Читать книгу The Argentinian's Baby Of Scandal - Sharon Kendrick - Страница 11

LUCAS CONWAY SURVEYED the blonde who was standing in front of him and felt nothing, even though her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks wet with tears.

He felt a pulse beat at his temple.

Nothing at all.

‘Who let you in?’ he questioned coldly.

‘Y-your housekeeper,’ she said, her mouth working frantically as she tried to contain yet another sob. ‘The one with the messy hair.’

‘She had no right to let anyone in,’ Lucas returned, briefly wondering how the actress could be so spiteful about someone who’d supposedly done her a good turn. But that was women for you—they never lived up to the promise of how they appeared on the outside. They were all teeth and smiles and then, when you looked beneath the surface, they were as shallow as a spill of water. ‘I told her I didn’t want to be disturbed.’ His voice was cool. ‘Not by anyone. I’m sorry, Charlotte, but you’ll have to leave. You should never have come here.’

He rose to his feet, because now he felt something, and it felt like the fury which had been simmering inside him for days. Although maybe fury was the wrong word to use. It didn’t accurately describe the hot clench to his heart when he’d received the letter last week, did it? Nor the unaccustomed feeling of dread which had washed over him as he’d stared down at it. Memories of the past had swum into his mind. He remembered violence and discord. Things he didn’t want to remember. Things he’d schooled himself to forget. But sometimes you were powerless when the past came looking for you...

His mouth was tight as he moved out from behind his desk, easily dwarfing the fair-haired beauty who was staring up at him with beseeching eyes. ‘Come with me. I’ll see you out.’

‘Lucas—’

‘Please, Charlotte,’ he said, trying to inject his voice with the requisite amount of compassion he suspected was called for but failing—for he had no idea how to replicate this kind of emotion. Hadn’t he often been accused of being unable to show any kind of feeling for another person—unless you counted desire, which was only ever temporary? He held back his sigh. ‘Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.’

Briefly, she closed her swollen eyelids and nodded and he could smell her expensive perfume as he ushered her out of his huge office, which overlooked the choppy waters of Dublin Bay. And when she’d followed him—sniffling—to the front door, she tried one last time.

‘Lucas.’ Her voice trembled. ‘I have to tell you this because it’s important and you need to know it. I know there isn’t anyone else on the scene and I’ve missed you. Missed being with you. What we had was good and I... I love you—’

‘No,’ he answered fiercely, cutting her short before she could humiliate herself any further. ‘You don’t. You can’t. You don’t really know me and if you did, you certainly wouldn’t love me. I’m sorry. I’m not the man for you. So do yourself a favour, Charlotte, and go and find someone who is. Someone who has the capacity to care for you in the way you deserve to be cared for.’

She opened her mouth as if to make one last appeal but maybe she read the futility of such a gesture in his eyes, because she nodded and began to stumble towards her sports car in her spindly and impractical heels. He stood at the door and watched her leave, a gesture which might have been interpreted as one of courtesy but in reality it was to ensure that she really did exit the premises in her zippy little silver car, which shattered the peace as it sped off in a cloud of gravel.

He glanced up at the heavy sky. The weather had been oppressive for days now and the dark and straining clouds were hinting at the storm to come. He wished it would. Maybe it would lighten the oppressive atmosphere, which was making his forehead slick with sweat and his clothes feel as if they were clinging to his body. He closed the door. And then he turned his attention to his growing vexation as he thought about his interfering housekeeper.

His temper mounting, Lucas went downstairs into the basement, to the kitchen—which several high-profile magazines were itching to feature in their lifestyle section—to find Tara Fitzpatrick whipping something furiously in a copper bowl. She looked up as he walked in and a lock of thick red hair fell into her eye, which she instantly blew away with a big upward gust of breath, without pausing in her whipping motion. Why the hell didn’t she get it cut so that it didn’t resemble a birds’ nest? he wondered testily. And why did she insist on wearing that horrible housecoat while she worked? A baggy garment made from some cheap, man-made fibre, which he’d once told her looked like a relic from the nineteen fifties and completely swamped her slender frame.

‘She’s gone, then?’ she questioned, her gaze fixed on his as he walked in.

‘Yes, she’s gone.’ He could feel the flicker of irritation growing inside him again and, suddenly, Tara seemed the ideal candidate to take it out on. ‘Why the hell did you let her in?’

