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Bedded by Blackmail by Robyn Grady

Tristan reached the pool’s edge at the same time the woman in the pink bikini pulled herself out of it.

With her hair pouring like wheat-coloured silk down her back, her glistening body might have belonged to a swimsuit model—buxom with shapely tanned legs that just kept getting longer.

Tristan braced his own legs shoulder-width apart and crossed his arms in a confrontational pose.

Unsuspecting, the woman straightened fully, sliding her hands back over her hair, like some Bond Girl from a beach scene. When she finally noticed him—when she looked up with those big blue, suddenly startled eyes…

Tristan’s mouth fell open and his arms dropped like dead weights to his sides. Then he dragged a hand down over his mouth and blinked several incomprehensible times.

No, this didn’t make sense. The hair was the wrong colour. That body sure as hell didn’t fit. Still, he ground out the question.

“Ella…is that you?”

Millionaire’s Secret Seduction by Jennifer Lewis

“It’s not about the money. It’s about my dad’s legacy. I’ll prove Tarrant forced my father into selling against his will and then the courts will restore his work to my family.”

Alarm mixed with amusement made him snort. “You’re going to sue Hardcastle Enterprises?”

Bella held Dominic’s gaze, her grey eyes unblinking. “Yes. I know a judge will do the right thing.”

“Sounds to me like you have way too much faith in the legal system and not nearly enough in Tarrant’s utter ruthlessness. Did you find what you need?”

“Not yet. Are you going to have me fired?”

“Me? Oh, yeah, the son and heir. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with you…”

Except kiss you again, maybe…

Bedded By Blackmail

By

Robyn Grady
Millionaire’s Secret Seduction

By

Jennifer Lewis

MILLS & BOON®

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Bedded by Blackmail

By

Robyn Grady

Robyn Grady left a fifteen-year career in television production knowing that the time was right to pursue her dream of writing romance. She adores cats, clever movies and spending time with her wonderful husband and their three precious daughters. Living on Australia’s glorious Sunshine Coast, her perfect day includes a beach, a book and no laundry when she gets home. Robyn loves to hear from readers. You can contact her at www.robyngrady.com.

Dear Reader,

My all-time favourite fairy tale is Cinderella. When my sister gave me the picture book many years ago, I pored over the words, copied the illustrations, dreamed about being part of such a perfect ever-after.

The theme of rags to riches—from poor in life to rich in love—is still a favourite. Surely the ultimate fantasy is overcoming great odds to end up with a “prince” and lasting love.

My heroine in this story has faced many challenges. Illness and death in the family, accusations of murder, as well as chilling blackmail threats. Enough pressure for Ella Jacob to go underground and assume an identity as a dowdy but efficient housekeeper.

Her boss, successful businessman Tristan Barkley, is cynical about many things, but not where his housekeeper is concerned. Knowing Ella will make an ideal wife—certain that love will grow—he proposes marriage. But there’s a price to pay for his readiness to trust so quickly and a few more secrets to uncover about his new bride’s past before they can come close to a fairy-tale ending.

Deceit, betrayal, deepest loyalty and even a touch of magic, I hope you enjoy Bedded by Blackmail.

Best,

Robyn

For Carol, my beautiful big sister. Happy birthday!

With thanks to my editor, Diana Ventimiglia, for your help in making this book so special.

Chapter One

Tristan Barkley knew danger when he sensed it. As he whipped open the sliding glass door and scanned his expansive backyard, he sensed it in spades.

His heart beat like a war drum against his ribs while the hair on his nape prickled and every muscle in his body bunched tight.

Where was Ella? What trouble was she in?

He’d phoned to speak with his housekeeper twice this morning. Ella wasn’t aware of his last-minute plans to attend a gala event in Sydney tonight. Home a day early from a weeklong trip to Melbourne, he’d wanted to be sure his tuxedo was back from the cleaners.

But when she hadn’t answered his calls, he hadn’t been concerned. Perhaps she was out shopping. Ella Jacob was fanatical about having her boss’s every need and want satisfied. It was one of the reasons he valued her—or rather, her dedication to her job—so highly.

However, when he’d arrived home a few minutes ago, he’d noticed her car keys hanging on their hook. A second later, his gut wrenched at the sight of her practical leather handbag and its contents strewn over the kitchen counter. Her uniform had been turned inside out and discarded on the cold marble tiles. One black lace-up shoe lay near the timber meals table, the other had been left upside down near this door.

Now as he shaded his eyes against a single ray piercing the brewing black sky, his heart squeezed like a fist in his chest.

If anyone had entered his house uninvited…if someone had dared to hurt Ella…

He strode onto the lawn and movement beyond the northern courtyard caught his eye. Tristan narrowed his focus and zeroed in on a trespasser’s fluid backstroke as the intruder sliced through the cool blue of his Olympic-size pool. Twenty-twenty vision said the long, tanned limbs were female. A flash of a pink swimsuit, and the curves it partially concealed, confirmed she was of his generation or younger.

Tristan let out a territorial growl. There’d been a recent spate of robberies in his neighborhood. The police suspected the work of a couple. One poor grandmother had been assaulted and tied up in her own home. Was that woman in his pool the girlfriend of some brazen burglar? he wondered.

He charged forward even as another scenario came to mind. Might be that Ella had simply invited a friend over. Although, come to think of it, he’d never heard her speak of friends. Or family. And that didn’t explain the handbag, her uniform. It didn’t explain where she was.

