Turning around again, she expected to see the helicopter on the lawn. She got a surprise. It was still hanging in the air. Something must be wrong. Gaston, the pilot, was usually in such a tearing hurry to get back to his poker game on the yacht that he plonked the machine down anywhere. Smashed shrubs and crushed flowers were painful reminders of Gaston’s previous overshoots and under-steering. Jolie Fleur’s carefully tended mixed borders weren’t so much a reminder of their English owner’s homeland, they were more of a war zone.
This time was clearly going to be different. Michelle assumed there was a new pilot at the controls. Gaston would never take so long lining up his approach. But when the helicopter suddenly swung away and made a circuit of the house to try another approach, she caught sight of the pilot’s face. It was the same old Gaston—but, from the furious look on his face, a perfectionist was schooling him in the art of landing.
By the time the helicopter finally came to rest, its skids were lined up exactly with the white letter ‘H’ stencilled in the centre of Jolie Fleur’s main lawn. The racket had been deafening. Michelle’s carefully brushed hair was blown to a thatch. As she tried to tame her mousy brown tangle, disaster struck. The helicopter’s rotors slowed and its downdraught eased. The drop in pressure meant a gust of wind off the sea got behind the villa’s door and slammed it shut behind her with a thunderous bang. Michelle jumped—or would have done, if her uniform hadn’t held her back. Its skirt had been sucked in between the heavy door and its jamb. She was trapped and could hardly move.
Tugging at it with growing horror, she realised this was the first and only low point since she’d left England—but it was bottomless. She knew the door would have locked.
Desperately hoping for a miracle, she tried the handle anyway. The door didn’t move. Her guardian angel must be on holiday.
Michelle’s pulse had been galloping with nerves all morning. Now it went into overdrive. What could she do? Wave hopefully at the tall, rangy figure unfolding itself from the helicopter? Appealing for help to a guest when she was supposed to be so efficient wouldn’t be the best start to their working relationship. Someone who could teach precision to a slap-dash pilot in one lesson was unlikely to have any time for accidents or mishaps.
Desperately, she tried working her skirt out through the crack, pulling it up and down, backwards and forwards. Nothing worked. The alternative was to tear herself free, leaving her skirt behind. That wasn’t an option. A careless housekeeper was one thing. A half-dressed one was unforgivable—and totally unforgettable. Trussed up like a chicken, she resigned herself to a roasting.
Signor Alessandro Castiglione stood on the parched lawn, his back to her, as he waited for his designer luggage to be unloaded. Michelle watched, getting hotter and hotter. Long, agonising seconds dripped away. She tensed, ready with a million explanations. Taking possession of a briefcase and laptop, her guest left Gaston to deal with everything else. Marching towards the house, he covered the distance in a terrifyingly short time.
He was nothing like as old as she’d expected, but to think such a young man was already notorious in the newspapers somehow made her situation much worse. Michelle’s spirits skidded along rock-bottom. Despite his hunched shoulders and considered pace, he was moving quickly. Instead of taking the track of scuffed, dead grass leading directly from the helipad to the house, he took a much longer route. This went by way of paved paths through banks of thyme and sage, and stretched out her agony still further. Watching bees working among the herb flowers always persuaded Michelle to relax and linger. They had absolutely no effect on this man. He was totally single-minded. Looking neither to left nor right, he homed straight in on the front door of the villa.
If Michelle hadn’t been so frantic she would have appreciated his fine features. The natural curl in his thick, dark hair, his quick brown eyes, frowning brow and heavy tread would normally have made such an impression on her she would have been struck dumb. Instead she was speechless with embarrassment. Hands behind her back, she went on easing, tugging and wheedling at her skirt to try and free it. It was no use.
The closer the newcomer got, the more frantic she felt. Her fingers throbbed from trying to break free. So did her pulse. It was so hot. She might as well have been a butterfly beating its wings against a closed window. She was well and truly stuck. If that wasn’t bad enough, she was beginning to see why this guest hadn’t fitted in on Mr Bartlett’s yacht. It was designed for holidays and having a good time. Alessandro Castiglione looked as though he didn’t know the meaning of the words. Despite the heat, he was wearing a top-quality suit and a hand-finished shirt. His only concessions to the Mediterranean were the ivory colour of his linen trousers and jacket, the open buttons at his neck, and the mulberry-coloured tie peeking from his pocket.
Michelle swallowed hard. The time for practising her welcome was over. Now for it…
‘Buongiorno, Signor Castiglione. My name is Michelle Spicer, and I’ll be looking after you during your stay here at Jolie Fleur.’
His pale, aristocratic face was compressed. ‘I don’t need looking after. That’s why I jumped ship. There were too many people running round after me. All they do is get in my way,’ he growled in faultless English, speaking with the accent of a Caesar. It drove everything from Michelle’s mind except her fear of explaining exactly how much of a fool she was.
And then, ten feet away from her, his expression changed from distracted to thoughtful. He stopped. Michelle tried to take a step backwards away from him, but her heels rattled against the firmly closed door. There was no escape. She stood and quailed, while he stood and watched her. He pressed his lips together in a tight line, matching the deep furrows on his brow. Michelle couldn’t think of a single thing to say. This was worse than she had ever imagined it would be. She was pinned to the door by his unblinking stare. Michelle tried to tell herself this was just another job and she really shouldn’t care what impression he was getting of her. The truth was, she cared very much. Staff should be invisible and silent. Here she was, pegged out with no hope of release. You couldn’t get much more visible than that.
Why does he have to be so good-looking? she thought. It wouldn’t be half so bad if he was old, or ugly, or ranted and raved at me—anything would be easier to bear than this slow, silent interrogation…
‘Well! What have we got here?’ he drawled eventually. ‘You’re trapped.’
So tell me something I don’t know! she thought, but the relish in his eyes was too obvious. Instead, she nodded and tried to smile.
‘I—I’m the housekeeper here at Jolie Fleur and I shall be doing everything I can to make your stay as pleasant as possible…’ Though how I’m going to manage it from here… she added silently.
It didn’t seem much of an obstacle to Alessandro Castiglione. He pinned her to the door with a knowing look.
‘Everything?’ he questioned with a mischevious twinkle. ‘You mean my wish is your command? That’s dangerous talk, signorina, when you look to be stuck fast!’
Michelle burbled something wordless, her mind melted by flames of embarrassment. She needn’t have bothered. He was far too interested in her problem.
‘I was trapped too—on that damned boat,’ he added, almost sympathetically.
After a moment’s hesitation, Michelle screwed up all her courage and tried an explanation.
‘The door slammed shut in the helicopter’s downdraught. The key is in my pocket, but I can’t reach it,’ she said, in a voice so small she hardly recognised it.
To her surprise he gave a quick nod of understanding. ‘You must be more careful. This is a very heavy door, Michelle. You’re lucky it’s only your dress. You might have lost your fingers.’
Her heart slowed