She hesitated, the movement of her whisk stilling. ‘Because she was crying.’

‘Of course she was crying. She’s a spoiled woman who is used to getting her own way and that’s what women like her do when it doesn’t happen.’

She opened her mouth as if she was about to say something and then appeared to change her mind, so that her next comment came out as a mild observation. ‘You were the one who dated her, Lucas.’

‘And it was over,’ he said dangerously. ‘Months ago.’

Again, that hesitation—as if she was trying her hardest to be diplomatic—and Lucas thought, not for the first time, what a fey creature she was with her amber eyes and pale skin and that mass of fiery hair. And her slender body, which always looked as if it could do with a decent meal.

‘Perhaps you didn’t make it plain enough that it was over,’ she suggested cautiously, resting her whisk on the side of the bowl and shaking her wrist, as if it was aching.

‘I couldn’t have been more plain,’ he said. ‘I told her in person, in as kind a way as possible, and said that perhaps one day we could be friends.’

Tara made a clicking noise with her lips and shook her head. ‘That was your big mistake.’

‘My big mistake?’ he echoed dangerously.

‘Sure. Give a woman hope and she’ll cling to it like a chimp swinging from tree to tree. Maybe if you weren’t so devastatingly attractive,’ she added cheerfully, resuming her beating with a ferocity which sent the egg whites slapping against the sides of the bowl, ‘then your exes wouldn’t keep popping up around the place like lost puppy dogs.’

He heard the implicit criticism in his housekeeper’s voice and the tension which had been mounting inside him all week now snapped. ‘And maybe if you knew your place, instead of acting like the mistress of my damned house, then you wouldn’t have let her in in the first place,’ he flared as he stormed across the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee.

Know her place?

Tara stopped beating as her boss’s icy note of censure was replaced by the sound of grinding coffee beans and a lump rose in her throat, because he’d never spoken to her that way before—not in all the time she’d worked for him. Not with that air of impatient condemnation as if she were some troublesome minion who was more trouble than she was worth. As she returned his gaze she swallowed with confusion and, yes, with hurt—and how stupid was that? Had she thought she was safe from his legendary coldness and a tongue which could slice out sharp words like a knife cutting through a courgette? Well, yes. She had. She’d naively imagined that, because she served him meals and ironed his shirts and made sure that his garden was carefully weeded and bright with flowers, he would never treat her with the disdain he seemed to direct at most women. That she had a special kind of place in his heart—when it was clear that Lucas Conway had no heart at all. And wasn’t the fact of the matter that he’d been in a foul mood for this past week and growing snappier by the day? Ever since that official-looking letter had arrived from the United States and he’d disappeared into his office for a long time, before emerging with a haunted look darkening the spectacular verdant gleam of his eyes?

She ran a wooden spoon around the side of the bowl and then gave the mixture another half-hearted beat. She told herself she shouldn’t let his arrogance or bad mood bother her. Maybe that was how you should expect a man to behave when he was as rich as Lucas Conway—as well as being the hottest lover in all of Ireland, if you were to believe the things people whispered about him.

Yet nobody really knew very much about the Dublin-based billionaire, no matter how hard they tried to find out. Even the Internet provided little joy—and Tara knew this for a fact because she’d looked him up herself on her ancient laptop, soon after she’d started working for him. His accent was difficult to figure out, that was for sure. He definitely wasn’t Irish, and there was a faint hint of transatlantic drawl underpinning his sexy voice. He spoke many languages—French, Italian and Spanish as well as English—though, unlike Tara, he knew no Gaelic. He was rumoured to have been a bellhop, working in some fancy Swiss hotel, in the days before he’d arrived in Ireland to make his fortune but Tara had never quite been able to believe this particular rumour. As if someone like Lucas Conway would ever work as a bellhop! He was also reputed to have South American parentage—and with his tousled dark hair and the unusual green eyes which contrasted so vividly with his glowing olive skin, that was one rumour which would seem to be founded in truth.

She studied him as the machine dispensed a cup of his favoured industrial-strength brew of coffee. He’d had more girlfriends than most men had socks lined up in a top drawer of their bedroom, and was known for his exceptionally low boredom threshold. Which might explain why he’d dumped the seemingly perfect Charlotte when she—like so many others before her—had refused to get the message that he had no desire to be married. Yet that hadn’t stopped her sending him a Valentine’s card, had it—or arranging for a case of vintage champagne to be delivered on his birthday? ‘I don’t even particularly like champagne,’ had been his moody aside to Tara as he’d peered into the wooden case, and she remembered thinking how ungrateful he could be.