His long strides picked up pace.

Once he yanked that woman from the water, hell ’n’ Hades, he’d have some answers then.

He reached the pool’s edge at the same time the woman in pink climbed out, her hair falling like wheat-colored silk down her back. Her glistening body might have belonged to a swimsuit model—buxom with shapely, tanned legs that seemed to go on forever.

Tristan braced his own legs shoulder-width apart and crossed his arms. Unsuspecting, the woman straightened fully, sliding her hands back over her hair, like some Bond girl from a beach scene. When she finally noticed him, when she looked up with those big blue, suddenly startled eyes…

Tristan’s mouth fell open and his arms dropped to his sides like dead weights. Then he dragged a hand down over his mouth and blinked several times.

No, this didn’t make sense. The hair was the wrong color. That body sure as hell didn’t fit. Still, he ground out the question.

“Ella…is that you?”

“Mr. Barkley?” The bombshell’s cheeks turned as red as the miniature roses spilling from the poolside terracotta pots. “You weren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow.”

“I rang this morning.” Twice.

Driven by testosterone-fueled force, his gaze dipped lower and his blood began to stir. Mother of mercy, he’d had no idea.

She folded her arms over the top of the swimsuit, which only made her amazing cleavage appear twice as deep and ten times more alluring. This couldn’t be the same woman…

“I rolled my ankle on a run this week,” she explained. “I like to keep fit. Swimming’s a good alternative.” Her wet hair sprayed a cold arc on his business shirt as she threw a look at the pool then back. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

His brain stumbled up to speed. Ella, his unassum-ing housekeeper, ran to keep fit? In a dowdy uniform, who’d have guessed she worried about anything other than making sure the bathroom sparkled and her deli-cious dinners were set on the table on time. Out of uniform, however, in that amazing swimsuit, she looked nothing short of…sensational.

As telltale heat flared through his system, he shook himself and squared his shoulders. That kind of reaction was totally inappropriate. Miss Jacob was the hired help—his housekeeper—and she still had more than a little explaining to do.

He cleared the thickness from his throat and stabbed a reproving finger toward the house. “Your uniform and shoes were tossed around the kitchen. Your handbag was tipped upside down on the counter.”

What was he supposed to have thought? He’d been worried. Damn near frantic, in fact.

Her sheepish gaze dropped away. “Oh, that.”

His brow furrowed more. “Yes. Dammit. That.”

Dripping over the tiles, she began to move away. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Like it’s hard to explain how your hair’s gone from mousy brown to blond?”

Had he landed in Wonderland? What was going on!

“I’ve only dyed it back to my natural color.” She shrugged and explained, “I’m a woman. I wanted a change. This week I wanted to change it back.”

He growled loud enough to be heard. She was avoiding his question. He wasn’t a hard boss; he deserved her respect. The respect he’d always received from Ella in the past. Unless…

His thoughts froze as a withering feeling dropped through his center.

His voice deepened with concern. “Are you in some kind of trouble, Ella? Trouble you don’t want to tell me about?”

When she blinked at him over her shoulder, her full lips slightly parted, she looked so vulnerable.

She curled strands of blond behind her ear. “I’m not in trouble. In fact, it’s rather the opposite.”

She continued on toward a sun lounger, her step favoring one leg. A very nice leg. Very nice body.

Tristan growled again.

He needed to get to the bottom of this mystery and he needed to do it now!

She picked up a towel from the sun lounger’s back and wrapped it around herself, sari style. When she turned toward the house, he barred her way.

His voice was rough, his gaze unremitting. “I need an answer, Ella.”

She peered up at him as rivulets of water trickled down her flawless face. Her eyes were the color of Ceylon sapphires. How had he missed that before? Did she usually wear glasses? He didn’t think so.

Ella’s mouth opened then shut. Finally she blew out a defeated breath. “I was going to tell you tomorrow.”

He set his hands on his hips. His patience was wearing out. “I suggest you tell me now.”

Her chin lifted slightly. “I’d like to hand in my resignation. I’m giving you two weeks’ notice.”

Tristan’s usually balanced world tilted then slid off its axis. He ran a hand through his hair. Of all the crazy things, this had been the farthermost from his mind.

“You want to leave. Is it the pay?” Her wage was more than generous, but if that was the problem, it could easily be solved. “Name your price.”

She was the best housekeeper he’d ever had—thorough, autonomous, inconspicuous, or at least she had been until this incident. He wasn’t prepared to let her go, particularly not now.

The newly elected mayor of a neighboring smaller city had invited himself to dinner in three weeks’ time. A positive impression could only help with an impor-tant deal Tristan had been working on, a project upon which he’d spent a vast amount of time and money. Obviously Ella’s fine cooking skills wouldn’t make or break the deal with Mayor Rufus. However, given the querulous past he and the mayor shared, frankly, Tristan could use all the help he could get.

A quiet strength shone from Ella’s jeweled eyes. “Money’s not the issue.”

A recent memory popped into his head, and then he knew. Of course he knew.

Tristan scratched his temple and replaced the gravel in his voice with a more understanding tone. “Look, if this is about that episode before I left…”

The red in her cheeks spread down the column of her throat. Her chest rose and fell as she shook her head and, dodging him, moved away. “That morning has nothing to do with my leaving.”

