Maid for Montero Page 7

  Zoe couldn’t decide if the woman was pathetic or predatory…and whether she herself was embarrassed or envious.

  Ignoring the laughable possibility that she wanted to touch Isandro, she directed her stubbornly critical glance over his strong, arrogant profile, pushing away the image of moving her hands over the hard muscular contours of his body, waiting for the hot hormone rush that tinged her cheek with pink to recede.

  This was insane, she told herself. How could the man be all the way over the other side of the room and still manage to jangle every nerve ending in her body? His masculinity really was totally overwhelming. She sipped her drink, wishing that there were something stronger than fruit juice in it—though maybe not; the last thing she needed was her social restraints vanishing. Zoe had not exaggerated when she explained her reaction to alcohol; she had learnt after a couple of deeply embarrassing experiences that she and booze were not a good combination.

  Common sense told her this was about hormones. She’d just have to accept it as an uncomfortable fact, like a pollen allergy, and deal with it. No point whatsoever in overanalysing the primitive physical response he had awoken in her, and it didn’t really matter if this was all about timing or that he had been the catalyst for kicking her dormant hormones into life. She would treat it as an inconvenience rather than a disaster. There were always coping mechanisms and for the rare occasions there weren’t, you avoided the problem. Like her body’s inability to cope with alcohol—she didn’t touch it; she wasn’t going to touch Isandro. Simple.

  What would be a disaster or at least an unwanted distraction would be to think too much about the primitive hunger she sensed was somewhere inside her. She should acknowledge it and forget about it. She was human; she had rotten taste in men. But she must not go there.

  The vet, on the other hand, had clearly no such qualms about going where God knew how many women had been before, Zoe thought, her lips moving in a grimace of distaste as the older woman and her curves moved in closer. She had all but trapped him in the corner now…not that he showed any inclination to escape.

  Her lips were still tightened in a cynical sneer of superiority when, without warning, Isandro turned his head slowly as though sensing her scrutiny. His dark eyes sought and connected with hers across the room. It was as if he possessed some radar that told him exactly where she was standing…where she was staring.

  Their eyes locked, and for a long, heart-thudding moment Zoe could feel her own pulse over every inch of her skin, the vibrations reaching her tingling fingertips. She stopped breathing. Her stomach muscles quivered; her legs felt weak and oddly heavy; her knees literally shook.

  The contact might have lasted moments or an hour, she didn’t have a clue, but by the time she managed to bring her lashes down in a protective fan her insides had dissolved. Her throat was dry as she raised her empty glass to her lips and struggled to regain some semblance of self-control.

  She closed her eyes, her lashes brushing her cheeks. As she willed her body to relax they shot open at the sound of her name.

  ‘Sorry, I was miles away. How are you?’ she asked Chloe’s elderly aunt who was lowering her bulk into a chair.

  ‘I can’t complain, but of course I do. Thank you, dear,’ she added as Zoe retrieved her stick that had fallen to the floor. ‘Unless you want your man going home with someone else I’d get over there, Zoe.’

  Blushing, Zoe followed the direction of the old lady’s sharp-eyed stare to where Isandro stood, looking like the personification of a predatory male. And the hunter was still being hunted, she saw, her mouth twisting as she watched the redhead lean into him and stroke his sleeve. ‘I’m his taxi, not his date. He’s my boss.’

  ‘In my day it was most girls’ dream to marry their boss. I did—not, of course, that George ever looked like that.’ She saw Zoe’s expression and gave a chuckle, adding, ‘I’m old, child, not blind.’

  ‘And I’m not thinking of getting married.’

  If she ever did it would not be to a man like Isandro Montero, she thought, summoning a mental picture of a man who would treat her as an equal, a man who would love the twins as much as she did. Her brow furrowed as her employer’s face superimposed itself over her mental image, causing her eyes to drift across the room to where…he was no longer standing, and neither was the voluptuous vet.