Yet it wasn’t just women of the sexy and supermodel variety who couldn’t seem to get enough of him. Men liked him, too—and old ladies practically swooned whenever he came into their vicinity. Yet through all the attention he received, Lucas Conway always remained slightly aloof to the adulation which swirled around him. As if he was observing the world with the objectivity of a scientist, and, although nobody would ever have described him as untouchable, he was certainly what you might call unknowable.

But up until now he’d always treated her with respect. As if she mattered. Not as if she were just some skivvy working in his kitchen, with no more than two brain cells to rub together. The lump in her throat got bigger. Someone who didn’t know her place.

Was that how he really saw her?

How others saw her?

She licked lips which had suddenly grown dry. Was that how she saw herself? The misfit from the country. The child who had grown up with the dark cloud of shame hanging over her. Who’d been terrified people were going to find her out, which was why she had fled to the city just as soon as she was able.

She told herself to leave it. To just nod politely and Lucas would vacate the kitchen and it would all be forgotten by the time she produced the feather-light cheese soufflé she was planning to serve for his dinner, because he wasn’t going out tonight. But for some reason she couldn’t leave it. Something was nagging away at her and she didn’t know what it was. Was it the strange atmosphere which had descended on the house ever since that letter had arrived for him, and she’d heard the sound of muffled swearing coming from his office? Or was it something to do with this weird weather they’d been having, which was making the air seem as heavy as lead? Her heart missed a beat, because maybe it was a lot more basic than that. Maybe it all stemmed from having seen someone from home walking down Grafton Street yesterday, when she’d been window-shopping on her afternoon off.

Tara had nearly jumped out of her skin when she’d spotted her—and she was easy to spot. At school, Mona O’Sullivan had always been destined for great things and her high-heeled shoes and leather trench coat had borne out her teacher’s gushing prophesy as she’d sashayed down Dublin’s main street looking as if she didn’t have a care in the world. A diamond ring had glittered like a giant trophy on her engagement finger and her hair had been perfectly coiffed.

Tara had ducked into a shop doorway, terrified Mona would see her and stop, before asking those probing questions which always used to make her blush to the roots of her hair and wish the ground would open up and swallow her. Questions which reminded Tara why she was so ashamed of the past she’d tried so desperately to forget. But you could never forget the past, not really. It haunted you like a spectre—always ready to jump out at you when you were least expecting it. It waited for you in the sometimes sleepless hours of the night and it lurked behind the supposedly innocent questions people put to you, which were anything but innocent. Was that why she had settled for this safe, well-paid job tucked away on the affluent edge of the city, where nobody knew her?

She wondered if her gratitude for having found such a cushy job had blinded her to the fact that she was now working for a man who seemed to think he had the right to talk to her as if she were nothing, just because he was in a filthy mood.

She stilled her spoon and crashed the copper bowl down on the table, aware that already the air would be leaving those carefully beaten egg whites—but suddenly she didn’t care. Perhaps she’d been in danger of caring a bit too much what Lucas Conway had for his supper, instead of looking after herself. ‘Then maybe you should find yourself someone who does know their place,’ she declared.

Lucas turned round from the coffee machine with a slightly bemused look on his face. ‘I’m sorry?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s too late for an apology, Lucas.’

‘I wasn’t apologising,’ he ground out. ‘I was trying to work out what the hell you’re talking about.’

Now he was making her sound as if she were incapable of stringing a coherent sentence together! ‘I’m talking about knowing my place,’ Tara repeated, with an indignation which felt new and peculiar but oddly...liberating. ‘I was trying to be kind to Charlotte because she was crying, and because I’ve actually spent several months of my life trying to wash her lipstick out of your pillowcases—so it wasn’t like she was a complete stranger to me. And I once found one of her diamond studs when it was wedged into the floorboards of the dining room and she bought me a nice big bunch of flowers as a thank-you present. So what was I expected to do when she turned up today with mascara running all down her cheeks?’ She glared at him. ‘Turn her away?’

‘Tara—’

‘Do you think she was in any fit state to drive in that condition—with her eyes full of tears and her shoulders heaving?’

