Excerpt of His Housekeeper Bride by Melissa James

Office of the CEO, Howlcat Industries, Sydney Harbour, the present day 'Why, Bren? Why the—?' Mark skidded to a mental halt, remembering his three-year-old niece was sitting on his lap. Shelby was prone to repeat anything he said and then bat her long golden eyelashes at her father when she got in trouble for it, saying, 'But Unca Mark says it.' He amended his words. 'You think she'll do, so why do I have to interview this woman? She's a housekeeper. I have better things to do with my time than—' Brenda Compton, née Hannaford, pulled her thick dark-blonde hair back off her face and fanned her neck, but grinned at Mark's careful pruning of his language. 'Well, of course, if you want me to conduct the interviews for you, find another… um… suitable woman…'

He set his jaw at the reminder. He might be CEO of Howlcat
Industries, Australia's most successful engineering firm, in
total control of the company he'd built from the ground up—
but at home he had too many reminders of his humanity. His
family knew him well, as no one else did—his hidden
weaknesses, the way he spaced out when caught by an idea…

And they never failed to reminder him of the promise he still hadn't kept. But why had Bren chosen now, today, to make that reminder, to find him another suitable woman?

Today was his wedding anniversary. In six weeks it would be
the anniversary of the day he'd become a widower.

His mother and his sisters had interviewed every housekeeper
he'd ever hired. Before he gave them a contract he had them
vetted by the best security firms in the country, and he
paid them well. He also forced them to sign a
confidentiality clause.

None of his precautions had stopped his employees selling
their story about him to the tabloids, or bringing along
their daughters or nieces, who happened to be pretty and
single and, who'd love to be taken out on the town, marry a
multimillionaire and give him the family and kids his
parents and sisters so romantically believed was in his future.

Today was a reminder that he'd never risk his heart and soul again. He'd never risk becoming a person so lost in grief that he'd almost—

Grimly he blocked out the memory, and answered Bren. 'I'll
interview her myself… but she can wait in the outer office
until I'm da—good and ready.'

Bren grinned and pretended to bow to him—which earned her a
paper bird tossed in her hair. He often made origami when he
was thinking up the dimensions of new inventions, needing to
keep his hands busy while his mind worked.

His family were the only ones who could get away with any
kind of irreverence with him. Everyone else was too afraid
of his cool sarcasm. 'Heart of Ice' was his nickname in the
press, and he was happy to keep it that way. It kept the
nice women away from him—and fame-and-fortune-hunters
deserved all they got—which was nothing but an occasional
good time and their faces in the glossies.

'What's da—good, Unca Mark?' Shelby's big bright eyes were
alight with curiosity.

He grinned down at his niece and pulled her ponytail, until
she mock-shrieked and tugged hard at his nose. 'It means
really, really good.'

'Okay,' Shelby replied, her face thoughtful. She knew he'd
covered the truth and was trying to work out what he'd been
about to say. She was a Hannaford, all right.

Bren got to her feet, rubbing her very pregnant belly. 'I'll
tell Sylvie to wait. You'll pick me up tonight? Glenn felt
so bad about asking, but since his trip is for Howlcat—'

He smiled, soft as he only ever was with his family, and
handed Shelby to her mother. 'Can it, Bren. I can handle a
couple of Lamaze classes as long as you introduce me as—'

His sister rolled her eyes. 'Yeah, yeah—as if calling you George is going to fool anyone when your face is in the papers every week.'

'Not every week,' he retorted mildly. He liked being called
George every now and then. It made him smile.

She'd been waiting almost an hour.

Sylvie Browning smiled to herself. If he expected her to be
put off or storm off he'd be disappointed. In the initial
interview his sister Brenda had warned her that meeting her
prospective employer would be no picnic. Mark Hannaford was
hard-edged and cold, and he didn't like his routine or
privacy challenged—he had no use for women, apart from the
obvious.

That was why she was here. She had a fifteen-year-old
promise to keep.

After ninety minutes, the fanatically neat secretary rose to
her feet, and said, 'Mr Hannaford will see you now.'

The older woman showed Sylvie in through the massive oak
double doors, opulent without ostentation. 'Ms Browning to
see you, sir.' Then she closed the doors behind her.

