The Maid's Spanish Secret Read online

  She rose from her desk, ignoring the sensational view of London spread out in rare sun-splashed splendour below her, and pivoted to face the double doors of the office adjoining hers.

  The breath she took was shaky and weak, her clammy hands and churning gut a world removed from the image she strove to achieve. The image her straight spine and impeccable clothes projected.

  More and more, that set of doors had seemed like the summit of Everest, fraught with dangers that screamed at her to turn back. Except she couldn’t.

  Not just yet.

  But she’d delayed enough. Two whole months to be exact. It was time to take the final step.

  Time to put that one night, that astoundingly risky dive into temptation that had set in motion events that made her heart dip each time she allowed herself to think of it, behind her.

  Time to take back control of her life before it was too late.

  Before she could compel her feet to move, a knock on the outer door stopped her. She turned, her stomach dropping to her toes at the sight of the smartly dressed courier heading purposefully towards her. Bicycle couriers and messengers weren’t allowed above the fifteenth floor. She was on the forty-ninth, one step from the highest floor in the building owned by the richest man in the world.

  And the man who was heading her way reverently clutching a black velvet briefcase with the logo of the Queen’s jeweller proudly emblazoned on it was the furthest you could get from an ordinary courier.

  ‘No.’ The word was ripped from her throat, accompanied by several self-preserving steps backward, because, unlike the tennis bracelets and the other priceless gifts, this jeweller, this delivery signalled a whole new playing field. The kind that warned you to kiss your soul goodbye. That clammy hands and an inability to breathe properly would be the least of her worries if she gave into what was unfolding.

  ‘No, no, no.’

  The courier paused halfway to her desk, his gaze befuddled. ‘Beg your pardon, miss? Do I have the wrong floor? I have a delivery for a Miss Everhart. Can you redirect me if this isn’t the right office? I’m afraid I’ll need a signature from her.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I mean, yes, you’re in the right office but, no, you don’t need a signature. You won’t need one because you won’t be making a delivery.’ She was aware her voice bordered on hysterical but she couldn’t help it. ‘The gift is being returned,’ she added for complete and undeniable emphasis.

  His nervousness increased. ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible. There’s a non-returnable, non-refundable condition attached to the gift.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ she stated firmly. ‘I’m Miss Everhart, and I’ve dealt with your establishment before. I know for a fact that’s not the case.’

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. Saffron almost felt sorry for him. ‘Well...yes, miss, in most cases it is. But not this time.’

  ‘Why not?’ she demanded, but deep down, she knew the answer.

  ‘Because the client specifically requested it.’

  She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut in panicked exasperation because...of course he did. The man could outthink the shrewdest opponent without breaking a sweat, could execute a dozen chess moves in a dozen games simultaneously while lounging behind his desk with his eyes shut. Why she’d think he wouldn’t use such a contingency on this occasion was almost laughable.

  But Saffron wasn’t in the mood to laugh.

  Her gaze dropped to the case, her stomach knotting tighter. If it’d held a nest of deadly scorpions, she would’ve been more welcoming.

  The courier cleared his throat. ‘If I may say so, Miss Everhart, this is no ordinary piece. I believe permission was sought, and given, by Her Majesty for her necklace to be replicated. It’s one of the most exquisite pieces our establishment has had the privilege of creating.’ His tone bordered on reverence, his bewilderment at her reaction evident.

  She didn’t doubt him. But the reason for its appearance in her life was blaring thunderously in her ears, blocking everything save for the fact that if she didn’t refuse this, if she delayed taking control of her life, she would be lost for ever. She’d already given four years of her life. Lived on the edge of her emotions. She couldn’t give another day. Another minute.

  The man in front of her wasn’t the problem, though. The man seated on his throne-like chair behind the grey steel doors twenty feet from her was.

  With brisk efficiency that disguised the churning mix of panic and dread inside her, she signed the delivery document and took possession of the package, knowing in her heart that she was making a huge mistake.

  The door shut behind the courier. Saffron remained rooted in place, the box growing heavier with each second. When she could bear it no longer, she returned to her desk, sat down heavily and opened it.

  The tiered diamond and ruby necklace was flawless.

  Breathtakingly beautiful in a way no blatant bribe from a ruthless, coldly dismissive man had the right to be. At least it wasn’t a choker. That symbolism would’ve been a step too far.

  She suppressed a hysterical laugh and stared, awed despite herself, at the most stunning piece of jewellery she’d ever seen in her life. Her fingers itched to caress the precious stones, to experience their sparkling beauty through touch as well as sight.

  She snapped the box shut before temptation took hold, and, just like the flowers, set it out of arm’s reach.

  She couldn’t...wouldn’t be swayed.

  For far too long she’d given herself a pass, let the irresistible enticements of her position, specifically her proximity to the most charismatic man she’d ever encountered, lead her towards that one final act of insanity.

  Well...never again.

  Jaw gritted in a futile effort to stop the electricity that zapped through her every time she recalled that fateful night in Morocco, she read through the document she’d redrafted a dozen times and hit print.

