BBVH Page 5

‘Yes, in Rio de Janeiro where we are from, but not in this house. Here he hires outside people to come in and clean. It is very good that you are here, Marianne. I hope you will stay.’

  At the doubt she detected in his accented voice, her curiosity was provoked even further. ‘Why would I not stay?’ she asked.

  ‘I only meant that I hope you do not find the work too hard or the house too…too alone and wish to be somewhere else. That is all.’

  ‘I see.’ Focusing her hazel gaze on the handsome bronzed face before her, Marianne knew that was not what he’d meant at all, but decided to let it pass. ‘And Mr De Souza…does he work from home?’ she enquired.

  ‘Yes. He is not working right now, but he does many—excuse me—much charity work.’

  ‘Oh.’Was that why he had helped her, then? Because it was his mission in life to help those less fortunate? For a moment a sense of uncomfortable guilt washed over her. It wouldn’t be wise to leave it too long before she explained her true circumstances, she thought. Or at least what had been her true circumstances before she’d recently changed them.

  Recognising the wariness in Ricardo’s gaze—no doubt in case her questions got a little too close to home—she curved her mouth in a genuinely warm smile to try and put him at ease.

  ‘So…you’d better give me a rundown of what I’m supposed to do each day…then when we’re finished talking I’ll get cracking on that washing up.’

  Her companion looked instantly relieved. ‘That is a good plan. Well…first of all you must rise at four in the morning.’

  ‘Four?’ Seriously taken aback, Marianne stared.

  ‘I am only kidding!’ Dark eyes twinkling with merriment, Ricardo chuckled softly. ‘The first thing you need to do in this unpleasantly cold weather is to light the fires. I make them all up before I go to bed.’

  On the topmost floor of the eighteenth-century house later that morning, busy vacuuming acres of tastefully patterned hall carpet, Marianne briefly switched off the noisy machine to more closely examine a painting hanging on the flocked papered wall. The little gold plaque at the bottom of the frame told her that it was a portrait of the house at the turn of the century. Like today, the castellated roofs, turrets and surrounding landscape were cloaked in a sparkling blanket of pristine white snow. Who had lived here then? she speculated. Lord and Lady Somebody, no doubt. She pictured them for a moment, even added children to the imagined scene—a little boy and girl with cherubic faces, their lips sweetly bow-shaped and cheeks healthily pink.

  Her mind lingered on the idea of having children of her own, but for a long time now she’d had a growing feeling that it was an experience that would never be hers. For who would love her and father her children now that Donal had gone? Not that he—

  Abruptly she cut off the thought, weathered the silent emotional storm, and went back to her perusal of the painting. Had the owners hit on hard times, perhaps, and been forced to sell their beloved home to some filthy rich industrialist? It struck Marianne that her new employer must be exceedingly wealthy indeed to be able to purchase and live in such a grand dwelling. He was a philanthropist, Ricardo had intimated. Where had his wealth come from? Was it inherited?

  In the midst of her reverie a door opened further along the now blissfully silent corridor. From it emerged the man whose image her thoughts seemed to be consumed by. His long legs were encased in smart black jeans, and he was wearing an expensive-looking navy cable-knit sweater. The dull gold of his hair—and it had to be said his noticeably pale complexion this morning—immediately drew Marianne’s attention and concern.

  ‘Good morning!’

  ‘Next time start your vacuuming on the floor below, and do not come up to this floor until after I have risen and had my breakfast!’

  Ignoring her friendly greeting, his voice rough with hostility, he swept by her, utilising his cane to walk, giving her a chilling ice-blue glare that she could immediately see was racked with pain. Her initial shock at his reply quickly ebbed, and concern over his appearance took precedence. Weeks of sitting by her husband’s hospital bedside before he died had caused her to become intimately acquainted with such a look, and a spasm of fear gripped her and wouldn’t let go.

  Was he ill? Was it something serious? If so, why hadn’t he or Ricardo told her the truth about what was wrong with him?

