as I’m a faithful family man, I—we—told her to pack her bags and leave.’
The anger that had been building ever since he’d received that unwelcome information made Cayo feel as if he were about to explode. The smallest amount of research would have given his uncle’s new housekeeper the information that Miguel Garcia—scholar and local eccentric—was, to use her probable terminology, filthy rotten rich.
Izzy Makepeace, with the morals of an alley cat, had successfully got her greedy claws in one of the kindest, most innocent old gentlemen ever to inhabit the planet. But he, Cayo Angel Garcia, was about to ensure that this situation was sorted out immediately!
Izzy Makepeace.
Make war was more like it!
CHAPTER TWO
‘I’M BACK from market, señor,’ Izzy announced cheerfully as she entered the cramped ground-floor room her new employer used as his study. A wayward strand of silky blond hair had escaped from the ribbon she’d used to anchor the unruly mass on top of her head, and she pushed it out of her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘We have fresh-caught pilchards for lunch, and green beans.’
Cheap, but nourishing.
The housekeeping allowance was astonishingly small, and most of her unremarkable weekly wage went on supplementing it—but she wasn’t complaining because her employer was so obviously poor and in no position to pay the going rate. It was immensely gratifying to see the old gentleman looking less frail than he had when she’d helped him when he’d fallen in the street, thankful that he spoke her language and had been able to direct her when she’d offered to see him to his home.
‘And peaches—they looked so scrummy I couldn’t resist!’
‘Scrummy?’ Miguel Garcia looked up from his seat at the desk that was half buried beneath tottering piles of books and papers, his lean, ascetic, once-handsome face breaking into a warm smile as he peered at her over the top of his spectacles, stuck together with sticky tape.
‘Delicious.’ Izzy grinned back at him, translating from the vernacular.
‘Ah. I understand!’ He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, his dark eyes kind. ‘Then I shall enjoy our lunch. While I think of it—I have asked you before, and as you’ve been with me for five weeks now I no longer ask. I insist you address me by my given name. Miguel. It will be more companionable.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed blithely. ‘But only if you drop what you’re doing and come out with me for a little fresh air and exercise.’
He was researching the life of some obscure saint or other, he’d told her, and it was her gladly embraced mission to ensure he remembered to eat and forgot his work long enough to take a short stroll each morning and evening.
‘You bully me!’ But his gentle smile as he laid down his pen told her he didn’t object in the least. ‘May I claim an old man’s privilege and say how pretty you look this morning?’
‘Oh!’ Izzy’s face was bright pink. He was good for her confidence—at one time flat on the floor! So good, in fact, that she no longer needed the boost of killingly high heels, and had bought flat sandals from the open-air market. She had to admit they made her feel as wide as she was high—but, hey, it made walking so much more comfortable!
And the old gentleman was so grateful for everything she did. She was sure he’d never noticed the squalor he lived in until she’d got rid of it—washing, scrubbing and polishing until the humble little house positively gleamed. The praises following his initial stunned surprise at the transformation had come thick and fast, making her head spin. Because she couldn’t remember being praised for anything before in the whole of her twenty-two years.
Their separate guardian angels must have put their heads together on the day the del Amos had thrown her out and Señor Garcia had collapsed on the street. Both being in the right place at the right time had been really fortunate. The old gentleman was now looking much better, and she was thankful to have found a new job and a roof over her head so quickly, happy to be doing something worthwhile.
Remembering the ear-bending she’d received when she’d phoned her parents to tell them she’d quit her first job and landed another as a mother’s help in Cadiz, she didn’t want to repeat the experience. She had got around to writing last week instead, giving them her new address. That done, she wasn’t going to think about the kind of nagging reply she’d get when she could enjoy being appreciated for once.
‘I’ll put the shopping away,’ she told her employer, ‘then we’ll go out and enjoy the air before it gets too hot.’
Closing the study door behind her, she headed for the kitchen, her cool, brightly patterned cotton skirt swirling around her bare legs. She swung round as the street door opened to reveal a tall, dark stranger.
An impressively handsome stranger.
Her pansy-blue eyes widened as she took in his height and the breadth of shoulder beneath a stone-coloured fine cotton shirt tucked into the narrow waistband of obviously designer chinos. They clothed long, athletic legs, and ended in shoes that, at a guess, had to have been hand-made from the finest, most supple leather.
Slowly raising her eyes, she was stunned by the impact of sculpted high cheekbones, an aristocratic blade of a nose, and dark-as-night eyes fringed by lashes that were as soft and black as his expensively styled hair—eyes that were looking at her with blatant hostility.
‘Izzy Makepeace?’
The beautiful, sensual male mouth curved with what she could only translate as derision. Her heart thumped a warning.
Who was he? Surely not a plain-clothes policeman, sent to arrest her because Señora del Amo had reported her alleged lewd behaviour, calling her a danger to all innocent children and middle-aged married millionaires in Cadiz—if not the whole of Spain? But police-men couldn’t afford to dress in designer clothes that would have cost them the equivalent of a year’s wages. Nor would they wear anything like the slim gold watch that banded his angular wrist—that would have cost them their pension!
Stifling hysteria—she mustn’t let herself get paranoid over the gross injustice done her by the powerful del Amos—Izzy crossed her arms defensively over her midriff, lifted her neat chin and demanded, ‘Who wants to know?’
And she cringed with helpless inadequacy as he swept her a look of chilling contempt, making her feel several centimetres short of two inches tall.
‘Cayo!’
At the sound of her employer’s voice Izzy let her tautly held spine relax just a little. Señor Garcia—or Miguel, as she must now get used to calling him—knew this person. The sensation of threat that had been present ever since the stranger had spoken dissipated just a little, too. Perhaps, being so impressive in every detectable department, this haughty creature found it normal to look at lesser beings as if they were beneath his lofty contempt.
Her mouth softening with relief at having sorted out the less than flattering vibes winging in her direction from what had to be the most spectacularly handsome guy she’d ever seen, she moved closer to the old gentleman, as if for protection, as he proclaimed with enthusiasm, ‘It’s so good to see you—it’s been a long time! How long are you staying in Cadiz?’
‘Long enough