  The whirring sound of the printer spitting out the single sheet was both reassuring and terrifying. She was finally doing this, taking the ultimate step. Soon, she would be in complete control of her life. But first, there was the small problem of getting over this last monumental hurdle.

  Saffron had no doubt that it would be a formidable battle.

  She picked up the paper, folded it in two and rose.

  With a cursory knock, she entered the lion’s den. Just in time to hear the exclusive phone reserved for super-VIP clients ring.

  She froze in the doorway, her breathing nosediving as her gaze landed on the man reaching for the silver phone.

  Joao Oliviera.

  Her boss.

  The richest man in the world with looks far outmatching that awe-inspiring title.

  Despite the innumerable times she’d entered his domain, Saffron had never quite mastered the awe that possessed her in his presence. She’d just learned to disguise it to the point where she could appear almost dismissive of the endless layers of the powerful, magnetic aura he exuded, the breath-stealing vitality of his six-foot-four frame, his innate ability to strike the most influential leaders dumb with a few well-placed words.

  And the feverish electricity of his touch.

  No amount of training or self-denial could disguise the fact that Joao Oliviera, with his obscene wealth and good looks, was Midas, Croesus and Ares rolled into one sublime package.

  Thick dark brown hair, longer than conventionally acceptable and tipped with the faintest gold, gleamed in the May sunlight slanting through the glass window behind him.

  Chiselled cheekbones drew immediate, captivating attention to the olive vibrancy of his face, the uncompromising line of an upper lip neatly counterbalanced by the sinful, sensual curve of his lower lip, and the rugged outline of his faintly shadowed jaw that no amount of shaving could completely smooth.

  Startling whisky-gold eyes f
ramed by long, spiked eyelashes completed the magnificent picture.

  Those eyes flicked up at her entrance, studied her for a piercing second before he beckoned her with long, elegant fingers. As was his habit, he’d shed his jacket shortly after his day began, leaving the pristine white shirt and Italian-made silk vest that emphasised his racehorse-lean physique on full display.

  It was early, barely eight o’clock on a Monday morning, so he hadn’t got around to undoing his cuffs and folding back his shirtsleeves to reveal his brawny forearms. In the giant scheme of breathless hellishness, she took that as a blessing in disguise.

  ‘Lavinia, I’ve been waiting for your call,’ he drawled into the phone.

  And just like that, Saffron was lashed by another whip of her most sinful craving. Over the years she’d battled to suppress her base reactions to almost everything about Joao—save for that one searing night in Morocco. His impressive mental dexterity, his jaw-dropping physique, his superhuman energy, the breathtaking ruthlessness wrapped around a core of unwavering integrity. But the one thing she’d never conquered was her reaction to the deep, intensely sexy, accented voice.

  It shot arrows of flaming lust into her during her waking hours, and, with alarming frequency lately, invaded her dreams just as shamelessly. It’d reached the point where she almost dreaded walking into his office.

  With any luck, she wouldn’t have to suffer it for much longer.

  Saffron shut the door behind her and tuned into the conversation. Regardless of her primary reason for coming into Joao’s office, she had work to do. This morning—and, she suspected, countless more to come—that work involved Lavinia Archer.

  At seventy-four, the head of the renowned Archer Group, an empire that comprised Archer Hotels, Archer Brewery, Archer Cruise Liners, Archer Airlines and several more offshoots, had been in control for over three decades.

  When rumours had surfaced that Lavinia intended to sell her company to one buyer before her seventy-fifth birthday, Saffron had known it would be catnip to her boss. She’d been proved right when Joao had immediately set out to add the entire Archer empire, valued at thirty-one billion dollars, into his already staggering portfolio.

  For the last three months, he’d woven an intricate web around Lavinia Archer, one involving a game of mental chess and charm that the older woman, despite courting several buyers, hadn’t been able to resist participating in.

  ‘I know you take pleasure in making me wait, Lavinia,’ Joao continued, the timbre of his voice smooth, dark and potent like the special blend of coffee his handpicked aficionados cultivated for him exclusively in his native Brazil. Every word oozed effortless charisma as his dark golden gaze tracked Saffron across his office. ‘I hope when the time comes, you’ll let me make the climax worth your while.’

  Saffron stumbled, briskly caught herself on the edge of the sectional sofa that graced the office, and dragged her gaze from his coolly mocking one before she compounded her rare clumsiness by blushing.

  Sultry laughter flowed from the phone. Saffron curbed the irrational jealousy that welled inside her and attempted to maintain her composure.

  Even though she’d given him four years of her life, when it came right down to it, she had no rights where Joao was concerned. He didn’t care about her beyond her excellent organisational skills.

  Not once had he asked her what her interests were outside the office—not that she had much time to pursue any of them. Her last two birthdays had passed her by because she’d been so engrossed in making Joao Oliviera’s life problem-free that she’d missed them.

  And the fact that there’d been no one else to remind her—no family, friends, nor even acquaintances—and that her boss hadn’t known to treat those days differently from any other work-hard-and-then-even-harder days, had been just one of the many things that had bruised her deep inside when she’d finally girded her loins and taken stock of her life.

