Page 3 of His Housekeeper's Twin Baby Confession
Carrie couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. She stood up and her legs felt shaky. She put out her hand to Lord Linden and he took it, engulfing her in heat. His touch was like an electric shock, zapping through her body and blood.
She told herself it was the shock of the job offer. And because he was so charismatic and impressive.And young.She’d have to be made of stone not to be affected by a man like this.
She pulled her hand back and somehow managed to get out, ‘Thank you for giving me this opportunity. I’ll make sure you don’t regret it.’
A wave of relief went through her to think that she could move away from all the grim reminders of her life up to now. She could make a new start. In a new place. Heal herself. And maybe some day move on with her life again.
Lord Linden’s gaze was hard to look away from. It was very dark. Hard to read.
Good, she told herself. She did not want to be reading this man’s emotions. He was her boss, and there was too much at stake to be allowing him to affect her in any way. Emotionally or physically.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, and vowed to make sure that he would have no reason to regret giving her this chance.
CHAPTER ONE
Four years later
MASSIMOFELTSLIGHTLYGUILTY—but only slightly. He’d just walked out of an interview with a leading financial newspaper. The car phone rang. He looked at the display and scowled. It was one of his assistants, no doubt wondering what was going on.
He ignored it and hit the accelerator to move around some traffic, the powerful throttle of the engine doing little to lighten his mood. For that he’d need the open road and no limits on speed.
He smiled grimly. Maybe his destructive family gene was finally kicking in? The one that had taken the life of his baby brother. He’d died on a race track, chasing an impossible speed.
The journalist had irritated him from the off, asking him coquettishly how he felt about being named the richest man in the world—again.And then, ‘Do you feel a responsibility to ensure that the next generation carries on your legacy of philanthropy?’
In other words, would he be settling down and having children? He was hardly going to confide in a journalist that he had no intention of siring another generation of Lindens. Not after the sterling example his parents had provided with their destructive, chaotic parenting.
He and his brother had been farmed out to nannies and boarding schools. There had been little to no consistency in their lives. The effect on Massimo, as the eldest, had been to make him develop a strong sense of responsibility. A desire to have structure and create order from chaos.
His younger brother had gone the other way, taking after their parents. Massimo had often wondered if he’d been less careful, would his brother have felt the need to rebel? But that way lay madness.
In any case, Massimo had the reckless blood of his Italian countess mother and his feckless playboy father in his veins too, and no way was he going to risk passing it down to another generation. He’d watched his brother crash and burn—literally. He wouldn’t do that to his own child.
He chose his lovers scrupulously and only spent one night with them, so there could never be a hint of anything more. After witnessing his father decimate what little self-confidence his mother had had, by taking lovers without even trying to hide it, Massimo had no desire to test his own ability to be faithful. He wouldn’t risk doing that to a woman.
So far, one night had always been enough. Well, up until about six months ago. Since then... He hadn’t had the appetite.
Massimo drove through the electronic gates of his London home. The prickliness of his exchange with the journalist faded as he stepped out of the car. The late summer city air was still. He walked to his front door and it opened as if operated by some kind of magical device.
But there was no magical device—just his housekeeper, Miss Taylor, on the threshold. She was dressed in her usual uniform of black short-sleeved shirt and black trousers. Flat shoes. Blonde hair pulled back neatly in a bun at the base of her neck. No overt make-up. No jewellery.
And there it was. That little beat in his blood.Awareness. No matter how much he tried to ignore it or push it down. And lately it had been harder to ignore.
She held the door open. ‘Welcome back, sir.’ She frowned a little. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back this early...is everything all right?’
The irritation prickled back to life. Was his life so regimented, so predictable, that he couldn’t even come back to his own home ahead of time? And that was strange, because Miss Taylor was one of the few people who didn’t irritate him.
No, she had a unique effect on him. It was a mix of that illicit awareness and something far more disturbing...like a balm. How could he be both aware of someone and feel calmed by them? It was ridiculous. He was losing it.
She’d worked for him for four years now, and he’d often congratulated himself on trusting his gut and hiring her. She’d become one of his most trusted employees. And, as such, he was about to request of her that she do him a massive favour.
He said, ‘Actually, there’s something I need to ask you. Can you come to my office?’
Carrie didn’t know why she hesitated for a second, but when Lord Linden looked at her pointedly she said, ‘Of course.’
She dutifully followed him to his study and tried not to notice the way he effortlessly filled out his three-piece suit. His hair was curling a little over his collar, and Carrie had the most bizarre urge to touch it and comment that it was getting long.
She could sense he was in a strange mood because she could always sense his moods—like some kind of unwelcome sixth sense. And, really, the man wasn’t at all moody. He could be brooding, yes. But he never took it out on staff.