  ‘Mr De Souza!’ Hurrying after him, Marianne felt her heart hammer hard against her ribs at her intention to confront him.

  ‘What is it?’ Freezing in his tracks, he turned slowly to survey her. The pain in his glance had not lessened. Even the knuckles where he gripped the ivory handle of his cane were bleached white.

  ‘I don’t want to be intrusive…but is something the matter? I’d like to help if I can.’

  ‘Help?’ His mouth twisted scornfully. ‘Are you in the business of performing miracles, then? Perhaps I should call you Saint Marianne?’ His voice dripped disdain whilst the icy gaze that was as sharp as a steel blade all but dissected her. ‘Why do you ask me this? Do you perhaps see another role for yourself here besides housekeeper?’

  Words almost failing her, Marianne went rigid with embarrassment and shock. ‘Of course not…I just—’

  ‘Then my advice to you, Miss Lockwood, is to attend to your own business and let me attend to mine!’

  Biting her lip, she turned away. But before she had the chance to go far, Eduardo addressed her again. And this time the lightly accented rich voice was rough with what sounded like genuine regret.

  ‘I am sorry I spoke to you like that. But really…it is best if you do not speak to me when I first rise…at least not until I have had my coffee. I do not sleep well, and it takes a while for me to become human enough to converse with anyone. I am surprised Ricardo did not tell you that. But I fear he is always hoping for a miraculous change in me to come about. You ate breakfast, I trust?’

  ‘Yes. Ricardo very kindly made me a cooked breakfast. I didn’t eat much yesterday, what with one thing and another, and it was—it was most welcome.’

  Inside her chest, Marianne’s racing heartbeat had barely calmed at all, and to be honest she couldn’t help but be wary of another explosion of irritability. Irritability she was all but certain was fuelled by pain and, as Eduardo had indicated, lack of sleep. She made a mental note not to vacuum until much later in the day in future.

  ‘Good. I will let you get on with your work, then.’

  ‘I’m—I’m sorry that you do not sleep well. I’ll remember your instructions not to clean here until you’re up and about.’

  ‘That would be appreciated.’

  His compelling blue eyes briefly skimmed over her face before he continued on his way down the corridor, his limp definitely more pronounced this morning, renewing Marianne’s concern. But—wiser now—she didn’t allow her gaze to linger, and quickly returned to her housework in case he thought she might be watching him…

  ‘Here.’ A glass of water and two white capsules were placed in front of Eduardo at the breakfast table, next to his coffee cup. Behind him, Ricardo hovered close, his familiar face concerned. ‘You do not look good. I can tell you had a rough night. I know you do not like to rely on them, but maybe you should consider taking your painkillers this morning? They might give you some relief.’

  ‘I’m not feeble, for God’s sake—and you know what you can do with those!’

  Shoving the pills back into the younger man’s hand, Eduardo wished he could control the cantankerous mood that was upon him, but he could not. He had barely had even an hour’s sleep during the night, and his eyes felt as if they were burning holes in their sockets. Coupled with the relentless knifing agony in his leg, he could hardly be expected to be at his best, could he? As the day went on he knew the pain would ease a little…if he could relax sufficiently enough. Then the discomfort would ebb without the need for painkillers. But right now that was like hoping for the impossible.

  Into his consciousness stole another thought. For some inexpli
cable reason he recalled the newest addition to his household softly enquiring if he was all right and if she could help, and a longing so compelling and powerful surged through him that he was almost overcome…almost. Quickly he caught himself, regained the tight rein he usually kept on his emotions. What the hell was he thinking of? She might smell sweeter than a spring garden after a summer shower, but the fact was she couldn’t possibly help him—and he would hate her to be labouring under the delusion that she could.

  He had only one use for an attractive female right now, and as far as that was concerned he would be utterly crazy to think of his little roadside waif in that way! His honour simply wouldn’t allow it. Not when he had offered her a job and a home, and probably the first safe place she had known for some while.

  Getting to his feet, he reached for his walking cane, his glance swinging briefly to Ricardo. ‘I didn’t mean to chew your head off.’ He grimaced. ‘You know how it is.’

