Page 19 of The Maid Married To The Billionaire

‘It hasn’t bothered any other woman in my life.’

‘You’ve been involved with the wrong kind of women, then.’

Enzo didn’t know a polite way of telling her that she sounded like his grandmother, and there was no polite way of saying that casual sex in return for his expected generosity went with the same territory even though nobody was crude enough to state the fact. So, he said nothing, merely watched her steadily from beneath long black curling eyelashes, dark eyes flashing gold as the morning sunlight lit them.

Now she wanted to kill him for the length and lushness of his eyelashes, Skye conceded, wondering in some desperation when she would return to sanity and calm again. In Enzo’s presence she was all of a twitter like some stage maiden aunt.

‘So, when’s this trip taking place?’ she prompted.

‘We’ll fly up Friday and be back by Saturday evening.’ With that casual conclusion, Enzo vaulted upright. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

‘If Mavis comes in back in time, I’ll be able to go shopping on my own,’ Skye said with relief. ‘I won’t need to bother your security team.’

‘No, they must still accompany you.’ Enzo had stilled in the doorway, his lean, darkly handsome features taut. ‘Unless your ex is in police custody, you’re not safe. Paola spotted him sitting in a car in a layby just up the road yesterday. He’s persistent and I don’t want you taking any unnecessary risks until he’s off the streets.’

Skye paled at the news that Ritchie had been spotted nearby and swallowed the thickness in her throat. The prospect of the complete freedom she longed to reclaim shrank again because, even though she didn’t want to admit it, shewasscared of Ritchie. A shiver ran down her spine at the confirmation that he knew where she was living and that the day before he could have beenthatclose to them.

‘I’ll see you later.’ Enzo’s firm footsteps sounded in the hall.

‘Enzo going?’ Brodie prompted in his little voice.

‘I’ll be home later,’ Enzo repeated for her little brother’s benefit.

She had only finished cleaning up the kitchen when the bell went. A delivery man handed her a big bouquet of flowers. ‘Who’s it for?’ she asked.

‘Skye Davison.’

She retreated indoors with the red roses and looked for a vase in the kitchen. Who on earth would send her flowers? Enzo?

Without hesitation she phoned him because she had to know one way or another. ‘Did you send me flowers?’ she queried as soon as she heard his deep voice.

At his end of the phone, Enzo frowned reflectively. With the sole exception of his grandmother, he had never sent a woman flowers in his life. ‘No. I’m not really a flower-giving sort of guy with women,’ he admitted, feeling strangely uncomfortable at making that statement while wondering who the hell had sent her a bouquet.

‘Then that means Ritchie sent them. You see, there was no card with them,’ she responded tensely. ‘Sorry for disturbing you at work.’

And she was gone before he could muster his thoughts into a better response. He groaned out loud. Her beast of an ex was sending her flowers. What a creep the guy was! Later he could not comprehend what he did next because he summoned his PA and ordered flowers for Skye. One of those extravagant wildflower-type arrangements, he described vaguely, instinctively shying away from the romantic intent inherent in sending roses and the like.

Two hours later, Ritchie’s roses dispatched to the bin because the sight of them made her flesh crawl, Skye had a second delivery. A magnificent artistic bouquet was brought in by Paola, who was wreathed in unexpected smiles.

‘From the boss,’ she announced with deep satisfaction, as if Enzo had trekked through the Amazon jungle to acquire them in some great praiseworthy feat.

Skye texted him.

Enzo, you shouldn’t have, but the flowers are really beautiful, thank you.

And Enzo smiled. Well, he had only done it to take her mind off the creep’s stratagems, he assured himself, and Skye was far too sensible and practical not to appreciate that there was nothing romantic about the gesture.

The post came in the afternoon. A letter tumbled out of the usual pile of brochures, addressed to some previous occupant of the property, and her heart almost stopped dead when she saw the envelope and her own name because she recognised Ritchie’s very distinctive copperplate handwriting immediately and turned pale as milk.

‘What is it?’ Alana asked.

‘A letter from Ritchie,’ Skye told her, dropping it on the kitchen table for the younger woman to see.

‘Bin it,’ her more outspoken sister advised.

‘No, I can’t do that. I have to open it and if there’s threats in it, I’ll have to take it to the police and hand it over and tell the solicitor.’ Skye collapsed down on a chair.

‘It would be really dumb of him to write down threats. Is he that stupid?’

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