The Maid's Best Kept Secret
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Abby Green
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CHAPTER ONE
MAGGIE TAGGART FELT RESTLESS. She’d finished washing up the dishes in the sink and looked around the vast and gleaming kitchen which was situated in the basement of an even vaster house. A stunningly beautiful period country house, to be exact. Set in some ten acres of lush green land about an hour’s drive outside Dublin.
There were manicured gardens to the rear and a sizeable walled kitchen garden to the side. There was even a small lake and a forest. And stables. But the stables were empty. The owner—a billionaire tycoon—had apparently bought the house sight unseen on a whim when he’d had a passing interest in investing in horse racing, for which this part of Ireland was renowned.
Except he’d never bought any horses and he’d never actually visited the house. So here it sat, empty and untouched. Luxuriously decorated to his specifications. He hadn’t even hired the housekeeper himself—one of his assistants had done it remotely.
That housekeeper had been Maggie’s mother, and when she’d fallen ill she had been terrified of losing her job. So Maggie had quit her own job as a commis chef in a Dublin restaurant and come to help her and take care of her. Leaving her restaurant job hadn’t been too much of a sacrifice, thanks to the head chef, who had been a serial groper of his female staff.
Then Maggie’s mother had died suddenly, and when she’d informed the owner’s offices an impersonal assistant had asked if she wouldn’t mind taking over in the interim, while they found a permanent replacement.
Maggie had been in shock...grieving...so she’d found herself saying yes, relishing the thought of a quiet space where she could lick her wounds and deal with her grief, not yet ready to face back into the world.
That had been three months ago. Three months that had passed in a grief-stricken blur. And she was only just emerging from that very intial painful stage.
Hence this sense of restlessness. Up to now the house had served as a kind of cocoon, shielding her from the outside world. But she could feel herself itching to do more than just tend to it. In spite of its lack of occupants, it was surprisingly challenging to maintain at the high standard demanded by the boss—should he ever decide to drop by. On another whim.
Maggie’s soft mouth firmed. The impression she had of the owner—a man she wasn’t interested enough in to look up on the internet—was one of gross entitlement. Who bought a lavish country house and then never even came to see it?
‘Rich, powerful men who have more money than sense.’
Those had been her mother’s words. And she had known all about rich, powerful men—because Maggie’s father had been one. A wealthy property tycoon from Scotland, he’d had an affair with Maggie’s mother and when she’d told him she was pregnant he’d denied all knowledge, terrified that Maggie’s mother and his illegitimate daughter might get their hands on his vast fortune.
He hadn’t offered any support or commitment. He’d offered only threats and intimidation. Maggie’s mother had been too proud and heartbroken to pursue him for maintenance and they’d left Scotland and moved to Ireland, where Maggie’s mother’s job as a housekeeper had kept them moving around the country, never really settling in any one place for long.
To say that Maggie had a jaded view of rich men and their ways was an understatement. She sighed. However, she was being paid very generously to take care of an empty house by a rich man, so she couldn’t really complain.
At that moment the peace that she’d so relished was shattered by a sound from upstairs—the ground floor. A banging noise. The front door? It was such an unusual sound to hear in this silent house that she almost didn’t recognise it.
Maggie rushed upstairs and walked into the hall just as the knocker was slammed down onto the door again. She muttered, ‘Keep your hair on...’ as she switched on the outside light and swung the door open.
And promptly ceased breathing at the sight in front of her. A tall, dark man dominated the doorway, hand lifted as if to slam the knocker down again. His other arm was raised, and rested on the door frame. The late-summer sky was a dusky lavender behind him, making him seem even darker.
Maggie couldn’t find her breath. Dressed in a classic black tuxedo, he was the most stupendously gorgeous man she’d ever seen. Thick curly hair and dark brows framed a strong-boned face...cheekbones to die for. His deep-set eyes were dark, but not brown. Golden. His skin was dark too. There was stubble on his jaw. The sheer height, width and breadth of him was heat-inducingly powerful.
She registered all this in a split-second—a very basic biological reaction to a virile male.
His black bowtie hung rakishly undone under the open top button of his shirt. Those dark eyes flicked down from her face over her body. A bold appraisal. Arrogant, even.
Maggie became acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing cut-off shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, her hair up in an untidy bun. Her habitual uniform for when she was cleaning.
‘This is Kildare House?’ the masculine vision asked, with a slight accent.
His voice was deep and rough and the pulse between her legs throbbed. Most disturbing.
‘Yes, it is.’
The man stood up straight. He had an air of slightly louche inebriation but his eyes were too focused and direct for him to be intoxicated. Actually, it was an air of intense ennui.
