth, and Natasha had heard her voice wobble as she told him.

‘Because no one wants the job as much as I do. No one needs it as much as I do, either.’

He had seen she’d been shivering. Her teeth had been chattering and her eyes had a kind of wildness about them. He thought at the time that he might be offering house-room to someone who was very slightly unhinged, but sometimes Raffaele allowed himself to be swept along by a gut feeling that was stronger than logic or reason, and that had been one of those times.

‘You’d better come in,’ he’d said.

‘No! Wait!’

He frowned, scarcely able to believe his ears. ‘Wait?’

‘Can you give me a few minutes and I’ll be back?’

As Raffaele’d nodded his terse agreement he’d told himself he was being a fool—and he didn’t even have the fool’s usual excuse of having been blinded by a beautiful face and body. She was probably the head of some urban gang—the innocent-looking stool-pigeon who had arrived ahead of her accomplices who were even now bearing down on him.

But Raffaele was strong and fit and, deep down, he didn’t really think the woman was any such thing. Why, she was little more than a girl and her desperation sounded real enough, rather than the rehearsed emotion of some scam.

He’d tossed another log on the fire, which was blazing in his study, and poured himself a glass of rich, red wine. He’d almost given up on her coming back and thought that it was probably all for the best—though, his curiosity had somehow been whetted.

And then came the ringing on the door—only, this time it was even more insistent. His temper had threatened to fray as he’d wrenched it open.

‘You are not showing a very good example in interview technique!’ he’d grated, and then had seen that the woman was carrying a bundle—evident, even to his untutored eyes, as being a sleeping child—and there’d been a buggy on his front step. ‘What the hell is this?’

Without thinking, he’d pulled her inside out of the howling storm, swearing softly in Italian as he’d directed her in towards the fire, where she sank to her knees in front of the leaping flames, the child still in her arms, and let out a low, crooning sound of relief.

‘My friend’s been looking after my b-baby in the bus shelter while I came to see you.’

For a moment, he’d felt fury and pity in equal measures—but something else, too. He would help her, yes—but only if she proved she was worth helping. And, unless this mystery woman dried her eyes and pulled herself together, he would kick her back out on the street, where she belonged.

‘Hysterics won’t work in this case,’ he’d said coldly. ‘Not with me.’

Just in time, Natasha had recognised that he’d meant it and, sucking in a shuddering breath, she’d looked down at Sam. How did he manage to still be asleep? she’d asked herself with something close to wonder.

‘How old is he?’ Raffaele’d asked.

She’d lifted her face to his. It glowed in the firelight and had been wet with rain and tears, and he’d suddenly found himself thinking that her eyes were exceptionally fine—pale, like a summer sky.

‘How on earth d-did you know he was a boy?’ she’d questioned shakily.

He’d heard the strong and fierce note of maternal pride and, unexpectedly, he’d smiled. ‘He’s dressed entirely in blue,’ he’d said, almost gently.

Natasha had looked down and, sure enough, the hooded all-in-one and baby mitts had all been in variations on that shade. ‘Oh, yes!’ And, for the first time in a long, long time, she’d quivered him a smile. ‘He’s nearly eighteen months,’ she’d added.

Raffaele had hid the sinking feeling in his heart. Porca miseria! What he knew about children and babies could be written on his fingernail, but even he knew that children around that age were nothing but trouble.

‘But he’s really good,’ Natasha’d said.

It was perhaps unfortunate that Sam had chosen that precise moment to wake up. He’d taken one look at Raffaele and burst into an ear-splitting howl of rage.

There’d been a pause.

‘So I see,’ Raffaele’d said wryly.

‘Oh, he’s just tired,’ Natasha’d babbled, clamping him tightly to her chest and rocking him like a little boat. ‘And hungry. He’ll be fine tomorrow.’

He’d noticed her assumption that they would still be around the next day, but didn’t remark on it. ‘Why are you in this situation? Where have you been living?’

‘I’ve been working in a house—only, they keep asking me to do more and more, so that I hardly get a minute with Sam. And the house is damp, too—he’s only just finished a cold, and I’m terrified he’s going to get another. It’s not somewhere I want to bring a child up.’

His eyes had narrowed. ‘And what about his father? Is he going to turn up and want to stay the night with you here?’

