Page 39 of Hidden Heir With His Housekeeper

‘But Mason, we... We haven’t discussed next steps yet?’ Beatrice’s face was a mask of confusion, but he could see her apprehension too.

He was glad she was off-kilter, because that could work in his favour. But he also needed to get her to relax enough to be amenable to what he had to say.

He knew how to negotiate, but he was used to negotiating from a position of power. And he didn’t have all the power here. Thanks to his irrational behaviour five months ago, and his freak-out an hour ago. Plus, he’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted Beatrice Medford back in his bed.

The pregnancy could be a boon or a bust in that respect, he wasn’t really sure which. And her newfound independence was another obstacle which could go either way. She couldn’t really enjoy scrubbing toilets for a living but, at the same time, he could see that earning her own wage—after spending so long under her father’s thumb—had to be seductive.

And the truth was, even their sexual connection wasn’t necessarily going to work in his favour, as Beatrice seemed oblivious to exactly how powerful and rare it was.

‘Let’s head back to the Grande to have that discussion,’ he said.

Until he figured out how to deal with all the variables, he wasn’t about to play his hand. Which meant stalling. For now.

Her eyes widened. ‘I... I don’t think that’s a good idea. If Signor Romano sees me going to your suite, he’ll want to know why.’

He frowned. He didn’t give a damn about Romano. As far as he was concerned, her job was over now anyway. She couldn’t keep working as a maid—he drew in a breath—or even a housekeeping manager. Not now he’d found her.

But he forced himself not to lose his cool. Because it would be totally counter-productive when it came to Operation Get Beatrice to Relax.

‘Then let’s head back to your place. Where do you live?’ he asked, suddenly realising he was curious.

She frowned. She wasn’t too keen on that idea. But he could also see she didn’t want to risk breaking their truce. ‘I live on the grounds of the hotel. I guess we might be able to sneak to my trailer without being seen.’

A trailer?She was living in a mobile home... What the actual...?

He bit his tongue, schooled his features. ‘Terrific,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’

But as they made their way back to the car, he could feel his hackles rising again. What had she been thinking?

As he drove down the coast road at a more sedate pace, he promised to do whatever it took to make Beatrice see sense.

Because no way in hell was he going to allow the mother of his child to live in squalor, doing manual labour for pennies, hundreds of miles away from where he could keep an eye on her.

‘Watch your step, it’s rocky here,’ Bea said, aware of Mason’s pricey high-tops as he followed her through the grove of gnarled lemon trees.

He hadn’t said much on the drive back, but she had sensed his disapproval when she’d directed him to the unpaved road which led to the overgrown terraces banked into the cliffs above the hotel. But her heart lifted as they came out of the old orchard and approached the mobile home Marta and her husband had helped her to tow up here a month ago.

With rent in this area way out of her price range, she’d spent the last of her inheritance buying the third-hand mobile home after spotting it in a car park in Rapallo. She’d negotiated with Fabrizio to let her park it on the unused land, hooked up the electricity and water supply to the kitchen below and spent all her spare time cleaning, repairing and decorating it. She had a spectacular view from the porch she’d constructed from old crates and planted with flowers and herbs in a cluster of pots. Stringing solar-powered fairy lights through the branches of the surrounding lemon trees had turned her new home into an enchanted citrus-scented oasis—and she loved sitting here in the evenings, doing translation work for the nearby tourist bureau to supplement her income.

Space was at a premium inside the trailer, with a tiny box shower and composting toilet, a compact lounge/kitchenette and a bedroom at the back taken up entirely by her one extravagance—a queen-sized bed—but she had everything she needed.

This washerplace. She no longer had to share the bunk room with the seasonal staff.

She fished the key out from under a pot of fresh basil and opened the door, aware of Mason’s silence.

She hadn’t wanted to bring him here. The man was a billionaire who had walk-in wardrobes bigger than the home she was so proud of. But as she entered the neat, scrupulously clean and well-ordered kitchen and lounge area, she refused to let it bother her.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked from behind the counter.

‘Sure,’ he said without enthusiasm.

He had to duck to get in the door. And with his head skimming the low ceiling, his presence instantly made her home look more cramped than compact.

‘How long have you lived here?’ he asked, his gaze gliding over the bright, colourful furnishings which she had borrowed or sourced at local markets and thrift stores—and convinced herself were vintage and eclectic.

‘Just over a month,’ she said, busying herself with the tea-making. ‘I love it. It gives me privacy and freedom, and it’s affordable. Signor Romano takes a peppercorn rent and the utility fees off my wages and the evenings are stunning here, with the scent of bougainvillea and lemons in the air and the heart-stopping view across the bay towards Portofino.’

‘Uh-huh,’ he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm as he settled on the two-seater couch which made up her living area. The old frame creaked under his weight, and when he stretched out his long legs, his feet almost touched the opposite wall.

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