He turned away from her, and it was only then that Maggie noticed a taxi at the bottom of the steps leading up to the front door, engine idling.
The man addressed the driver, who was waiting by the car. ‘This is the right place. Thank you.’
Maggie watched with growing shock as the taxi driver waved jauntily, got into his car and drove off.
She gripped the door. ‘Excuse me but who are you?’
The man turned back to face her. ‘I’m the owner of this house. Nikos Marchetti. I think the more pertinent question here is who are you? Because I’ve seen a picture of the housekeeper and you are most definitely not her.’
Nikos Marchetti. The owner she’d envisaged as middle-aged, paunchy, entitled. But this man was more like a Spartan warrior, sheathed in the modern-day trappings of a suit.
His eyes were dropping down her body again, with that insolent appraisal that should have disgusted Maggie but which was having an altogether far less acceptable effect on her body.
She drew herself up to her full five foot ten inches and crossed her arms over her chest. So far Nikos Marchetti was doing little not to live up to what she’d expected. Behaviourally, if not physically.
‘I am Maggie Taggart—Edith’s daughter. She died three months ago and your staff asked if I’d stay on until another housekeeper was hired. Something you’re evidently not aware of.’
He looked at her, expressionless. ‘I most likely wasn’t informed. My staff are briefed not to bother me unless it’s something urgent, and clearly they felt that you could handle the job. However, I am sorry for your loss. Do you think I could enter my own property now?’
His casual dismissal and tacked-on condolences for one of the most traumatic events in Maggie’s life—losing her beloved mother—made her stand her ground. ‘How do I know you are who you say you are? You could be anyone.’
Nikos Marchetti looked at the woman in front of him and felt not a little shock and surprise running through his system. Along with something much more potent—the biggest jolt of insta-lust he’d ever felt in his life.
He’d just come from a black-tie event at Dublin Castle—leaving behind a room heaving with some of the most beautiful women in the world. And not one of them had turned his head like this...this fiery sprite.
Except she was too tall to be a sprite. She was strong. Supple. The full breasts evident under her thin T-shirt left little to the imagination, and she had wide hips and long pale legs that went on for ever. She was like a Viking queen—all woman and perfectly, generously proportioned—and Nikos’s brain was melting into a heat haze.
Which was probably why he was still standing there, long past the time he would normally have indulged such impertinence.
It wasn’t just her body, though. Unruly-looking red-gold hair was pulled up into a bun on top of her head and her bone structure was exquisite—high cheekbones, firm jaw, straight nose. Her face was dominated by huge blue eyes and a wide, generous mouth. Currently tight. Like the arms across her chest, blocking him from entering his own property.
‘You’ve never even been here before, have you?’
Nikos arched a brow. ‘I wasn’t aware I had to account to you for my movements—but, no, I haven’t been here before.’
‘Why now? Tonight? No one warned me you were coming.’
‘As I own the property, and it should be in a state of readiness for my arrival at any time, I didn’t see the need to forewarn or inform anyone,’ Nikos drawled.
‘It’s late... I could have been in bed.’
Nikos was rewarded with a very unhelpful image of this woman lying back on a bed naked, hair spread around her head, welcoming him to explore her sensual body. Blood rushed to his already heated groin, making him hard—something he was usually much more in control of.
Now irritation prickled. ‘Seriously? You’re denying me entry?’
‘I am until you show me some identification. If you are who you say you are, then surely you can appreciate the fact that I’m not going to let a stranger into your property?’
Nikos wanted to growl. There were very few instances when he wasn’t automatically obeyed. Except she had a point. The fact that she apparently didn’t recognise him was also a novelty that had an unexpected appeal. He was used to people targeting him because of exactly who he was: heir to a vast inestimable fortune and legacy.
But he didn’t want to think about that now—it would only remind him of the feeling of ennui and claustrophobia that had driven him here in the first place, even though he’d almost forgotten about the Irish estate he owned.
He dug into his inside pocket and muttered, ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this...’ before pulling out his passport and handing it to his housekeeper.
Who looked more like a cheerleader, with that supple body and fresh-faced beauty.
Before he could censor himself he said, ‘How old are you?’
She looked up from the passport. ‘Twenty-three. This is a Greek passport. I thought you were Italian?’
Nikos took the passport back. ‘I’m half-Greek, half-Italian and I decided to go with my Greek side. Any more questions? Or can I now enter the property I own?’
Maggie couldn’t believe she was being so antagonistic to the owner of this house. Because he was the owner.
Nikos Marchetti.