  ‘One day it will change for the better, I am certain.’

  The compassion and understanding that shone from the other man’s eyes, undimmed and loyal as ever, almost made Eduardo stumble. Leaving his home and family behind in Rio de Janeiro, Ricardo had unquestioningly chosen to accompany his employer to a new unknown life in England, with no certainty of when he would be returning home. He had merely been absolutely convinced that after the tragedy that had taken Eduardo’s wife and unborn child he would need a familiar face to turn to whenever things got rough. Ricardo would be that face. He had served the De Souza family since he had come to them from the poor slums of the city at seventeen. They had given him a job and a home, and he saw it as his proud duty to continue to serve until his boss told him different.

  Now, at the memory of all that had transpired, the burning inside Eduardo’s throat made him swallow hard.

  ‘I cannot agree that things will change for the better, my friend. How could that be possible? The fact is I am damned…damned for eternity…and whether my physical pain heals or not nothing will alter that.’

  Not commenting immediately, Ricardo turned towards the kitchen worktop, picked up a nearby cloth and rubbed it over the already gleaming marble that Marianne had cleaned earlier. ‘I do not think Eliana… your wife…would want you to suffer like this…to blame yourself for so long,’ he murmured. ‘I do not think she would want that at all.’

  ‘Let’s drop the subject, shall we? I’m going to my office now. I’ve got plenty of work to do, and no doubt that will help distract my mind from dwelling on less than pleasant things.’

  ‘If you are going to your office then I will bring you the newspapers and another cup of coffee.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His voice gruff, Eduardo started to move towards the door. Before he reached it he paused for a moment. ‘By the way…how did my new housekeeper do this morning?’ he asked.

  Ricardo’s expression immediately lightened. ‘I can tell already that she is a hard worker,’ he answered. ‘She is skinny, but I think tough too.’

  ‘Well…let me know if there are any problems,’ Eduardo threw over his shoulder as he left. And, in spite of his irritability and pain, he was unable to stop his lips from twitching at his valet’s rather blunt, yet in his view well-meant description of Marianne as ‘skinny but ‘tough’.

  There was a tentative knock at his office door. Tearing his glance from the neat rows of text on the computer screen in front of him—an e-mail from an international children’s charity, thanking him for his continued support and generosity—Eduardo rotated his shoulders to ease the spasm of tension that flashed between his shoulderblades.

  ‘Come in!’ he called out.

  ‘Sorry to disturb…’

  It was Marianne, her cheeks flushed from being near some kind of heat, her light brown hair caught up in a precarious topknot that, judging by the silken tendrils floating free down the sides of her face, appeared in imminent danger of collapsing at any moment. Wearing a navy and white striped apron over scarlet cotton trousers and a man’s baggy cream sweater that all but drowned her small slim frame, she looked delicate and somehow inexplicably appealing all at the same time. Had she been wearing that outfit this morning, when he’d met her in the corridor? Eduardo could not swear to it. He had been too taken aback by her offer of help, and the gentleness and concern in her almond-shaped hazel eyes to notice.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked interestedly, the tension and fatigue he had been battling with somehow forgotten.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s a bit late, but lunch is ready. I’ve been baking bread and making soup, and it took longer than I thought.’

  ‘You have been baking bread and making soup? What kind of soup?’

  ‘Leek and potato…It’s really good for you, especially in this weather. I’m sure you’ll like it. Anyway…’ Her expression was suddenly shy, as if she’d assumed too much and was embarrassed by her own enthusiasm. ‘Where would you like to eat? Up here in your office? Or I could lay a place in the dining room if that’s what you’d prefer.’

  ‘Where are you going to eat? In the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes. Ricardo’s gone to town for some supplies, and he said he’ll have his food later.’

  Suddenly tired of his own morose company, and the thought of home-made bread and soup enticing him more than he would ever have believed possible, Eduardo reached for his cane and stood up. ‘I will join you in the kitchen,’ he answered firmly.