As his sense of control returned, Tristan eased out a relieved breath. Now that he knew what was behind her resignation, he could fix the situation.

He caught up, fell into step beside her and searched for words to handle this delicate matter.

“Admittedly it was an awkward moment,” he said. “But there’s no need to be embarrassed or do anything rash.” His mind went back to that day. “You thought I’d already left for my week away in Melbourne,” he recalled. “You didn’t expect to see me in the bedroom, particularly without any clothes…”

His words trailed off as, head down, she limped faster.

That morning when he’d heard her gasp, he’d swung around and Ella’s eyes had grown to the size of saucers. In that moment, he had reflexively stepped closer—to assure her not to be alarmed, nothing more. But he’d barely said her name before she’d scurried down the stairs like a frightened deer. After he’d dressed, he’d gone to smooth things over but had discovered that she’d left the house. With him away this week, they hadn’t spoken of it…until now.

They lived together. Tricky situations were bound to occur, like her walking in on him buck-naked that morning, like his discovery of her swimming today—

He frowned.

Which brought him back to the original question.

“A resignation doesn’t explain what happened to your handbag.” The way it had been upended as if some no-good scum had been in a hurry to get what he’d come for.

Her pace eased as she wrapped the towel more securely under her arms. “My inheritance from my mother finally came through.” She flicked him a glance. “Nothing compared to your wealth, but enough that I shouldn’t need to worry about money again if I’m careful. The executor organized to have the funds trans-ferred through to my account last night, but when it bounced back this morning, he rang to check the BSB number. After a few minutes, when I couldn’t find the book I normally keep in my bag…” Her lips pressed together. “Well, I overreacted and dumped it upside down.”

Tristan pictured the scene—Ella taking the call, the executor perhaps growing impatient when she’d kept him waiting. Her heart could have raced, her hands might have shaken. She was normally so composed and ordered, as was he. But having overreacted himself just now, he could better understand how she might have lost control in that moment.

“And the uniform? The shoes?”

Her face pinched, then she shrugged. “When I ended the phone call and knew the money would be in my account on Monday, I had this overwhelming urge to be free of them. I ripped the uniform off where I stood. Then I kicked off my shoes.” She focused on her bare feet as she continued walking, moving slowly now. “I’m sorry. I didn’t give any thought to where or how they landed.”

Tristan slid his hands into his trouser pockets. So Ella had come into an inheritance. Odd, but he’d never thought of her with parents. She’d seemed such a blank sheet. He hadn’t known her business and she didn’t ask about his. Not that there was much happening in his personal life these days.

He stood aside as she entered the kitchen through the still open door. “I’m sorry about your mother’s pass-ing,” he offered.

Her step hesitated as she gave him a look he couldn’t read. “She died eight months ago, just before I came to work for you.”

As she moved into the kitchen, it struck him again that he knew nothing of his housekeeper’s background. She’d shown up on his doorstep, explaining that she’d heard of the job opening. She hadn’t presented refer-ences, which he usually would insist upon. But he’d taken her on, mainly because of a gut feeling that she would fit. Her reserved demeanor, her unassuming ap-pearance, the way she’d quietly but succinctly re-sponded to his questions—she’d simply felt…right.

As a rule he thought through every detail of a decision. He hated making a mistake. Growing up, his two brothers had called him Mastermind and had ribbed him constantly about his meticulous ways. Those days seemed so long ago. Although his younger brother hadn’t visited this house in a long time, he and Josh kept in touch. However, he hadn’t spoken to his older brother, Cade, in years. Never planned to again.

Ella made her way to the cushioned window seat and, wincing, sat.

He followed and indicated her ankle. “Mind if I have a look?” He’d been a lifeguard in his teens and early twenties and knew first aid. It could do more harm than good limping around when a joint needed rest.

She gave a reluctant nod and he dropped onto his haunches.

“The bruise is fading,” she told him as he carefully turned the one-hundred-percent feminine ankle this way then that. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Have you had it seen to?”

“No need. It’s happened before, since as far back as junior high when I ran cross-country. I wear an ankle support and try not to overdo it, but I can’t give up running. It’s always been my release.”

Well, this was the most information of a personal nature she’d ever offered. Was it because she was leaving? Because she was finally free and out of that drab past-the-knees dress that usually hid those hon-eyed shins. Shins that must feel as smooth as they looked.

When his fingertips tingled to inch higher, he bit down the urge, lowered her foot and pushed from his knees to stand.

Focus, Mastermind.

This was no time to slip up, even if Ella’s transfor-mation was one hellova jolt, as was her resignation. He’d gotten used to her living here. Where would she be bunking down two weeks from now?

“Have you arranged somewhere to live?” he asked.

Her blue eyes sparkled up at him. “I want to buy in an affordable neighborhood and rent something in the meantime.”

Although he nodded sagely, it was almost painful to think of not coming home to her. Despite checking her references, the housekeeper before Ella had been less than satisfactory—scorched shirts, mediocre meals. Ultimately, he’d had to let her go. Perhaps that’s why he’d gone with gut rather than referees in Ella’s case.

And with Ella taking care of his domestic front, all had been as it should be. She knew exactly the right amount of ice to mix with his predinner Scotch. His sheets had never smelled better, of lavender and fresh sunshine. He trusted her, too, never needing to worry that some valuable item might go missing.

