A Forbidden Night with the Housekeeper Page 8

  ‘YOU SHOULD SEE the crowd out there tonight. I swear I’ve spotted more movie stars already than are at my local multiplex.’

  ‘That’s cool.’ Cara sent a wan smile to her new friend Dora, whose excitement at their latest waitressing gig would have been infectious if only she weren’t so exhausted. She eased the zip up on the short black skirt she wore for her waitressing work but left the button at the top undone. But as she donned her white shirt, she encountered another problem. She hunched her shoulders, attempting to hide the way the shirt’s buttons threatened to pop out of their holes over her ever-increasing bust.

  How much longer was she going to be able to hide her condition? And what would she do when that day came? This job was the only thing keeping her afloat. But working any and every shift she could get was starting to take its toll.

  She slammed the locker door and slipped on the four-inch heels the luxury hotel on London’s Embankment insisted on, then stretched her back to alleviate the ache which had set in a week ago.

  She pressed her palm to the curve of her stomach, and the trickle of panic receded. The wave of love she already felt for the child swept through her and a tired smile edged her lips. This baby was hers, and only hers, something she could love and cherish the way she never had been.

  ‘How far along are you, honey?’ Dora murmured.

  Cara’s head swung round, to find Dora’s gaze on her, full of concern and curiosity.

  She dropped her hand from her stomach, the panic returning to tighten around her throat. ‘I... How did you know?’ she managed. Dora was her friend, surely she wouldn’t tell their line manager.

  ‘Because you’ve got that dreamy look on your face I had with my two,’ Dora said easily. ‘And that bump...’ she glanced pointedly at Cara’s tummy ‘...is becoming harder and harder to miss.’

  ‘Is it really that obvious?’ Cara whispered, the exhaustion threatening to envelop her. ‘I can’t... I can’t afford to lose any shifts.’

  ‘Isn’t there anyone who can help you out, luv?’

  Cara shook her head, grateful Dora hadn’t asked the obvious question—where is the father?

  ‘I’ll pick up all your drinks then. And you can take my canapés, okay, they’re lighter.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cara blinked, feeling stupidly emotional at the other woman’s kindness.

  ‘You never know, you might find a sugar daddy tonight.’ Dora grinned as they made their way up the back stairs of the Regency hotel towards the huge ballroom where the Valentine’s Day event they had been hired to work on was taking place. ‘There’s certainly enough mega-rich men at this thing.’

  ‘I wish,’ Cara said, forcing a smile to her lips at the renewed blip of panic, knowing there was one rich man she really did not want to see.

  She entered the kitchen from the staff entrance. Surely even she couldn’t be that unlucky. And anyway, serving staff like her were all but invisible at these events.

  After the kitchen staff loaded up her first tray, she walked into the ballroom.

  Chandeliers sparkled, hanging from the room’s vaulted ceiling. Towering sprays of roses and lilies were arranged in crystal vases and added a heady aroma to the cloying scent of expensive colognes and fragrances. Conversation hummed over the delicate strains of classical music. Shelves full of leather-bound books lined the walls, a nod to the cavernous room’s former life as a historic library. Mullioned windows looked out over the Embankment, framing the spotlit majesty of Big Ben and the purple glow of the Millennium Wheel on the opposite bank. The room was packed with people—men in dinner suits and tuxedos and women in elaborate designer gowns of every conceivable hue, their precious jewels glittering in the low lighting.

  Cara’s heart fluttered as she absorbed the splendour of the scene and she edged into the crowd to serve the delicate lamb skewers with a tamarind dipping sauce.

  She pasted a bright smile on her face. Every one of these people belonged to a world in which Cara would never belong. This was Maxim’s world, she thought. Rich, beautiful, arrogant and entitled.

  She shifted the weight to her other arm, mindful of the baby bump she had hidden beneath the tray. And willed away the ache in her chest that thoughts of Maxim and their one night together always caused.