‘Tara. I seem to have missed something along the way.’ Lucas put his untouched coffee cup down on the table with as close an expression to incomprehension as she’d ever seen on those ruggedly handsome features. ‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’

Tara still didn’t know. Was it something to do with the dismissive way her boss’s gaze had flicked over her admittedly disobedient hair when he’d walked into the kitchen? As if she were not a woman at all, but some odd-looking robot designed to cook and clean for him. She wondered if he would have looked like that if Mona O’Sullivan had been standing there whipping him up a cheese soufflé, with her high heels and her luscious curves accentuated by a tight belt.

But you dress like a frump deliberately, a small voice in her head reminded her. You always have done. You were taught that the safest way to be around men was to make yourself look invisible and you heeded that lesson well. So what do you expect?

And suddenly she saw exactly what she might expect. More of the same for the countless days which lay ahead of her. More of working her fingers to the bone for a man who didn’t really appreciate her—and that maybe it was time to break out and reach for something new. To find herself a job in a big, noisy house with lots of children running around—wouldn’t that be something which might fulfil her?

‘I’ve decided I need a change of direction,’ she said firmly.

‘What are you talking about?’

Tara hesitated. Lucas Conway might be the biggest pain in the world at times, but surely he would give her a glowing reference as she’d worked for him since she’d been eighteen years old—when she’d arrived in the big city, slightly daunted by all the traffic, and the noise. ‘A new job,’ she elaborated.

He narrowed his stunning eyes—eyes as green as the valleys of Connemara. ‘A new job?’

‘That’s right,’ she agreed, thinking how satisfying it was to see the normally unflappable billionaire looking so perplexed. ‘I’ve worked for you for almost six years, Lucas,’ she informed him coolly. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to still be cooking and cleaning for you when you reach retirement age?’

From the deepening of his frown, he was clearly having difficulty getting his head around the idea of retirement and, indeed, Tara herself couldn’t really imagine this very vital man ever stopping work for long enough to wind down.

‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you so rudely,’ he said slowly. ‘And that is an apology.’

‘No, you shouldn’t,’ she agreed. ‘But maybe you’ve done me a favour. It’s about time I started looking for a new job.’

He shook his head and gave a bland but determined smile. ‘You can’t do that.’

Tara stilled. It was a long time since anyone had said those words to her, but it was the refrain which had defined her childhood.

You can’t do that, Tara.

You mustn’t do that, Tara.

She had been the scapegoat—carrying the can for the sins of her mother and of her grandmother before her. She had been expected to nod and keep her head down, never to make waves. To be obedient and hard-working and do as she was told. To stay away from boys because they only brought trouble with them.

And she’d learned her lessons well. She’d never been in a relationship. There hadn’t been anyone to speak of since she’d arrived in Dublin and had gone on a few disastrous dates, encouraged by her friend Stella. She tried her best to forget the couple of encounters she’d shared with one of the farm hands back home, just before she’d left for the big city and landed the first job she’d been interviewed for. The agency had warned her that Lucas Conway was notoriously difficult to work for and she probably wouldn’t last longer than the month but somehow she had proved them wrong. She earned more money than she’d ever imagined just by keeping his house clean, his shirts ironed and by putting a hot meal in front of him, when he wasn’t gallivanting around the globe. It wasn’t exactly brain surgery, was it?

On that first morning she had slipped on her polyester housecoat and, apart from a foreign holiday every year, that was where she’d been ever since, in his beautiful home in Dalkey. She frowned. Why did Lucas even own a place this big when he lived in it all on his own, save for her, carefully hidden away at the top of the vast house like someone in a Gothic novel? It wasn’t as if he were showing any signs of settling down, was it? Why, she’d even seen him recoil in horror when his friend Finn Delaney had turned up one day with his wife Catherine and their brand-new baby.

‘You can’t stop me from leaving, Lucas,’ she said, with a touch of defiance. ‘I’ll work my month’s notice and you can find someone else. That won’t be a problem—people will be queuing up around the block for a job like this. You know they will.’

Lucas looked at her and told himself to just let her go, because she was right. There had been dozens of applicants for the job last time he’d advertised and nothing much had changed in the years since Tara had been working for him, except that his bank balance had become even more inflated and he could easily afford to hire a whole battalion of staff, should the need arise.

But the young redhead from the country did more than just act as his housekeeper—sometimes it felt as if she kept his whole life ticking over. She didn’t mind hard work and once he had asked her why she sometimes got down on her hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor, when there was a perfectly serviceable mop to be had.

