‘Thanks!’ she beamed. ‘I’d love to work for you!’
And she was loving it, Izzy thought now as she reached for a heavy-bottomed copper pan and the olive oil. Already she was fond of her poor old gentleman, as she always thought of him. The owner of a soft heart, she’d always been on the side of the underdog, and seeing her employer grow stronger and sprightlier every day was, to her, better than winning the Lottery.
‘I don’t believe a word of it!’ Miguel stated with cold fury. ‘Izzy is no more an immoral gold-digger than I am! And if you mix with the type of person who would stoop to spread such a calumny then I am disappointed in you.’
‘Of necessity, Tio.’ Cayo received the reprimand with a slight upward shift of one wide shoulder. ‘Augustin del Amo is a highly respected banker. I occasionally do business with him.’ Unsurprised by his uncle’s defence of Miss Sweetness and Light—as the older man innocently claimed her to be—Cayo leaned back in the chair on the other side of the cluttered desk, the tips of his steepled fingers resting against the hard line of his mouth.
Izzy Makepeace was smart. Smart enough to know she had to tread carefully. Because the stakes were higher this time. She wasn’t angling to be a wealthy married man’s paid mistress but something else entirely. An indispensable treasure, caring for an even wealthier man as his age advanced. A wife!
The thought made his blood run cold! No way would he stand by and see his beloved, innocently naïve relative walk into that trap!
‘How much do you pay her?’ he asked with deceptive smoothness. Receiving the information that she earned the same as Benita had done, he dipped his dark head in understanding.
As long as the unlamented Benita had had enough to buy cheap sherry and didn’t have to exert herself by so much as an extra intake of breath in the non-commission of her duties she would have been happy enough to receive wages that hadn’t increased in the last twenty years. Even she would have known that her so-called services weren’t worth any more, and his uncle, unaware of the cost of living because he lived firmly in the past, in the company of long-dead saints, and rarely read a newspaper or listened to a radio, wouldn’t know he was paying what amounted to peanuts. He would have been horrified if the fact had been pointed out to him.
But no sane young working woman would accept such low payment. Not unless she had an ulterior motive. If he’d had doubts before—and he hadn’t—that would have clinched it. She had her motive!
‘Do you realise that what you’re paying her is a fraction of the going rate?’ Seeing his uncle’s brows draw together, Cayo pressed on with barely concealed exasperation. ‘Of course you don’t. You don’t live in the real world—never have done. Since leaving the university where you taught medieval history twenty years ago you’ve buried yourself in research. You have no idea what goes on in the world. So why would a young healthy woman accept such low pay? Think about it.’
Leaving the older man looking every one of his seventy-six years and more, Cayo strode from the study and flung open the door to the kitchen.
He had to admit that the room had scrubbed up well. But then it would be in her best interests to work her socks off, present herself as an angel of mercy, indispensable, when the glittering prize was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, he rationalised with an ingrained cynicism born of having to fight off greedy little gold-diggers ever since he’d reached his late teens.
She had her back to him, was removing a heavy pan from the stove with both hands.
‘I’m just about to dish up, Miguel. If you and your nephew would go up to the dining room I’ll be with you in a tick.’
Her cheerful words set his teeth on edge.
She turned then, her smile fading fast when she saw him. He noted the way she banged the pan down on the tabletop and hauled her shoulders back, her eyes very bright.
‘Right, mister!’ she spluttered. ‘I’ve got something to say to you—’
He cut across her, having no interest in hearing anything from her beyond a meekly compliant goodbye.
‘How much will it take to make yourself scarce, be out of this house before nightfall and never come near my uncle again?’ Cayo demanded, gazing steadily at her, his black-as-midnight eyes as cold as charity, his feet planted firmly apart, his fists pushed into the pockets of his chinos. ‘Name your price.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘WHAT did you say?’
Momentarily stunned, Izzy released a disbelieving gasp. She planted her hands on the table, leaning forward, and searched his dark eyes for any sign that he could be joking. Finding none, she added at full outraged volume, ‘You’re offering me money to walk out of my job and leave Miguel in the lurch? I don’t believe this!’ She huffed out a breath and imparted, ‘I’ll have you know he’s as good at looking after himself as a two-year-old.’ Then, introducing a note of scorn, ‘You wouldn’t know, of course, because it seems you’re rarely around, but your uncle collapsed in the street. It took me three weeks to persuade him to go for a checkup. He’s got a heart murmur, not helped by borderline malnutrition, so you’re off your rocker if you think I’d leave him to fend for himself for a pocketful of euros! What sort of nephew are you?’
‘One who wasn’t born yesterday.’
Smooth as silk, he slid into the rough grit of her attack. Stopped in her tracks by that weird statement, Izzy connected with the silver gleam of cynicism in those compelling eyes.
She suppressed a sudden unwelcome shiver as he added, almost purring, ‘You have a saying, I believe? A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. So, I say again, name your price.’
She tossed her silvery blond head high, and her normally water-clear blue eyes were shadowed by a bewildered frown as she demanded tersely, ‘Why?’
‘Because I know your sort,’ Cayo supplied drily. ‘And I have confirmation via Augustin del Amo. Remember him?’ His own arrogantly held head was high, too. Brilliant eyes narrowed, he reminded her with harsh conviction, ‘Instead of looking after his children as you were paid to—highly paid, by all accounts—you spent all your time trying to tempt him into changing your job description to that of paid and pampered mistress.’
Her stomach swooping, looping and finally knotting, her cheeks flaming, Izzy gulped back a yelp of outrage and finally vented, ‘That creep!’
Señora del Amo had promised her name would be mud! And she hadn’t wasted any time spreading the lies she’d chosen to believe rather than accept that her husband was a real slimeball. She could just about understand that. But this horrible man—neglecter of frail, impoverished old uncles—was choosing to believe the worst of her without doing her the courtesy of asking to hear her side of the story!
As if that wasn’t enough, worse was to come. He pointed out with icy cool, ‘Get it into your mercenary little head that there’s nothing here for you. You may be able to fool an unworldly old man, but you don’t fool me. Take cash in hand and leave—or I’ll make sure you regret the day you were born.’
He was a maniac! Izzy decided, feeling as if she’d landed in a parallel universe. Okay, so he’d taken the wealthy banker’s words at face value and decided she was a mercenary little scrubber, out for all she could get from the male of the species. So why tell her there was nothing for her here, when anyone could see that Miguel barely had two pennies to rub together?
This man might be prime contender in a competition to find the world’s most gorgeous male, but the handsome exterior clothed a nasty mind, she decided, straightening her spine. She wasn’t going to even begin to plead her case, because she’d be wasting her breath, nor go on to explain that she already got plenty out of working for Miguel. Like making his living conditions more comfortable, seeing his health improve.
She’d leave only when she was