  She had struggled with the question of whether or not to tell Maxim about the pregnancy when the doctor had confirmed it. She’d tortured herself with all the obvious questions, racked by a guilt she still hadn’t quite been able to shake.

  Didn’t every man deserve to know he was going to be a father?

  And didn’t every child deserve to know its dad?

  Despite his actions later, Maxim had been tender towards her that night, after he’d discovered her virginity. And she knew he could feel deeply from the way he’d reacted to Pierre’s will.

  But then she thought of her own father, and how easily he had discarded her. And the cruel way Maxim had discarded her too. She knew she’d made the right choice.

  These weren’t normal circumstances. And Maxim wasn’t any normal man. Not only was he rich and powerful, and overwhelming, he had proven how ruthless he could be. He’d also made it very clear he had no desire to become a father.

  She kept her head down as she weaved through the opulent crowd, grateful for the cloak of invisibility she wore as one of the waitstaff, and forced her mind back to the job at hand—keeping her elbow braced and her arm steady so she didn’t end up spraying tamarind dipping sauce over anyone’s designer ballgown before her shift was over...

  In six never-ending hours’ time.

  * * *

  ‘Maxim, darling, what are you doing out here? The party’s inside!’

  Maxim turned from the view of the Thames to find his so-called date, Kristin Delinski, strutting towards him as if she were still on the catwalk, carrying two champagne flutes. Her legs had to be freezing in that short leather skirt, he thought dispassionately, as he took a deep breath of the chilly night air. Air he’d needed as soon as they’d walked into this mayhem twenty minutes ago. Not for the first time, he wondered what had possessed him to attend tonight’s event and invite her along. When had he ever celebrated Valentine’s Day?

  His gaze flickered over his date’s expertly made-up face as she handed him one of the glasses. He’d probably had some vague notion of taking her to bed, but the minute she’d climbed into his car he’d known that wasn’t going to happen. The sexual spark which had once been there for her, and all the other women he’d dated casually over the years, was gone—blown away by the tornado that had hit his sex life five months ago and still wasn’t finished wreaking havoc on his libido.

  When was he going to be able to stop obsessing about that one night? A night that had meant nothing.

  Cara Evans had vanished. He’d searched for her for months, but every avenue he—and the different investigators he’d hired—had tried had hit a dead end. The woman was a ghost, without a family, any known acquaintances and, most infuriating of all, not even a social media footprint.

  ‘It’s Valentine’s Night and you never know...’ Kristin paused to flutter her heavily painted eyelashes. ‘You might get extremely lucky if you make more of an effort.’

  ‘Duly noted,’ Maxim murmured as he sipped the champagne—and assessed the vintage. Not as good as Durand’s best champagne, but not bad.

  The problem was he didn’t want to make the effort, because he had no desire whatsoever to get lucky with Kristin, despite her mile-long legs and that provocative self-confidence, which had once made her such an appealing distraction whenever he was in London on a business trip. He could barely even remember those encounters now, because his memory was still full of another woman’s sighs, and sobs. Luminous bright blue eyes filled with shame and confusion, soft dewy skin that smelled of wild flowers and arousal, ripe nipples begging for his...

  Merde! Stop thinking
about her—she’s gone; she didn’t want you...

  Kristin ran a fingernail across his jaw, interrupting his frustrating thoughts. ‘Really, Max,’ she said, using the nickname he hated as she pouted. ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  Non.

  Just as he opened his mouth to tell her the truth, something caught his eye at the far end of the balcony.

  A serving girl in the standard waitressing outfit of white shirt and short black skirt had walked out of the ballroom to offer a tray of canapés to the only other couple on the terrace. Her lush figure was barely contained by the fitted uniform. Desire sizzled along his nerve-endings, the heady fizz of recognition a great deal more intoxicating than the vintage champagne. He grasped Kristin’s wrist to pull her hand away from his face so he could get a better look at the waitress.