  Maybe she wouldn’t have to put up with his aggravating company on the return journey…?

  ‘Very wise. Of course, in my day it was different. You couldn’t have sex outside marriage…if you were a nice girl, that is. We didn’t have your freedom.’

  ‘Actually, I don’t believe in casual sex. Not for me anyway.’

  Zoe was wondering why she felt the totally uncharacteristic need to discuss her feelings on the subject, when she realised that the old lady was not looking at her, but past her.

  Her stomach quivered; she knew without turning who was standing there. Had he heard what she’d said?

  His expression told her nothing.

  ‘I was wondering if you are ready to go home?’

  ‘I thought you’d already left.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘You make friends very easily.’ The moment the remark left her lips she regretted it. She glanced guiltily over her shoulder to where a distinctive throaty laugh placed the vet. The woman had by all accounts been dumped by her husband of fifteen years for a younger model. Who only knew what insecurities her flirtatious behaviour masked?

  Zoe felt a stab of shame. The woman was vulnerable and needed sympathy, not catty remarks behind her back. She actually deserved admiration—she had come out fighting after being kicked in the teeth.

  ‘Actually, I don’t.’

  The comment brought her attention back to the tall Spaniard. It was clear he had not been canvassing the sympathy vote, simply stating a fact.

  ‘I think you’ve made a few today.’ Not a single person she had spoken to had had a bad word to say about him, and several had told her how lucky she was to be working for him.

  Frankly, all the rave reviews were beginning to grate. People were so superficial they didn’t look past the handsome face, perfect body and incredible smile. How many people but her had noticed him empty his glass of wine into the pot plant? Possibly the ones who hadn’t taken their eyes off him all night? No, they acted as if he’d done them a favour by deigning to show up.

  Zoe had been forced to bite her tongue on several occasions. She’d hoped he’d behave well and not upset anyone but she hadn’t bargained on him turning the entire community into his devoted fans, who wouldn’t believe that the man had sacked her within two minutes of setting eyes on her, that he was still looking for an excuse. Oh, yeah, he really was a great guy!

  Friendship required trust. Isandro did not consider his inability to trust easily a character flaw; rather he valued his true friends all the more because he knew how rare they were.

  His eyes brushed her face and he was struck again by the directness of her blue stare. ‘I have many acquaintances, but few friends.’

  And you’re not even an acquaintance, Zoe. You’re an employee. The taxi driver, not the date. ‘I suppose it’s difficult to tell if someone loves you or your bank balance.’

  ‘I do not require love.’ His brows lifted. ‘Or are you talking about sex?’

  ‘Sex?’

  By some horrid twist of fate her yelped echo coincided with a lull in the conversation.

  Oh, let me die now, Zoe thought as everyone turned to look at her.

  ‘Strange how that always happens.’

  ‘Not to me, it doesn’t.’ She struggled to see him as gaffe prone. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I see…’ She made a vague gesture and headed across the room, accepting a few good-natured teasing comments as she went.

  ‘What I need,’ she muttered, ‘is to cool down.’

  ‘God, yes, it’s warm in here, isn’t it? Try one of these.’ Once again her comment had reached more than its target audienc
e—herself.

  She looked at the tall glass that clinked with ice in her hand, and opened her mouth to ask the person with the tray what it was, but he was gone.

  Walking out through the open French windows, she sniffed it warily before picking out a floating strawberry to taste. The overwhelming flavour over and above the fruit was pineapple. It seemed innocuous enough, and a tentative sip reinforced this analysis. Satisfied it was one of the delicious mocktails that Chloe had made, she took a swallow.

  She passed a group of men chatting, then wandered out onto the steep sloped lawn shaded by a row of tall oak trees in the field beyond. She sat down on the stump of a recently felled tree and swallowed some more of the fruit concoction. It was actually so delicious it made you wonder why people bothered with alcohol.

