wet footprints across the marble that would now need to be meticulously recleaned. Her eyes followed the dirty footsteps up the sweeping stairs. She saw his dark head and broad-shouldered back disappear behind the landing to his bedroom suite.
The house felt so different now he was here. Rafael Cruz electrified everything. Especially her.
The men followed him up the stairs with the suitcases, and once she was alone, Louisa leaned against the wall, her legs sagging with relief.
Their first meeting was over. It was done.
It seemed that Rafael—Mr. Cruz, she corrected herself angrily. His first name kept sneaking into her mind!—had already forgotten all about their night of passion in Paris.
Now if only she could do the same.
Her eyes looked again toward the second-floor landing. But why had he seemed so troubled? Something was very wrong, and she knew it had nothing to do with their one-night stand. Women were interchangeable to him. Easily forgotten. Completely replaceable. No woman could ever touch Rafael’s heart.
So if not for a woman, what had brought him to Istanbul three days early—and in such a black mood? She stared up the empty stairs toward his room. She suddenly yearned to know what troubled him. Yearned to offer him solace, some kind of comfort…
No!
She stomped on the thought angrily. Every woman thought Rafael needed comforting. It was part of his seduction, something he used ruthlessly to his advantage. Women were drawn by his brutish, brooding charm, imagining him a modern Heathcliff with a darkly haunted past. They all yearned to comfort the world-weary Argentinian millionaire with the handsome face and whisper of a broken heart. Louisa had already seen endless women delude themselves into thinking they, and only they, could save his soul. Only Louisa knew the truth.
Rafael Cruz had no soul.
And yet she loved him. She was a fool! Because she, of all women, knew the kind of man he really was—cold, ruthless and unforgiving!
Swear to me you can’t get pregnant, Louisa, he’d said to her that breathless night. I cannot get pregnant, she’d said.
If it turned out she’d lied to him…
I’m not pregnant, she repeated to herself furiously. It’s impossible!
And yet, she was afraid to take the test that would tell her for sure. She told herself she was just late. Very late.
Leaving her wet shoes at the front door, she carried the basket of roses into a little mudroom near the large modern kitchen. She filled an expensive crystal vase with water, then arranged the roses carefully inside it. She cleaned the pruning shears and put them away in their drawer. Going up to her room upstairs, she removed her wet clothes, replacing them with a new gray skirt suit as plain and serviceable as the first. She tidied her brown hair back into a severe bun, dried the rain off her glasses with a towel, then gave a single glance at herself in the mirror as she passed. She looked plain and orderly and invisible—just as she wished.
She’d never wanted Rafael to notice her. She’d prayed he wouldn’t. After what had happened at her last job, invisibility felt like her only protection. But somehow, it had failed her. Somehow, he’d noticed her anyway. Why had he taken her to his bed? Pity? Convenience?
She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Then she carried the vase of roses into the kitchen.
Almost immediately, her spirits lifted. The kitchen, along with the rest of the mansion, had changed quite a bit in the month since Louisa had arrived here. Her constant attention, working eighteen-hour days to hire staff and oversee cleaning and remodeling of the once-faded house, had turned it into a well-run home. Louisa gently touched the polished wood of the door frame, smiling down at the colorful, gleaming mosaic floor. Overseeing this mansion’s restoration to its former glory had been a huge amount of work, but had given her a great deal of pleasure.
Once, it had been neglected. Now it was loved. Treasured.
Louisa set her jaw stubbornly. So she wouldn’t allow one moment of weakness to force her out of this job she’d loved with such passion for five years. She’d been a convenient woman for Rafael to take to his bed, nothing more. She loved him, but she would try her best to kill that love.
She would do her job. Keep her distance. Try to forget how he’d taken her virginity.
She’d forget the way his lips had pressed against hers, so hot and hard and demanding. She’d forget the sensation of his powerful body pressing her to the wall. Forget his strength and the dark hunger in his eyes as he’d lifted her up in his strong arms, and carried her without a word to his bed…
Louisa stood for a moment, alone in the kitchen. Then she started. What had she been doing here? Right. Making his dinner. The cook had gone home sick. She only hoped he had the same hideous stomach flu she’d had in Paris six weeks ago, so he’d be right as rain in three days, in time for Rafael’s birthday dinner. She could make simple dishes, but she was no chef. Her cooking skills tended more toward baking cakes and brownies than preparing chimichurri sauce for flank steak or preparing a piquant cazuela de mariscos, a seafood stew in tomato broth, for a party of twelve!
But like the captain of a ship, she had learned to do nearly every task that running a vast home required. She quickly put together a simple but delicious sandwich using sliced ham and her own freshly homemade bread from the well-stocked pantry. She looked down at the tray and carefully smoothed the linen napkin beneath the silver utensils. She hesitated, then added a small bud vase, in which she placed a newly budding red rose.
There was nothing wrong with adding a rose, she told herself. It was not the act of a lover, but of a housekeeper who cared about details. Nothing had changed. Nothing.
She summoned a maid. “Take this tray to Mr. Cruz, please.”
The newly hired maid shifted weight from one foot to the other as she picked up the tray. She looked nervous.
With an inward sigh, Louisa patted her on the shoulder encouragingly. “Do not be afraid. Mr. Cruz is…a kind man.” She was surprised a lightning bolt didn’t strike her dead for that lie. “He will not hurt you.” That, at least, was true. He liked his homes and businesses to run smoothly, so he did not ever seduce members of his staff—ever.
At least not until a month ago, when he’d thrown Louisa against his bed and ripped off her clothes. When she’d reached for him so urgently as he fell upon her naked body, and they both were devoured by their hunger and urgent need—
No! No!
“Please take it at once,” Louisa choked out.
With a nod, the maid took the tray and left the kitchen. But Louisa had barely started washing up the dishes when the girl returned, covered with ham and Dijon mustard smeared down her apron and the rose hanging precariously from her newly wet hair!
“What happened?” Louisa gasped.
The young maid looked close to tears. “He threw the tray at me!” She held the silver tray in one hand and a cracked plate in the other. The accent of her schoolgirl English thickened in her stress. “He says he’ll only have you serving him, miss!”
Louisa sucked in her
