Читать книгу Hot Nights with the...Australian - Nicola Marsh - Страница 10

HILL House—a simple name for what was almost a historical mansion at Vaucluse. It had been built by Arthur Hill, an Australian shipping magnate who’d made a fortune early in the last century, and it had been lived in by his descendants until the last member of his family had died three years ago. There’d been a lot of publicity about it when it was put up for auction—photographs in magazines, a potted history of the Hill family, proceeds of the sale to go to various charities. Maximilian Hart had outbid everyone else for it.

At the time, it was generally assumed he’d bought it as another investment, which he’d sell when the market would give him a huge profit. After all, why would a jet-setting bachelor want to live in a mansion? Penthouse apartments would be more his style. Yet so far he had kept it and lived in it.

Maybe it was the privacy that appealed to him, Chloe thought, looking at the high brick wall enclosing the property as Max operated a remote control device that opened the huge iron gates facing them. They swung apart and he drove his black Audi coupe into the driveway to the house, pressing more buttons on the device to relock the gates.

While she had been quite relaxed over lunch in the hotel restaurant, sitting beside him in his car on the way to an indefinite stay on his property had made her feel nervous again. So much proximity with Maximilian Hart was a rather daunting prospect. His kind and generous consideration of her needs could not be faulted, yet her instincts kept sensing an undertow that was pulling her into dangerous waters with him, especially when they were alone together.

The man was sexual dynamite. He stirred feelings and thoughts that were terribly inappropriate. As the gates clicked shut behind them, closing out the rest of Sydney—her mother, Tony and anyone else who might hassle her—Chloe could only hope the guest house Max had offered her was not somehow full of his powerful charisma … like his car.

The driveway was paved with grey stones. It bisected perfectly manicured green lawns. Some spectacular trees had been planted artistically along the wall and towards the side of the house—like a lovely frame for the house itself. There were no gardens to distract the eye from it.

The three-storey redbrick mansion was quite stunning in its beautiful symmetry. The wings at either end featured white gables. The main entrance in the middle also had a white gable held up by Doric columns. The long white many-paned windows on the second storey were perfectly aligned with the attic windows protruding from the grey roof. On the ground floor there were rows of matching glass doors that surely flooded the rooms behind them with sunlight.

Chloe instantly fell in love with Hill House. If she could have afforded to buy it she would have without hesitation. Envy and curiosity drove her to ask, ‘Why did you buy this place, Max?’

He flicked her a sharp glance, making a swift assessment of her reaction to the house, then smiled to himself as he answered, ‘It called to me.’

His words surprised her, yet she completely understood the feeling behind them. ‘You don’t intend to sell it then?’

‘Never.’

The need to know more about him prompted her to ask, ‘Why does it call to you?’

‘Everything about it pleases me. It welcomes me home every time I come through the gates.’

The deep satisfaction in his voice vibrated through her mind, stirring the memory of an article written about his rise from rags to riches. He’d been brought up by a single mother who’d died of a drug overdose when he was sixteen. Where he’d lived with her and under what conditions was not mentioned, but Chloe thought it likely he’d never had a sense of home in those early formative years.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured appreciatively. ‘I can feel what you mean about welcoming. It makes you want to be drawn into it.’

‘And stay there,’ he said dryly. ‘I virtually inherited the butler, the cook and the gardener from Miss Elizabeth, the last member of the Hill family. Although they had bequests from her will and could have retired on what they were given, they didn’t want to leave. It was home to them, too.’

It was a curious arrangement for a man who undoubtedly made his own choices. ‘Are you glad you kept them on?’

‘Yes. They belong here. In a strange kind of way, they’ve become family. The three E’s.’ He flashed her a grin. ‘Edgar is the butler. His wife, Elaine, is the cook. Eric is the head gardener. They have their own live-in apartments on the top floor. Eric hires help as he needs it and both Edgar and Elaine supervise the cleaners who come in. They run the place to such a standard of perfection I’d be a fool to hire anyone else.’

He parked the Audi in the wide stone-paved courtyard in front of the house, switched off the engine and turned to her. ‘You’ll be meeting Edgar in a moment. He likes to be very formal but you’ll find him friendly. He’ll show you to the guest house and give you a rundown on how everything works.’

It was a relief to know he would not be accompanying her there. She gave him a grateful smile. ‘Thank you again for coming to my rescue.’

‘No problem,’ he answered dismissively.