Feeling the nervous grin stretching her face—she always
laughed or joked through stress, and this was a tremendous
moment—Sylvie walked on low-polished floorboards and for a
few moments looked anywhere but at the CEO of Howlcat
Industries. There was a soft blue and grey scatter rug on
the floor. Pictures of the harbour and the Blue Mountains
lined the walls, comfortable in their places.

What a lovely office, she thought to herself. It suits—

'No. No.'

She blinked, and focussed on the sole occupant of the
office. 'I beg your pardon?' she said softly, putting her
hand out to him.

With the golden-brown hair and eyes, the lithe, athletic male body obvious even beneath the designer suit, she recognised him at once… But then, what Aussie wouldn't know him? He was one of the most famous men in the country. He hadn't inherited his empire, but pulled himself up by the bootstraps to this level of success by sheer brilliance. Inventor and lone wolf—tagged 'Heart of Ice' because no woman had ever come close to him.

Only his family—and she—knew better than that.

But at the moment he was living up to his reputation. He didn't stand to shake her hand, didn't touch her. His eyes were frozen as he said, with chilling clarity, 'I said, no. If you're Sylvia Browning, you are not being offered the position of housekeeper.'

Unfazed, she lifted her brows. This, too, she'd expected.
She would change his attitude soon enough. She'd done it
before, and she'd do it again. 'I know I look young, but I'm
twenty-eight.'

Eyes filled with scepticism roamed her face. 'Twenty at the oldest. No.'

Since it was obvious he wasn't going to observe the most
basic of social niceties, she dropped her hand and sat in
the chair facing his desk. She rummaged in her handbag,
pulled out her wallet and handed him the driver's licence
and birth certificate from her CV packet.

He read them in silence, and handed them back without
changing expression. 'Your age changes nothing, Ms Browning.'

'I was under the impression it changed everything.'

Her gently amused tone seemed to perturb him, for he frowned
at her. 'Don't be impertinent.'

'I beg your pardon, Mr Hannaford,' she said gravely, but her telltale dimple quivered—she had only one, in her right cheek. Her brothers swore it gave her away when she was teasing. 'But, since you are not employing me, I'm free to be as impertinent as I like.' His face stilled, then his mouth moved in a half-smile, slow as a rusted gate. 'Touché, Ms Browning.'

Sylvie grinned at him, rose to her feet, and again put her
hand out to his. 'It was nice meeting you, Mr Hannaford. I
hope you find a housekeeper of the right age and appearance
for you.' Her heart raced so fast she could barely keep up
to breathe. Would it work?

He stood, too, but was still frowning. 'You're not going to
try and convince me to give you the position?' he asked
abruptly, again not taking her hand.

Her heart kicked up yet another notch—yes, there was the faintest tone of challenge there, as well as surprise. She made herself shrug. 'What's the point? I can cook and clean—but you don't care about that. I can make a home for you—but that isn't why you rejected me. I can only grow older in time, and I can't change the way I look.'

'There's nothing wrong with the way you look.'

His tone was still abrupt, but again something faint beneath
it made her breath catch and her pulse move up a touch.
'Thank you,' she said as she turned towards the doors. 'I
like to think I'm not totally repulsive.'

'You have to know you're a pretty woman.' But the comment
was so far removed from a compliment—almost an insult in the
hardness of his voice—that she didn't thank him.

'Are the curls natural?' he asked as he followed her to the
door—he was actually coming with her. She wanted to rejoice.
Yes, she'd intrigued him.

'Yes, they are.' The answer was rueful. She touched the tumbling dark auburn curls escaping from her attempt at a chignon and looked up at him…really up. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. 'Any attempt to straighten them only makes them frizz. Combine that with freckles, being only five-one and size eight, and I have to put up with everyone thinking I'm sixteen.'

She'd used the number deliberately, to see how he'd react.
It was why she was here—why she'd come on this particular
day—and she might as well start now.

His mouth tightened, but he only nodded. Then he frowned again, as if the number had triggered something inside him. 'Pardon me, Ms Browning, but I'm having the strangest sense of déjà-vu. Have we met?' He'd remembered! She nodded, with a grin that felt silly on her face. He remembered her… 'For years I've wanted to thank you for all you did for my family. You'll never know what it meant to us—giving us the house, setting up the trust fund to send Simon to medical school, Joel to university, Drew to engineering college. When I found out this job was for you, it seemed a good chance to meet you again and thank you.'

