‘DIOS MIO!’
Grace shot to her feet at the first sound of that harshly surprised voice, feeling the colour draining from her cheeks as she looked across the shadowed darkness of the kitchen at the tall and imposing—and instantly recognisable!—figure of Cesar Navarro. He stood silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, those equally recognisable black eyes glittering across at her with piercing intensity.
Having finally recovered after Raphael had dismissed her, Grace had decided not to return to her lonely cottage just yet but to wash and clear away the last of the dinner things, rather than having to deal with them first thing in the morning.
Against her boss’s instructions, she now realised.
Instructions that Kevin had informed her no one ever questioned—or disobeyed?
To make matters worse, she had once again been sitting at the breakfast bar, this time with only the light on over the cooker to break the stilled darkness, and enjoying the chocolate mousse Kevin had earlier told her Navarro didn’t eat.
She swallowed hard. ‘Mr Navarro …’
‘Miss Blake, I presume?’ His voice sounded dark and husky in the still of the night, his accent having a slightly Transatlantic twang to it; no doubt courtesy of his American mother.
Grace ran the dampness of her palms down her black pencil skirt, wishing—oh, God, how she wished!—that she had gone back to her cottage as she was supposed to do. So much for her assertion to Beth of doubting she would set eyes on Cesar Navarro any time soon! As it was, Grace was probably not going to be given any choice about whether or not she wanted to complete the whole month’s trial period.
‘I—’ She moistened the dryness of her lips. ‘I have no excuse. I shouldn’t be here. Kevin—Mr Maddox told me that I had to be out of the main house by nine o’clock, and Raphael dismissed me earlier. I just—it was still early, and I didn’t want to go back to the cottage and be alone just yet, and I thought, or rather I decided to clear away so that I didn’t have to do it in the morning,’ she finished lamely.
Cesar had showered and gone to bed an hour ago, but having read through some business papers for that hour, he had then decided to come down to the kitchen for a glass of juice before going to sleep. He certainly hadn’t expected to see the young woman Maddox had engaged as cook/housekeeper of his English home when he got there!
Grace Blake’s file stated she was twenty-six years old, and yet she looked much younger than that as she stood in the beam of light given off by the single bulb over the cooker, standing only a little over five feet in height, her frame petite in a plain white blouse and black skirt. The sable darkness of her hair was pulled back and secured in a ponytail, leaving her ivory-skinned throat and make-up-less face fully exposed. And it was, as Cesar had guessed earlier this evening, a beautiful face: blue-green eyes surrounded by thick, dark lashes, with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her short, straight nose and high cheekbones, her cheeks slightly hollow, as if she had recently lost weight, her lips a perfect bow above a stubbornly determined chin.
Cesar’s mouth thinned as he stepped further into the dark shadows of the kitchen. ‘Correct me if I am wrong, but you seem to be eating … chocolate mousse,’ he drawled after glancing towards the glass bowl sitting on the breakfast bar, ‘rather than clearing away?’
‘Yes. Well.’ Those ivory cheeks blushed prettily. ‘I finished clearing away, and I—I had already made the mousse for your dinner before Kevin—Mr Maddox—told me that you don’t eat dessert.’
He arched haughty brows. ‘And so you decided to eat it yourself?’
‘No! Well … yes.’ She grimaced uncomfortably as the half full glass bowl on the breakfast bar mocked her denial. ‘But only because I was feeling—’ She broke off with a wince. ‘Again, there’s no excuse, and I apologise.’
‘Because you were feeling …?’
‘I’m used to living in London, you see, and the cottage is quite a distance from the main house, and on its own, and it’s so quiet that I—Oh, to hell with this!’ All the tension went out of the slenderness of her shoulders as she sighed heavily. ‘Why doesn’t someone just shoot me now and get it over with?’
Cesar’s brows rose even higher. ‘Shoot you?’
‘Yes.’ Grace Blake grimaced self-derisively. ‘Just bring in Rodney, or one of his cohorts, and have them shoot me now.’
‘You are referring to my chief security guard here?’
‘If he’s the same Rodney standing guard at the main gates, then, yes, that’s him.’ She nodded. ‘I thought he was thawing towards me a little when I spoke to him earlier today, but I’m sure that if you were to tell him that I stole and ate your chocolate mousse, then he’ll be only too glad to dispatch me—or whatever it is they call shooting someone in security guard jargon.’
Cesar couldn’t decide whether to laugh—something he did all too rarely—at this young woman’s unusual and forthright manner, or do as she suggested, and call for Rodney—but only so that the other man might escort her back to her cottage in the grounds, rather than shoot her! ‘You seriously think that Rodney would shoot you because you have eaten a chocolate mousse belonging to me?’
She grimaced. ‘I seriously think he would do whatever you told him to do, no questions asked.’
Cesar hid his surprise at her statement behind hooded lids. ‘I believe cold-blooded murder is illegal in this country.’
‘Any sort of murder is illegal in this country,’ she corrected pertly. ‘But, with the level of security you have here, I doubt very much if you were to hide my body in the woods behind the house that anyone would ever find it.’
Cesar doubted very much that he had ever had a stranger conversation in his life. Strange, and yet somehow compelling at the same time. In as much as he had no idea what Miss Grace Blake was going to say next.
‘You were about to tell me how you were feeling before you ate the chocolate mousse?’ he prompted as he stepped fully into the beam of light.
Grace couldn’t speak at all as she got her very first look at Cesar Navarro ‘in the flesh’, as Beth had put it. Good grief, the man was—Well, he was—The only word Grace could think of at that moment was breathtaking.
He was at least a foot taller than her own five feet three inches, the darkness of his overlong hair still in that rakishly tousled style—naturally so, judging from the slight wave in that midnight darkness—and those dark and glittering eyes were surrounded by the longest, thickest lashes Grace had ever seen, on a man or a woman, his cheekbones high in that swarthy face, his nose thin and aristocratic, with sculpted lips—sexily sculpted lips!—above a square and determined jaw.
But it was probably what he was wearing—or, rather, what he wasn’t wearing—that surprised Grace the most.
In the photograph she had seen of him he had been the height of understated—and, no doubt, expensive—elegance, in a perfectly tailored dark suit and white shirt, with a meticulously knotted silver tie at his throat. This evening he was dressed in a fitted black tee shirt that defined the muscled width of his shoulders and chest, leaving his equally muscled arms bare, and clinging to reveal the flat contours of his stomach—not an ounce of that middle-aged