Even as he escorted her to the gabled porch, the front door was opened by a tall, slightly portly man who held himself with straight-backed dignity. He was dressed in a black suit, grey-and-white striped shirt with white collar and cuffs and a grey silk tie. His hair was iron-grey, his eyes a light blue, his face surprisingly smooth for a man who looked to be about sixty. Possibly he didn’t smile much, Chloe thought, preferring to carry an air of gravitas.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he intoned with a nod of respect.

‘Edgar, this is Miss Chloe Rollins.’

She received a half-bow. ‘A pleasure to welcome you to Hill House, Miss Rollins.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, smiling warmly at him.

‘I’ll garage the car, then I’ll be in the library, Edgar. Some business I have to do,’ Max informed him. ‘You’ll take care of Miss Rollins?’

‘Of course, sir.’ He moved his arm in a slow gracious wave. ‘If you’ll accompany me, Miss Rollins, I’ll escort you to the guest house.’

A wonderful butler, Chloe thought, as she fell into step beside him, walking down a wide hallway dominated by a magnificent staircase that curved up to a balcony on the second floor—wonderful for making an entrance to greet incoming guests. The floor and stairs were carpeted in jade green bordered by a pattern of gold scrolls. The walls were panelled in western red cedar, matching the banister. The effect was very rich but not ostentatiously so.

There were paintings on the walls—framed in gold and seemingly all of birds—but Chloe didn’t have time for more than a glance at them. They bypassed the staircase and she realised the hallway bisected the mansion and they were walking towards a set of double doors at the end of it, the upper half of them pannelled in a gloriously colourful pattern of parrots in stained glass. Other doors on either side of them were closed and Chloe would have loved to know what kind of rooms were behind them but didn’t feel free to ask, given that she wasn’t a guest in the mansion.

Edgar ushered her outside to a stunning terrace running the length of the house. The other three sides of it were semi-enclosed by an arched white pergola held up by the same Doric columns supporting the gable over the front doors. In the centre of the terrace was a sparkling swimming pool.

Luxurious green vines grew over the pergola providing shade for sun-loungers and tables and chairs made of white iron lace, and pots of flowers provided vivid colour at the foot of every column. The terrace itself was paved with slate, which had streaks of blue and green in what was mostly grey. Beyond it and through the open arches was a spectacular view of the harbour.

‘The guest house is situated on the next terrace,’ Edgar informed her, leading the way around the pool to the far left-hand corner of the pergola. ‘It used to be the children’s house in the old days.’

‘The children’s house?’ Chloe quizzed. ‘Didn’t they live in the mansion?’

‘Oh, yes, but they played down here during the day, supervised by their nanny. It was convenient for giving them lunch and snacks, putting the little ones down for afternoon naps. Miss Elizabeth said they loved having a place of their own. She kept it just the way it was until she died, often coming down here to relive memories of happy times.’

‘Is it still the same?’ She wanted it to be, charmed by the idea of a children’s play house.

Edgar actually allowed himself a benevolent little smile at her eagerness. ‘Not quite, no, though Mr Hart did retain the cottage style when he had it refurbished. The old pot-belly stove, the doll house, the bookshelves and the games cupboards still remain in the living room, with the addition of a television set and a DVD player. However, the kitchenette and bathroom had to be modernised. I’m sure you’ll find it very comfortable, Miss Rollins.’

She sighed, wishing she could have seen it—felt it—in its original state, yet understanding the need for some modern conveniences in a guest house.

A flight of stone steps led down to the playground terrace—lush green lawn edged by a thickly grown hedge. The house was at one end of it—red brick with white windows and doors, just like the mansion in miniature. As they descended the steps, Chloe saw there was another terrace below this one, ending in a rock wall, which obviously formed a breakwater against encroachment from the harbour. A wharf ran out from it and beside the wharf was a boathouse.

Neither of these levels had been visible from the pool terrace. Access to them was by flights of steps, as well as a rather steep driveway from top to bottom just inside the security wall on the left-hand side, mainly used, Chloe imagined, by Eric driving a mini-tractor carrying garden tools up and down.

Edgar unlocked the door to the guest house, handed her the key and with a rather grandiloquent gesture, waved her in. Chloe walked into a delightfully cosy living area, which ran the full width of the small house. To her left were two rockers and a sofa upholstered in rose-patterned chintz. A large bow window had a cushioned window seat where one could curl up and read or idly watch the traffic on the harbour. A thick cream mat covered the parquet floor in front of the pot-belly stove, perfect for lying on near the heat in winter. An entrancing doll house stood in one corner near the bow window, a television set in the other. Cupboards lined the bottom half of the wall next to the front door, bookshelves the upper half.