  Tipping her head back to look at the starry sky, she thought that a person really should stop occasionally and just enjoy being alive. Lie on the grass and feel the earth…and why not?

  Lying flat on her back, staring up at the stars, she began to hum a little tune softly to herself before she closed her eyes. Did she drift off?

  ‘I can’t, I really can’t take this…’ She half lifted her head at the sound of John’s voice. Why was he ignoring her? She let out a small giggle and thought, Because he can’t see me! I’m lying down.

  ‘Yes, you can. Just think how much better it will be for Chloe and Hannah if they have you there to support them.’

  This deeper voice with the sexy accent—she recognised that, too!

  John and Isandro.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’ There was the sound of crinkling paper and a gasp. ‘Hell, that’s too much…no…I couldn’t.’

  ‘All tax-deductible. The only thing is that I’d prefer this was private between you and Chloe and me. I’m not comfortable with…’

  ‘Understood. We won’t forget this.’

  Zoe lay there turning the conversation over in her head. It took her foggy brain a little while to process what she had overheard, but when she did tears of emotion sprang to her eyes. Isandro had just given John the money he needed to join his family in Boston—and more than enough, by the sound of it.

  ‘That is so, so incredibly lovely!’

  Isandro turned in time to see a figure rise from the mist, hovering over the grass at ground level like some sort of spectral vision.

  ‘Zoe, what were you—?’ The glorious goddess-like figure flew towards him like a heat-seeking missile. Madre di Dios, she was plastered!

  ‘I heard everything, and I think you’re w…won…marvellous,’ she declared earnestly.

  ‘I think you should sit down.’

  ‘I will, but first…’ Standing on her tiptoes, she reached up and took his face between her hands. ‘You’re a very beautiful man and I’ve been mean to you, very very very mean. I’m so ashamed! But that’s all over. You’re a hero.’ She leaned in closer, her soft breasts crushing against the barrier of his chest as she fitted her mouth to his.

  The warm, soft mouth that pressed against his tasted of booze. Standing rigid, his hands wide, he knew if he touched that body, drunk or not, he would not be able to stop himself having her right there on the grass. He somehow managed to resist the blandishments of those luscious lips.

  The effort brought a sheen of sweat to his skin and a great deal of pain to his groin, but he held out. Though the throaty little mewling sound of complaint she made in her throat when he didn’t respond almost broke him.

  ‘I think…I think I might sit down.’ Clutching her head, and without warning, she sank gracefully to the grass and sat there cross-legged.

  Isandro sighed and picked up the almost empty glass he saw there. He dipped his finger in the contents and licked it. A lot of fruit juices and vodka. Not a lot, but it was there.

  Behind him he heard Chloe and John approach.

  ‘Is that Zoe?’

  ‘Hi, guys…yes, it’s Zoe,’ Zoe said, waving her hand. ‘Chloe, you musht give me the recipe for that mocktail.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Chloe gasped.

  ‘He’s not a monster, Chloe, he’s a hero—did you know that? A real-life hero. He doesn’t like me, though…sad.’

  Isandro handed John the glass. ‘It’s pretty innocuous.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s a metabolic thing with Zoe—she couldn’t have known. What are we going to do with her? We’ve got a full house tonight, not even a spare sofa.’

  Isandro saw them both looking at him.

  Isandro, who never did anything he did not want to, heard himself say, ‘I’ll take her home. Don’t worry, I’ve not been drinking.’

  Once they got her in the car she immediately went to sleep curled up like a kitten, her mouth slightly open.

  ‘Will she remember when she sobers up?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Chloe, a wave of sadness crossing her face. ‘Or that’s what Laura always said.’

  Isandro nodded. He was pleased with the reply. It only seemed fair that she would remember, because he surely would. It was hard to forget the extremely painful cost of being a hero; he was pretty sure that the resulting frustration would cost him a night’s sleep.