She scrabbled to recall the vague information she’d absorbed from her mother about him, but her mother’s illness had taken most of her attention. He was heir to a vast fortune—the Marchetti Group. But even she knew who they were. The biggest conglomerate of luxury brands in the world. They also owned vast swathes of real estate—hotels, nightclubs, and entire blocks in places like New York.
Maggie stood back and moved aside. ‘Please, come in, Mr Marchetti. It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Kildare House.’
He made a rude sound and walked in, placing a small holdall bag down on a nearby chair. He was even bigger and more gorgeous under the bright lighting of the hallway. He looked around the hall and then proceeded to walk into one of the nearby reception rooms.
Maggie was still reeling from his scent, which had washed over her as he’d entered. Nothing manufactured—or maybe it was just expensive enough not to smell synthetic. Musky, woodsy and pure male essence...
She closed the front door and followed him to the doorway of the reception room to see that he had taken off his jacket and flung it carelessly over the back of a chair. He was at the drinks cabinet and opening a whiskey bottle, pouring a measure into a small tumbler glass.
‘Would you like me to show you around?’ Maggie asked, aiming to sound professional and breezy when she felt anything but.
Whatever it was about this man, he’d lodged himself under her skin and she prickled all over. With awareness and something much more volatile.
He turned around. ‘Sure.’
He walked towards her, taking a sip of the whiskey and keeping the glass in his hand. He looked thoroughly dangerous and disreputable and a little shiver raced over Maggie’s skin.
Acutely aware of him, prowling behind her like a large, sensual jungle cat, she showed him the rooms leading off the circular hallway—more reception rooms, formal and informal, and a formal living room. At the back, overlooking the gardens, was a study, filled with state-of-the-art computers which had never been touched.
On the other side of the hall was a less formal living room, complete with media centre and projection screen for watching movies. It was possibly Maggie’s favourite room in the house. Floor-to-ceiling shelves full of books lined the walls. Books that she’d surmised had been chosen purely for show. The works of Shakespeare... Dickens...
Nikos Marchetti faced her. ‘Lead on.’
Maggie all but tripped over her own feet as she led him back through the hallway and downstairs to the kitchen. He barely glanced at that, clearly more interested in the gym and indoor lap pool on the same level. There were also rooms for massage or spa treatments. A sauna and a steam room.
He couldn’t have looked more insouciant, with his open shirt, dangling bowtie and the glass of whiskey in hand, inspecting a property he owned but had never even laid eyes on before. So far every judgement Maggie had ever made about rich, powerful men was being proved right.
He turned to face her and drained his glass, holding it carelessly between two fingers. Was it her imagination or did something in those mesmerising gold eyes flare for a second? She realised now that they weren’t entirely golden, there were green flecks too. And hazel.
To her shame and disgust, she felt a wave of heat rise up through her body from her core, and she turned quickly before it could reach her face. As pale as she was, every passing emotion registered on her skin—much to her embarrassment.
‘The bedrooms are on the first floor.’ Maggie led the way back up to the main area of the house, not even checking to see if Nikos Marchetti was following her.
But he was. She could sense him—as if from the moment she’d seen him, she’d been plugged into a new awareness.
Nikos was finding it hard to notice much about the house when the tantalising vision of his housekeeper’s bottom and swaying hips filled his vision as she climbed the stairs in front of him. Not to mention those long bare legs.
Theos. He was usually far more sophisticated than this. He just hadn’t expected...her to answer the door of his country house in the middle of nowhere outside Dublin.
She was walking briskly down the corridor ahead of him now, opening doors and saying, ‘These are all spare bedroom suites. Yours is here at the end...’
She’d opened a door and was standing back. He noticed now that she was wearing flip-flops. And that she had pretty feet. Toenails painted a coral colour.
He gritted his jaw and went into the room—but not before he caught her scent again: crushed roses and something much earthier. Musky. It made him grit his jaw even harder.
He barely took in the luxurious room, with windows overlooking three sides of the house, its gardens barely visible now in the rapidly gathering night. He recognised it from the photos he’d been sent by the interior designer after it had been completed.
This was the first house he’d bought—his other properties were apartments in the hotels his company owned. And now he was here he felt a little exposed—as if his motives for buying the house on the basis of a picture that had caught at his gut were being laid bare for this stranger to see.
He could feel her watching him. This woman with a body built like a siren and those huge blue eyes.
He turned around. Maggie Taggart’s arms were folded across her chest again, which only pushed the generous swells of her breasts together under the thin material of her T-shirt.
The feeling of exposure was not welcome. Nikos didn’t do introspection.