‘We don’t see him,’ Natasha’d said, with an air of finality.

‘There isn’t going to be a scene? Angry doorstep rows at midnight?’

She shook her head. ‘No way.’

Raffaele’d looked curiously at the boy, who had been attempting to burrow into her shoulder, his thumb wobbling towards his mouth. He’d frowned. ‘Where’s he going to sleep?’

And with those words she’d known that she was in with a chance. That she’d had one foot in Mr—or rather—Signor de Feretti’s expensive door and she had to prove to this rugged, but rather cold-eyed, foreigner that she deserved to stay. They deserved to stay.

The child had spent his first night under the Italian’s roof in the same bed as his mother and when, the next morning, Raffaele’d caught Natasha trawling through the second-hand column of the local paper he’d overrode all her objections—which admittedly weren’t very strong when it came to her beloved boy—to order a top-of-the-range bed which was fashioned out of wood to look like a pirate ship.

And there mother and son had been ever since.

It suited all parties very well. Raffaele knew that it was far better his big house be lived in—especially as he was away a lot, not just in the States, but Europe, too, for the de Feretti empire spread far and wide. Once, Natasha had plucked up the courage to ask him why he bothered keeping on a house in England when presumably a hotel might have been more convenient.

But he had shaken his jet-dark head. ‘Because I hate them,’ he’d told her, with a surprising vehemence. Hadn’t he been in enough of them as a boy, following the death of his father, when he had been trailed from pillar to post by a mother determined to find herself a new rich husband? ‘Hotels have no soul. All the furniture is used by faceless hundreds. The pillows slept on by others and the mattresses made love on by countless couples. Yet, when you buy stuff of your own and put it down somewhere at least you can make any house a home.’

If she hadn’t been so busy trying not to bite her lip with embarrassment when he’d said that bit about making love then she might have disagreed with him—telling him that a home consisted of more than just furniture and belongings. It had to do with making it the place you most wanted to be at the end of the day. And, anyway, who was Natasha to disagree with him, when he had provided the only real home she and Sam had ever known?

When Sam had been old enough Raffaele had insisted on enrolling him to attend the nursery section of the highly acclaimed international school which was situated nearby.

‘Why not?’ he had queried, rather arrogantly, when she’d shaken her head.

‘It’s much too expensive,’ Natasha’d said defensively. ‘I can’t afford it.’

His voice had gentled in a the way it rarely did, but which was impossible to resist when he turned it on. ‘I know that. I wasn’t expecting you to pay. I will.’

‘I couldn’t possibly accept that,’ Natasha’d said, feeling as if she ought to refuse his generous offer even though her maternal heart leapt at the thought of Sam being given such a head start in life.

‘You can, and you will. It makes perfect sense,’ he’d drawled. ‘All the other schools are far enough away to eat into your time when you take him there, and ultimately my time. Listen, Natasha, why don’t you look at it as one of the perks of the job—rather than me giving you the use of a car, which so far you have refused to drive in London?’

Put like that, she’d found she could accept his offer gratefully, and she would never forget her joy, when Sam spoke his first few words in French and then Italian. After that Raffaele had taken to always speaking to the boy in his native tongue, and while Natasha had revelled with dazed pleasure at this evidence of her son the linguist, there had been a tiny part of her which had felt shut out. It had been enough to make her start taking Italian lessons, herself, though she kept quiet about it—in case it looked as if she was expecting something.

It hadn’t all been plain sailing, of course. There had been the time when Sam had fallen over the step into the back garden and sustained a nasty bump to his forehead. Natasha had rushed him to the emergency room and though Raffaele had been out of the country at the time, he had listened grimly on the other end of the line as she recounted how a social worker had been round the next day to check everything out.

‘Well, you should have damned well been watching him!’ he had flared.

It had been unjust and unfair, but Natasha had been too eaten up with guilt to tell him that her back had been turned for just a few seconds.

And the time when Sam had found a handbag belonging to one of Raffaele’s girlfriends and had decided to reinvent himself as his favourite character, Corky the Clown.

‘But that’s my best lipstick!’ the girlfriend had screeched, as she’d dodged Sam’s pink-glossed and podgy hand as he attempted to hand the decimated piece of make-up back to her.

