He could tell from her sharp intake of breath that she understood the underlying message and her goodbye had been clipped and cold. She hadn’t even wished him a happy Christmas and he supposed he couldn’t blame her.
But his mind had soon moved on to other things and, infuriatingly, he kept recalling the sweet sensation of a naked Molly in his arms. He swallowed. The way her soft lips had pressed into his neck and her fleshy thighs had opened so accommodatingly. There were a million reasons why he shouldn’t be thinking about her but she was proving a distractingly difficult image to shift. Was that because she hadn’t put any demands on him? Because she’d been okay about him walking out of her life? Most women hung on in there, but Molly Miller was not among their number. And hadn’t that intrigued him? Made him wonder what it might be like to see her in a more normal setting. Perhaps even take her out to dinner to see how long it would take for her allure to fade.
He’d thought a few times about contacting her—but what could he say, without falsely raising her hopes? No. He was doing her a favour by leaving her alone—that was what he needed to remember. Breaking hearts was his default mechanism—and no way would he wish that kind of pain on the passionate little housekeeper.
* * *
It was the most beautiful house Molly had ever seen. Pressing her nose against the icy-cold glass, she peered out through the taxi window at the sprawling manor house, whose gardens were a clever combination of wild and formal and seemed to go on for ever. Although the sky was pewter-grey, the light was bright with snow and everything was covered in white. Fat flakes tumbled like giant feathers from the sky, so that the scene in front of her looked like one of those old-fashioned Christmas cards you couldn’t seem to buy any more.
But Molly’s emotions were in turmoil as the cab inched its way up the snowy drive. She had underestimated the impact of leaving Cornwall because even though the job had left a lot to be desired, it had still been her home and her security for the last two years. More than that, her departure had been forced upon her in the most dramatic and shameful of ways. Suddenly she felt rudderless—like a leaf caught up by a gust of wind being swirled towards an unknown destination.
But even worse than her near-homelessness was the confirmation of her worst fears. That it hadn’t been stress or anxiety which had made her period so late. That the weird tugs of mood and emotion—like wanting to burst into tears or go to sleep at the most inopportune times—hadn’t been down to the worry of getting pregnant. She couldn’t even blame the sudden shock of losing her live-in job, or the corresponding jolt to her confidence. No, the reason had been made perfectly clear when she’d done not one, but two pregnancy tests in the overcrowded bathroom of the little boarding house she’d stayed in last night. With growing horror and a kind of numb disbelief she had sat back on her heels and stared at the unmistakable blue line, shaking with the shock of realising that she was pregnant with Salvio’s baby.
And wondering what the hell she was going to do about it.
But she couldn’t afford to think about that right now. The only thing she needed to concentrate on was doing her job—and as good a job as possible. She was going to have to tell him, yes, but not yet. Not right before his party and the arrival of his presumably high-powered guests.
She paid the driver and stepped out of the cab onto a soft blanket of snow. There were no other tyre marks on the drive and the only sign of life was a little robin hopping around as she made her way to the ancient oak front door, which looked like something out of a fairy tale. She knocked loudly, just in case—but there was no answer and so she let herself in with the keys she’d picked up from Salvio’s assistant, along with a great big wodge of cash for expenses.
Inside, everything was silent except for the loud ticking of a grandfather clock, which echoed through the spacious hallway, and the interior was even more beautiful than the outside had suggested. It spoke of elegance and money and taste. Gleaming panelled walls carved with acorns and unicorns. Huge marble fireplaces and dark floorboards scattered with silk rugs were illuminated by the sharp blue light which filtered in through the windows. Yet the beauty and the splendour were wasted on Molly. She felt like an outsider. Like the spectre who had arrived at the feast bearing a terrible secret nobody would want to hear. She felt like curling up in a ball and howling, but what was the point of that? Instead she forced herself to walk around the house to get her bearings, just as she would with any new job.
A quick tour reassured her that the cupboards and fridge were well stocked with everything she could possibly need, the beds all made up with fresh linen and the fires laid. She lit the fires, washed her hands and started working her way through the to-do list. Barring bad weather cancellations, twenty-five guests would be arriving at seven. Gina had informed her that there were plenty of bedrooms if bad weather prevented some of the city guests getting back to London, but Salvio would prefer it if they left.