  ‘All right, then.’ The rather sombrely furnished room with its dark cherry leather sofas and crammed bookshelves was suddenly lit by her golden smile and—still smiling—Marianne stood back to let Eduardo precede her out of the room…

  Chapter Five

  MARIANNE had been thinking about miracles. She knew they existed because she had prayed hard for someone kind to come into her life and then Donal had appeared. Now, as she surveyed the lean-angled, handsome face on the opposite side of the table from her, with its preoccupied and enigmatic air, she silently pondered on why such a man needed a miracle in his life. Again she considered the disturbing possibility that he had a life-threatening illness, and in the middle of lifting her spoon to her lips she felt her throat lock tight and her appetite flee.

  ‘This is very good.’ Having no such similar dilemma, Eduardo glanced up appreciatively from sampling his own soup. His piercing blue eyes bored into hers, and Marianne’s stomach fluttered hard.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Tearing off a hunk of bread from the generous-sized, still warm loaf on the bread board, he experimentally chewed some, then laid the rest on his side plate.

  ‘You really know how to cook. This is delicious too.’

  ‘They say necessity is a great teacher. There wasn’t much money around when I was growing up, but my parents had a small vegetable patch for a while, and one year we had an abundance of leeks, carrots and turnips. Something had to be done with them. Soup was the easiest solution. After that I got quite interested in cooking and experimented a little. Making bread was therapeutic, too, I found.’

  The interest in her companion’s face deepened. ‘I thought you had no parents?’

  ‘That was a long time ago.’ Feeling her chest tighten, Marianne scooped a small portion of soup into her mouth, then fell silent.

  ‘What happened to them?’

  Clearly not deflected from pursuing the subject, Eduardo stilled as he waited to hear her answer.

  ‘My mother left when I was fourteen to go to America with a man she’d been having an affair with. My father—?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Right now my father is probably lying dead or drunk beneath a bridge somewhere in London. Tower Bridge was a particular favourite. At least…that was where I saw him last.’

  ‘When was that?’

  Marianne lowered her gaze. ‘About three years ago. He was—is—a hopeless alcoholic. That’s why my mother couldn’t stay with him. Eat your soup. It will get cold.’

  Pushing to her feet, she strode across the ample-sized kitc
hen to the butler sink to pour herself a glass of cold water. Her throat felt as if it had swelled to twice its size at the tormenting tide of childhood memory that washed over her. Talking about it only deepened her distress.

  As if realising the discrepancy in her parenting of her only daughter, her mother had beseeched Marianne to go with her to America. But even at the tender age of fourteen years old she’d found she could not abandon the dejected wreck bent on self-destruction that her father had become. Not when at the back of her mind somewhere had been more loving memories of him hugging her, playing childish games with her when she was little, calling her his angel. Afterwards, when there had just been the two of them in a house that was no longer a home, there were sadder, heartrending recollections—him crying unbearably, begging Marianne to forgive him for losing his business, needing to drink to dull the pain of driving her mother away.

  Yes, she understood why her mother hadn’t been able to stay with such a man—even at fourteen she’d seen that she was in an untenable situation—but that hadn’t made it any easier for her to cope. And it hadn’t lessened the sense of betrayal she felt either. The brutal reality of being left behind to be responsible for a man who no longer seemed to care whether he lived or died as long as he could have the next drink was something that she would never forget.

  ‘Marianne?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I just needed some water.’ Returning to the table, she sat down. Inadvertently catching Eduardo’s eye, she made a valiant attempt to smile.

  ‘You should eat something,’ he said brusquely, but the expression in his disturbing glance was compassionate and steady, and even more unsettling was the supreme difficulty Marianne had in tearing her gaze from his. ‘Children need fathers…I am sorry that yours was not able to care for you as he should have done.’

  ‘Do you have parents? Siblings?’ she asked.

  ‘My parents live in Leblon, which is west of Ipanema where I have my beach house. They are retired now. Unfortunately I was not blessed with brothers or sisters. I am their only son.’