To her right was a country-style round table with six chairs, and behind it a kitchenette, also designed in a country style—varnished wood cupboards and a white sink, no stainless steel visible anywhere. Edgar showed her the pantry cupboard, saying, ‘My wife, Elaine, has stocked it with the usual staples, but if there’s something else you’d particularly like, just press the kitchen button on the telephone and ask her for it.’

He also opened the refrigerator, which was similarly stocked with staples plus a chicken casserole ready to slide into the oven for her dinner tonight. ‘Please thank Elaine for me,’ Chloe said gratefully. ‘This is so good of her.’

Another small benevolent smile. ‘Let me show you the rest of the house.’

There were two bedrooms and a bathroom in between. The old bath, Edgar told her, had been replaced by a shower stall to leave room enough for the addition of the washing machine and clothes dryer. What had once been designated the boys’ room held two single beds. The girls’ room held one—queen-size. All of them had beautiful patchwork quilts. Both rooms had wall-length storage cupboards, plenty of room to hold all her personal things, although Chloe didn’t intend to unpack everything, just enough for her immediate needs.

Edgar checked his watch. ‘It’s just on a quarter past three o’clock now. The removalist company gave their estimated arrival time here at four-thirty. Eric, Mr Hart’s gardener and handyman, will conduct the transport of boxes to you, Miss Rollins, help you open them and remove those you wish to unpack after they’ve been emptied. Others can remain stored in the boys’ room. In the meantime, if there’s anything else …?’

‘No, thank you, Edgar. I’ll enjoy myself exploring everything I have here.’

‘You’re very welcome, Miss Rollins,’ he said and bowed himself out of the house.

Chloe made herself a cup of coffee, sipping it as she checked out the contents of the bookshelves. There was a stack of CDs providing a range of classical and popular music, several shelves of modern books—most she recognised as bestsellers in both fiction and non-fiction. However, her interest was mainly drawn by the old books; Dickens, Robert Louis Stevenson, Edgar Allan Poe, the whole series of Anne of Green Gables and Pollyanna, an ancient set of Encyclopedia Britannica, a book containing drawings of birds—not photographs—a history of ships, a guide for all sorts of fancy needlework.

Her imagination conjured up the nanny teaching the girls how to sew, the boys identifying birds from the book, scenes of a happy childhood she had never known but which leapt vividly into her mind. She felt a strong wave of empathy with Miss Elizabeth, sitting in this room, opening these books to leaf through them again, reliving her memories.

The cupboards held more old treasures; a slightly tattered but still intact game of Monopoly, boards for snakes and ladders with coloured discs and dice for playing and Chinese checkers with sets of pegs, a chess set made of marble, packs of cards, boxes of jigsaws from very simple to very challenging. Chloe decided to start one of them tonight. It would be much more fun than watching television.

She finished her coffee and moved on to the most entrancing piece from the past—the doll house. It was made of wood and was double-storeyed. Its roof was hinged so it could be lifted up to rearrange the rooms on the second floor—the bedrooms amazingly well-furnished, cupboards, chairs, dressing-tables with mirrors, even little patchwork quilts on the beds. The bathroom had a miniature china tub with iron claw feet, a washstand, a tiny china toilet.

All the windows and doors could be opened and shut. The ground floor was just as amazing. A central hallway held a staircase to the upper floor. A fully fitted-out dining room and kitchen were situated on one side of it, on the other an exquisitely furnished sitting room and behind it a utility room with laundry tubs.

Chloe was sitting on the floor, one finger stroking the silk brocade on a miniature sofa, when a loud tapping startled her out of her enthralment with the little masterpiece. Her head jerked around. Her heart kicked as her gaze met the dark brilliant eyes of Maximilian Hart looking straight at her through the multi-paned glass door. A hot flush zoomed into her cheeks as she scrambled to her feet, feeling hopelessly disarmed at being caught out doing something so childish.

She worked hard at regathering her composure as she crossed the living room and managed a rueful little smile when she opened the door. ‘I didn’t have a doll’s house when I was a little girl,’ she said, shrugging away her absorption in it.

‘Were you ever allowed to be a little girl, Chloe?’ he asked with a flash of sympathy.

She grimaced. ‘It wasn’t an ordinary life. My mother …’ Her voice trailed off, her mind instinctively shutting out thoughts of her mother.

‘Mine wasn’t ordinary, either,’ he said with a touch of black irony, then with a quizzical look, asked, ‘Do you have the sense of something very different in this children’s house?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do,’ she answered eagerly. ‘I love the feel of it, Max.’

He nodded, and there was something in his eyes—a recognition of all she had missed out on, perhaps an echo of his own lost boyhood. It tugged at her heart, making it flip into a faster beat. Then it was gone, replaced by an intensity of purpose, which left her floundering in an emotional morass.