‘Because a mop won’t reach in the nooks and crannies,’ she’d answered, looking at him as if he should have known something as basic as that.

He frowned. She wasn’t just good at her job, she was also reliable, and no laundry could ever press a shirt as well as Tara Fitzpatrick did. It was true that sometimes she chattered too much—but on the plus side, she didn’t go out as often as other young women her age so she was always available when he needed her. If he asked her to cook when he had people over for dinner she happily obliged—and her culinary repertoire had greatly improved since he’d arranged for her to go on an upmarket cookery course, after pointing out there were other things you could eat, rather than meat pie. As far as he knew, she never gossiped about him and that was like gold to him.

He didn’t want her to leave.

Especially not now.

He felt the pound of his heart.

Not when he needed to go to the States to deal with the past, having been contacted by a lawyer hinting at something unusual, which had inexplicably filled him with dread. A trip he knew couldn’t be avoided, no matter how much he would have preferred to. But the attorney’s letter had been insistent. He swallowed. He hadn’t been back to New York for years and that had been a deliberate choice. It was too full of memories. Bitter memories. And why confront stuff which made you feel uncomfortable, when avoidance was relatively simple?

Lucas allowed his gaze to skim down over the old-fashioned denim jeans Tara wore beneath her housecoat. Baggy and slightly too short, they looked as if they’d be more appropriate for working on a farm. No wonder she’d never brought a man back in all the time she worked for him when injecting a little glamour into her appearance seemed to be an unknown concept to her. And wasn’t that another reason why he regarded her as the personification of rock-like reliability? She wasn’t surreptitiously texting when she should have been working, was she? Nor gazing into space vacantly, mooning over some heartbreaker who’d recently let her down. Despite her slender build, she was strong and fit and he couldn’t contemplate the thought of trying to find a replacement for her, not when he was focussed on that damned letter.

He wondered how much money it would take to get her to change her mind, and then frowned. Because in that way Tara seemed different from every other woman he’d ever had dealings with. She didn’t openly lust after expensive clothes or belongings—not if her appearance was anything to go by. She wore no jewellery at all and, as far as he knew, she must be saving most of the salary he paid her, since he’d seen no signs of conspicuous spending—unless you counted the second-hand bicycle she’d purchased within a fortnight of coming to live here. The one with the very loud and irritating bell.

Lucas wasn’t particularly interested in human nature but that didn’t mean he couldn’t recognise certain aspects of it, and it seemed to him that a woman who wasn’t particularly interested in money would be unlikely to allow a salary increase to change her mind.

And then he had an idea. An idea so audacious and yet so brilliant that he couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him before. Sensing triumph, he felt the flicker of a smile curving the edges of his mouth.

‘Before you decide definitely to leave, Tara,’ he said, ‘why don’t we discuss a couple of alternative plans for your future?’

‘What are you talking about?’ she questioned suspiciously. ‘What sort of plans?’

His smile was slow and, deliberately, he made it reach his eyes. It was the smile he used when he was determined to get something and it was rare enough to stop people in their tracks. Women sometimes called it his killer smile. ‘Not here and not now—not when you’re working,’ he said—a wave of his hand indicating the rows of copper pans which she kept so carefully gleaming. ‘Why don’t we have dinner together tonight so we can talk about it in comfort?’

‘Dinner?’ she echoed, with the same kind of horrified uncertainty she might have used if he’d suggested they both dance naked in Phoenix Park. ‘You’re saying you want to have dinner with me?’

It wasn’t exactly the way he would have expressed it—but want and need were pretty interchangeable, weren’t they? Especially to a man like him. ‘Why not?’ he questioned softly. ‘You have to eat and so do I.’

Her gaze fell to the collapsing mixture in her bowl. ‘But I’m supposed to be making a cheese soufflé.’

‘Forget the soufflé,’ he gritted out. ‘We’ll go to a restaurant. Your choice,’ he added magnanimously, for he doubted she would ever have set foot inside one of Dublin’s finer establishments. ‘Why don’t you book somewhere for, say, seven-thirty?’

She was still blinking at him with disbelief, her pale lashes shuttering those strange amber eyes, until at last she nodded with a reluctance which somehow managed to be mildly insulting. Since when did someone take so long to deliberate about having dinner with him?

‘Okay,’ she said cautiously, with the air of someone feeling her way around in the dark. ‘I don’t see why not.’