He deflected the attention back to her. ‘Why are you dressed as if you’re attending a barbecue?’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘If I had been informed of your arrival you can be sure I would have dressed appropriately. However, considering the fact that it’s well past official hours, I don’t see why I have to justify dressing as I please. In light of the fact that your presence here is somewhat...irregular, I’ve taken the liberty of working the hours that suit me. I don’t think you can fault the state of the house. I work seven days a week and it has been kept in a permanent state of readiness for your arrival.’
Nikos felt his conscience prick. Which was rare for him.
An innate sense of fairness made him admit, ‘You have kept the house pristine. Look, can we start over?’
He walked over to where she stood in the doorway. Suddenly she didn’t look so confident. He could see a pulse throbbing in her neck. Not as spiky as she looked. Or behaved.
He held out his hand. ‘I’m Nikos Marchetti—owner of this house. Sorry for the lack of notice about my arrival and thank you for keeping it so beautifully. Clearly you are doing an amazing job.’
He congratulated himself on keeping any mocking tone out of his voice.
His housekeeper looked at him suspiciously, but eventually she slipped her hand into his. Immediately Nikos felt the slightly rough skin of her palm, and the desire he felt turned into full-on arousal. Hot and pulsing through every vein. Instinctively he closed his hand around hers.
Maggie couldn’t breathe again. What had this man just said? Her brain felt fuzzy. All she was aware of was how big his hand felt around hers, dwarfing it completely. Dwarfing her, actually. She was tall, and she’d got used to being described by various people throughout her life as a big, strong girl, but Nikos Marchetti towered over her, and for the first time in her life she felt...delicate.
Even in heels she’d barely graze his jaw—a fact which, though she hated to admit it, was a little intoxicating. It was rare for her to have to look up at a man. Not that she’d ever had much opportunity. A lifetime of moving around with her mother hadn’t been conducive to forming a core group of close friends, and the few dates she’d embarked upon in a bid to broaden her social circle had invariably ended with a limp handshake when the men had turned out to be several inches smaller than her. Every single time.
So for that and a myriad other reasons—including her general mistrust of men, bred into her by her mother—she’d shied away from intimacy. But here...now...it felt very intimate.
She pulled her hand free. ‘Have you eaten this evening? There’s some leftover chicken stew. I can’t remember if it’s on your list of preferred foods, but you’re welcome to some if you’d like me to heat it up?’
She was babbling—a habit when she was nervous and one she hated. She took a few steps back, putting some much-needed space between her and this man who was making her think about all sorts of things and...intimacy. He was her boss.
He shrugged minutely. ‘Sure. I need to take a shower and change. I’ll be down shortly.’
Maggie said, ‘Your walk-in dressing room is stocked with a full wardrobe, should you need anything.’
She went downstairs and cursed herself for being so affected by him. He was undeniably gorgeous and sexy, yes, but he probably had the same effect on everyone he encountered. It was just proof that she wasn’t immune to his very potent brand of sexuality.
She stopped in the hallway when she spied his overnight bag. It looked expensive. As she’d told him, he had a fully stocked wardrobe in his suite, but she should probably take his bag up too. Wasn’t that part of the job spec of a housekeeper?
She went back upstairs and halted at his door, suddenly uncertain. It was half closed. She couldn’t hear anything, so she knocked lightly and cleared her throat. It felt weird, after having had the house to herself.
There was no response, so she pushed the door open. Then she saw the door leading to the en suite bathroom was half open. There was the sound of running water, and tendrils of steam drifted out. He was in the shower.
Maggie crept forward and put the bag on the bed, turning to make a hasty retreat. Before she did, though, she looked in the direction of the bathroom and saw a tall, dark shape. The water wasn’t running any more. And she stood, transfixed, as Nikos Marchetti’s body was revealed in the sliver of space at the open doorway as the steam evaporated.
She couldn’t move. There was a roaring in her head. He was naked and he was...magnificent. Breathtaking. Long, lean limbs. Hard-muscled torso. Every inch of olive skin gleamed and rippled. The hair on his chest led in a line down to the curling hair between his legs where—Maggie’s face flamed—she could see the evidence of just how potent his body was.
And then he stilled.
Maggie’s gaze moved up and she was caught in the beam of those dark gold and green eyes. Totally unperturbed, Nikos Marchetti reached for a towel and slung it around his narrow hips, covering his body. He didn’t say a word.
As if someone had come along and slapped her across the face, to break her out of her stasis, Maggie got out a garbled, ‘Sorry... I thought you might need...something...your bag...’
Then she turned and fled from the room, body and face burning.
Nikos drained his glass of the white wine that had accompanied a surprisingly delicious chicken stew. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was until Maggie had placed it in front of him in the less formal of the dining rooms and the smell had made his stomach rumble. Food was rarely more than a means to keep going in his world.