Damn.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Two weeks, huh?”

Her smile was wry. “This is a luxurious setting with wonderful conditions. I doubt you’ll have any trouble filling my spot.”

“None who can cook like you.”

Her head slanted at an amused angle as her eyes sparkled more. “Thank you. But my cooking’s really nothing special.”

Said who? He could practically smell her mouth-watering beef Wellington now. He particularly liked the way she distributed gravy—from a delicate, gold-rimmed pourer at the table, and only over the meat, never the vegetables. She always asked if there was anything else he’d like.

He’d always said no.

Tristan’s stomach knotted and he cleared his throat.

Hunger pains. He should’ve eaten on the plane.

He moved to his briefcase, which he’d left on the counter beside her upended handbag. “Whatever you do, however you do it, I’ve only ever received compliments from our dinner guests…and requests for invitations.”

Most recently from Mayor Rufus.

As he clicked open his briefcase, out of the corner of his eye he saw Ella push to her feet. He could almost hear her thoughts.

“You’ve invited someone special to dinner, haven’t you?”

He put on the eyeglasses he needed to read small print and shuffled through some property plans he ought to go over this afternoon. “I’ll get around it.”

Did he have any choice? Ella was obviously eager to start her new life, permanently shuck out of her “rags” and into something pretty. If no one else could make pork ribs with honey-whiskey sauce the way she did, he’d have to survive. He only wished the mayor, who had a notorious sweet tooth, hadn’t heard Councilor Stevens’s compliments regarding Ella’s caramel apple pie.

Either way, the mayor had invited himself over, un-doubtedly to kill two birds with one stone—sample Ella’s superb culinary skills as well as address rezoning problems regarding acreage Tristan had purchased with a vast high-rise project in mind. But Tristan wasn’t looking forward to another topic of conversation that would unfold during the course of the evening—conversation concerning a duplicitous and beautiful young woman who also happened to be the mayor’s daughter…

Ella’s voice came from behind him. “When did you invite them?”

“Really, Ella—”

“Tell me,” she insisted.

He pushed out a sigh. “Three weeks. But it’s fine.”

“I could stay on a little longer, if that would help.”

He slipped off his glasses, turned to her and smiled. Loyal to the end. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Another week won’t kill me.” She flinched at her gaffe. “What I mean to say is, if one last dinner party will make a difference to an important business deal, I’ll stay.”

“I appreciate that, but as wonderful as your meals are, they’re not a deal breaker.”

She arched a knowing brow. “But it wouldn’t hurt, right?”

Shutting his briefcase, he surrendered. “No. It wouldn’t hurt.”

“Then it’s settled.”

When she pulled back her shoulders, his jaw shifted. In the past, she’d never been the least assertive, but given she was only acting in his best interests he couldn’t find a reason to object.

The real pity was he couldn’t talk her into staying indefinitely. But why would—as it turned out—an attractive young lady remain as someone’s housemaid when she had money enough to be independent? He had to be grateful she was willing to help out for an added week.

He swung his briefcase off the counter. “All right, I accept your offer. But I owe you.”

Looking defensive, she moved to tidy her handbag mess. “You’ve already done enough.”

“What? Allowed you to cook, clean and do my laundry?”

“You gave me a place to stay when I needed it most.”

When she hesitated before dropping her purse into her handbag, Tristan studied her suddenly tight-lipped expression. Her background wasn’t any of his business, particularly now that she’d resigned. Still, he was in-trigued as he’d never been before. What harm would it do to get a little closer now that she was leaving? In fact, perhaps he could satisfy his curiosity over his un-assuming duckling turned swan and at the same time thank Ella in some small but apt way.

He cocked his head. “I insist I repay the favor. What would you say to me supplying dinner for a change?”

Her eyes narrowed almost playfully as she stuffed the last article, a hairbrush, into her bag. “I didn’t think you could cook.”

“I can’t. But I know a few chefs who can.”

Her expression froze as a pulse beat high in her throat. She took a moment to speak. “You want to take me to dinner? But I’m your housekeeper.”

“Only for another three weeks.” But he didn’t want to give her the wrong idea. “It’s just a small show of appreciation for your efforts in the past, as well as for staying on longer than you’d intended.”

It wasn’t a date. Truth was he hadn’t had a real date in a while. He didn’t count the run of women he’d asked out once or twice to see if the chemistry worked.

He was thirty-two—time to find a wife and have that family. But with each passing birthday more and more he realized he preferred the old-fashioned type, and the women in his circle were either sickeningly simpering, over-opinionated or flat-out treacherous, as Bindy Rufus had been.

Ella crossed to the pot to make coffee—strong and fresh, just the way he liked it. Head bowed, she curled wet hair behind her ear and answered his question. “I don’t think going out to dinner would be…appropri-ate.”

“Then you need to think again.” When he made up his mind, no one and nothing dissuaded him. Neverthe-less, he put a smile into his voice. “Today’s a day to kick off your shoes and let go, remember?’

She chewed her lower lip then, looking up at him, slowly grinned. “I guess it is.”

Ignoring the embers that innocent smile stirred in the pit of his stomach, he headed for his study. “We’ll make it tomorrow night.”

He smacked his forehead and turned back. Where was his mind today?

“Ella, is my tux back from the cleaners? I have an event tonight.”