‘May I come in?’

Embarrassment increased the floundering. She’d left him standing on the doorstep instead of inviting him in. ‘Of course. Please …’ She quickly stepped back, giving him plenty of room to enter, every nerve in her body quivering from the magnetic force field he brought with him.

‘Leave the door open,’ he instructed. ‘I just wanted a private word with you before introducing the bodyguard who’s waiting outside.’

‘Bodyguard!’ Shock galvanised her attention.

‘I’ve employed him to drive you to and fro from the set at Fox Studios, or anywhere else you wish to go. He’ll stay close to you while ever you’re away from this property, ensure you’re not harassed by anyone. It’s simply a safeguard, Chloe, nothing for you to worry about. You can dispense with his services later on, but I think to begin with, you’ll feel more secure having him around.’ He made an apologetic grimace. ‘Unfortunately, I have other calls on my time and can’t always be on hand to protect you.’

‘No. I wouldn’t expect it of you,’ she swiftly assured him, acutely conscious of the time he’d already spent on her.

‘I’d like you to accept the bodyguard, if only to make me feel I’ve covered every contingency for avoiding problems you might be faced with. I do hate failure,’ he said in a self-mocking tone.

Considering all he had done for her, Chloe felt it was impossible not to oblige him on this point, though she thought a bodyguard was excessive. ‘All right. If you really think it’s necessary,’ she said uncertainly.

‘I do.’

No uncertainty in his mind. He immediately walked back outside and beckoned to someone who must have been waiting at the foot of the stone steps. Chloe imagined some big, burly hunk of a man, like a bouncer at a nightclub. It was a relief to see almost a fatherly figure, conservatively dressed in a grey suit, his salt-and-pepper hair and the lines of experience on his face suggesting he was in his fifties. He was as tall as Max, broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, and Chloe had no doubt he had a strong enough physique to impose his will on others, but he didn’t look like a bully-boy, more a mature man who wore a confident air of authority and the muscle to impose it if needed.

Max performed the introductions. ‘Miss Chloe Rollins, Gerry Anderson.’

A strong hand briefly pressed the one she offered. ‘At your service, Miss Rollins. I’m Gerry to everyone so please feel free to use the name,’ he invited in a deep, pleasant voice.

‘Thank you. I hope I’m no real trouble to you,’ she said sincerely.

‘I’ll be taking care of any that comes your way, Miss Rollins,’ he assured her, taking a slim mobile telephone from his coat pocket. ‘I’ll be here six o’clock Monday morning to take you to work. If you want to go out anywhere before then, contact me with this and we’ll make arrangements.’ He showed her his stored contact number, then gave her the phone, satisfied she knew how to work it.

It was Saturday afternoon. She would probably be busy unpacking most of Sunday and there was plenty of food here to keep her going. ‘Thank you, but I won’t be going anywhere tomorrow,’ she said decisively.

‘Keep it with you. I’m on call anytime, day and night.’

‘Okay,’ she agreed.

‘Thank you, Gerry,’ Max said in dismissal.

The older man raised a hand in salute to both of them and made a prompt exit, leaving Chloe alone with Max again. The dark eyes bored into hers, as though tunnelling a path to her heart, which instantly started a nervous pounding.

‘Since you have a good feeling in this house, Chloe, I suggest you stay here until the current twelve episodes of the show have been completed. It will be easier for you, no disruptive tensions to interfere with your work, and I can house any guests I wish to invite in the mansion, so it will not present any problem to me.’

Two months living here … it was so seductive.

But two months in close proximity to him …

‘Think about it,’ he commanded in a soft, persuasive tone. ‘I just want you to know you’re welcome to stay.’

‘Thank you,’ she managed to say, hoping he couldn’t see her inner turmoil.

‘And please feel free to use the swimming pool at any time,’ he went on with a smile that put flutters in her stomach. ‘They’ve forecast a very hot day tomorrow.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again, and wondered if she sounded like a parrot mimicking words that really meant nothing.

‘Relax, Chloe.’ His eyes turned to a soothing chocolate velvet and he reached out and gently stroked her cheek. ‘Be happy here.’

It was the lightest feather touch, yet it left a hot tingling that Chloe felt for several minutes after he was gone. She didn’t accompany him to the door. He walked out himself while she stood in a mesmerised trance, her own hand automatically lifting to cover the highly sensitised cheek, whether to hold on to the feeling or make it go away, she didn’t know.

What she did know with utter certainty was that Maximilian Hart affected her as no other man had … deeply … and while it frightened her, it also excited her, as though he was opening doors she wanted to go through … with him.