‘He’s a man who likes his own company,’ she’d said.
‘Does he?’ Molly had questioned nervously, as an image shot into her head of a crying baby. How would he ever be able to deal with that?
Maybe he wouldn’t want to.
Maybe he would tell her that he had no desire for an unplanned baby in his life. Had she thought about that?
A local catering company were providing a hot-buffet supper at around nine and wine waiters would take care of the drinks. All
Molly had to do was make sure everything ran smoothly and supervise the local waitresses who were being ferried in from the nearby village. How difficult could it be? Her gaze scanned down to the bottom of the list.
And please don’t forget to decorate the Christmas tree!
Molly had seen the tree the moment she’d walked in—a giant beast of a conifer whose tip almost touched the tall ceiling, beside which were stacked piles of cardboard boxes. Opening one, she discovered neat rows of glittering baubles—brand-new and obviously very expensive. And suddenly she found herself thinking about Christmases past. About the little pine tree she and Robbie used to drag in from the garden every year, and the hand-made decorations which their mother had knitted before the cruel illness robbed her of the ability to do even that. It had been hard for all of them to watch her fading away but especially tough for her little brother, who had refused to believe his beloved mother was going to die. And Molly hadn’t been able to do anything to stop it, had she? It had been her first lesson in powerlessness. Of realising that sometimes you had to sit back and watch awful things happen—and that for once she couldn’t protect the little boy she’d spent her life protecting.
Didn’t she feel that same sense of powerlessness now as she thought of the cells multiplying in her womb? Knowing that outwardly she looked exactly the same as before, while inside she was carrying the Neapolitan’s baby.
Her fingers were trembling as she draped the tree with fairy lights and hung the first bauble—watching it spin in the fractured light from the mullioned window. And then it happened—right out of nowhere, although if she’d thought about it she should have been expecting it. If she hadn’t been singing ‘In The Bleak Midwinter’ at the top of her voice she might have heard the front door slam, or registered the momentary pause which followed. But she wasn’t aware of anything until something alerted her to the fact that someone else was in the room. Slowly she turned her head to see Salvio standing there.
Her heart clenched tightly and then began to pound. He was wearing a dark cashmere overcoat over faded jeans and snowflakes were melting in the luxuriant blackness of his hair. She thought how tall and how powerful he looked. How his muscular physique dominated the space around him. All these thoughts registered in the back of her mind but the one which was at the forefront was the expression of disbelief darkening his olive-skinned features.
‘You,’ he said, staring at her from between narrowed eyes.
Molly wondered if the shock of seeing her had made him forget her name, or whether he had forgotten it anyway. In either case, he needed reminding—or this situation could prove even more embarrassing than it was already threatening to be. ‘Yes, me,’ she echoed, her throat dry with nerves. ‘Molly. Molly Miller.’
‘I know your name!’ he snapped, in a way which made her wonder if perhaps he was protesting too much. ‘What I want to know is what the hell you’re doing here.’
His face had hardened with suspicion. It certainly wasn’t the ecstatic greeting Molly might have hoped for—if she’d dared to hope for anything. But hope was a waste of time—she’d learnt that a long time ago. And at least a life spent working as a servant and having to keep her emotions hidden meant she was able to present a face which was perfectly calm. The only outward sign of her embarrassment was the hot colour which came rushing into her cheeks, making her think how unattractive she must look with her apron digging into her waist and her hair spilling untidily out of its ponytail. ‘I’m just decorating the Christmas tree—’
‘I can see that for myself,’ he interrupted impatiently. ‘I want to know why. What are you doing here, Molly?’
The accusation which had made his mouth twist with anger was unmistakable and Molly stiffened. Did he think she was stalking him, like one of those crazed ex-lovers who sometimes featured in the tabloids? Women who had, against all the odds, come into contact with a wealthy man and then been reluctant to let him—or the lifestyle—go.
‘You gave me your assistant’s card, remember?’ she reminded him. ‘And told me to ring her if I needed to find work.’