He sat back now, ruminating on the fact that everything about this evening had been surprising.
Such as arriving here to find his housekeeper at least twenty years younger than he’d expected. And beautiful. And sexy in a way that caught at Nikos deep inside, where most women didn’t impact on him. He liked to keep things superficial. Light. He wasn’t in the market for anything deeper after a lifetime’s learning that his emotional needs wouldn’t ever be met. He focused on transitory pleasures and amassing his fortune—staking his claim on the family business.
Maggie reappeared in the doorway. She’d changed her clothes since that explosive moment when he’d looked up and caught her staring at him as if she’d never seen a naked man before. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Her huge blue eyes big and round and fixated on that part of him that had refused to cool down in spite of turning his shower to cold for several long seconds at the end.
It was a good thing she’d left when she had or she’d have seen just how potent her effect on him was. He’d had to get back into the shower and turn it to cold for long minutes, resisting the urge to take the edge off his acute desire. He wasn’t at the mercy of his body and hormones—no matter how tempting his housekeeper was.
She now wore a white shirt tucked neatly into black trousers. Flat black brogues. Hair pulled back into a bun at the back of her head. And, bizzarely, even though she was conforming exactly to the way he would have expected his housekeeper to behave, it irritated him intensely.
Yet he couldn’t fault her. The house was pristine. And he had been out of line arriving without any notice. She worked here—she couldn’t be expected to be in a state of readiness 24/7. That was just...not feasible.
She came over, avoiding his eye, and picked up the plate.
He said, ‘That was very good. Excellent, in fact. You said you made it?’
Maggie was doing her best to avoid eye contact with Nikos Marchetti. But she couldn’t ignore him. She forced herself to look at him. His hair was still damp and curling thickly on his head. Which only reminded her of that moment...
She said quickly, ‘I used to work as a commis chef in a restaurant. That’s what I want to do eventually...be a chef.’
Nikos Marchetti frowned. ‘Why did you leave?’
Maggie wished that the clothes she’d put on—her uniform—felt like a barrier against that dark gaze. But when he looked at her she felt as if he was seeing all the way through her to where her blood was rushing and still felt so hot.
‘Because of my mother’s illness. Also, the head chef was too handsy for my liking.’
Nikos Marchetti tensed visibly. ‘You mean he touched you?’
Maggie was surprised at his reaction. ‘Me and pretty much every other female member of staff who came within a few feet of him. But my mother fell ill, so it wasn’t a hard decision to come here to help her. She thought she could manage with my help. But then her illness progressed quickly...’
Nikos Marchetti stood up and took the plate out of Maggie’s hands. He pulled out a chair. ‘Sit down.’
Maggie hesitated for a moment, but then sat down. Nikos Marchetti sat down too.
‘I’m sorry about earlier. Someone should have rung ahead to tell you of my arrival. And I’m sorry about your mother. You were lucky to have had her as long as you did. You sound as if you were close.’
Maggie looked at her boss. Maybe if she kept reaffirming that in her head—her boss—she would be able to ignore the way there seemed to be a million signals between them going on under the surface. Her awareness of him...the way he looked at her. It was illictly thrilling.
‘We were close. She was a single parent and I was an only child.’
‘Your father wasn’t on the scene?’
Maggie shook her head quickly. ‘No, he wasn’t.’ In a bid to divert him away from a subject she avoided like the plague, she asked, ‘Is your mother still alive?’
Instantly Nikos Marchetti’s expression shuttered. ‘No. She died a long time ago. I don’t remember her at all.’
For some reason Maggie had a sense that wasn’t entirely true. But she said, ‘I’m sorry. Losing a parent at any age is tough.’ She reached out to take his plate again and stood up. ‘If you’d like to move into the lounge I can bring you coffee, or tea?’
Nikos Marchetti looked at her and for a moment it was as if he’d forgotten she was there. He’d disappeared for a second.
Maggie suspected that the persona he projected—rich, careless—was a little bit of a construct, hiding something far more formidable under the surface. He was watchful, even though he carried that careless air of nonchalance.
‘I’ll have a whiskey. But on one condition.’
Maggie had been turning away and now looked back. Nikos Marchetti was standing up. ‘What condition?’ she asked. For some reason her heart tripped into a faster rhythm.
‘That you join me for a glass. It’s the least I can do after arriving unannounced.’
Maggie’s hands tightened on the plate. She felt breathless again, just imagining inhabiting the same space as this man. Especially after seeing him naked.
‘That’s really not necessary.’
‘Please. I’ve had more scintillating conversation with you in the last couple of hours than I’ve had with anyone in the last month. Indulge me.’