“It’s hanging in your wardrobe.”

She paled and he read her thoughts as clearly as this morning’s newspaper. The wardrobe where I saw you without a stitch on last week.

But that was all behind them.

He stole a last look at those legs.

At least he thought it was.

Chapter Two

Finished applying her new lip gloss, Ella examined her reflection in the bedroom mirror and let out a sigh.

Life truly could turn on a pin. Only eight months ago she’d buried the poor wasted body of her mother, Roslyn Jacob, who’d finally succumbed to cancer. Later that same day, a man she would revile until the end of time had paid her a visit. A man Ella hoped she would never see again.

She’d first met Drago Scarpini some weeks before the death of her mother. He’d claimed to be her half brother, conceived out of wedlock by Ella’s father before he’d married her mother.

Scarpini’s own mother, an Italian who’d immigrated to Western Australia many years before, had recently passed away. On her deathbed she’d revealed the name of her son’s father, Vance Jacob. Scarpini discovered that Ella’s father had passed away long ago but Scarpini had wanted to visit his father’s widow to see if he had any brothers or sisters.

A well-packaged story, but from his first, Scarpini had sent chills up Ella’s spine. As days wound into weeks and Roslyn’s condition and faculties deterio-rated more, Scarpini’s visits continued and his ulterior motives became clear.

Ella had overheard Scarpini talking to her mother about his difficult life growing up without a father, without money. Although Vance Jacob couldn’t make recompense now, Roslyn could change her will and divide the estate between Ella and himself. That, Scarpini had said, would’ve made her husband happy. After all those years of unwitting abandonment, it was the right thing to do.

Ella had been disgusted at his prodding. Her mother had been so ill, so confused. And there had been no proof Scarpini was who he claimed to be. If she’d had a few thousand to spare, she’d have hired an investigator.

The second time Ella had heard him pushing Roslyn, she’d told him to get out. Roslyn had died the day after, sooner than doctors had anticipated. Scarpini had attended the funeral and had even played the sorrowful, supportive brother. Later, however, he’d arrived on Ella’s doorstep demanding she divide the estate. When Ella had reminded him she’d just buried her mother, he’d exploded. He needed money to pay off pressing gambling debts.

As she’d shut the door in his face, he’d shouted she would regret it.

The next day, the police had arrived. Scarpini had alleged Ella had murdered Roslyn with a morphine overdose to head off the change she had been about to make to her will. It had been an hour of horror Ella would never forget, but, of course, no charges were laid. The following day her front window was smashed and a condolence card left on the mantel. Scarpini had phoned—either she agreed to his suggestion, or he would get nasty. He’d said he intended to haunt her until he got what he deserved.

Quaking all over, she’d immediately called the police, who couldn’t do much about Scarpini’s threats. She could petition for a restraining order, the officer ex-plained, but perhaps it would be better to wait and see if Scarpini would cool down and disappear. If he physi-cally harmed her, she should get in touch straight away, the officer had advised.

Ella hadn’t slept that night. She’d given up her job to care for her mother and, after medical expenses, there was no cash to speak of. The house, as well as an investment property, needed to be sold before the estate could be settled. That would take several weeks, if not months.

By dawn Ella had made two decisions. One, she needed a job to survive until the estate came through. Two, she didn’t intend to wait around for Scarpini’s next sadistic game. She’d bought a prepaid phone, or-ganized a post office box for correspondence from the will’s executor—the husband of a longtime friend of her mother’s—and dyed her hair a different shade for good measure. Then she’d applied for the house-keeper’s position at the Barkley mansion.

It had been a bold move, particularly without refer-ences, but she certainly knew how to cook and clean and do laundry. When she had secured the job, she’d settled and kept very much to herself.

She’d heard nothing from her harasser since. She hoped the police were right and Scarpini had slid back beneath the rock from which he’d crawled. Now with the house and investment property sold and all of her inheritance in hand—just over a million dollars—the time was finally right to take a deep breath, emerge from her cocoon and start afresh.

And what a way to mark the occasion…asked to dinner by the thoroughly enthralling, undeniably dreamy Tristan James Barkley.

Tingling with anticipation, she gazed into the mirror and clipped on her rhinestone eardrops.

She’d lived through a nightmare. How wonderful if dreams could come true…

A knock on her bedroom door made Ella jump.

Tristan’s familiar, deep voice reached her from beyond the timber frame. “The reservation’s at eight. We need to leave soon.”

Swallowing against the knot of nerves stuck in her throat, she called back, “Be right there.”

She grabbed her clutch bag then took one last look at her cocktail-length white dress and matching sling-backs. Socialite material? Not even close. But, as Mr. Barkley had said, this wasn’t a date. It was a thank-you from employer to employee…infatuated with her boss though that employee may be.

“Ella?”

She blew out an anxious breath. Here goes.

When she entered the kitchen—the room adjoining her own—Tristan’s expression opened in surprise then appreciation, and delicious warmth washed from Ella’s perfumed crown all the way to her polishtipped toes.

One corner of Tristan’s perfectly sculpted mouth hooked upward as his hands slipped deep into his trouser pockets. “Sorry. I’m still not used to seeing you out of uniform.”

Crossing to join him, she fought the urge to smooth the jacket that adorned the magnificent ledge of his shoulders. In an open-neck collared shirt and impec-cably tailored trousers, he was tall and muscular and held himself as a powerful man would—with a casual air of authority and an easy yet mesmerizing gaze. She’d always felt so safe here in his house. So appreciated.

