That had been three months ago. Three months that had passed in a grief-stricken blur. And she was only just emerging from that very intial painful stage.
Hence this sense of restlessness. Up to now the house had served as a kind of cocoon, shielding her from the outside world. But she could feel herself itching to do more than just tend to it. In spite of its lack of occupants, it was surprisingly challenging to maintain at the high standard demanded by the boss—should he ever decide to drop by. On another whim.
Maggie’s soft mouth firmed. The impression she had of the owner—a man she wasn’t interested enough in to look up on the internet—was one of gross entitlement. Who bought a lavish country house and then never even came to see it?
‘Rich, powerful men who have more money than sense.’
Those had been her mother’s words. And she had known all about rich, powerful men—because Maggie’s father had been one. A wealthy property tycoon from Scotland, he’d had an affair with Maggie’s mother and when she’d told him she was pregnant he’d denied all knowledge, terrified that Maggie’s mother and his illegitimate daughter might get their hands on his vast fortune.
He hadn’t offered any support or commitment. He’d offered only threats and intimidation. Maggie’s mother had been too proud and heartbroken to pursue him for maintenance and they’d left Scotland and moved to Ireland, where Maggie’s mother’s job as a housekeeper had kept them moving around the country, never really settling in any one place for long.
To say that Maggie had a jaded view of rich men and their ways was an understatement. She sighed. However, she was being paid very generously to take care of an empty house by a rich man, so she couldn’t really complain.
At that moment the peace that she’d so relished was shattered by a sound from upstairs—the ground floor. A banging noise. The front door? It was such an unusual sound to hear in this silent house that she almost didn’t recognise it.
Maggie rushed upstairs and walked into the hall just as the knocker was slammed down onto the door again. She muttered, ‘Keep your hair on...’ as she switched on the outside light and swung the door open.
And promptly ceased breathing at the sight in front of her. A tall, dark man dominated the doorway, hand lifted as if to slam the knocker down again. His other arm was raised, and rested on the door frame. The late-summer sky was a dusky lavender behind him, making him seem even darker.
Maggie couldn’t find her breath. Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, he was the most stupendously gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Thick curly hair and dark brows framed a strong-boned face...cheekbones to die for. His deep-set eyes were dark, but not brown. Golden. His skin was dark too. There was stubble on his jaw. The sheer height, width and breadth of him was heat-inducingly powerful.
She registered all this in a split-second—a very basic biological reaction to
a virile male.
His black bowtie hung rakishly undone under the open top button of his shirt. Those dark eyes flicked down from her face over her body. A bold appraisal. Arrogant, even.
Maggie became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing cut-off shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, her hair up in an untidy bun. Her habitual uniform for when she was cleaning.
‘This is Kildare House?’ the masculine vision asked, with a slight accent.
His voice was deep and rough and the pulse between her legs throbbed. Most disturbing.
‘Yes, it is.’
The man stood up straight. He had an air of slightly louche inebriation but his eyes were too focused and direct for him to be intoxicated. Actually, it was an air of intense ennui.
He turned away from her, and it was only then that Maggie noticed a taxi at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, engine idling.
The man addressed the driver, who was waiting by the car. ‘This is the right place. Thank you.’
Maggie watched with growing shock as the taxi driver waved jauntily, got into his car and drove off.
She gripped the door. ‘Excuse me but who are you?’
The man turned back to face her. ‘I’m the owner of this house. Nikos Marchetti. I think the more pertinent question here is who are you? Because I’ve seen a picture of the housekeeper and you are most definitely not her.’
Nikos Marchetti. The owner she’d envisaged as middle-aged, paunchy, entitled. But this man was more like a Spartan warrior, sheathed in the modern-day trappings of a suit.
His eyes were dropping down her body again, with that insolent appraisal that should have disgusted Maggie but which was having an altogether far less acceptable effect on her body.
She drew herself up to her full five foot ten inches and crossed her arms over her chest. So far Nikos Marchetti was doing little not to live up to what she’d expected. Behaviourally, if not physically.
‘I am Maggie Taggart—Edith’s daughter. She died three months ago and your staff asked if I’d stay on until another housekeeper was hired. Something you’re evidently not aware of.’
He looked at her, expressionless. ‘I most likely wasn’t informed. My staff are briefed not to bother me unless it’s something urgent, and clearly they felt that you could handle the job. However, I am sorry for your loss. Do you think I could enter my own property now?’
His casual dismissal and tacked-on condolences for one of the most traumatic events in Maggie’s life—losing her beloved mother—made her stand her ground. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’