  Was it her? Could it possibly be her? Or was his mind playing tricks on him again?

  He’d conjured up this image a dozen times before in the last five months. Fleeting glimpses of Cara’s hair, her figure, that heart-shaped face—on the streets of Paris and Rome and even Johannesburg—had stirred his senses, only to destroy him seconds later when he looked closer and realised the woman wasn’t her.

  But as he studied the apparition this time, instead of dissolving into reality, the yearning became stronger.

  The waitress’s blonde hair was piled in a haphazard chignon, glowing gold in the flicker of lamplight on the balcony. His fingers tensed on Kristin’s wrist as he recalled the silky feel of Cara’s hair as the pins scattered across the floor of La Maison and the locks tumbled into his hands.

  ‘Max, what is it?’ Kristin’s tone was annoyed, but he could barely hear her above the thundering of his own heartbeat. ‘Why are you staring at the waitress like that? Do you know her?’

  ‘Oui,’ he murmured, but he wasn’t talking to his date any more as he watched the girl turn and head towards them with her tray.

  ‘Lève la tête,’ he whispered, willing her to lift her head so he could get a better look at her face. But he already knew, from the sensations charging through his body, making his sex harden and his breathing accelerate. He’d found her. At last.

  Just as she had done all those months ago, she obeyed his command instinctively and their gazes locked. She stopped dead. Stunned surprise crossed her face first, followed by panic and guilt, but then her gaze flicked to Kristin and what he saw in her face—could it be envy, hurt, regret?—had adrenaline firing through his system like a drug.

  And he had the answer he had been looking for, for five months, without even realising it. She still wanted him too.

  The tray clattered to the floor, making everyone but him—and her—jump as the food splattered across the stones. She stood transfixed, her body trembling as if she were in a trance from which she couldn’t escape.

  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet and shoved some notes into Kristin’s hand. ‘Find your own way home,’ he murmured, tucking his wallet back into his jacket pocket, his movements deliberately slow and cautious, his gaze fixed on his runaway lover.

  ‘Well, really, Max, I...’

  He tuned out Kristin’s indignant response as he walked past her, towards Cara, his gaze devouring every inch of her.

  Something about her was different. Her figure? Why did it seem fuller, even more lush than he remembered it? She edged back a step and the lamplight hit her face.

  Concern lanced through him.

  Where had those dark circles come from, under her eyes? Why did she seem so fragile despite her curves?

  The wave of possessiveness and protectiveness, which he’d convinced himself didn’t exist, surged up his chest.

  ‘Cara,’ he said, her name rough on his tongue as he lifted his hand to beckon her towards him, scared to make any sudden movement in case she vanished and he discovered he had been dreaming all along.

  Like a young deer scenting the hunter, she snapped out of her trance and spun round.

  He cursed as she shot back into the ballroom.

  ‘Cara, reviens ici!’ he yelled, demanding she come back, but she’d already disappeared into the throng of guests.

  He shoved his way through the crowd after her, not caring about the drinks he spilled, the stern looks and shouted admonishments he received from the people he pushed out of the way. He craned his neck to look over the heads of the other guests. Relief rushed through him as he spotted her golden hair disappearing through a door at the end of the great hall, marked Staff Only.

  The crowd parted as he barged past, the relief and adrenaline—and the sharp swell of desire—joined by a rising tide of fury.

  This was no dream, it was real. She was real.

  She’d run from him once. No way was he going to let her run again.

  * * *

  Cara kicked off her shoes as soon as she got through the staff door and picked them up, to race past the wait stations where the other servers were having their trays filled, her exhaustion forgotten in a rush of pure unadulterated panic.

  Maxim! Maxim was here and he’d found her.

  ‘Cara, is everything okay?’ She shook her head at Dora’s shocked question as she rushed past her friend towards the stairwell to the locker room.

  Maxim, who had been with another woman.

