Page 33 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

Mason glanced at his passenger, but before he could tell her he didn’t take orders from her either, his gaze snagged on her belly. And his pulse rate shot straight back into the danger zone.

She seemed calm, her short hair plastered to her head and accentuating that stunning bone structure, the simple cotton dress flattened against her breasts. Why did they seem fuller than when he’d last seen her? Was that a result of her pregnancy too? Just one of the changes to her body caused by his child?

His child.

He swallowed convulsively, surprised by the urge to ask her about every detail of the pregnancy.

Then he noticed her fingers white-knuckling on the car’s upholstery.

He eased his foot off the gas to take the next bend, as the car wound its way along the coastal road back towards Rapallo.

Killing them both—and the bump—was not going to improve this situation.

Or lower his heartrate.

Or help him to think coherently. His mind had gone AWOL ever since he’d spotted her in the hotel room in that maid’s outfit.

But that was no excuse to behave like an idiot.

He shifted into first to take the fork in the road, which led to an exclusive cliff-top restaurant at the top of the peninsula. He’d located the Michelin-starredtrattoriaon his phone while he’d been waiting for her, then offered them a small fortune to secure a table, cancel all their other bookings for the rest of the afternoon and compensate their guests.

He considered it money well spent. Because he didn’t trust himself to be alone with her while they had this discussion, but nor did he want an audience of tourists taking snaps of them together and posting it on social media.

And, frankly, twenty grand was a drop in the ocean compared to what he’d already shelled out on the private investigator to facilitate this conversation.

They arrived at the restaurant, perched on the brow of the hill, with only one table set on the terrace which looked out over the point.

The maître d’ rushed out to greet them. ‘Signor Foxx, we are delighted to welcome you to Del Mare,’ he said, bowing as he opened Beatrice’s door. ‘I am Giovanni. All is prepared as you requested.’

‘Grazie,’Mason murmured as he climbed out of the car and threw the keys to the parking attendant.

But as he placed his palm on the small of Beatrice’s back to escort her into the restaurant behind Giovanni, she stiffened and stepped away from him.

‘I can’t... I can’t eat here, Mason,’ she whispered, a stubborn frown on her face.

‘What’s the problem?’ His gaze flicked to her belly. ‘Is it the seafood?’ he asked, as it occurred to him that he knew absolutely nothing about what pregnant women could and could not eat.

Her eyes widened, and then she let out a nervous laugh—which didn’t exactly make him feel any better about all the stuff he did not know about her condition.

‘No... It’s not... I’m fine with seafood. It’s just...’ She glanced at the maître d’, who was waiting a respectful distance away. Then she leaned closer, giving him a lungful of that intoxicating vanilla scent. ‘I can’t afford to eat here.’

He stared at her for a moment. Was she joking? But she didn’t look as if she were joking, from the embarrassed flush on her cheeks.

‘I’m paying,’ he said flatly.

‘But I don’t want you to pay,’ she insisted. ‘I’d like to go Dutch.’ She held out her hands to encompass the exclusive restaurant, the terrace framed by wisteria vines which afforded them a breathtaking view of the coastline. Silver cutlery and crystal stemware sparkled in the sunlight on the solitary table set especially for them. ‘But this is way outside my budget,’ she added. ‘Could we please find somewhere a bit cheaper? I know a great pizza place in Rapallo that does lunch for under ten euros.’

It was his turn to frown. Shewasactually serious.

For a moment, he was lost for words.

What had happened to the society princess, the Medford Ice Queen, a woman used to living in the lap of luxury and expecting other people to pay for it? Because this was not the woman he had slept with all those months ago.

Or at least, not the woman he had assumed he’d been sleeping with.

Of course, maybe he should have expected this. After all, he had just found her scrubbing toilets for a living in a second-rate hotel.

He’d convinced himself while waiting in the car park that her menial job had to be a trick to garner his sympathy. But he was starting to doubt that conclusion. Exactly how long had she been working at the Portofino Grande? Because, according to Romano, she was the housekeeping manager, and as far as he knew she’d had no experience with any kind of work when they’d met five months ago.

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