As a housekeeper, at least.

She pushed the silly pang aside and straightened her spine. “I’ll be back in my uniform tomorrow.”

He withdrew his hands from his pockets and moved to join her. “But you really don’t like your uniform, do you, Ella?”

No use fibbing. “Not especially.”

“My parents’ house staff wore uniforms, so I’ve always provided them, too. But if you’d rather wear regular clothes these last three weeks, I don’t know a reason you shouldn’t.”

Ella’s heartbeat fluttered.

Wear above-the-knee hems? Pretty colors? Fem-inine heels that echoed as they clicked upon these imported marble tiles?

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t feel right.” Wouldn’t feel…appropriate.

“It’s up to you, but don’t think I’ll object.” The lines bracketing his mouth deepened more. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

Maybe not to him.

Absurd, but tonight, more than ever, she couldn’t help but compare herself to the glamorous sorts with whom Tristan had been pictured in glossy magazines. Eleanor Jacob was an ordinary woman who was destined for an ordinary life. She’d best remember that.

Still, this weekend her relationship with her boss had changed, if only slightly. Soon their association would end and it was likely they wouldn’t see each other again. In fact…

She let out a breath.

Heck, maybe he was right. Doing away with her uniform wasn’t such a big deal.

She smiled. “If you’re sure.”

She couldn’t quite read the look in his dark, all-knowing eyes before he moved away to check the back door. “I’m sure.”

As he rattled the handle, she let him know, “I locked it earlier.”

He worked the blinds shut. “Can’t be too careful.”

It was obvious what lay behind his security consciousness tonight. Her impetuous behavior the day before apparently made him concerned that she might have been harmed in some way.

She apologized again. “I’m sorry about giving you that fright yesterday, Mr. Barkley.”

“It’s forgotten.” But he checked the windows, too.

What must he have thought finding her clothes strewn across the room, her handbag dumped inside out? But she’d had no idea he would return a day early from Melbourne or she wouldn’t have donned that swimsuit. Some women didn’t mind flaunting their bodies, but she wasn’t one of them. She was mortified by the thought of exposing herself to her boss, although he clearly didn’t share her reserve.

That day a week ago in his bedroom when he’d turned to face her—muscled, bronzed and breathtakingly bare—he’d seemed surprised by her unexpected appear-ance, but not the least bit self-conscious. And why the heck would he be, with an amazing body like that?

Tristan left the last window and joined her, his face almost grave. “There’s one more thing we need to get straight.”

She held herself tight. What had she done now? “Yes, sir?”

“No more sir or Mr. Barkley, particularly tonight. We don’t want to confuse the waitstaff.” His dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “Deal?”

Returning the smile, Ella relaxed and nodded.

His hot palm rested lightly on the curve of her arm as he motioned her toward the connecting garage door. He couldn’t know the wondrous sizzle his casual touch brought to her blood.

Minutes later, she was buckled up in his sleek black Bugatti, surrounded by the smell of expensive leather and another intoxicating scent—woodsy, masculine, clean. Whenever she changed his bed linen, she was tempted to crawl over the sheets, bundle a pillow close and simply breathe in.

She stole a glance at Tristan’s shadowed profile.

What would it be like to have that beautiful mouth capture hers? Be held against his hard, steamy body?

When a bolt of arousal flashed through her, her heart began to pound and her hands fisted in her lap. That kind of make-believe could only get her in trouble. She needed to keep her mind occupied—needed to talk.

Pinning her gaze on the passing pine trees beside the drive, she put a bright note in her voice. “So, how was the function last night?”

The automatic gates fanned open and the European sports car purred out onto the street. “If you want to know, it was boring.”

She smiled to herself. No interesting women, then.

She sank back more into the leather. “I thought you were home early.”

“You waited up for me?”

When he grinned at her, his dark eyes gleamed in the shadows and her cheeks heated all over again. “I was watching an old movie and heard your car.”

She hadn’t been waiting up for him. Not really.

“Don’t tell me you like those Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers kind of flicks.”

She grinned. “Not that old. Do you remember Love Story?” The score of that classic weepie was enough to give her goose bumps.

“I know it. You’re a romantic, then?”

“Most women are.”

He coughed out a laugh. “You think?”

She blinked over at him. What an odd thing to say. Women daydreamed about meeting Mr. Right. They imagined bouquets and church weddings and sparkling diamond rings. It was usually men who had a hard time committing, particularly when they were so desirable they could enjoy a veritable smorgasbord, Tristan Barkley case in point.

The car pulled up at an elite restaurant, which sat on the fringe of their exclusive Sydney neighborhood. When Tristan opened her car door, Ella asked, “Did you have a reservation already made for tonight?”

It was common knowledge bookings here were as rare as hens’ teeth.

He winked. “I said I knew some good chefs.”

And she wasn’t the least surprised when, inside, the attentive maître d’ fairly clicked his heels and showed them to the best table in the house: by an open window with a magical view of the twinkling harbor, secluded from the other guests and a comfortable distance from the live entertainment—a guitarist strumming the soft strains of a ballad.

As the maître d’ left them, Ella perused the listed entrées. No prices. She couldn’t imagine how expen-sive each must be.

