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There was something dark in his gaze. Something indescribably weary. The smoothly ruthless playboy looked strangely troubled in a way she’d never seen before.
Against her will, worry and concern for him smothered her heart as the mist deepened into rain, splattering noisily against the dark trees above.
“Are you…are you all right, Mr. Cruz?”
He stiffened.
“Perfect,” he said coldly. He clearly resented her intrusion.
Louisa tightened her hands against the basket handle, furious at herself. What was she thinking? She knew better than to ask a personal question. If her ten months of house management training hadn’t taught her that, living for five years as Rafael Cruz’s housekeeper in Paris certainly should have!
He never showed his feelings. She’d tried to do the same. It had been easy for the first year or two. Then somehow, in spite of her best efforts, she’d started to care…
Looking at him now, all she could think about was the last time she’d seen his face, the night she’d realized she was hopelessly, wretchedly in love with her playboy boss. She’d been sobbing alone in the kitchen when he’d come home unexpectedly early from a date with yet another impossibly beautiful woman.
“Why are you crying?” he’d asked in a low voice. She’d tried to lie, to tell him she just had something in her eye, but when their eyes had met she’d been unable to speak. Unable to move as he walked directly to her. He’d taken her in his arms and she’d known, down to her bones, that it could only end in her own heartbreak. And yet she couldn’t push him away. How could she, when she loved him, this untamable, forbidden man who could never truly be hers?
In his penthouse near the Champs-Élysées, against the backdrop of the sparkling city and the Eiffel Tower lit up like a beacon in the night, he’d exhaled her name in a growl. He’d grabbed her wrists and pushed her against the kitchen wall, kissing her so savagely that all she could do was gasp out his name in the first shock of explosive, mutual need and the joint hunger of their embrace.
She’d wanted him with desire she’d repressed for years. But how could she have ever allowed herself to surrender, knowing it could only end badly?
And that was before she’d even started to worry she might be pregnant…
Don’t think about it! she ordered herself desperately. She couldn’t be pregnant. If she were, Rafael would never forgive her. He’d think she’d done it on purpose, that she’d lied to him!
She licked her lips. “I’m…glad you’re well,” she faltered.
His dark slate eyes traced her face, lingering on her mouth before he abruptly turned away, slinging his overnight bag over his shoulder. “Bring dinner to my room,” he barked.
He stalked into the house without looking back.
“At once, sir,” she whispered as the rain fell faster. Heavy droplets pounded against her face and body, plastering her hair to her head and smearing her glasses.
After her boss disappeared into the mansion, she was able to breathe again. Protecting the basket of roses from the rain with her gray woolen blazer, she fell into step behind the two male assistants carrying his suitcases from the limousine now parked in the carriage house.
The fading ribbons of sunset streaked red across the low clouds as Louisa entered the grand foyer of the nineteenth-century mansion. She carefully wiped her feet before noting her boss’s 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!