Raffaele had laughed. ‘I’ll buy you another.’

The woman had pouted. ‘You can’t buy them over here—they’re exclusive to America!’ she spat. ‘What a horrible little brat!’

And Raffaele had looked at her and known that no amount of fantastic sex was worth having to look at a nasty, spiteful face which could make a little boy cry. ‘Tell you what,’ he said coldly, ‘I’ll buy you a one-way air-ticket and you can go and get yourself a replacement.’

The girlfriend had flounced out, and Raffaele had told Natasha to make sure she kept her offspring under control next time. But that weekend he had purchased a huge, floppy clown for Sam as a kind of silent thank-you for doing him a favour he hadn’t realised he was in need of.

Of course, he never enquired about Sam’s father—it was none of his business, and he didn’t want to get involved in the bitter stuff which came after a couple split up.

Besides, he never really thought of Natasha in those terms. She was Sam’s mother and his housekeeper, and it seemed to suit them all….

‘Dio!’ he swore. What the hell was he doing, thinking about the past, when he had the biggest problem of his life on his hands right now—in the present? ‘What on earth am I going to do about Elisabetta, Natasha?’ he demanded.

‘You’re doing everything you can,’ she soothed. ‘Presumably, she’s in the best clinic that money can buy. You can support her by visiting her—’

‘She isn’t allowed visitors for the first four weeks,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s one of the rules.’

Natasha nodded. How would he find that? she wondered. He, who had made up his own rules in life as he went along. ‘Well, the other stuff, then. You know. Like keeping her safe.’ Her eyes shone. ‘You’re good at that.’

But he barely heard a word she was saying, because the sudden shrill ring of the doorbell pealed out with its own particular sense of urgency.

He strode off to answer it, checking first in the peephole that it wasn’t the dreaded press-pack. But it was Troy standing on the doorstep, and when Raffaele opened the door and the other man stepped inside the lawyer’s grim face confirmed his worst fears.

‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘What’s happened?’

There was a pause. ‘The press have got hold of the story,’ Troy said. ‘They’ve found out where Elisabetta is.’

CHAPTER THREE

‘ARE you certain—absolutely certain?’ demanded Raffaele, feeling an overwhelming sense of rage run through him at the thought of his vulnerable little sister being at the mercy of the unscrupulous press hounds. Had Elisabetta really had her cover blown? His black eyes bore into his lawyer. ‘They’ve found out where she is?’

Troy nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I’ve just had a telephone call from one of our people. They’re outside the clinic now,’ he said.

Raffaele swore very softly and very quietly in the Sicilian dialect he had picked up one long, hot summer on the island, when he’d still been railing against the intrusion of his new stepfather. Few people could understand the language, but it had remained with him in times of anger ever since. But he recognised now that his fury was a nothing but redundant luxury and would not help solve the problem. Every problem had a solution—he knew that. Hadn’t he demonstrated it over the years, time and time again?

He thought quickly. ‘Come through to my study,’ he said, and then glanced at Natasha, who was standing there, looking as if she wanted to say something. He waved his hand at her impatiently. ‘Can you bring some coffee for Troy, Natasha? Have you eaten? I’m sure Natasha can make you something if you want.’

Troy shook his head. ‘No. Coffee will be fine. And maybe one of those biscuit things, if you have them?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Natasha, nodding with a brisk smile and turning away, telling herself that of course Raffaele was going to dismiss her like that—because what was happening with Elisabetta was nothing whatsoever to do with her.

She was an employee, for heaven’s sake, not Raffaele’s confidante—no matter how much she longed to be. And that was one of the drawbacks to the strange position she had in his life—she was part of it and, yet, nothing to do with it. Always hovering on the outskirts of it, like a tiny satellite star which relied on the mighty light of a huge planet, so that sometimes she felt she was consumed by him. But at times like this he would send her away to provide refreshments, just like the servant she really was.

After she’d gone, the two men walked through the long, arched hallway which led to his study, where they sat on either side of the desk.

‘Can we kill the story?’ Raffaele asked.

‘Only temporarily. The London News is threatening to run a piece in its gossip column tonight.’

‘Then slam out an injunction!’