A waiter nodded a greeting at Tristan as he passed. Tristan nodded back.

Ella lifted a brow. “You obviously come here often.”

He kept his eyes on his menu. “Often enough.”

She wouldn’t ask with whom. Perhaps a different lady each time. He never spoke about the women he dated—she knew only what she occasionally saw in magazines. Tristan Barkley was a brilliant enigma who had yet to lose his heart. Frankly, she couldn’t imagine one woman being enough for him. She only had to look into those dark, hot eyes to know he’d be insatiable in the bedroom.

When a vision flew into her mind—naked limbs, glistening and entwined on his sheets—Ella’s heartbeat deepened. She gripped her water glass and took a long, cool sip. This evening would be sweet torture.

They chose their meals—prime steak for him, sea-food for her. By the time their food arrived, they’d discussed music, politics and books. He was surprised that she liked mystery novels, too. When he poured their second glass of wine, she realized the nerves in her stomach had settled, almost to the point where she could have forgotten that handsome, intriguing man sitting opposite was her boss.

She was interested to know, “How’s your steak?” It smelled delicious and appeared to be cooked to perfection.

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Almost as good as your filet mignon.” She laughed, unconvinced, and his brow furrowed. “It’s true.” He lifted his wine goblet to his lips. “Must be good not to have to think about the dishes tonight.”

“I clean up as I go. It’s not so bad with a dishwasher.”

“Did your mother teach you to cook?”

“She wasn’t much of a hand at cooking, even basics.” She gave a weak smile. “That’s how I got so good.” After her mother’s accident eighteen years ago, someone had to take care of those things, she thought.

“Bet your father appreciated your finesse.”

Her chest tightened and her gaze fell to the flicker-ing centerpiece candle. “He died when I was ten. A coronary. Heart disease runs in the family.”

Tristan slowly set down his glass. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“So am I. He was an exceptional man.” She smiled at a memory. “He taught me to French knit. You wind wool around small nails tacked into the top of a wooden cotton reel and pull the knitting down through the hole—” She cut herself off and, embarrassed, shrugged. “Sounds kind of lame now.”

He searched her eyes. “It sounds as if you loved him very much. What did he do for a living?”

“He trained horses. We had stables. Dad got up every morning before dawn, even Sundays. His only vice was betting on the track. Not a lot, but always a few dollars each week.”

Perhaps Scarpini had inherited his thirst for gambling.

Ella gripped her cutlery tight. She would not let memories of that man intrude tonight.

“I’ve never understood some people’s need to gam-ble,” Tristan said. “If they thought it through, did the research, they’d understand you lose more than you win.”

Her smile was wry. “I think it’s more to do with the high when they do win.”

“Like a drug?”

She nodded.

“You like to gamble?”

She shook her head fiercely. “Not at all.”

“I’m sure you’ve already guessed, neither do I. I only bet on sure things.”

His gaze roamed her face and a delicious fire flared over her skin. While she fought the urge to pat her burning cheeks, he poured the last of the wine and changed the subject.“ Do you have any brothers or sisters, Ella?”

She inwardly cringed. Not her favorite subject. “It’s a matter for debate.”

One dark eyebrow hitched. “Sounds intriguing.”

“It’s a long story.”

He pushed his nearly clean plate aside. “I’m a good listener.”

She studied him across the table, the encouraging smile, the thoughtful dark eyes, and right or wrong she wanted to share—truly be more than the house staff, if only for a night.

As the waiter cleared their plates, Ella searched for words and the courage to say them.

“I have a half brother.”

“Doesn’t look as though you approve.”

“I have my reasons.”

His eyes rested on her, patiently waiting for more.

Did she want to get that familiar with Tristan? she wondered. She was a private person, too. The quiet one at school. The wallflower at the dance. But she wasn’t sixteen anymore. She was almost twenty-six and dining with a man she didn’t know a whole lot about yet trusted nonetheless. If she was ever going to stretch her wings, now was the time.

Her fingers on the stem, she twirled her glass on the table. “Over two years ago I gave up my job to care full-time for my mother when she was diagnosed with cancer. The disease metastasized to her bones and…” Ella swal-lowed against the emotion swelling in her throat. “It affected her organs,” she went on, “including her brain. Toward the end she sometimes forgot what year it was.”

Since her fall down the back stairs eighteen years ago, Roslyn had been “delicate.” She’d broken her col-larbone and both legs and had lain in a coma for six weeks. Her bones had slowly mended, but her cognitive functions never fully recovered. She’d still been a happy, loving person, just a bit…slow.

A pulse beat in Tristan’s jaw. “Taking care of your ill mother…that must’ve been hard for you both.”

At times unbearably hard, watching the person you love most withering away, losing any capacity to care for herself. “Finally she begged me to find a place for her in some facility. I couldn’t do it.”

His voice deepened. “She was lucky to have you.”

When he sat back, she could feel him waiting for the half brother to make an appearance.

She’d thought if she could banish that horrid man from her thoughts, memories of him might fade. She hadn’t spoken his name in eight months, but the image of his face was as vivid as the day the police had banged on her door, Scarpini smirking alongside of them.

But rather than bottling it up, perhaps talking about it would help exorcise some of the pain, humiliation and anger she still felt.

She concentrated on the candlelight casting sparkling prisms off her crystal glass. “A few weeks before my mother died, a man showed up claiming to be my father’s illegitimate son.”