  Unsurprisingly, all the things wrong with her life had been down to one man.

  Joao Oliviera.

  So, no, she wasn’t going to waste a moment’s energy on being jealous. And when she was done with her task here, he could charm the birds from the trees for all she cared. She wouldn’t be around to see it. Wouldn’t experience that stressful little pull in her chest when he arranged an assignation with the next supermodel or socialite.

  Thankfully he hadn’t done that since Morocco. Not to her knowledge anyway, which in no way proved conclusively that he hadn’t—

  Enough!

  Interrupting her own spiralling thoughts, she refocused to find Joao’s gaze raking over her body, lingering for a moment on the document in her hand before rising to meet her eyes.

  Her heart lurched.

  For the last eight weeks, he’d treated her with cool indifference. He’d watched her when he’d wanted to and ignored her when it had pleased him.

  Saffie was forced to admit it was that detachment that had finally triggered her actions. That knowledge that she couldn’t endure much more of this, couldn’t pretend that her life hadn’t boiled down to being an insignificant satellite that orbited around his brilliance.

  That Morocco hadn’t happened.

  She pressed her lips together, fighting the chaotic sensations in mind and body as Joao let out a low, deep laugh.

  ‘Sim, I’ll respect you in the morning. You’ll leave satisfied that your legacy is in the best hands possible.’

  Long fingers tapped the smooth surface of his glass desk, drawing her attention to its graceful elegance, its subdued power. From there it was a mere skip to unlocking memories of when those fingers made firm, deliberate contact with her skin. Stroked and teased and branded, leaving an indelible mark on her.

  She watched his arm rise, his fingers stretching out in silent command for the document.

  While Joao’s ability to multitask was another skilful feather in his cap, she hadn’t anticipated executing this task while he conducted one of the biggest deals of his company’s history.

  But...the order of things didn’t matter. She was here to take her life back.

  So, do it.

  Lips pressed firmly together, she handed over the paper.

  Perhaps her expression gave her away. Perhaps the poker face that had seen her through four long years but had begun to crack after Morocco had finally let her down.

  Seconds breathlessly ticked by as he continued to recite facts and figures to Lavinia in his deep accented voice, all without taking his eyes off Saffron’s face. A full minute later, his gaze finally dropped to the sheet.

  Shrewd eyes skimmed the document with lightning speed. Then his breathtaking face tightened.

  Her insides jumped as those hypnotic eyes rose to lock on hers.

  ‘Sim,’ he murmured smoothly to Lavinia, although Saffie heard curt edginess wrapped around the word. ‘But remember I’m not a patient man. I want your company, and I will play your games for now. But eventually one of us will grow bored and resort to...other measures. Prepare yourself for that scenario, too, meu querido. Until the next time.’

  The words might have been directed into the phone but Saffie felt their impact deep inside.

  With a casual flick of his hand, he ended the call. Then chilled, narrowed eyes rose from her carefully crafted resignation letter to her face.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he breathed in a low, deadly voice.

  Saffron called on every last crumb of composure and held his stare. ‘It’s exactly as it says. I’m tendering my resignation.’

  His gaze flickered with a hint of disbelief, then dropped to the page. ‘For “personal reasons”? You do not have a personal life, therefore you cannot have personal reasons. Therefore—’ he flicked a disdainful finger at the sheet ‘—this is a blatant lie.’

  She didn’t want to be hurt by the caustic words. By now, she should be immu
ne to his brand of ruthless disregard for any impediment that stood between him and whatever goal he pursued. And yet that mysterious pang that had sprung up the morning after their fateful night burrowed deeper into her heart.

  ‘Thank you so much for pointing that out. And while I’m at it, thank you for the flowers and jewellery, although I won’t be accepting them. I’m assuming you’re about to step things up with Lavinia, hence the need for that outrageous bribe?’

  Not by a flicker of an eyelash did he acknowledge any wrongdoing in commissioning a necklace most monarchs would give an eye tooth for. ‘You’re building up to a point, I expect? Some sort of negotiation perhaps?’ he mused.

  ‘You’re not going to give me the courtesy of an answer?’

  ‘I believe one of the first things we discussed at the start of your employment was not to ask questions you already know the answers to. Would you like me to repeat mine? Because you haven’t given me a satisfactory answer.’

  ‘Every answer you need is in that letter. I’m resigning for personal reasons. Effective immediately after the requisite notice period.’

  The gaze he flicked at the letter was filled with such singeing disdain, Saffron was surprised it didn’t catch fire.

  ‘You’re not flighty. You’re supremely efficient. Dependable. Level-headed. One of the most hardworking people I know. In the past four years, there hasn’t been a single task you haven’t executed to my satisfaction,’ he drawled, angling his body back to lounge in the high-backed, throne-like chair a vaunted French furniture designer had fashioned exclusively for him. The stance threw his gladiator-like frame into high-definition relief, the sunlight doing its part to showcase his perfect body.

  Saffron’s thighs snapped together as heat singed her feminine core and burrowed deep, sensuously, into her pelvis, reminding how it’d felt to have that body up close, personal...naked.