  Kristin Delinski, a world-renowned supermodel who Cara had recognised instantly from the magazines she’d once loved to read. But had avoided in the last five months.

  She swiped away the tear that slipped down her cheek as she made it to the stairs.

  Good God, why are you crying? Of course he’s with another woman. He’s probably had tons of other women since that night, all of them more beautiful and accomplished than you.

  Her line manager, Martha Simpson, was coming up the stairs from the staff locker room as she headed down. ‘Cara, where are you going? There’s two more hours left on your shift!’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to go,’ she said, then rushed past, not waiting for the woman’s answer. She wouldn’t be able to come back, not now he knew where she worked.

  She made it to the locker room.

  He wasn’t following her. Why would he? But, even so, urgency made her hands clumsy as she grabbed her bag, shoved the heels inside, slipped on her flats and untied the apron. She was reaching for her coat when she heard footsteps enter the room, and a deep voice had her fingers jerking on the coat.

  ‘Cara...why did you run?’

  Hearing the roughened R, the husky intimacy of her name said in his gruff French accent—a sound which had woken her from dreams so many nights since she’d left France—had so many conflicting emotions hurtling into her chest. She turned to face him without thinking, the urge to see him again riding roughshod over all her instincts of self-preservation.

  She realised her mistake as his gaze tracked down to her stomach, and the baby bump, which was no longer hidden by the apron.

  His eyes met hers, the golden-brown rich with passion and fury and yet dark with accusation, and something she didn’t understand—because it looked strangely like hurt.

  ‘The child, is it mine?’

  She wanted to say no, to protect herself and her baby from that caustic cynical gaze, and the character of the man she knew lay behind it. Powerful, arrogant, demanding, ruthless. More committed to his revenge against a dead man than he would ever be to someone like her. But something about the flash of pain which had been there and then gone in a heartbeat had the lie catching in her throat.

  She turned back to the locker, releasing the coat, and pressed her forehead against the cool metal. The weariness that had haunted her for weeks returned to sap the last of the energy from her limbs, but this time it was accompanied by the bone-sapping guilt she had wrestled with for months. She thought she’d conquered it, thought she’d come to terms with her choice not to contact Maxim. But if she
had, why could the truth still punish her?

  She placed a hand over her stomach and silently apologised to her child before saying the only words that would come out of her mouth.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  MAXIM WAS IN shock. Or at least he thought he was. Because it was hard to tell, so many emotions were bombarding him at once he could hardly control them, let alone differentiate or identify them.

  Cara was carrying his child.

  The only emotion he knew he didn’t feel was regret—that he had found her. For a man who had never intended to become a father this didn’t make a lot of sense, but there was no denying the surge of protectiveness that had blindsided him when he’d first identified Cara on the balcony.

  ‘Why did you not contact me?’ he demanded, allowing his anger to show—to cover the hurt he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  She raised her head, the tiredness in her eyes and those dark shadows under them that had disturbed him so much making his fingers clench into fists.

  He swallowed hard, forcing himself to resist the urge to pick her up and cradle her against his chest. She looked as if she were about to collapse. How long had she been working like this, late into the night, constantly on her feet?

  ‘Because I didn’t want you to know,’ she said.

  The pain caused by the softly spoken words arrowed into his gut, making him stiffen.

  He stepped forward and grasped her arm. ‘You carry my child and you had no intention of telling me? Ever?’ he said, not quite able to keep the whisper of shocked betrayal out of his voice. Things had ended badly between them, and part of that had been his fault, but he did not deserve this.

  She tugged her arm free. ‘This is my child, Maxim. I chose to have it. You don’t have to be a part of this.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ His gaze roamed down to her stomach, where the baby grew. ‘This is my flesh and blood. Do you really think I would choose to abandon it?’

  She looked down, breaking eye contact, but he could hear the distress in her voice when she murmured, ‘Men do it all the time.’