‘I already have done,’ said Troy. ‘But the trouble is that they aren’t actually breaking any privacy code. It’s just a general piece, with a few old photos, about concerns for “party-loving heiress, Elisabetta de Feretti”.’

‘But this is intolerable!’ gritted Raffaele from between clenched teeth. ‘Doesn’t anyone give a damn about her well-being?’

‘Not if it sells more newspapers.’

Raffaele shook his dark head, his frustration accentuated by real concern. Had he failed his sister? Been too enmeshed in the world of business to notice that her life was disintegrating around her? ‘How the hell did they find out about it? Didn’t the clinic give me a thousand assurances that Elisabetta’s anonymity would be protected? Do we know the source of the story?’

‘We do now. It’s a member of staff, I’m afraid,’ said Troy slowly, sitting back in his chair as if putting distance between himself and the outburst about to follow.

For a moment Raffaele’s long olive fingers curved, so that they resembled the deadly talons of some bird of prey. ‘Madonna mia!’ he said, with soft venom resonating like liquid poison from his voice. ‘Do you know what we shall do, Troy? We shall hunt down and find the cheating Judas who betrayed my sister. And, much as I should like to inflict a Sicilian form of punishment that they will never forget, we will discipline them formally.’ He punched his fist over his heart. ‘And make sure that he or she never works in a position of trust or authority again!’

There was a pause. ‘You can do that,’ said Troy, with the smooth diplomacy of his profession. ‘But it will be a waste of your time and ultimately of your resources—and at a time when you can least afford to squander them.’

‘You are saying that this kind of behaviour should go unpunished?’ Raffaele demanded icily. ‘Is that the course of action you are recommending to me?’

Troy held his hands up in a don’t-shoot-the-messenger pose. ‘Of course I can see that to carry out such a threat would give you satisfaction—but it would be a short-lived achievement and it would detract from your real aim of making sure that Elisabetta gets the treatment she needs without anything making it more difficult for her. And, unfortunately, all the railing and lawsuits in the world won’t change human nature or the lure of big money—haven’t you said that yourself, Raffaele, more times than you can count?’

Raffaele was silent for a moment while he digested the other man’s words. He had known and admired Troy since both men had met at the Sorbonne in the concluding year of their international law degrees—and he had discovered Troy was that rare thing, an Englishman who spoke several languages. They had been educated as equals, had good-naturedly fought over women, and Troy had never been cowed by the black-eyed Italian who was held in so much awe wherever he went because of his presence and his unforgettable good-looks.

The fact that the Englishman had also been considered to be a bit of a sex god by the women of Paris had meant that there was no rivalry between the two men.

As well as Troy’s fluency in both Italian and French, he possessed the valuable impartiality which was so much a characteristic of his nationality, and all these factors had made him the perfect choice to be personal advocate for the powerful Raffaele de Feretti. There were not many men to whom Raffaele listened, but this was one of them—and he was listening now.

‘Si, Troy, mio amico—you are right, of course,’ Raffaele said heavily, still feeling that he had somehow failed his sister—even though logic told him otherwise. ‘So, what do we do?’

Troy placed the tips of his fingers together in an almost prayerlike gesture of careful thought. ‘We run a spoiler. We take attention away from Elisabetta by giving them a bigger story.’

Raffaele gave a sceptical laugh. ‘And how do you propose doing that?’

Troy leaned forward. ‘Elisabetta is newsworthy because, yes, she’s young, and beautiful, very rich and occasionally flawed—but ultimately she’s famous for being your sister.’

‘I think that you overestimate my interest value,’ demurred Raffaele—because he had sought no publicity for himself.

Troy gave a short laugh. ‘It’s true that in terms of your power and your money everything that can possibly have been written on the subject already has been. But don’t forget, Raffaele, that there is one area of a your life which has held a particular fascination for the press ever since you passed puberty.’

Raffaele stared at him, his black eyes narrowing. ‘Be a little more specific, Troy,’ he instructed softly.

‘They’ve been trying to marry you off for years!’

‘So?’

‘So the only story which could draw interest away from Elisabetta would be if you finally did it.’

‘Did what, precisely?’

‘Got yourself a wife,’ said Troy, just as there was a rap on the door and it began to open. ‘Maybe it’s time you married, Raffaele!’