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Why, after all the days and weeks they had spent together and the times they had shared—both with Francesco and just the two of them alone—it should be that one small, unimportant incident that opened her understanding she didn’t know, but suddenly the knowledge was there, hot and inescapable as it burnt into her horrified brain. She loved him. Him, Slade Eastwood.
She wanted to be close to him, to sense the warmth of him and smell the fresh clean scent of him every morning of her life when she opened her eyes. She wanted to belong to him, to share every part of his life; she wanted—
No! The shake of her head was wild. No, no, she didn’t. This w
as just physical and, yes, mental attraction, that was all. He was a terribly attractive man with a wickedly sharp intellect and sense of humour, besides being powerful and wealthy to boot. She was bound to be drawn to him—any woman would be—but it didn’t mean she loved him. She didn’t want to love anybody, no one, not ever again. Love meant living on a knife-edge, becoming vulnerable, losing control. She couldn’t, she just couldn’t ever willingly walk into that again.
No, she didn’t love Slade Eastwood, and of course he didn’t love her either; in fact she doubted if he was even attracted to her any more. Which was good because it would enable her to stay here and take care of Francesco, she told herself feverishly, which was the important thing. And Slade was leaving at the beginning of next week after his month’s sabbatical at home, and then he would be back to his normal jet-setting with the odd couple of days snatched at Festina Lente every other week or so. She could handle that.
By the time Daisy was ready to go down to breakfast at eight o’clock she was every inch the composed, capable nanny—all cucumber-cool efficiency and brightness. Slade had requested she eat breakfast with himself and Francesco on the occasions he was home, and after collecting Francesco from his rooms next door as usual—the small boy was beside himself with excitement, especially regarding his party later that afternoon—they went downstairs to the breakfast room where Francesco’s cards and gifts were piled high next to his plate and Slade was waiting, his dark eyes tender as he took in his son’s exuberant face.
‘Papà! These are all mine?’ Francesco was truly delighted with the stack of gaily wrapped parcels, and then, as he caught sight of the Jeep at the side of the table, he let out a squeal of excitement.
The next ten minutes exploded in flying paper, oohs and aahs, a ride round the breakfast room in the Jeep and more squeals of gaiety, and then Slade said, his voice soft and warm, ‘Daisy has kept her present until last and it is rather special. Would you like her to fetch it now, Francesco?’
‘Sì! Sì!’ And then, at his father’s raised eyebrows, Francesco said quickly, ‘I mean yes, please, Papà.’
Daisy’s gift, with Slade’s agreement, was a pretty little cushioned cat basket and small earthenware bowl with the picture of a smiling feline at its base, and they had arranged a few days previously that she would bring them in, with Slade feigning surprise moments before producing the kitten. But now, as she stepped into the hall where Isabella was waiting with the presents, the housekeeper pointed to the basket wherein lay the kitten, fast asleep, and said, ‘The signore, he wants you to give it all, sì? The little cat also.’
‘He does?’ Daisy stared at Isabella for a moment. That was very generous, for Slade to give the moment of glory to her, for there was no doubt the kitten would be the hit of the day. She hesitated a moment and then took the basket, Isabella following with the bowl and little toy mouse and ball Daisy had also bought, and as she re-entered the breakfast room she saw Francesco’s eyes were liquid with anticipation and hope.
‘Happy birthday, darling.’ Her voice was very soft at the look on the little boy’s face and there was a yearning in her heart that was physically painful. He was so small and so vulnerable and a perfect little miniature of Slade. They had the same bone structure, the same eyes, even the same way of turning their heads and moving; perhaps that was why she loved Francesco so much too?
This thought was as uncomfortable as the earlier one, and again she brushed it aside with urgent agitation. Love! It seemed as though she couldn’t think about anything else this morning, and she was using the word love in place of affection and tenderness with Francesco. Of course she was.
Francesco was ecstatic over the kitten, as they had known he would be. ‘Her name is Queenie,’ he announced at once, sitting back at the table with the basket balanced on his lap and such a look of rapturous devotion at the tiny sleeping feline that the lump in Daisy’s throat became bigger. ‘She is my little queen,’ he said tenderly.
‘That is very good.’ Slade nodded perfectly seriously, his eyes soft. ‘And you are responsible for her now, completely, yes?’
Francesco had already thanked her but now he said again, his voice throbbing, ‘Thank you, Daisy. Thank you. I will take care of her, I promise.’
‘It was your father who had the final say-so, Francesco,’ Daisy reminded her small charge, and then, as she glanced at Slade over the child’s curly head, their look held, stretching, deepening, until her knees were weak and her head was spinning with what she read in the glittering black eyes.
I want you, the dark gaze told her. I want you very badly and I’m not going to give up.
There was a deep and urgent passion in his eyes, an intensity of feeling that was almost shocking, and as she tore her gaze from his she knew she was trembling.
Angelica had stopped living at Festina Lente the last four weeks as Daisy had taken over Francesco’s welfare more and more, and now, as she heard the other girl’s voice in the hall which meant she had arrived via the kitchen entrance, Daisy had never been so glad of an interruption in her life, and welcomed the subsequent knock at the breakfast-room door.
In the giving and receiving of Angelica’s present—a new game Francesco had particularly wanted for the games console he had had the previous Christmas—the moment of acute awareness faded a little, but Daisy made sure she kept busy for the rest of the morning and didn’t allow herself to think.
It had shocked her, more than she could have imagined, that the last month had been a façade and Slade had been acting a part. It shocked her, frightened her…and thrilled her too, and it was that last emotion that told her she had to keep a firm control on every thought. She couldn’t allow herself—not for a minute, a second—to let that last feeling take over her mind. It was too seductive, too sweet. She wasn’t ready to handle a man like Slade Eastwood—she wasn’t ready to handle any man—and part of her wondered if she ever would be.
At just after eleven in the morning Slade’s mother and stepfather arrived. Francesco’s birthday was to be celebrated in true Italian style, with family and friends making it a warm, happy occasion, and there were numerous other family members expected after lunch for the party in the afternoon—including Claudia Morosini.
But for now Daisy wasn’t thinking of Slade’s mother-in-law as she faced Francesco’s other grandmother, a tall, sweet-faced woman.
‘Daisy.’ Slade had made all the necessary introductions as soon as his mother and stepfather had arrived, but with Francesco beside himself with excitement it was some twenty minutes later before Aloysia—his mother—had the opportunity to take Daisy’s arm and draw her aside from the others. ‘I am so pleased to meet you at last, my dear. Slade has told me how well Francesco is doing with you and I can see he didn’t exaggerate.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Martella.’ How different from Claudia’s reaction!
‘Oh, call me Aloysia, please,’ the other woman said at once, her quiet, heavily accented but beautifully modulated voice friendly. ‘I do not like formality; it is such a cold thing, sì?’
‘Thank you,’ Daisy said again, feeling acutely uncomfortable as Aloysia’s large brown eyes took in every detail of her face and dress in a perusal which, although not unkind, was very thorough.
The other woman must have liked what she saw because the next moment she drew Daisy over to one of the sofas in the drawing room, sitting down herself and then patting the seat beside her. ‘Tell me all about yourself,’ she invited softly. ‘How did you meet my son?’
There was something wrong here. Daisy sat down and forced herself to respond to Aloysia’s gentle questions politely and quietly, but all the time she was thinking, She’s acting as though I’m something more than the nanny, almost as though I’m Slade’s girlfriend or something. She does know the situation, doesn’t she? He must have told his mother how things really are?