For the first time he looked in her eyes, and she saw the
change as he took in the face, the curls, and emotion dawned
in him—recognition. 'Shirley Temple?' With his low growl, it
was as if deep winter broke, giving way to a reluctant
spring, and the warm-hearted boy she'd known when she was a
girl peeked at her from beneath the frozen heart of the
famous man.

'I go by Sylvie now.' For the third time she put her hand
out, hoping he'd take it. She needed to know if the illusion
she'd held for so many years would crumble under the force
of reality—if she'd shrink or find him as terrifying as
every other man she'd met since she turned fifteen.

'Sylvie?' His voice was deeper, rougher than she remembered
it, but a warm shiver still ran through her. 'But your
name's Mary Brown.'

'It's Mary Sylvia, actually, and we—the boys and I—liked
Browning better. It was less common—especially for me, with
a name like Mary.' Feeling embarrassed by the admission, she
shrugged. 'I changed my name by deed poll, and the boys did
the same.' She'd never tell him why she'd done it, or why
the boys had followed her lead without hesitation. Although
none of them had changed their first names, as well, as she
had….

'Then Joel must have changed his only a few months ago.'

He knows how old we all are. He's kept up with us. The knowledge that he cared enough to know them, even from a physical and emotional distance, made her feel—feel— Just feel. He hadn't forgotten her—as she'd never forgotten him.

Looking dazed, he put his hand in hers just as she was about
to drop it. 'Look at you. You're all grown up.'

'So are you.' Her voice was breathless—but how could she
help it? He was touching her again… and for the first time
since she was fifteen a man's touch didn't repulse or
terrify her. She felt warm and safe—and, given what her life
had been, those feelings were as precious as gold to her.

From the first time she'd seen him at the hospital, when
she'd been only eight, the prince of her fairytale dreams
had changed from black-haired to dark blonde, from blue-eyed
to golden-brown. Every time she'd met him after that, though
months had passed, she'd felt the connection deepen, and
when he'd held her in his arms and let her sleep the day her
mother had died she'd known that, though it was the last day
she'd see him for a very long time, no other boy would ever
take his place.

Quiet lightning still strikes once—and never in the same
spot. But he had lovers in abundance—all far more beautiful
than she'd ever be—and they didn't come with her issues.
Years ago she'd accepted that he was her impossible dream.
That wasn't why she was here.

'So you really are twenty-eight?' He shook his head, as if
trying to clear it.

'Yes.' As the juxtaposed longings to reach out and touch his
face and to jerk her hand out of his and run all but
overwhelmed her, she had to force her hand to stay where it
was. Though she'd never been to counselling, she'd learned
to conquer her fear to a manageable degree, by dint of the
simple need to eat. If an employer thought she was crazy, he
wouldn't employ her, and she couldn't always work with women.

His gaze swept her again. 'Your hair grew darker.'

'Red hair quite often does that.'

He was still holding her hand. Looking at his expression as
they touched, she sensed that it had been a long time since
he'd truly touched anyone. 'Strawberry blonde.' He was
smiling. 'You looked like a china doll.'

'According to some people I still do,' she said, sighing.
'Sometimes I'd give anything to be a few inches taller, if
nothing else.'

'People don't take you seriously?' His voice held sympathy.

'You didn't,' she retorted, disliking the tone that seemed
too close to pity, too close to how she'd been treated for
so many years of her life. She pulled her hand from his.

'You're right.' He was looking at the broken connection, a
strange expression in those frozen dreamer's eyes. 'Why do
you want this position—or did you only come to thank me?'

His tone had lost the gentle warmth that made her glow. He
wanted to be thanked even less than he'd appreciated her
pointing out when he'd been in the wrong. By the look in his
eyes, he also didn't want to hear any personal reasons for
her answering his advertisement, on this of all days.

'I need the job,' she said abruptly. 'I'm in the final year
of my nursing degree. I need somewhere to live and I need to
pay the bills.'

'Why now?'