Page 14 of The Housekeeper and the Brooding Billionaire

Maybe Beatrice was right, and isolation was skewing his perception. But not without reason. Too many people had tried to wheedle their way into his world via one excuse or the other. All wanting a piece of him. In the old days, it had been his money and influence or even his body. More recently there’d been a prurient interest in his suffering, in uncovering the salacious details of his marriage.

‘Conte Alessio—’

He raised his hand. ‘My apologies, Ms Symonds. It seems at least some of what they say about me is true. There’s something particularly...ungracious about jumping to such a conclusion about you. I’m sorry. Maybe I’ve begun to live down to my reputation.’

It wasn’t a welcome thought. He might be a recluse, but he wasn’t a barbarian. Or he hadn’t been.

‘I suggest you go now,’ he said. ‘It’s late, and I’m sure you’ve had a busy day.’ She opened her mouth, he guessed to protest. ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll go through everything you need to know about the job.’

Finally she nodded and rose. ‘I’ll bring some more soup. If you’re hungry, there’s also—’

‘No need.’ His appetite had died with the realisation of his boorishness. ‘This will be fine.’

‘Very well.’ Was thatconcernin her gaze? Forhim? The possibility scored what was left of his ego. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’

When she’d gone, Alessio finished the superb soup and crusty bread. He might have no appetite, but his years in hell had taught him he still needed fuel for his body.

Who’d have imagined he’d spend the anniversary of Antonia’s death fixated not on the painful past but the present and the woman who’d interrupted his peace?

Charlotte Symonds was the first new face on this island in three years. A reminder of life beyond this place. Despite working seven days a week, and online discussions with staff and clients around the globe, the outside world had never impinged on him as it had today.

Now he felt...different. More aware. More alive.

As if this stranger had changed the dynamic and jolted him out of his stupor.

Or like an animal coming out of hibernation. There’d definitely been something bearish about his attitude when he’d confronted his new housekeeper. It was a wonder she hadn’t left on the spot.

She had backbone.

And more. His fingers twitched as he thought of her breasts against that clinging blue swimsuit. The gentle arc of her hips down to slender legs.

Heat stirred in his belly. A heat that had nothing to do with the soup.

Alessio shot to his feet, too wired to sit. He needed a distraction from his new employee.

For he’d keep her on as his housekeeper. He owed her that since it appeared she’d come in good faith. But that didn’t mean he had to fall headlong into the dangerous temptation she brought with her. The temptation to forget the lessons of guilt and responsibility and think simply like a man faced with an attractive woman.

More than attractive. She was fascinating with her uppity defiance mixed with calm competence. And there was something else about her, something he didn’t yet understand, that set her apart.

Alessio planted his hand on the cool mullioned glass and surveyed the dark lake, its edges marked here and there by the sprinkle of lights from small towns.

Three months. She’d be gone before he knew it. Nothing would change. All he had to do was ensure she kept out of his way so he could concentrate on work.

Simple.

So why the disquiet? The sense that his peaceful life was wobbling on its foundations?

CHAPTER FOUR

CHARLOTTEPOWEREDTHROUGHthe water, the morning chill bringing her still-waking body to tingling life. She’d discovered cold swimming in the Alps, and it was better than coffee for energising her for a day’s work.

Though, if she’d wanted, she could have lazed the days away. The Conte wasn’t interested in her work, so long as she provided coffee and meals on time.

In the week since she’d served him dinner in his suite, she hadn’t seen the man. Not once!

She seethed at how he’d avoided meeting her again, as if she were contagious. Even for a recluse, his deliberate avoidance felt like an insult.

On her second morning, she’d gone to the kitchen after dawn to discover a note in spiky black script on thick cream paper. The Conte had left a list of his expectations rather than meet her face-to-face.

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