“You didn’t believe him?”

That familiar battle raged inside of her. Was he? Wasn’t he? Did it make a difference if they were related? she wondered. After the agony Scarpini had put her through, she had no desire to find out.

“He was very convincing…” She thought back. “But I didn’t trust his eyes.”

“The windows to the soul.”

She looked from the candlelight across the table. Tristan’s eyes were clear and filled with unswerving strength and sound purpose.

“Drago Scarpini’s were empty. He seemed to look right through me. And his smile…” Icy tendrils trailed down her back and she shivered. “His smile was cold. But he charmed my mother and tried to convince her that my father would want her to acknowledge him now.” In a lowered voice, she confessed the rest. “I heard him speak with her about changing her will.”

Tristan’s chin kicked up. “Sounds as if he was an expert at befriending vulnerable women. A real predator.”

“The doctors had given her a few months more to live but she died sooner than expected.”

“And Romeo didn’t get a slice of the pie.”

Her throat constricted. She wouldn’t tell Tristan the whole story. He didn’t need to hear how she’d been accused of murdering her own mother. It was just too ugly. “After a lot of soul-searching, I decided to gift him ten thousand dollars from the estate.”

Tristan looked disappointed. “Ella, you’re not even sure you share the same father. Even if you do, he shouldn’t have expected anything from your mother’s estate.”

“My lawyer said the same. But right now I don’t have any desire to go through the ordeal of finding out if we are related, and the money was something I felt compelled to give.” She half shrugged. “I guess to settle my conscience and be done with it.”

There was no right answer, just the memory of her father and what he might have done.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t hassled you,” Tristan said.

“Those types usually don’t know when to back down.”

A chill crawled up her spine. She had the urge to check over her shoulder, but she shucked it off and instead announced, “It’s all in the past now.”

The waiter took dessert orders and the rest of the evening they spoke about Tristan’s work—the same important project he needed to discuss with the mayor. Ella was sorry when the evening ended and they arrived back home.

As they moved through the garage door into the kitchen, she put her bag on the counter and turned around. Tristan stood close behind her, his expression unreadable, his presence overpowering…his kissable mouth almost too close to resist.

Pressing her palms against her jumping stomach, Ella manufactured an easy smile. “Can I get you anything before we go to bed?”

She withered down to her shoes.

Bad choice of words.

“Thanks, no.” His brow pinched. “But there’s some-thing I want to ask you, Ella. I have a function to attend next weekend. A black-tie affair. I wondered if you’d like to come.”

The flock of butterflies she’d been holding released in her stomach. Was he asking her on a real date? Her? Little Miss Ordinary?

“There’s a bigwig in property analysis going,” he went on. “I’d like the chance to speak with him in a more relaxed setting, but it’s a couples only night. Would you mind helping me out? After tonight, I realize you’d make the perfect companion for that kind of thing.” He laughed softly. “I’ll try not to make it too boring for you.”

She closed her parted lips and willed the silly stinging from behind her nose.

So this was a business proposition?

Well, of course it was. Ridiculous for her to think anything else. Next weekend he wanted a date who was polite, presentable and knew her place. A platonic someone who wouldn’t interfere with the business he wanted to discuss.

The housekeeper in her glad rags.

But she was being overly sensitive, she thought. Tristan was only being honest and it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.

Her lips curved. “Sure. I don’t mind helping out.”

“Excellent.” He smiled but she glimpsed something else swimming in the depths of his eyes.

No, that was pure fantasy. The only stars in this room were in her eyes and she needed to see clearly or she was in danger of being hurt—and it wouldn’t be Tristan’s fault, but hers for being so silly.

And yet Tristan continued to hold her eyes with his, then his head slanted and he came a step closer. When he reached for her, Ella stiffened and her surroundings seemed to recede and dim. But he didn’t kiss her. Rather he touched her left earring, his hand near her neck warming the skin.

His voice was husky, deep. “I’ve wanted to say all night…these are very becoming.”

Could he hear her heart thumping? “They’re not real,” she managed to say.

“Pity. Diamonds would suit you.” His gaze lingered, over her ear, down her jaw, along her trembling lips, causing a fire to flicker up her neck and light her cheeks. For a moment she thought he might lean forward and touch his lips to hers, that he might take her in his arms and kiss her as she’d dreamed so often that he would.

The possibility seemed to hang between them, real and weighted with temptation, but then he merely smiled and moved away.

“Good night, Ella,” he said over his shoulder.

She let out her breath on a quiet sigh. “Good night.”

She was about to float off to her bedroom when the kitchen extension rang. Tristan had gone, perhaps already on the stairs that led to his bedroom. She’d take a message. Nothing could be that important this late on a Saturday night.

“Tristan Barkley’s residence.” She waited but no reply. “Hello.” Ella frowned. “Anyone there?”

As the clock on the wall ticked out the seconds, in a dark recess of her mind she imagined the hand clutch-ing the other receiver. Had a flash of the face smirking at her irritation.

Slamming the phone down, she tried to catch her sudden shortness of breath. She touched her brow and felt the damp sheen of panic.

But she was overreacting. It was the talk of Scarpini over dinner and the fact the inheritance had come through that had her jumping to conclusions. That call had merely been a wrong number.

Still, before going to bed, she checked the back door—not once but twice.