  Zoe continued to sleep like a baby all the way back to the hall, which was good because he wasn’t sure his response would be quite so noble if she made another attempt to jump him.

  When he opened the passenger door the cool night air woke her. He was amazed and relieved that she had recovered enough to make it up the stone steps to the flat without any assistance from him, but he followed behind just in case.

  ‘You’ll be all right?’

  She looked at him blearily. ‘I think there was something in my drink.’

  ‘Vodka.’

  ‘Oh, God! I thought it…Sorry…’ She had no idea what she was apologising for, but it seemed safe to assume that there was something. ‘Goodnight, Mr Montero.’

  Isandro watched the door close. He was quite pleased with his demotion back to monster. Monsters were not obliged to behave with honour—they could take what they wanted.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ROBBED OF HIS early morning ride after discovering his horse had pulled a shoe, Isandro returned to the house, leaving the stallion in the capable hands of his groom. An hour on a cross-trainer in the gym did not really touch his frustration levels.

  Heading downstairs after his shower, he reached the galleried landing when he almost fell over her.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ If she appeared at all this morning he had imagined she would be nursing a hangover, not on her knees singing to herself.

  Seemingly oblivious to his presence, she continued to bang the hand-held vacuum into a crevice under a console table, still humming along to the music playing in her ears. Her singing voice was totally flat but her behind was not. Isandro, who had opened his mouth to deliver his demand again, closed it as she reached further forward, the action causing her delightful bottom to tighten against the pair of jeans she was wearing.

  Lust hit him like a hammer blow to the chest. Beside his sensual mouth a nerve quivered, beating out an erratic tattoo as in his head he saw himself dropping down beside her, tipping her onto her back…His chest lifted as he sucked in a deep breath and swore through gritted teeth. He had never experienced this degree of blind, relentless lust before. Not even in his teens had he felt so obsessed.

  He swore under his breath and bellowed, ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  One hand on the floor to steady herself, Zoe turned her head, a questioning furrow in her smooth brow. She saw Isandro and her half-smile faded with a speed that under other circumstances he might have found amusing.

  ‘It is always nice when people are glad to see me,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘Pardon…’ Zoe lowered her voice, murmuring a self-conscious, ‘Sorry.’ She pulled the earphones out of her ears and looked up at the figure who towered over her. ‘I didn’t see you there.’ She stopped herself from asking whether there was anything she cou
ld do for him, afraid that he might tell her—and even more afraid that she might deliver his request.

  She was probably worrying over nothing. Last night he hadn’t even kissed her back.

  It was the ultimate humiliation. She had offered herself up on a platter and he had said no, thank you, and she remembered every mortifying, cringeworthy detail. It had been about three a.m. when she’d sat bolt upright in bed and it had all come rushing back to her.

  Unable to resist the masochistic compulsion to relive the scene over and over, by this morning she didn’t see how she could face him. And now it felt just as awful as she had imagined.

  Should she mention last night? Wait for him to? Or should she pretend it never happened?

  ‘I said what the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I’m vacuuming the carpet.’ She held out the hand-held vacuum she was using to reach the crevices, flicking the switch into the on position to demonstrate as she got up from her knees.

  ‘I can see what you’re doing.’ He reached over and flicked the switch off. ‘What I want to know is why?’

  ‘Susie couldn’t come in this morning.’

  ‘That does not answer my question, and who the hell is Susie?’

  ‘Susie is one of the cleaning staff. She lives in the village.’

  He folded his arms across his chest and looked unimpressed by her explanation. ‘Will you stop waving that thing at me?’

  Zoe lowered the vacuum, but lifted her free hand to shade her eyes from the shaft of strong morning sun that shone in from the tall floor-length window behind Isandro, framing his tall figure in a golden haze of light. As if he needed any help to look as though he’d just stepped down from Mount Olympus! It was like a massive conspiracy to turn her into some sex-starved bimbo.

  ‘You’re really not a morning person, are you?’